The newest BATTLESTAR GALACTICA adventure
Marooned! Starbuck didn't know whether to laugh
or cry. Sure, he was sick of war . . . but he also
didn't want to spend the rest of his life stranded
on this hunk of rock where he had crashed. It was
too much for an adventure-loving skypilot to stand!
Then he met Miri, riding like the wind on her thinking
unicorn, and agreed to lead her band of guerilla kids
in their war against the Cylon killer robots . . .
PLANET OF WAR!
"You seem to be surviving very well," Starbuck said, "for children."
"We are not children!" Kyle shouted.
"What are you then, all you eight and ten and fourteen year olds, if you're not children?"
"We are warriors!"
THE YOUNG WARRIORS
The newest BATTLESTAR GALACTICA adventure
Berkley Battlestar Galactica Books
BATTLESTAR GALACTICA
by Glen A. Larson and Robert Thurston
BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 2: THE CYLON DEATH MACHINE
by Glen A. Larson and Robert Thurston
BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 3: THE TOMBS OF KOBOL
by Glen A. Larson and Robert Thurston
BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 4: THE YOUNG WARRIORS
by Glen A. Larson and Robert Thurston
BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 4:
THE YOUNG WARRIORS
A Berkley Book / published with
MCA PUBLISHING, a Division of MCA Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / August 1980
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1980 by MCA PUBLISHING,
a Division of MCA Inc.
Cover illustration by David Schleinkofer.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information addresss: MCA PUBLISHING,
a Division of MCA Inc.,
100 Universal City Plaza,
Universal City, California 91608.
ISBN: 0-425-05353-9
A BERKELY BOOK ® TM 757,375
Berkley Books are published by Berkley Publishing Corporation,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
The report from Core Central Records showed that the Galactica's therapy rooms had not serviced anyone in a long, long time. When he first read the information he had requested about therapy, Lieutenant Starbuck had been astonished that nobody had been troubled enough to seek therapy lately, especially considering all the agonies the crew of the ship had experienced since the Cylon ambush had wiped out most of human civilization on the twelve worlds. On the other hand, perhaps the neglect of the therapy rooms was not so surprising. After all, everyone had been so busy either running the ship or fighting battles with Cylon attackers—who had time for treatment of comparatively trivial psychological problems? Well, right now Starbuck did, and he intended to use it.
His information printout showed that some time ago a memo had been sent out by a subcommittee of the Council of the Twelve which had suggested closing down the therapy rooms and converting their extensive equipment to some more useful activity. However, the medical staff had apparently been too busy to act on the memo's recommendations. Well, Starbuck thought, I can rationalize my therapy session, call it an inspection of the facility's resources, make a few recommendations myself. Now that's really scarey. I'm beginning to think like an intership memo. I may need more help than I thought!
He found the therapy rooms off a dark corridor that did not seem to be used by any crewmembers. Walking along it gave Starbuck eerie feelings. There were no dark corridors anywhere else in the Galactica. In fact, the only time he'd traveled through dismal poorly lit passages like this one had been on his only visit to the prison ship, sometimes known as the grid barge, on a special mission. Those corridors at least had a few complaining prisoners to break up the spooky silence.
The door to the first therapy room was slightly ajar. A shiver went up Starbuck's spine just before he nudged it open. He went into the room tentatively, ready to spring back to the dark corridor if he found anything unexpected inside. If anyone caught him in the room, he fully intended to use his inspection excuse and pretend he had no intention of seeking therapy. The room lights went on as soon as Starbuck stepped through the doorway. There must be sensors implanted in the door frame, he thought. The room was bare, its sole article of furniture a velvet-surfaced blue couch. There were several small square compartments lined in short rows on all four gray walls. Starbuck had seen such compartments before, in some of the recreational cubicles on the ship's rest areas. The compartments contained fantasy-interplay devices, derived from Sagitaran technology, which could create, control, and embeliish on fantasies requested by the person using them. Starbuck had not known that therapy rooms made use of fantasy-interplay technology.
Just being here is my own fantasy, Starbuck thought. Silly, really. I don't need psychological help. Here I am a hero of the fleet, skypilot deluxe, with so many medals they'd twist my chest out of shape if I actually wore all of them. Heroes don't need therapy. It's in the manuals—heroes are stable, forthright fellows. So what if I'm losing a little sleep? A little sleep! Can't remember when I last nodded off. So what if I'm not my usual cheerful self? Who needs cheerful? I haven't felt cheerful since we left Kobol. Hard to feel the least bit up when the commander is solemnly going around mourning the fact that he didn't leave Kobol with the knowledge of where his precious fabled Earth was located. So what if I feel like I'm going to shatter into pieces like an exploding Cylon raider at any moment? So what if my own ship feels like a stranger? And a hostile stranger at that. It's only a phase. I'll get over it. I don't need therapy. I should just turn right around and—
"Lie down, please," said a gentle voice that seemed, in spite of its softness, to fill the room. Like a command whisper, or an urgent muttering from Commander Adama, it demanded obeisance. Starbuck could not see any speakers in the usual places along the wall. The voice must come out of the vents that surrounded the blue velvet couch. "Lie down, please," the voice said again, in just the same way it had spoken before, with no change in pitch, timbre, or inflection. Starbuck knew he should obey the voice, and lie down, but it was his nature to resist even a hint of authority.
"Couldn't I just stand?" Starbuck asked. "Anyway, I'm not even sure I need to be here."
"All my clients are not sure they belong here," the voice said. "When you came through the door you'd already made the decision to seek help. That is good. I am happy that you have come to that decision. But, in order for me to be fully functio
nal, it is necessary that you lie down on the—"
"Did I hear right? You're happy I'm here? How can you be happy? You're just a device, a programmed construct of wires, circuits, and—"
"It is necessary that you—"
"All right, all right. I get it, I'll lie down."
The couch was surprisingly comfortable, so soft and luxuriant that Starbuck seemed to float on its velvet surface like a swimmer on the lazy waves of a salty Caprican lake. Maybe this was all he needed. A good rest. Maybe, after all, it was just his bunk that was causing his sleeplessness. An old standard-issue mattress and not psychological difficulties at all. He felt as if he could drop off to sleep immediately. But if he did he might then encounter one of the nightmares that had come during the rare times when he had slept.
"Specify your problem, please," the voice said.
"Well, it's not that easy to—"
"Of course not. Just try to put it as simply as possible. I have many programs in my storage banks, many therapies at my beck and call. As you speak, I will be narrowing down the perimeters of your treatment, selecting the therapy that may work best for you. But you must explain your problem. In detail. Just put it in your own words."
Starbuck suspected that sensors within the couch were scanning his body for physical clues. A compilation of data about his blood pressure, temperature, the state of his nerves, and any minor physical ailments would, he knew, contribute to the successful operation of the therapy room mechanisms.
"I don't know where to start."
"Patients usually have that problem at the beginning."
"Patients? Hey, I'm not a patient, I'm just here to—"
"Of course. I will not use that word again."
Starbuck thought he heard a click. The device had probably entered the information, do not use the word patient with this patient. This therapy routine was too pat, too systematized, it couldn't possibly help him. Well, he'd started all this, might as well go through with it.
"All right. Why I'm here. It's got to do with what I do, my duties in a way."
"Ah, a job-related identity crisis. Good. And your job is?"
A certain smugness in the voice was beginning to irritate Starbuck. Anyway, who could feel confident, or even friendly, toward a machine that said Ah?
"I'm a viper pilot. A warrior. I fly out of this rattletrap and perform missions, fight battles against the Cylons, reconnaissance patrols—"
"Ah, the Cylons are still the enemy."
"Sure they're still the enemy. Where have you been? They've been the enemy for something like a thousand years. Why should that change?"
There was a pause, and the voice actually sounded embarrassed when it replied:
"I have been cut off from the central ship computers and consequently lack certain data. The theory of my programmers is that my functions are best accomplished if I am not confused by knowing the entire context of the ship's situation. An overload of information could interfere with my diagnostic procedures. I must make decisions for you and not according to what is best for the Colonial Fleet."
"The Colonial Fleet doesn't even exist any more. It was ambushed, a massive sneak attack by those Cylon creeps."
"You see? It has been a long time since I've been consulted about anything. The war is over?"
"No, not exactly. We're, well, we're fleeing from the enemy, looking for Earth, fighting when we can, stopping for—"
"Earth?"
Starbuck sighed.
"This is hopeless. How can we even communicate? Never mind Earth. I think I better get out of here."
"Specify your problem, please. What trouble are you having with your job?"
"Well, no trouble with the job as such. At least not with doing it. It's, well, it's hard to explain. I just feel frustrated."
"Ah, frustrated. Good. What frustrates you?"
Starbuck squirmed. He'd never liked being interrogated, especially by a voice that he knew was not human. Strange, how often he wound up being asked difficult probing questions by machines. Not long ago, when he had been captured by Cylons and imprisoned on the traitor Baltar's base ship, a bizarre but nevertheless charming walking computer named Lucifer had subjected the young lieutenant to a battery of questions that had nearly shaken the cool Starbuck's self-control. Memories of that encounter with Lucifer still made him uneasy. He stroked the velvet surface of the couch nervously as he tried to answer the therapy room voice.
"It's the war really. At least I think it is. It seems like I've known nothing else but war all my life. When I was a kid, most of my games were war games, most of my playmates were young warriors, or warriors-to-be. My life now is like one of our games—but blown up a thousand times in scale. Even my family kept recalling the war to me. You see, they were disabled veterans, the folks who took care of me. They—"
"The folks who took care of you? Are you referring to your parents?"
"No. They were like a mom and dad, but they weren't really my parents. I was left an orphan, or at least most probably an orphan, by a Cylon attack on my home city. In those days orphans were legally considered victims of the war—see how war plays a part in every detail of my life? I can hardly speak of myself or my life without bringing war into it somehow. Anyway, I was classified as victim and was assigned to a pair of other victims for bringing up. It was astonishing how many of my playmates were in the same situation. And those who had genuine parents, they only saw them once in a while. Most adults seemed to be either warriors who were away for long periods, or they were in some important and busy way connected with the war effort. I mean, the war's been going on for so many generations that kids grow up not having an alternative to the idea of war. What alternative could they have? What is peace really, or the idea of peace? Not really the opposite of war, at least not in my experience. Peace is, well, just an abstraction that's supposed to be the opposite of something real, you see? War and peace don't seem to me like legitimate opposites. Anyway, even the businesses not directly connected to the war were essentially governed by the war. They were controlled by rationing and supply quotas, all the terrible business complications that a war brings. The war's everywhere, don't you see? You can't escape from it. Maybe that's my problem really. I just want a minute to myself."
"Hmmm, I see."
Starbuck did not feel comfortable with a machine that hmmmed as well as ahhed.
"So—your parents were killed in that Cylon attack?"
"Presumably. Nobody was ever able to tell me for sure. My father had achieved some notoriety as a gambler, and in the years since I've heard odd rumors of him roaming several worlds and getting into scrapes by taking chances on anything that came his way. But I doubt he's alive. Those are just tall tales, I think."
"Alive or not, the pertinent fact is that you seemed to have lacked parental guidance in your formative years."
"In a way. My foster parents were nice and all. But Gawr, my father had a hook for a hand and he limped—one leg shorter than the other, war injury. My mother, Doreen, had been injured in a laser attack and she'd miraculously survived, but she was nearly blind. Still, they treated me well, normally, like any—"
"But they were not your parents. Go on."
"Okay. So, the war influenced every phase of my life. When I reached the age of career-selection, it seemed only natural to apply for the Flight Academy and train to be a fighter pilot. I'd never really wanted anything else. I was accepted and took to flying a viper by the seat of my pants. I finished top of the class, at least at war and flying skills. My academics weren't all that great, but I got by. After graduation I came to the Galactica, the rawest ensign in the history of the fleet, I think, but somehow I became the crack fighter pilot that I am. I give everybody this line about how I hate duty but I'm really very good at it, really very good at war skills."
Starbuck could not suppress the bitterness that had come into his voice, and he wondered if the therapy machine made note of tonal fluctuations.
"So you see,
I've never really gotten away from the war. Even my diversions, gambling and romance, are primarily escapes from war, and I attend to both concerns with the same tactical efficiency I apply to battle. At present I'm manipulating the affections of two fine young women, Athena and Cassiopeia, and I play them off each other with a keen sense of strategy, and I feel guilty about that, but I still do it. God, I'm so tired of the war, this flight from the Cylons, everything. I want to think in some way that doesn't relate to war. These feelings started obsessing me some time ago, when I flew into an anomaly of space called a void. It was completely empty, this void, completely black, I might have been trapped there forever. Ever since, I've been bothered by what once would have been unimportant. The war, my viper, the meaning of things . . . I don't know who I am any longer. I've been getting depressed regularly, been having trouble sleeping, getting nightmares, questioning—"
"Nightmares? Dreams can be very helpful. Tell me about yours."
"Most of my dreams revolve around the war—what else? Either I'm cruising along, and a Cylon ship appears out of nowhere, lasers firing, and I catch that fabled last laser beam in my teeth—or I'm in a raging battle and I watch the enemy whittle our squadron down, I see my friends Boomer and Apollo both killed, and soon I'm the last viper left, and the Cylons trap me in a pin wheel attack and just before I wake up, I feel my ship exploding around me. I can sometimes feel myself disintegrating into little pieces."
"Hmmm."
"What hmmm? You figure something out from that?"
"Perhaps. Go on."
"Well, that's it. I'm functioning in my job as well as ever. It's just away from it that I'm having trouble coping."
"Do you still feel satisfied at a job well done?"
"Sure. But, you know, it doesn't have quite the same meaning for me. I mean, I know I have to carry on the good fight and I understand clearly why I drag myself into a viper cockpit for mission after mission, and I even still get the same old thrills from victories in battle, but sometimes all these achievements don't add up to much. They seem like just so much melted felgercarb."
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