Battlestar Galactica 4 - The Young Warriors

by Glen A. Larson

  Starbuck rode to him.

  "Look," he said, "I don't like to interfere with your setup here, but what you trying to do with those horn blasts? They can be heard from here to forever. Why go to all this trouble and preparation if you're going to give away our position?"

  Kyle regarded Starbuck with a cool disdain.

  "I am sending a challenge. It is our way. You do not understand. We shall move again soon anyway."

  "Move again? You're pounding in tent poles! And what's the point of this challenge? I thought you were just showing me around the countryside. You didn't say anything about inviting a guest list of Cylons."

  Anger rushed into Kyle's eyes. His voice sounded quite adolescent when he responded:

  "Do not tell me how to command!"

  In frustration Starbuck raised his hands. There was no talking to Kyle. He took everything as a challenge to his authority over this kiddie band of his. Miri, attracted by the anger in Kyle's voice, rode up, her eyes concerned.

  Magician seemed to be transmitting a feeling of calmness, telling Starbuck to leave Kyle be. It was perhaps unfortunate that Starbuck had not yet learned to take advice from a unicorn.

  "You're grandstanding, Kyle. There's no time for that in this—"

  "Because you wear a starfleet uniform and fly a fighter, you think you should be in command here."

  The petulance in Kyle's voice had an odd calming effect on Starbuck. Everything was now so evident. He should have seen that Kyle was afraid of him, should have seen that Kyle saw him as a threat to his role as leader. What the hell did Starbuck care about leadership of a troop of children? He was a warrior and he did warrior jobs, but he never cared who was in charge. Leaders didn't matter that much to him. He usually did pretty much what he wanted to do anyway.

  "So that's it," he said to Kyle. "You're afraid I want to take over from you?"

  Kyle glanced quickly away, his stare concentrated on the forest.

  "I fear no such thing."

  "Kyle, you know what he says is true," Miri said.

  Kyle's shoulders tensed and he whirled Demon around to face her.

  "I should've known. Should've known you'd side with anyone who's against me. Especially a starfleet warrior! He smiles at you and you choose him. Him over me, over mother!"

  "Mother?" Starbuck asked. "You said your mother had been killed. That's not true, is it?"

  Kyle and Miri stared at each other for a long time.

  "You have to tell him, Kyle."

  "I don't have to do anything. Not anything you say."

  She turned to Starbuck.

  "He wants to exchange you for mother. Tonight."

  "Miri—"

  "Never mind, Kyle. I told you what mother said. You wouldn't listen. Starbuck has to know."

  Kyle made a gesture and Starbuck found himself surrounded by members of the band. They held weapons, Cylon rifles, spikes and swords. Kyle held a rifle and was sighting carefully down the barrel. It was all so pathetic, so childish.

  "Kyle, it won't work," he said. "These are Cylons you're talking about. They'll never make a fair trade. You can't trust them."

  Suddenly Kyle's coolness, his posture of leadership, disintegrated.

  "We must have mother back," he said, his voice clouded by tears. "We must. I have to take this chance. For her. What do I care about you? A hotshot, a pilot pig, fallen to earth and trying to take over where he's not wanted. When have you sky-screamers from the Galactica or from anywhere in the twelve worlds ever cared about us on Antilla? Where was your fleet when we transmitted signals for help? Where were your precious warriors, Lieutenant Starbuck?"

  "I'm afraid we were in a little mess of our own. A mess created by Cylon treachery, incidentally. If you agree to any sort of pact with them, it'll be just like the peace offer they made the starfleet, a peace offer that was merely a cover for an ambush of all our worlds."

  "I don't wish to hear any more." Kyle turned to the strongest children, Laughing Jake and Herbert the Singer. "Bind him," he ordered.

  "Kyle," Miri shouted, "I don't think—"

  "That's an order!"

  Starbuck knew there was no point in resistance. As Herbert the Singer and Laughing Jake lifted Starbuck off Magician, the unicorn reared and pushed at the two large children. He lunged between them, propelling Starbuck toward the nearby forest. Kyle raised his gun and aimed it at Magician's head.

  "No, Kyle!" Miri shouted.

  Magician gave a sidelong look at Miri. Rearing again, he shoved Kyle to the ground. Starbuck found himself shouting, "Get away, get going, you can't help me now." There was understanding in Magician's dark eyes as he looked toward Starbuck and suddenly, in a magnificent leap, galloped into the forest. He was out of sight before Kyle, after rolling around clownishly on the ground, could retrieve his rifle and fire.

  "Kyle, if you'd killed Magician, I'd have—"

  "Shut up, Miri." He shouted to Laughing Jake and Herbert the Singer, "Tie Starbuck to a tree."

  As Starbuck passed Miri, cooperating with his two captors, Miri leaned down toward him and whispered:

  "I'm sorry. I could have—"

  "Shush, Miri, I understand. This trade may make some sense after all, if you can trust your enemy. I just doubt it."

  "I, also."

  Starbuck sighed.

  "Well, if you can get your mother back, it might be worth it. And don't forget, as Kyle says, I'm a starfleet warrior. I'm supposed to take care of myself. I'll find a way."

  "I wish I could believe you."

  "So do I."

  Miri's eyes were tearful. Starbuck could not look at her any more. He allowed himself to be taken to the tree, where Laughing Jake and Herbert the Singer, their fingers working deftly, bound him in astonishingly tight knots.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lucifer's spirits might have risen a bit if he had known that Starbuck was the Galactican pilot who had crashed on Antila. He remembered Starbuck well, even a bit fondly—at least as fondly as an ambulatory sentient computer was capable of. It was, after all, not long ago that Starbuck had been a prisoner on the Cylon base star. The brash young lieutenant, at ease among his enemies, taught Lucifer a popular human card game called pyramid. Pyramid was basically a game of melding, of forming unique combinations, and—above all—of bluffing. Clever, even illogical, bluffing. Starbuck said that, for most pyramid players skill was the most important factor, except for the few who had been blessed with the uniquely human ability that ranked above skill, an ability they called luck. Starbuck was one of the lucky ones, at least he claimed that, and he proved it more than once to Lucifer in their sessions of playing pyramid. Lucifer had filed the precise details of all of these games in his memory banks and occasionally he reviewed them. Now he thought he had figured out a system that would counter Starbuck's luck. All Lucifer needed was the reeappearance of Starbuck so he could test out his theories on him. He would have easily convinced himself to alter course for Antila if it meant that he could snatch Starbuck for some rousing games of pyramid.

  Once he had suggested to Baltar that the two of them could engage in a round of pyramid. Baltar had sneered and said that games were for the unrational being. Lucifer had argued that, since logic played its part in pyramid, a large amount of rationality did go into the game. Baltar, sneering further, said that the rationality of such games was an empty one, futile moves toward a meaningless goal. Games were for children, Baltar said, then added with one of his characteristically insulting chuckles that of course since Lucifer was a comparatively recent cybernetic advancement perhaps he could be considered a child. Lucifer decided Baltar didn't deserve a response and glided rapidly out of the man's sight.

  It was now time for conference. Each duty-tour Baltar insisted that he and Lucifer get together to discuss matters, even the most trivial events. Baltar, like most humans, was fascinated with trivial details. Conferences were a habit that the human had acquired from years of serving on subcommittees, then committees, then ris
ing to the position of full-fledged member of the ruling body, the Council of Twelve. He seemed to need regular meetings, or else he became quite edgy.

  Lucifer glided into the command room. Baltar lounged in the communications console chair, swinging it slightly from side to side with the smooth regular motions of a man at peace with himself.

  "Still no word from Antila?" Lucifer asked.

  "You are becoming obsessive about Antila, Lucifer. One might say that you could use a few sessions of what we humans call therapy."

  "Therapy?"

  "A bit of analysis of your thinking and feelings—though I know that feelings are meaningless to you, even if you do have them. A bit of help to aid you in adjusting to your troubles, your problems, your irrational leanings."

  "I have neither troubles, problems, nor irrational leanings."

  Actually, he thought, he did, though he would never admit them. Baltar was simultaneously a trouble, a problem, and Lucifer was aware of frequent irrational leanings in Baltar's direction.

  "You needn't get in a snit," Baltar said. "Spectre will contact us when he has something to report."

  "It has been a long time since his last communication. He should have something by now. Perhaps he feels his information will not be received satisfactorily by you, Baltar."

  Baltar looked quizzically at Lucifer.

  "Hmmm. You've got something odd going on in that light bulb of a head, Lucifer. What are you implying?"

  Lucifer hated it when Baltar called his head a light bulb. Cylons, masters of indirect lighting sources, did not have such primitive devices as light bulbs. Humans did, and their shape was nothing like Lucifer's head. Well, not much anyway.

  "It has come to my attention," Lucifer said, "that Spectre is a master at requisitioning materials. He has supplies on Antila that no garrison that size would require except in the most extreme situations. He has managed, for example, to acquire more fuel than any other garrison in the sector, and his is the smallest garrison in the sector."

  Baltar smiled.

  "If you think you're distressing me, you're mistaken. I'm even more impressed with our Spectre. Obviously, he's an efficient stockpiler, a marvelous trait in a garrison commander."

  "But he also keeps ordering weapons, laser rifles and metron bombs."

  "So?"

  "He alleges that the colony on Antila was completely destroyed. He has no reason for that much weaponry to defend what is essentially an out-of-the-way outpost." Baltar cleared his throat and studied his stubby-fingered hands.

  "I'm surprised at you, Lucifer. Amassing circumstantial evidence to cruelly demean the work of an efficient fellow officer."

  "It is important that—"

  "I do understand what you are saying, Lucifer. You mean to imply that, if his records are of such a questionable nature, that he is also capable of submitting false reports to us."

  "Speaking from past experience, I would say it is not beyond his programming."

  Baltar laughed, his laughter creating a resounding echo in the cavernous command room.

  "Lucifer! I do believe you are jealous."

  "That is not part of my programming."

  In fact, though, it was. Lying was also a part of his programming. Deception had become vital since he had been forced to deal with Baltar on a regular basis.

  "If Spectre is as efficient as you say," Lucifer said, "then we should have much more information about the captured Galactican pilot by now."

  Baltar shrugged.

  "That perhaps shows Spectre's meticulous efficiency. He is not ready to report prematurely anything that—wait, a signal is coming in now. From Antila, Lucifer. I am not surprised."

  Lucifer suppressed saying that he was.

  "Commander Spectre reporting, sir," said the image of Spectre as it formed on the screen from dots into a reasonable facsimile of the individual.

  "Ah, Spectre," Baltar said. "We have just been . . . discussing your abilities. Do you now have the present coordinates of the Galactica?"

  Spectre hesitated a beat.

  "Well, not exactly, sir."

  "Hmmm," Lucifer muttered softly. Baltar, clearly annoyed, glared at him.

  "Go on, Spectre," Baltar said.

  "I'm afraid the colonial warrior was seriously injured in the crash. We are attempting to repair his body in order to extract the information you require."

  Repair? Lucifer thought. Spectre talked of this pilot's injury as if were merely circuitry to be worked on and reconnected. Humans were not as easily fixed as computers or robots, after all.

  "I see," Baltar said. "How long do you estimate that this . . . this repair process will take?"

  "Not long. As soon as we can improve him physically, he should respond to torture."

  That seemed peculiar to Lucifer. First you 'repair' the man, then you wreck him again. Sometimes he wondered if information was worth the trouble one went to in order to get it.

  "I'm not concerned with the fate of the colonial warrior, Spectre," Baltar said. "But I'm counting on you to get the information about the Galactica. Our cat-and-mouse game with that battlestar has just about ended, I feel."

  "I understand your needs, sir, and let me say that it is a distinct honor to serve the illustrious Count Baltar."

  "I am impressed that you know my human title."

  "Sir, you are a legend to us."

  "Oh, my," Lucifer muttered. He had not realized that the earlier series had ever been programmed for such obvious and overmannered obsequiousness. Obvious or not, it worked. Baltar was smiling smugly as he said:

  "Well, thank you, Spectre."

  "I will report again soon, sir."

  "By all means."

  "By your command."

  Baltar nodded and Spectre's image faded from the screen.

  "You see, Lucifer," Baltar said, turning away from the console, "Spectre has provided us with logical explanations."

  "Yes, I see," Lucifer said. His doubts must have somehow communicated themselves to Baltar, for the human commented:

  "Lucifer, you'd be surprised to find out that this jealousy between classes of computers is nothing compared to that among classes of humankind."

  This observation caused Baltar, irrationally, to laugh uproariously.

  As Spectre switched off his transmitter, Hilltop appeared beside him, as usual.

  "If I may say so, honored sir, I had not realized that such deceptions were possible within the chain of command."

  "Oh, they are, Hilltop, they are. In some ways, they are what keep the links in the chain solid."

  Hilltop seemed ready to express further doubt, but Spectre waved him away. He was feeling pretty proud of himself, proud of the way he was turning an untenable situation to his advantage, proud of the way he was clearly impressing Baltar. There was a place for him in the Cylon chain of command, he was positive, and its position could be considerably higher than commander of a tiny garrison on an out-of-the-way, edge-of-the-universe, bleak, ugly, miserable, damp, beyond all rationality planet.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FROM MIRI'S BOOK:

  Kyle set several of the children to work binding together the raft. I could sense his eyes on me as I checked Starbuck's injured leg. The gash had just about healed, as I had expected, but I decided to keep the leg bandaged and so rewrapped the green-blue leaves around the poultice.

  "You needn't worry about an infection," I said to my patient. "I applied the horn-paste in time. Your leg looks almost healed."

  "Terrific," Starbuck muttered. "I can walk with dignity to my execution."

  I wanted to reach out and hold him to me, but Kyle would interfere if I showed Starbuck any affection. Anyway, I knew he feared I might untie the lieutenant and, to tell the truth, if I could have figured out a way to untie him quickly, before Kyle could respond, I would have done it. But the knots had been made by Herbert the Singer and Laughing Jake. They were thick and secure.

  "Actually," Starbuck continued, "Cylons aren't
exactly quick to execute. They like to see what little pains they can inflict on—"

  "Please, don't," I said. "Perhaps they won't . . ."

  "Kill me? Miri, you lived through their invasion, you've been spying on them long enough. You know what they do to people."

  "They haven't executed mother or the other prisoners."

  Starbuck sighed. I felt like a child and briefly resented him for making me feel that way.

  "Maybe not," he said. "But, if that's so, they're saving their lives for a reason. To get information, to research the capacity of the human being for pain, to—to make just such an exchange as this. Don't make the mistake of thinking they see us the way we see each other. We're just objects to them, and it doesn't much matter whether they kill us or experiment on our bodies."

  "Perhaps we can attack them and get you back. Or maybe we can trade again for you, or—"

  "How? By trading another human for me? No thanks. I couldn't live with that."

  "That's what mother said about this trade. I was supposed to stop it. But Kyle wouldn't listen. I don't know how to help, I just don't . . ."

  "Keep talking."

  "Why?"