Battlestar Galactica 5 - Galactica Discovers Earth

by Glen A. Larson

  "Good," said Troy. "Now if we can find an elevator, we can avoid the main level of the building altogether. Security shouldn't be anywhere near as heavy on the upper levels."

  "But we still don't know exactly where Mortinson's office is located," said Dillon.

  "We'll ask," said Troy.

  "Just like that?"

  "Why not? Once we're above the ground level, anyone who sees us will assume that we have a right to be there."

  "Well, let's skulk around and see if we can't find some means of getting up there."

  And as they spoke, Alfred Mortinson, Ph.D., Nobel Prize winner, husband and father, stood at a window some four floors above them, looking down at the protesters. He was a lean man, with thick curly hair, a generous moustache, and thoughtful, intelligent, sensitive eyes.

  "How do we make them understand?" he muttered, more to himself than his secretary, a pert blonde named Carlyle who sat at her desk. "How do we impress upon them that you don't throw the baby out with the bathwater? That you don't give up on nuclear energy just because we don't have all the answers yet."

  "Don't let them get to you like this, Doctor," said Carlyle soothingly.

  "How can I ignore them?" he said in exasperation. "There may be a few kooks out there, but most of them are rational people with rational fears for their families. Even a rabble-rouser like Jane Fonda truly cares. She and they may be wrong, but I don't question their sincerity. They don't want their kids to glow in the dark, they don't want their city to blow sky-high. My God, do they think I do?"

  "Sir . . ."

  "Can't they understand that we have to move forward? The Wright brothers didn't just wake up one morning and say, 'Let's fly out to Kitty Hawk.' Doctors didn't just look at bread mold and say, 'Hey, let's make up a batch of penicillin.' We've only been in the Nuclear Age for a third of a century. Of course we don't have all the answers. I don't know how to break down nuclear waste, how to neutralize it, how to make it harmless. But I do know that there won't be a drop of oil anywhere in the world twenty-five years from now, and that I won't come up with the answers any faster because of a mob that likens me to another Baron von Frankenstein!"

  He shook his head, then turned to Carlyle. "Do you think I ought to invite a few of them in, just to kind of sit around and explain what we're trying to do here?"

  "They didn't come to listen," said Carlyle.

  "No, I suppose not," said Mortinson. He looked out the window again. "I understand their concern. Why the hell can't they understand that?"

  Suddenly a rock crashed through the window. Mortinson screamed, clutched his face, and fell to the floor. Carlyle raced to the window, drew the curtains shut, and knelt down beside him.

  "Are you hurt badly?" she asked.

  He touched his head gingerly, then looked at his hand, which was covered by far less blood than he had feared.

  "Just a couple of cuts above the temple," he said. "They probably look a lot worse than they are. I'm going down the hall to the washroom and treat them. You call someone up here to clean up the mess—and don't open the curtains."

  "I'm also calling for the police," said Carlyle emphatically.

  "You'll do no such thing," said Mortinson. "We've got enough problems without inciting a riot. Don't go overreacting."

  "But . . ."

  "Look, I've got to check my hair for slivers of glass. Just go back to work and try not to get too upset."

  He walked out the door, leaving her looking apprehensively at the drawn curtains.

  And, thirty-eight feet below them, Dillon and Troy were also glancing apprehensively at some window curtains.

  "I don't see why not," Dillon was saying. "We've got suction holds for our hands and legs. It would be so easy to go out the window, climb the side of the building, and enter a few floors up."

  "And if we're seen?" said Troy.

  "We won't be. I peeked out. This is the back of the building. All the kids are around the front."

  "Too risky," said Troy. "It only takes one person, and we're likely to get shot down without ever knowing what hit us. And, more important, we've got equipment on us that we just can't afford to have fall into their hands at this time."

  "So what do you suggest?"

  "Well, no one's in the room above us, according to my sensor. Let's put another hole in the ceiling and play it by ear."

  Dillon shrugged, and a moment later Troy had blown a hole three feet wide into the basement ceiling. He pulled himself up gingerly, then froze.

  "Something wrong?" asked Dillon.

  "Made a mistake," Troy whispered. "This isn't a room. It's a main corridor. It's empty now, but—"

  "HALT!" cried a voice.

  "Oh-oh!" muttered Dillon.

  Troy finished pulling himself up, then turned to face two blue-uniformed security men.

  "Freeze!" snapped the nearer of them, leveling a gun at the young warrior.

  Troy stood relaxed, his hands at his sides.

  The second security man raced up and shoved him to the side of the corridor, face-first.

  "Take the position, buddy!" he said harshly.

  "The position?" asked Troy.

  "Up against the wall, Mac!"

  He placed Troy's hands and feet where he wanted them, then began frisking him.

  "Hey, Scott, this guy's loaded for bear!"

  "What's he got there?" said the cop named Scott.

  "Some kind of hand weapon, and a lot of miniaturized electrical equipment."

  "It's not electrical," said Troy calmly. "Please handle it carefully. It's quite dangerous."

  "Look at that hole in the floor!" exclaimed Scott. "I'll say it's dangerous!"

  "Okay, fella!" snapped his companion. "Suppose you come along with us. We've got a lot to talk about."

  "I'd like to oblige you," said Troy, "but I have urgent business with Doctor Mortinson."

  "Maybe he can arrange to come to your trial," said Scott.

  The two security men suddenly became aware of a sharp whistling behind them.

  "Do you guys really want to see how these things work?" asked Dillon, who had moved a chair beneath the hole and was standing on it, his head, arms and upper torso now visible to the security men. In his hand he held a strange-looking weapon.

  "Good God! Another one!" said Scott. He reached for his pistol, but collapsed long before he could pull it from its holster. His companion followed him an instant later.

  "I hope that was only set on stun," said Troy, retrieving his equipment from the unconscious men.

  "Of course," said Dillon. "Boy, these guys have got a long way to go before they're ready to take on the Cylons."

  "Just in the area of technology," said Troy. "There's nothing wrong with their courage."

  "Well, we'd better not just stand here talking," said Dillon. "Let's get on with it."

  Troy walked up and down the corridor until he came to an office listing on one of the walls. "Mortinson's in Room 408," he announced. "This must be the first floor. I have a feeling that we'd better try a stairway; they'll be less well-guarded than the elevators from what I've seen."

  Dillon nodded, and they began searching for a set of stairs. They passed an EXIT sign four times before Troy thought of opening the door and finally found a stairwell. "Good," he muttered, stepping through and pulling the door shut behind Dillon. "How much longer will those two guys remain unconscious?"

  "I don't know," said Dillon. "It should be about twenty minutes total, but I don't know how long we've been looking for these stairs. "

  "Then we'll just have to talk fast," said Troy, taking the stairs two at a time. He got off at the fourth floor and walked to a door marked:

  408

  ALFRED MORTINSON

  Private

  They entered, again swiftly closing the door behind them.

  "Are you here to clean up the mess?" asked Carlyle, looking up from her typewriter.

  "Mess?" asked Dillon.

  "We've come to see Doctor
Mortinson," said Troy.

  "You and five hundred other freaks," said Carlyle. "How did you get up here?"

  "It's very important," persisted Troy. "Possibly life and death."

  "Who are you?" asked Carlyle, scrutinizing them carefully. "Does the Doctor know you?"

  "We know the Doctor from a recent speech he delivered on what I believe you call your educational transmission band."

  "Transmission band?" repeated Carlyle. "What are you talking about?"

  "Television station," put in Dillon quickly.

  "Right," agreed Troy.

  "Well, I'm afraid this is a bad time to come in unannounced," said Carlyle. "As you can see, we're under a great deal of stress."

  "I can see where it might make it difficult to theorize," said Troy, walking over to a desk computer that was tied in to a video screen. On the screen was a six-line formula keyed to an advanced binary identification system.

  "Especially abstract theories of nuclear waste degeneration," agreed Dillon. "I had trouble with that theory myself. Look at that fourth line, Troy; he doesn't begin to understand how to accelerate the half-life of plutonium, or how to degrade his uranium isotopes."

  "He's on the right track, though," said Troy.

  "Look," said Carlyle, rising from her desk and confronting them. "I don't know who you are, but this isn't funny any longer. You know how Sherlock Holmes said that Moriarty had done a mathematical treatise that was so complicated that no one in the world was capable of criticizing it? Well, there aren't two other men who can understand Doctor Mortinson's work in its entirety, and that includes his own staff. So just what do you think you're pulling?"

  Troy was about to answer when the phone rang, and Carlyle crossed the room to lift up the receiver.

  "How do you make it ring?" whispered Dillon, whose pride was still smarting from his inability to make the telephone at the gas station respond to his needs. "That's got to be the answer. Make it ring, and then you can communicate!"

  Troy gestured him to silence and went back to studying the readout on the video screen, as Carlyle tried not to appear too excited by what she was hearing.

  "Right, Miss Carlyle," said the voice at the other end of the line. "This is Scott Miles of security. Two young men have just broken into the building. If they're in there with you now, just say, Good morning, Scott."

  "Good morning, Scott," said Carlyle.

  "All right," said Miles. "That's all we need to know. Now, try not to be alarmed. We're on our way. Have they revealed any weapons yet?"

  "No."

  "Good. We don't think you're in any immediate danger. We're pretty sure it's the Doctor they want, and we've got him in a safe place. Just let them think he's on his way, and move to the west corner of the room away from the door. Do you understand?"

  "Completely," said Carlyle. "And thank you for calling."

  She hung up the phone and turned back to Troy and Dillon. "The Doctor is on his way and should be here in just a couple of minutes," she said. "Can I get some coffee for you?"

  She moved to the corner of the room just a little too quickly. Troy cocked an eyebrow, Dillon tried to hide a grimace.

  "I'm afraid we can't stay," said Troy. "But we'd like to leave the Doctor a message." He walked to the keyboard. "The symbols are a little different from those I'm used to, but using the projection on the screen as a common cipher, I think we can give you the rudiments of something that might interest the Doctor."

  Troy's fingers began hitting keys with the speed of a professional typist. Carlyle uttered a scream and raced across the room to stop him, but Dillon grabbed her and held her gently but firmly away.

  "What are you doing?" demanded Carlyle, a note of panic in her voice. "Please! The Doctor has been working on that formula for three years!"

  Troy hit an erase button, and the fourth and fifth lines of the formula disappeared. He then entered two very complex substitute lines.

  "That should be enough," he said to Dillon. Then, to Carlyle: "Tell him he can reach us through a young lady named Jamie Hamilton at the United Broadcasting Corporation."

  They walked to the door.

  "Wait!" screamed Carlyle, nearly hysterical. "Please stay! He's on his way up!"

  Troy and Dillon raced to the stairwell and walked down a quick two flights, then stopped to consider their next move.

  "We can't just leave," said Dillon. "After all, the whole point of our mission was to get the Doctor on our side."

  "They'll never let us near him," said Troy. "This place is under siege."

  "But if he doesn't understand our message . . ."

  "He'll understand it, all right," said Troy confidently. "No one now living on Earth could have finished that formula for him."

  "You've got a funny expression on your face, Troy," said Dillon suspiciously. "What's on your mind?"

  "There's one place we could go where Doctor Mortinson wouldn't have any trouble finding us. After all, Jamie may not get the job, so we can't really count on his being able to get in touch with us through her."

  "I have a sinking feeling I know what you're going to suggest," said Dillon.

  "Jail," nodded Troy.

  "I knew it!" groaned Dillon.

  "Why not?" said Troy. "The news media will cover it, Mortinson's secretary will identify us, and he'll know where to find us."

  "And what if he doesn't want to?"

  "Nonsense," said Troy. "Anyone who can work on that formula, and get as far as he got with the limited information available to him, has got to have too much curiosity imbedded in him not to see us. And besides, we can always escape from jail."

  "We can, eh?" said Dillon. "I wonder. You know, we have continually underestimated the capabilities of Earth people. They almost shot us down the second we got here, and we've been racing from one disaster to another ever since."

  "Have you got a better suggestion?" said Troy.

  "Damn it!" said Dillon. "I knew you were going to ask me that. I just knew it!"

  "Good. Then it's settled."

  And so two warriors from the great ship Galactica, warriors who between them had destroyed more than seven hundred Cylons and almost as many of their ships, suddenly emerged on the main floor of the Pacific Institute of Technology and surrendered to authorities without striking a blow in their own defense.

  6

  EXCERPT FROM

  CARLYLE TABAKOW'S DIARY:

  Doctor Mortinson got back about two minutes after the cops arrested those two crazy men. He had a large bandage on his forehead, just above the temple, and though he shrugged it off, I guessed that they'd taken a couple of stitches to close the wounds.

  "What was all the commotion?" he asked. "I just saw the police taking a pair of young men into custody."

  "It's a good thing you weren't here," I said. "I think they must have been some kind of terrorists. I know they were looking for you."

  I knew I was going to have to tell him sooner or later about the theory, but I was kind of hoping he'd be so upset that he'd go home first. Not that I was afraid, but I just thought he'd had a hard enough day as it was.

  But after a moment of sitting at his desk, he got up and went back to the video readout screen, like he's done maybe five thousand times in the past year.

  I had shut it off after those hoodlums destroyed what was there, and the Doctor quickly turned to me and questioned me about it.

  "I'm afraid one of those freaks the cops arrested got to the keyboard and ruined it. I took it off the screen."

  "My God!" he thundered. "Three years of work down the drain!"

  "I tried to stop them!" I protested. "Really I did."

  "I'm sure you did, Carlyle," he said, struggling to regain his composure.

  "They kept talking as if they understood what it meant," I continued. "Talking about half-lives and such. You wouldn't have believed their gall."

  "I hope you didn't erase it completely," said the Doctor. "Perhaps I can salvage something from it."

/>   "No," I said, glad to be able to give him some good news, no matter how small. "It's in the memory bank. But I don't think it's going to be of any use to you, sir. He ruined it. I really would have stopped him, but the security guards warned me to leave them alone."

  "I don't hold you responsible," he said in a tired voice. "Please throw the formula, or what's left of it, on the screen."

  I did so, and he stared at it, as if he'd never seen it before. Then he took out a pocket calculator and began pressing buttons like crazy.

  And while he was playing with his computer and staring at the formula, his face, which at first had been merely irritated, took on the oddest expression. His eyes widened until I could see the whites all around the irises, and his jaw kind of hung slack. Finally he put his calculator back in his pocket and just gaped at the screen.

  "My God . . ." he muttered.

  "I'm sorry," I said consolingly. "I told you they ruined it."

  He turned to me with a wild look in his eyes. At first I thought losing the formula had unhinged him, that he had completely lost his reason, but then he began speaking and his voice, though incredibly tense, sounded quite sane.

  "Miss Tabakow," he said, using my last name for the first time in years, like he was so excited he had forgotten that he always called me Carlyle, "I want you to think very carefully. Who did these two men say that they were?"

  "They didn't," I said, flustered. "I could tell that they were just part of that street gang out there. Leather jackets, Levis, nothing special at all about them. Their hair was a little shorter and a little better groomed than most of the others, but that's the only difference I could tell. Really, Doctor, they were just a couple of hoodlums."

  He shook his head irritably. "Think!" he snapped. "They must have said something!"

  And then I remembered. "They said something about seeing you on PBS."

  "PBS?" he repeated, a strange light coming over his face.

  "Yes, sir," I said quickly. "Something about reading a paper on PBS. But they didn't call it that; they called it an . . . an educational transmission band."

  "Of course they would call it that," he said, nodding to himself, as if I weren't even there. "And to think that they got this far without drawing undue attention! They had to master our language, our customs, even our road maps! And that PBS broadcast was a round-robin discussion I had with Carl Sagan and Adrian Barry about the possibilities of life elsewhere in the galaxy. But why me? Carl's always been a proponent of life on other worlds. I'm a Johnny-come-lately to the fold." He lowered his head in thought for a moment. "Of course! The formula! They could prove who they were to me in a matter of seconds; it could have taken days or weeks to convince Carl!"