Battlestar Galactica 5 - Galactica Discovers Earth

by Glen A. Larson

  So when he saw the two weird-looking bikes up ahead, he decided to put a little life into an otherwise dull morning. Motioning Lizard Charlie and Billjac the Crusher to fan out, he spurted ahead, followed by a flying wedge of Angels.

  Within minutes he had pulled even with Troy and Dillon.

  "Hey, Lizard!" he hollered above the sound of the racing engines. "Get a load of those wheels!"

  "Wild, man! Wild!" said Lizard Charlie.

  "I sure would like one of them bikes for a toy!" yelled Billjac.

  "No sooner said than done!" said Donzo. "Hey, you turkeys! Pull off the road. We've got to have a little pow-wow."

  "You must have us confused with someone else," said Dillon. "My name's not Turkey, and neither is my friend's. In fact, as I recall, a turkey is a large, domesticated bird."

  "A turkey is what I say it is, turkey!" snarled Donzo. "Now take the next exit ramp or I'm gonna crush your mush."

  "Mush?" asked Dillon.

  "Some form of warm cereal," said Troy. "It must be a slang expression."

  "What do you think we should do?" asked Dillon, his hand poised above the turbo control.

  Troy shook his head. "We've shown too much already," he said. "We'd better do what they ask."

  Dillon shrugged and leaned his bike into the next exit ramp. A moment later he and Troy had come to a stop in a school playground, surrounded by twenty leering Angels.

  Donzo dismounted and walked over to Troy's bike.

  "Very nice wheels," he said. "You and I are gonna make a little trade, turkey."

  "I appreciate your offer," said Troy apprehensively. "But we're already late for an appointment, and—"

  "You didn't let me finish," said Donzo, giving him a shove. "I get to keep your bike. You get to keep your face. Fair trade?"

  The Angels all laughed.

  Troy sat stock-still, his brain racing, trying to come up with a way to avoid any type of conflict that might draw still further attention to himself and Dillon. But Donzo wasn't in the mood to wait, and pushed him again, nearly knocking him over.

  "Is this the way you treat all strangers?" said Troy softly.

  "Naw," chuckled Donzo. "Sometimes we ain't so friendly."

  He reached out to give Troy another push, and the young warrior leaped into action. He grabbed Donzo's outstretched hand, twisted it behind the Angel's back, put a foot against the biker's buttocks, and pushed. Donzo uttered a surprised grunt, then fell head over heels and rolled to a stop at Lizard Charlie's feet.

  "Not smart!" he hissed, pulling himself up and withdrawing a wicked-looking switchblade from his pocket. "Not smart at all, turkey!"

  With a bellow he charged Troy again—and an instant later all three hundred fifty pounds of him were flying through the air. He hit the ground with a tremendous thud, and the force of the fall jarred the knife loose from his hand.

  "Need a little help, Donzo?" asked Billjac the Crusher with an evil grin.

  Donzo was too stunned to take offense. He merely nodded, and a moment later the two bikers were approaching Troy again, though much more cautiously this time.

  "Now!" cried Donzo.

  He raced forward, only to double over from a massive fist in his belly. Dillon, who had been standing quietly by, moved imperceptibly forward, grabbed Billjac by his beard, and flung him some fifteen feet away.

  "We'd better end this quickly, Troy," he said. "Sooner or later someone from the school is going to see us."

  Troy nodded, drew his weapon, set it on stun, and swept it over the remaining Angels, who collapsed as if an enormous block of concrete had fallen on them.

  "What about these two?" said Dillon, indicating the still-prone Donzo and Billjac.

  "Oh, I think all the fight is out of them," said Troy. "Bullies are pretty much the same anywhere in the Universe. However, let's make sure that they don't follow us too soon."

  So saying, he picked up Donzo's knife and methodically slit the front tire of each of the Angel's bikes.

  A few minutes later they were back on the highway again.

  "Well, we haven't exactly been a smashing success so far," said Dillon. "Maybe it's the bikes."

  "I doubt it," said Troy. "But just to be on the safe side, perhaps we'd better find some other means of transportation for the remainder of our trip. Let's take the next exit and see what we can find."

  They pulled into a sleepy little town, left the bikes at the back of an empty lot, energized the invisibility field, and walked to a gas station.

  "A telephone booth," mused Troy. "I seem to remember something about telephones in our briefing papers."

  Dillon checked it out on his wrist computer. "Right. It's what they use to communicate with each other."

  "Good," said Troy. "Then we can at least let Doctor Mortinson know we're coming."

  Troy walked up to the phone, stared at it for a moment, then turned to Dillon.

  "How does it work?"

  "Strictly verbal, as I recall," replied Dillon.

  "Fine." He stood about two feet from the receiver, cleared his throat, and spoke. "How do you do? I would like to communicate with the Pacific Institute of Technology."

  Nothing happened.

  "Maybe you have to speak louder," suggested Dillon.

  Troy shrugged, repeated his request at the top of his lungs, and waited.

  "Doctor Zee was finally wrong about something," said Dillon with a grimace. "It's not as easy to be a barbarian as he thinks."

  "Let's loiter in the vicinity for a while until someone else uses it. Then we'll watch him and see how it's done."

  Soon a middle-aged man pulled up to the station on a Harley-Davidson, took off his helmet, and rubbed his eyes.

  "Whew!" he said. "Dusty out there! I just had to pull off the road for a moment to take a breather."

  "Did you wish to use the telephone?" asked Dillon hopefully.

  "Naw," said the man. "I just needed to rest for a minute."

  "I mean, we wouldn't mind at all if you wanted to use it," continued Dillon hopefully.

  "Why would I want to make a call?" said the man. "Besides, I need all my loot today."

  "Loot?" repeated Troy blankly.

  "Right. I'm going out to the track today. Putting it all down on Spectacular Bid."

  "I'm afraid I don't follow you," said Dillon.

  "Look, I know he couldn't beat Affirmed, and Affirmed couldn't beat Seattle Slew, but so what?" said the man. "I'm not saying he's the best thing that ever looked through a bridle. That's just hoopla to raise his syndication value. But there's nothing at Hollywood Park that can make him work up a good sweat, right? I mean, he's not racing the next Affirmed or Slew, just a bunch of hamburgers."

  "Right," said Troy, nodding his head sagely and wondering what the man was talking about.

  "And nine furlongs is his meat," said the man, starting his Harley up again. "Wish me luck. I'm putting the whole bankroll on him."

  "Couldn't you just call it in by telephone?" asked Dillon hopefully.

  "Some kidder!" laughed the man. He pealed out of the gas station.

  "I don't think we've been properly prepared for contact," said Troy grimly. "I have absolutely no idea what he was talking about."

  "Me neither," said Dillon. "At first I thought it might be the sport of horse racing, but hamburgers come from cattle, not horses. And what does hoopla mean? And if he doesn't work up a good sweat, does that mean he'll be working up a bad one?"

  "Well, as long as we've got a minute, let's try the computer. Look up the word 'furlong'."

  Dillon checked his wrist computer. "It's six hundred and sixty feet, two hundred and twenty yards, or one-eighth of a mile. Origin: the length of a farmer's furrow."

  "Not exactly helpful," said Troy.

  Suddenly he motioned Dillon into silence. A young woman had pulled up to a gas pump, left her car, and was approaching the phone booth.

  "Uh . . . are you two using the phone?" asked Jamie Hamilton, brushing a lock of hair
from her face.

  "Oh, we're totally finished," said Dillon eagerly. "You can use it right now if you wish."

  "You're sure?" she said, looking at them curiously.

  "We have a considerable amount of communicating to do," said Troy hastily. "We can wait."

  "Well, if you won't mind, I really am in kind of a hurry," said Jamie, entering the booth. "Thanks."

  "Look at her, Troy!" whispered Dillon. "She's picking that thingamabob up and holding it next to her face. So that's the secret!"

  "Oh, damn!" muttered Jamie to herself. "A toll call." She opened the door of the booth. "Do either of you have change for a dollar?"

  Troy smiled pleasantly at her while Dillon checked his wrist computer.

  "Sorry," he said, after checking the readout. "We have just used our last denomination of currency ourselves."

  "You sure have a funny way of expressing yourself," said Jamie.

  "We're from out of town," said Troy hastily.

  "Oh, well. I'm going to get some change. Do you need any?"

  "We'll be fine," said Troy.

  "Credit card, huh? I wish I had one. The most important interview of my life, and I'm going to be late." She scurried off to break a dollar at the station's cash register.

  "This is hopeless," said Dillon. "I couldn't understand her either. It seems we can't get any currency until we contact Dr. Mortinson, and we can't contact Mortinson without currency."

  "She said something about a card," noted Troy. "It's just possible that a sensor can read whatever these things work on."

  "It's worth a try," agreed Dillon.

  Troy removed his belt sensor, set it to "Read and Interact," aimed it at the phone, and waited. There was a momentary beeping, and then the coin box within the phone began spewing coins everywhere. The two warriors knelt down and began picking them up. They were still doing so when Jamie returned.

  "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.

  "Just picking up our currency," said Dillon.

  "Did you just jimmy that coinbox?" she persisted.

  "No," said Troy. "It just started throwing these things—coins—out. I think it's malfunctioning."

  "I'll just bet it is!" snapped Jamie. "And you looked like such nice, clean-cut young men. Hand that money to me and take a hike or I'll turn you in to the service attendant."

  Dillon turned to Troy. "Metamorphosis? Transubstantiation? Boy, was Doctor Zee wrong about these people! Anyone who can turn me into a service attendant, whatever that is, has to be more advanced that we suspected."

  "Hold on, now," said Troy. "She's not wearing any power units. Probably it's just another figure of speech."

  "What are you talking about?" said Jamie, her eyes wide.

  "Oh, nothing," said Dillon. "We just like to talk. Here's your currency." He handed a few hundred coins to her.

  "We're strangers here," said Troy slowly. "We want to respect your customs, and we don't mean anybody any harm."

  "I can believe you're strangers," said Jamie at last. "I'm just trying to figure out where you can come from that doesn't have any telephones."

  "Oh, you've probably never heard of it," said Dillon hastily. "Would you care to use the phone now?"

  "No," she sighed. "It would only look worse if I called in now. Maybe I can just give them an excuse about being stuck in a traffic jam."

  "You're sure?" said Dillon. "We wouldn't mind your making a call at all."

  "Thanks a lot," said Jamie dryly. "I'm still trying to decide what to do about you two."

  "Just wish us luck," said Dillon. "We're late for an appointment ourselves." He paused, then his face lit up. "Say, is there any chance that you'd be going anywhere near the Pacific Institute of Technology?"

  "That's where you two are going?" said Jamie unbelievingly.

  "Yes," said Troy. "We're going to see Doctor Mortinson."

  "Doctor Alfred Mortinson?"

  "Yes."

  "The Doctor Alfred Mortinson?"

  "There's more than one?" asked Dillon apprehensively.

  "The nuclear bigwig, right?"

  Troy nodded. "Yes. We had difficulty with our transportation."

  Jamie stared at the two men for a long minute. "Well, maybe I did jump to conclusions. But you'll have to admit it did look a little odd."

  "I knew it!" exclaimed Dillon. "I just knew we looked too different. That's why that guy with the knife tried to pick a fight!"

  "What?" said Jamie. "Somebody attacked you with a knife?"

  "No problem," said Troy. "It's all over."

  "But you should report it to the police."

  "On a telephone?" asked Dillon dubiously.

  "Of course on a— Look, I can't stand here talking any longer. I'm really late. Hop into my car and I'll give you a lift."

  "It flies, too?" asked Dillon, climbing into the back seat.

  Jamie forced herself to laugh, then gunned the engine and began counting the moments until she could unload these two pleasant but unquestionably demented young men.

  4

  (AP) Anti-nuclear activists have received permits to demonstrate throughout California this afternoon. Among their major targets are the nuclear power plant to the north of San Francisco, and the Pacific Institute of Technology in the Los Angeles area. Security at the latter location has been increased following the reports of threats against the life of Nobel Prize laureate Alfred Mortinson.

  5

  RECONSTRUCTED FROM

  DILLON'S DEBRIEFING SESSION (Continued):

  It was a half-hour drive to the Pacific Institute. When they arrived Dillon and Troy were amazed to see hundreds of people, many of them teenagers but quite a few adults as well, marching around the campus carrying signs and placards.

  "What seems to be the problem here?" asked Troy.

  "See for yourself," said Jamie. "Your friend Mortinson may have invented a newer and safer nuclear power plant, but it's obviously not safe enough for these guys. Look at their placards."

  "Clean and safe nuclear power—that's what this is all about?" said Troy.

  "Isn't that enough?" said Jamie.

  "I guess so. Anyway, thanks; you've been very kind."

  "Strangers in a new place have to stick together," said Jamie. "If you ever want to get in touch with me, I'll be working at United Broadcasting . . . I hope."

  "You hope?" said Dillon.

  "That's the appointment I'm late for: a job interview."

  Troy and Dillon thanked her again and got out of the car. As she drove off, one of the protesters picked up a rock and hurled it at her car, missing it by only a few yards.

  "I don't like the looks of this, Troy," said Dillon.

  "I do," replied his companion. "It tells us what Mortinson needs from us. We can turn him into a hero before the week is out."

  Troy walked over to one of the demonstrators.

  "Excuse me, friend, but can you tell us where we can find Doctor Alfred Mortinson?"

  "See that big building over there," was the answer, "the one with all the cops around it?"

  "Thanks," said Troy.

  "They won't let you near it," said the demonstrator. "They've been busting skulls all day."

  Troy smiled politely and began walking in the opposite direction from Mortinson's building.

  "Wrong way, Troy," said Dillon.

  "We've had enough confrontations today, Dillon. Let's see if we can't insinuate our way inside instead of just charging ahead."

  "These clothes Doctor Zee gave us seem to go better with motorbikes than nuclear labs," said Dillon. "I don't know how you propose to get in without being challenged."

  "I noticed what seems to be a storm sewer system beneath the streets," said Troy. He waited until he was sure no one was looking, then lifted a large grate from the pavement and lowered himself carefully into the darkness. "I was right," his voice echoed hollowly. "Get a fix on the building with your computer and remember to put the grating back after you get down here."


  A moment later they were walking beneath the campus, up to their ankles in water, their steps making strange sloshing noises.

  "Reminds me of one of the ventilation shafts aboard the Galactica," said Dillon. "Except for the water, that is."

  "I wonder if the other teams are having any better luck adjusting to the local customs," said Troy as they followed the computer's directions. "I know Kip was sent to someplace called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics."

  "He's probably accomplished his mission already," said Dillon. "This nation seems particularly paranoid. I'll bet Kip's people don't have all these security measures."

  "Don't bet on it," said Troy. "This whole planet's got security on the brain. No one seems to trust anyone."

  "Except for Jamie."

  "Jamie?"

  "The girl who drove us here," said Dillon.

  "I don't know. I got the idea she was humoring us. Probably thought we were madmen who might get violent at any minute."

  Dillon shrugged. "Who knows? Well, here we are. According to the computer we're right under the building."

  "See anything that looks like a doorway?" asked Troy.

  Dillon shook his head. "No such luck."

  Troy pulled his sensor off his belt and pointed it directly above his head. Then he began walking in ever-widening circles. "All right," he said at last. "There are no life forms of any kind above where I'm standing. It seems to be a storage room, or perhaps an office. At any rate, the door is closed, which means we won't be seen."

  He pulled out his weapon and fired it directly above his head, then jumped back as debris started tumbling down.

  When the hole he was creating was large enough, he holstered his weapon and jumped up, grabbing the edges with his hands and easily pulling himself up. He reached down for Dillon's hand and hoisted his friend effortlessly.

  "Looks deserted," he said, looking around him at an array of dust-covered file cabinets.

  "Wait a minute," said Dillon, closing his eyes to concentrate better. "Right! As I recall, many Earth buildings have lower levels called basements, where the foundations—moorings, so to speak—are laid. That must be where we are."