Vulpa checked with his control room to see if the Galactica had yet been discovered within the sector. The report was negative. Still, Vulpa knew, one of these powerful beams from the pulsaric-laser-unit weapon could still find its way randomly to wherever the Galactica was. If that happened, even more glory would accrue to him, and Imperious Leader would be suitably impressed, Vulpa was sure. Vulpa’s ambition was suddenly making sense again, and he looked forward to the successful outcome of this assignment—the termination of the human enemy and Vulpa’s restoration from exile to full rank and responsibility.
Imperious Leader had to interrupt his dialogues with the Starbuck to direct the final phase of the assault upon the human fleet. His base-ship had now arrived at the sector where the Galactica and its fleet drifted. He directed a Cylon task force to initiate attack upon the rear of the fleet, not a sneak attack this time but a full-fledged assault.
He would send wave after wave against the humans, enough warships to finally wear them down or push them into the range of the Hekla weapon. It was a flawless plan. To Imperious Leader the attack seemed already ended. His active third brain was already contemplating post-battle problems and matters upon Cylon-dominated planets. Strange political factions seemed to be emerging around the Cylon empire, and the members of these nearly rebellious groups had not yet been located and shunted off to the harmless classes of Cylon society.
He looked over at the Starbuck-simulacrum, which was lounging in its usual arrogant way. Logic dictated that the simulator be removed from the pedestal, but Imperious Leader wanted the simulacrum to view the final defeat of the race for which it was a representative illusion. The Leader realized that, once the simulator was deactivated, the simulacrum would no longer exist—that any feeling of vengeance the Leader might achieve from the Starbuck’s reaction to the annihilation was merely a response to information gathered from data banks and presented in human form. The Starbuck would be returned to nothingness, a collection of data bits that would never form again. Imperious Leader wondered what revenge he would gain by showing the Starbuck the annihilation of the human race. His feeling of vengeance would be as illusory as the Starbuck itself. Nevertheless, if the Starbuck displayed any reaction—shock, anger, disgust—it would be a satisfying coda to the moment of victory. And Imperious Leader very much wanted to observe the arrogance of the Starbuck collapse.
Adama watched the attack of the Cylon task force on a series of screens above the communications console. Colonial vipers were fiercely engaged in a running battle with the front ranks of the Cylon force. On a central screen, he could see a wave of Cylon fighters sweeping into position and firing their lasers in a wide-arced multiplaned pattern of fire. Two colonial vipers shattered into fragments and disintegrated in a consuming fire. Athena, standing beside Adama, cursed under her breath and clenched her fists. But there were only communications screens to hit.
A quartet of vipers peeled off from the main group as if to flee, then abruptly turned and fired furiously at the right flank of the attacking force. Lines of laser fire crossed and intersected, forming a brief asymmetric network of fine-lined light. A pair of Cylon ships fell from the rank and blew up, then a third, and a fourth. With each destroyed Cylon ship, Athena whispered encouragement to the vipers that had knocked them out. In a moment the screens seemed filled with exploding Cylon ships.
Although the Galactica squadrons had turned back the first line of Cylon attack, there were more warships in the distance. Tigh silently handed Adama a report which showed that the Cylon base-ship had now entered the sector and was bearing down on the ragtag fleet at high speed.
Adama looked up from the report just in time to see a massive spear of light stabbing into space ahead of the battlestar. It had passed by them and narrowed to a dim line in the distance before anyone on the Galactica had had time to react to it. Another beam of light followed it, at a different angle, farther away. A third seemed dangerously close.
“They’re sweeping the entire corridor with that laser cannon,” Adama said to Tigh.
“Blue Squadron coming in,” Athena reported. “Nine destroyed vipers, seven of them piloted by cadets. Seventeen too damaged to go out again right away, perhaps a dozen ready for another battle. Red Squadron reports similar damages.”
“What about the Cylon forces?” Adama asked her.
“They’re retreating. But more Cylon warships have entered the quadrant. base-ship not far behind.”
Adama looked at Tigh, who nodded in agreement to the question on the commander’s face.
“Our time is up, Colonel,” Adama said, then turned to the bridge officer and ordered: “Flank speed ahead. We’re going right through.”
Another spear of light was too far in the distance to be threatening, but it went through that part of the sector that was right on the Galactica’s course.
“The expedition must have failed,” Tigh said, the suggestion of tears in his eyes.
Adama glanced at the console timer.
“They still have six centons left,” he said.
“Six centons,” Athena whispered, and tried not to think that Apollo and Starbuck might be already frozen dead upon the planet.
Starbuck, dodging blasts of laser fire from Cylons defending the entranceway to the underground complex, felt quite the opposite of frozen. Heated by the burning materials around him in the destroyed command post, he felt warmer than at any time since he’d descended to the ice planet.
Ravashol’s clones, driven by the kind of hatred that accumulates from a long oppression, had easily gained the advantage on the Cylons guarding the command post. Approaching the headquarters in white and gray furs, the clones had so blended in with the landscape that they had caught the enemy by surprise. Boomer and Starbuck held back until combat had begun in earnest, then they entered the fray, laser pistols drawn and shooting. After disposing of the guards, Starbuck leaped down into the corridor leading to the main underground complex. Boomer remained right behind him.
As they ran down the passageway, one of the Tennas caught up with them. A Cylon lumbered out of a side corridor. Reacting quickly, Tenna fired at it. Sparks from the wired suit flew as the Cylon fell.
A group of Cylons at the end of the corridor began firing at them. Starbuck, Boomer, and Tenna plunged to the ground.
“We’re trapped,” Boomer yelled, looking behind him at the fight raging between the Cylon command-post guards, then ahead at their new attackers.
“Over there,” Starbuck cried, pointing to a hatchway on his left. “What’s on the other side of that?”
“The cold cells where the Cylons hold prisoners,” whispered Tenna.
“Prisoners? I asked you before where the prisoners were kept, you told me you didn’t know.”
Tenna’s eyes widened, in surprise, then in amusement.
“You didn’t ask me. You—”
“I know, I know. One of the others in the Ten series. All right, all right. Can you open that hatch?”
Tenna crawled over to it, and slowly began to turn the valve which opened the hatch. There was a small surprising squeak, and Starbuck tensed himself for what might spring out, aiming his laser pistol directly at the hatchway.
“There’s bound to be guards,” Tenna said.
“I’ll take them. They’re probably not used to people breaking into a prison.”
As Tenna slowly opened the hatch, Starbuck eased himself through the narrow opening. He motioned for Boomer to follow. A blast of cold air quickly dissipated all the warmth he’d accumulated in the battle.
Cree had been concentrating on moving his head from side to side for some time. It was the only movement of which he was capable. He seemed to have lost contact with the rest of his body long ago, right after the Cylon guards had roughly dragged him to this chamber and pushed him into a tubular frost-gray cold cell. At first he had tried to keep his fingers and toes moving, but when they had turned completely numb he had started to do the exercise with his head and
neck. Now he felt like stopping that, too.
His eyes were just beginning to droop shut when he saw a quick flash of movement to his right. He had just enough strength to look that way. A man was firing at the two Cylons who were standing guard in front of the triple row of cold cells. A colonial warrior, from the look of the outfit. Starbuck. It was Starbuck. Who was Starbuck? He could barely remember, even though the name had flashed into his mind.
First one Cylon fell, then the other, both dropped by the crouching Starbuck. The clang of their metallic uniforms against the floor echoed through the cold-cell chamber. There seemed to be more movement on the right, but Cree found he could no longer turn his neck in that direction. For a moment he lost consciousness.
Suddenly he was awake again. Starbuck had broken open the door to Cree’s cell and was pulling him out.
“Can you move?” Starbuck asked.
“Is he alive?” asked an attractive woman who stood behind Starbuck.
“Unless those tears in his eyes are self-generating, he’s still with us.”
Cree tried to talk but couldn’t. Starbuck picked him up delicately, as if he were an expensive art item, and took him out of the cold-cell chamber. A rush of what seemed to be warm air in the corridor brought back feeling in Cree’s toes and fingers. He tried to tell Starbuck. Although sound emerged from Cree’s frozen lips, Starbuck said he couldn’t understand what the young cadet was saying.
Gradually Cree became aware that combat was raging all around them. He tried to force his hand to reach toward his holster to draw out his pistol, then remembered that the Cylons had disarmed him when he’d first been captured.
Starbuck left him leaning against a wall inside a dark niche, like a sculpture propped up in a dusty forgotten museum storeroom. As he listened to the sounds of battle outside, Cree became aware of the feeling coming back into his body. When he was aware of the blood flowing through his body again, he knew he would be all right.
Starbuck returned to the niche. The lieutenant’s face was grimy with dirt.
“Can you walk?” he asked Cree.
“I can try.”
“Well, you better, cadet. I leave you here, the Cylons we missed might get you. If we missed any. C’mon, we’re going to liberate an elevator.”
“An elevator? I don’t—”
“Don’t worry about it. I just need the manpower. Maybe if the Cylons see you, they’ll drop their guns and surrender.”
“Drop guns? Surrender? Lieutenant—”
Starbuck seized Cree and pulled him out of the dark niche.
Loud noises above and below frightened the clone children, made them gather together in tight little groups and crouch against walls, hide behind piles of fur, At each vibrating noise, Muffit ran toward the doorway and hopped up and down. It looked like it wanted to bark, but Boxey had ordered it not to, and Muffit was nothing if not obedient.
The doorway slid open slowly. One of the pretty women came through it, and told the children to be especially quiet. Alerted by the action at the garrison headquarters, some Cylons were roaming the corridors, looking for the agitators. Afraid, all the children nodded they would be quiet, and the woman went out again.
Boxey got down on his haunches by the doorway and listened. At first he could hear nothing; then—after another of the loud rumbling noises—he could hear the gravelly mechanical nasality that he knew was a Cylon voice. They were in the outer chamber. One of them thumped accidentally against the doorway. The woman was saying something to them, something about not knowing what was happening and would they please not violate her privacy. Another thump on the door, and he thought he could hear a Cylon asking what was on the other side of that entranceway. Boxey signaled the other children to come to him. Reluctantly they approached the doorway and Boxey told them:
“We might got to get out of here. If that door opens, we got to run. Muffit?”
The daggit-droid pivoted its head toward Boxey.
“You lead the way, you hear, daggit?”
Muffit responded with the low growl that was his programmed vocal response to a whispered instruction. Boxey crouched by the doorway, wondering if his dad or Starbuck would be proud of the way he took command just like a colonial warrior should.
Suddenly the door was ripped open. All Boxey saw was a Cylon gloved hand at the edge of the door before he quickly sprang into action. Hollering, “Okay, Muffy, now!” he barreled through the doorway, gesturing to the clone children to follow him. Muffit leaped right at the legs of the Cylon who’d opened the door, and tripped him. The Cylon’s metal suit was ripped open by the jagged boulder he fell upon. The other Cylons, astonished by the fact that it was children attacking them, made futile grabs at the small forms scampering past them. But Cylons, in their heavy metallic suits, tended to be awkward in movement, and not a single child was captured by the cumbersome giants.
In the corridor, Boxey ran left, shouting:
“This way!”
He knew that his father or Starbuck would have led their troops with a shouted command like that. The only trouble was, he didn’t know where he was going. Muffit dashed ahead. The best bet, Boxey figured, was to follow the daggit.
Muffit led them through several corridors, stopping every once in a while when there were Cylons in the vicinity. The slightest noise that sounded like a Cylon patrol marching near them made the children crouch behind rocks and hide in the alcoves. The loud noises that shook the walls of the corridors and caused rains of dirt and small rocks kept sounding regularly.
Finally the daggit stopped beside a hatchway whose portal had been loosened by one of the jarring explosive noises. Very cold air seeped in through the tiny spaces around the hatchway edge.
“It’s cold out there, Muffy,” Boxey said.
The daggit-droid growled in response but edged toward the hatchway and pointed its snout a little way out.
“But you think it’s our best chance. Right, Muffy?”
Muffy growled again.
“Okay, we’ll try it. I guess everybody’s warm enough.” Boxey glanced around at his squad of clone children. All of them were securely wrapped in fur outfits like the clothing that one of the pretty women had put on Boxey. But it still might be too cold. Maybe they should just head down the corridor. Suddenly there was the sound of a marching Cylon patrol coming toward them. Obviously Muffit was right. They had to go outside. Boxey got two of the larger children to push open the hatchway so they could all get out; then he gestured his squad to leave the corridor for the surface of the ice world.
It was cold outside, but not as cold as it had been earlier, when the Galactica team had first arrived on the planet. Boxey didn’t know where they should go now. A fire raged in the distance, across the ice field. It was the only light, so Boxey decided they should go toward it. A moment later, the sky itself suddenly lit up like a flare, and he could see the building where the fire was raging. It wasn’t that far away. They could make it.
The trek across the ice field was harder than Boxey had expected. Muffit kept returning from his guide position ahead and herding the children together, prodding them forward. Just when Boxey felt he was getting too sleepy to go any farther, they reached the edge of a field that wasn’t covered by ice. Much of the rock underneath was showing. Some of the rock surface had scorch marks on it. Boxey looked up. It was an airfield. Arranged in rows were several Cylon fighters. Beyond the ships, inside the Cylon command post, the fire was now blazing out of control. They couldn’t go inside there, Boxey realized. He looked again at the Cylon ships, dark silhouettes against the background of the fire. They looked warm and inviting.
“Get inside the ships,” Boxey ordered the children, and they began scrambling into the nearest fighters. One child reported back that they were indeed warm enough inside. Boxey went ahead farther, Muffit scampering at his heels. He chose a ship at the end of a line, where he would have a good vantage point if any Cylons came toward them. As he climbed into it, he was surprised a
t how empty it was inside, not at all like the complicated technological insides of a viper or of the holograms of Cylon ships that Apollo had shown him. It didn’t seem real; it seemed like the ghost of a ship. But, unlike a ghost, it was warm, and that was what was important. Nestling his fur suit against Muffit’s fur, he curled into a ball and tried to maintain a watchful eye out of a side porthole of the ship. He remembered that this was where the Cylon navigator sat. It was nice. Comfortable. Warm.
He felt sleepy.
He was asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Croft:
At first all I can think of is how foolish I feel at having told Apollo there was almost no chance of an avalanche. Of course this is just the sort of avalanche I’d warned him about, loose snow set rolling by a loud explosive sound. What am I doing worrying about how foolish I might’ve looked? What’ll Apollo care about that when he’s examining my blackened, crushed corpse? What am I thinking about, corpse? He’ll never come looking for me. I’ll just go up with the laser cannon when it explodes. If it explodes. God, the laying of solenite’s up to Leda now, and all that’s on her mind is escape.
Why am I worrying about Leda and Apollo? Got to start worrying about myself. Already I’m moving my arms in a swimming motion, seeking the surface of this crush of snow. It’s important not to panic. Hold my breath. Find an opening of air, find the surface. I shake my ice-ax off my arm, work the pack off my back to lighten myself, give me the lightness to swim to the top of the snow. Don’t panic. Keep the arms and legs moving. Grab at anything for leverage upward. Clear breathing space in front of me with my hands, take quick breaths, keep going upward.
[Battlestar Galactica Classic 02] - The Cylon Death Machine Page 19