Battlestar Galactica 4 - The Young Warriors

by Glen A. Larson

"Just keep talking."

  Gradually I perceived what was happening. Magician, blending in with the forest's darkness, had returned. He was standing just behind Starbuck. I don't know how Starbuck knew that. He had not even glanced back in the direction of the forest. He must have picked up a thought from Magician. I started talking rapidly about mother.

  "Megan says we have no right to trade in human beings. Another prisoner argued with her."

  Magician leaned his head down, his horn pointing toward Starbuck's bound wrists.

  "Keep talking, Miri."

  "I don't—I can't think of—there's this picture in this storeroom. It's a unicorn. A woman on it. It's beautiful. I don't know how to describe it."

  Magician worked at the knots on Starbuck's wrists, the sharp tip of his horn slipping into the first knot-loop and laboriously loosening it until, with a jerk of his head, he had untied it. Shaking his head, he started working on the next loop and unknotted it faster. I babbled on about the picture, not even sure of what I was saying. I nearly shrieked as Magician freed the last strands of rope from Starbuck's wrists.

  Starbuck kept his wrists together but began to work his way sideways around the tree. He slowly brought his legs under him in a crouch, ready to stand and spring onto Magician's back.

  Suddenly Kyle screamed with rage.

  The other children, alerted, raced to us. Starbuck started to make a leap toward Magician, but Laughing Jake managed to get in his way, and successfully block him. Starbuck nudged Jake a bit, but the other children were all over him, pushing him to the ground, holding him down, pygmies using their weight collectively to keep the giant from moving. Magician tried to interfere and pushed at Jake, who wisely let himself be edged forward.

  Kyle shot his rifle. Its beam came close to Magician's head. Magician whirled and immediately vanished into the black forest. I almost grabbed Jake's pistol from its holster to shoot Kyle. That time I think Kyle really had meant to kill Magician.

  Kyle told Jake and Herbert not to bother with retying Starbuck to the tree. He had them replace the younger children in holding Starbuck down on the ground, then he strode to the river bank, checked the raft by pulling at its leather bindings, then setting it afloat to see how it set in the water. Satisfied, he returned.

  "The raft is ready. It will soon be time."

  "The trade won't work, Kyle," Starbuck said, his voice a little breathless since Jake was sitting on his chest.

  "You underestimate me, pilot. That's been your problem all along. It's why I was able to trick you. I've planned this trade rather well. The tincans will put mother in a boat and launch her toward us. We will simultaneously launch you toward them. Neither side can take advantage of the other, you. see that?"

  "I'll take all the action and any side bets you want to make that there's a catch in this somewhere."

  "Kyle," I said, "he's right. It's what mother said about this being a mistake."

  "You shut up about mother. We need her back."

  "You do."

  "And you don't, I suppose. You've gotten hard, sister."

  "Of course I want her back, but this is not the way."

  Kyle's eyes became icy.

  "It is a necessary tactical move," he said.

  "Necessary? Tactical? You've gone out of your head with all this military garbage. We're talking about human beings here, not tactics. We're talking about trading Starbuck—"

  "For our mother! Miri, I know what I'm doing." A whine had come into his voice. "Haven't I led well since the invasion?"

  "Yes, but we are not an army! Look around you. These are not warriors. They're just children. Go on, look."

  For a moment my words got to him. He glanced toward the stream where the younger children were anchoring the raft, some of their movements in the water playful. He looked over at the older children, who held their various weapons ready. He looked back at Jake and Herbert holding Starbuck down on the ground.

  "Yes. Children. That's why we need Megan back, to—"

  "Kyle," Starbuck said. "This might surprise you, but I do agree with you. I can see that you all do need Megan, plus any of the other parents of these children who are still alive. But—"

  "Kyle! Miri! Children!" interrupted the voice of Megan from across the river. The tincans had lit a small fire and brought her next to it, so we could see her. She was dressed in a fresh blue blouse, creased darker blue slacks, shiny black boots. There was a bright yellow scarf around her head, undoubtedly chosen by Spectre to hide her thinning hair from us.

  "Mother!" I cried. I could not help it.

  The other children cheered. Kyle looked prouder than ever. He stared down at Starbuck and said:

  "I'm sorry, but this is my choice."

  "If you'll just listen to me . . ."

  "There's no point in listening. I won't hear a word you say, lieutenant."

  Surprisingly, there was pain in Kyle's face as he turned away from Starbuck. He hadn't always been like this, and I think he knew it wasn't in his nature. Still, he was a strong commander—maybe too strong—and never avoided a hard decision. He raised his horn and blew three short blasts.

  The signal to exchange.

  I wanted to run, follow Magician into the darkness of the forest, lose myself there, never come out. At the same time I wanted desperately for the boat to cross the river and hold Megan close to me again.

  Heal her wounds.

  Have her heal mine.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Megan cursed herself for calling the children's names first. She meant to say more, to shout to Kyle to give up this misguided idea, but a Cylon grabbed her by the arm, pulled her out of the firelight, and clamped a metal hand over her mouth.

  She watched Spectre glide toward the fire and consult with a centurion. Across the river Kyle blew his horn three times.

  "That's the signal," Spectre said. "We can commence the exchange."

  He tilted his head toward Megan.

  "Take the woman away!"

  Away! Megan thought. She had been right all along. Spectre never had intended to go through with the exchange. He was tricking Kyle to obtain the colonial warrior. The miserable rust-box! Desperately she began searching for a way to warn the children, but, silencing her with his hand, the guard maneuvered her away. She could no longer see even the outlines of Kyle, Miri, or the other children across the river.

  She was placed roughly against a tree, gagged, then forced to sit. Irrationally, she noticed how crisp and fresh her new garments felt, and she wondered if they would allow her to wear the clothes back in her cell. What did that matter, though? They would only become dirty and gray instantly.

  Maybe they would kill her, execute her and the captured pilot together. That might be all right. She would not mind dying in fresh clothes.

  Spectre's voice was mechanically professorial as he instructed his aide on the art of being devious.

  "You will observe, Hilltop, that we have removed the prisoner Megan from the immediate area."

  "Yes, honored sir. I did notice that."

  "Good. Now, what do you suppose we are going to do about the exchange?"

  Hilltop did not say anything for a moment. A couple of tricky whirring sounds, emanating from somewhere inside his aide, disturbed Spectre. Whirs were not good and were often a prelude to major circuitry dysfunction.

  "Do we default, sir, then attack the enemy in a widespread assault?"

  Spectre liked Hilltop's response. It showed the aide could at least think strategically.

  "No, Hilltop, but not bad. While you were busy earlier, assembling the patrol, I did my own bit of assembling. I made a copy of Megan in my laboratory."

  At a gesture from Spectre, a centurion unwrapped what was essentially a doll-version of Megan, life-size. For a hasty makeshift rendering, the likeness was remarkably accurate. It was indeed, Spectre thought, a craftsmanlike job. The expression on its plastic face was gaunt and disturbed. Its clothing duplicated the new garments given the real Meg
an to wear for the occasion.

  "A very impressive duplication, honored sir," Hilltop said. "I had not realized such a model was possible."

  Spectre leaned toward Hilltop. A strain of amusement came into his voice.

  "I can build anything, Hilltop. I am an expert at cybernetic mechanics. Don't forget, I built you, Hilltop."

  "Oh yes, sir. I would assume that, however, this copy is not, like me, animate."

  "Quite right, although, to be technical, you are not exactly animate either. However, I did not need to give the doll circuits for thinking or speaking. It is just a shell, merely a hollow replication."

  "I am continually impressed, sir, by the methods with which you utilize our supplies of materials to accomplish the most astonishing effects."

  Spectre stared a long time at Hilltop, the red lights of his eyes almost at a standstill.

  "Hmmm," he said, "I don't recall programming flattery into your model."

  "I am quite sincere, sir."

  "You must be. Yes, you must be. Well, place the replication in the boat and launch it."

  "Yes, sir."

  Mist had collected quickly on the surface of the dark river. Wisps of it rose like gray flames. The centurions lifted the replication of Megan onto the boat and, at Spectre's command, pushed it into the water. It floated slowly toward the opposite shore.

  "We have kept our part of the bargain," Spectre shouted to the children. "Our boat is heading your way. Now, where is the colonial warrior?"

  There was a short pause, a loud splash, and a call from Kyle:

  "The bargain is complete. Here is your pilot, tincan!"

  In the misty darkness, the passing of the two craft was barely visible. Spectre was pleased to see the bent-shouldered outline of the starfleet pilot tied to a raft. He was already planning his next transmission to Baltar. This time Lucifer would squirm. That is, if he had been programmed for that response.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  FROM MIRI'S BOOK:

  We had not seen Megan since her too-brief appearance in the firelight. The children grew steadily restless, milled about on the river bank like predators without prey. The dark night was like a blanket thrown hastily over us, to smother us or to shield us from truth. After Kyle blew the signal on his horn, all we could hear from the other side of the river were the usual mysterious Cylon clanking sounds.

  Kyle raised his left hand, a signal for Laughing Jake and Herbert the Singer to bring our captive forward. My own eyes on the verge of tears, I stared into Starbuck's eyes. They were cool, resigned. He showed no fright, no grimness, not even any anger at us for deceiving him and using him as a pawn in a power game. And he must have seen the power game as precisely that: a children's game played with plastic pieces on a cardboard slab. If I had had the strength, I might have grabbed Starbuck away from his guards, and run with him into the forest. He was clever, he was a warrior, he knew strategy, he could have devised a plan to rescue mother without this kind of human sacrifice. And I realized suddenly that was what this act was. A human sacrifice. An offering of a life to our invader-gods in order to have our prayer answered. In so short a time we had reverted to this primitive state. We had come to Antila as a group of worldly-wise intellectual rebels with firm ideas for sensible progress, and we had regressed to a shabby outlaw band of children eager to sacrifice a man. We might as well have thrown him alive onto a burning pyre and danced to evil gods.

  Finally the return signal came. The wretched voice of Spectre came to us from across the river. I could have sworn that the dampness of the air added an undertone of static to its already wavery sound. He announced that he was launching the boat holding mother. Kyle answered that we were keeping our part of the bargain, and he gestured to Jake and Herbert to place Starbuck onto our makeshift raft. Starbuck stepped onto the raft without a pause, confidently, as if he were in complete control of the situation. Ratzi appeared suddenly from behind Jake's large body and took a couple of steps toward the raft. She seemed determined to accompany Starbuck on the crossing, but Kyle, seizing her by the shoulders, held her back. The Genie idly shuffled a pack of cards. I suddenly realized that they were Starbuck's cards. I'd seen them earlier in his flight-jacket shoulder pocket. Jergin stood by our fire and made odd gestures in the light of the flames, a delicate dance with her hands, her thin flexible fingers. The twins, Nilz and Robus, held each other, managing to look hopeful and terrified simultaneously.

  Quickly Jake and Herbert secured Starbuck to the raft and, at Kyle's command, pushed it outward. The mists rising from the water looked to me like bars already imprisoning Starbuck. He did not look back. He became a shape, a dark outline, drifting away from us. In the middle of the river, another dark outline appeared and, for a moment, it looked as if the two boats might collide, link up and start on a new course downstream together. After they had passed, Starbuck called back:

  "Miri! Your mother was right. They've—"

  But the rest of what he said was lost as the tincans started making strange noises among themselves, talking together as if commanded to. Nilz, Robus, and Ariadne waded out into the water, shouting:

  "It's mother. It's mother."

  Kyle sent me a very haughty look. For the moment, he was inordinately proud of himself. I ignored him, and stared out at the river. First I saw that the clothes on the raft figure were the same new garments I had seen on Megan in the firelight. Then I recognized Megan's face. I thought it was Megan's face. Yet there was an emptiness in it. A blank stare, an unmoving mouth. Oh my god, I thought, they've killed her first. That's the catch in their deal. They'd sent us mother, but killed her first. I looked at Kyle. Some of the pride had left his eyes. He seemed to be seeing the same thing I was. This was our mother and she looked lifeless. I wanted to scream. So, I suspect, did Kyle.

  Kyle rushed out to the water, his legs churning up gigantic splashes. He joined Nilz, Robus, and Ariadne, and all four of them pulled strenuously at the raft, brought it shoreward. Kyle splashed around to the rear of the boat, and with a powerful shove, pushed it up on land.

  "Mother," I cried, "we're—"

  Then I saw the truth. It was not Megan, it was not even the corpse of Megan. It was a duplicate, a replication, a clever reproduction of our mother meant to fool us. Starbuck was right. Megan was right. I was right. Spectre had had no intention of keeping Kyle's bargain. This was the Cylon style of trade—one living human being for a mockup copy. It was like the fake peace offer Starbuck had described to me, when the Cylons had tempted the human side with peace while they were actually setting up the immense destruction of not only the fleet but all of the twelve home worlds.

  "Oh, Kyle," I said. He looked stunned. He looked like a child who had just been cheated in a war game, whose pieces had just been knocked off the table by his opponent. He looked ready to cry. My words to him, which were intended sympathetically, were taken by him as a rebuke.

  "Don't speak to me, sister," he muttered. "Don't speak to me."

  I wanted to hold him, soothe him with words or a song, minister to his sorrow. But I, the healer, could do nothing. I merely stood there, did what he said. I didn't speak to him.

  Then a thought forced its way into my head—not a thought really, more a feeling. Don't despair. Then the thought became clearer, formed into words. The man is just reaching the other side. He is not yet in the enemy prison. It will take them time to move. I can save him.

  Then I realized where the thought was coming from.

  Magician.

  He was back there in the darkness, calling to me.

  The thoughts stopped. I knew he had gone to help. I would follow, help him if I could.

  Edging backwards silently, I summoned Rogue, told him to wait for me at the edge of the forest. Mounting him quickly, I urged him into the forest. As we cleared the border of trees, I sneaked one look back. Kyle was standing as before, staring at the replication of Megan. Suddenly he knelt down and picked it up, held it to him, began to cry. That's the last I s
aw of him as the darkness of the forest enveloped me.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Even through the thick mist, Starbuck could see that the figure on the other raft was not real. He tried to shout the truth back to Miri, but a sudden, obviously calculated, burst of noise from the Cylon riverside drowned him out. He strained at his bonds but the two strong boys had tied him up too efficiently. He was not only tightly bound, but he was also secured to the raft so he could not tip it over.

  All he could do was float serenely toward the opposite bank. The shapes standing there became gradually distinct. First he saw a pair of red lights directed right at him, but these lights did not belong to a typical Cylon. This one was bulb-headed, phantomlike. In fact, he resembled Lucifer, the walking computer Starbuck had encountered, and rather liked, aboard Baltar's base ship. This one was clearly a more primitive model, not fitted out with all the googaws and flimflam that had adorned Lucifer. Other Cylons gathered around this figure, apparently awaiting his orders. Could he be their leader? Their deference certainly suggested that.

  They allowed the raft to hit the bank before even reaching for Starbuck. They were oddly delicate about shoring the raft, as if they did not care to pollute themselves with swamp water. He had never known Cylons to be so fussy before. This group, in fact, did not even move like Cylons he had seen. If anything, their movements were more graceful, more supple, than the normal Cylon. Still clumsy, but with more style to their awkwardness.

  As soon as they had freed him from the raft, keeping his hands tied behind him, they forced him to stand up and step to shore. They pushed him toward their leader, who glided up to Starbuck in much the same manner Lucifer had so long ago. The leader made a signal for the guards to halt, then said to the prisoner:

  "My humblest greetings to you, sir. I have not before met a colonial warrior personally."

  "The pleasure's mine, I'm sure."

  "You are quite gracious."

  "I am quite sarcastic."

  "I do appreciate sarcasm and irony. Delightful human traits, in truth. My name is Spectre." Spectre waited for Starbuck to respond, but instead the human focussed on the leader's moving eyes. "And your name, pilot?"