"You'll have to work for that, cap."
"But you're from the Galactica. I can see that from your insignia."
"This shopworn patch? I won it in a card game. Really I'm from a tramp freighter called The Floating Dustbin."
"I enjoy human jokes, too, even when they are difficult to understand."
"Good. I can drag out my worst material for you."
"Please do. Take him away, centurions."
His guards hit his shoulders roughly and he was again shoved forward, away from the river. From the other side of the water, he heard disappointed groans. The children must have just then realized that the Megan delivered on the Cylon boat was a fake. Poor kids, they'd learned an important lesson in deceit. Too bad it was going to cost Starbuck his life.
His guards led him to Megan, who sat dazedly beneath a tree. She looked up at Starbuck with blank eyes. Her mouth was covered by a gag. A centurion forced her to stand, then removed the gag. She could hardly walk, and Starbuck put his arm around her to hold her up. She was thin, light. The weightlessness of her body went appropriately with the gaunt look of her face. Still, one could see the prettiness of Miri in Megan, in spite of her prison pallor and the ravages of illness. Megan seemed to want to talk desperately, but her mouth would not work.
"Don't you guys have any vehicles?" Starbuck said to the nearest guard. "A wagon, for God's sake? This woman's been through enough, she doesn't have to be forced to walk like—"
"Quiet, pilot," the guard said. "There will be a land transport when we reach the road."
"Thanks for trying," Megan whispered, her voice scratchy and weak. "But I can make it."
"You sure?"
"They've been pushing me around for some time now. I'm still moving on my own, aren't I? Just barely, but moving."
"I can see where your daughter gets her courage."
Megan smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and coated. She tried to say more, but again her voice failed her.
They reached the land transport, a crude three-wheeled contraption that pulled a rickety small cart. Starbuck and Megan were pushed to the floor of the cart, onto a thin layer of straw.
"They believe in elegance, I see," Starbuck said.
Megan nodded.
"Only the best," she managed to whisper.
She lay back and immediately fell asleep. She was so thin, Starbuck thought. She appeared ready to waste away at any moment. No wonder there was such urgency on the part of Kyle to save her. He must have sensed that they had to rescue her soon.
She came awake suddenly, after they had ridden quite a distance. Her eyes were less yellow in the corners, and a spot of color had appeared in each cheek. The color was not the proper red of healthiness, but at least it was color.
"I feel better," she said, her voice stronger. "I have periods of health, it seems. I'm sorry, warrior, that you were caught in this trap. Kyle meant well, but—"
"It's all right. My name is Starbuck, Megan. You needn't call me warrior."
"I'll try not to. But, in a way, you're my enemy just as much as Spectre and his Cylons. We fled Scorpia in the first place because of warlike humans."
"I assure you I'm not warlike, not in the way you mean. I fight the battles, but that's not the same as being warlike."
"Oh?"
"Believe me, I have no love for war. Where I come from we're all sick of war; maybe the warriors even more than the rest. We've been fighting all our lives. The art of war has no attraction for us. It's not an art, in fact, its a job and a pretty miserable, but highly necessary one at that."
"Where do you come from?"
"The Battlestar Galactica."
"Ah, I've heard of that ship. It had a great reputation, according to what news got through to our colony of the war. Its commander is much admired, I believe."
"Yes. Commander Adama. He still speaks of peace with a gleam in his eye. He expects to find it in a place called Earth."
Megan appeared impressed. She leaned closer to Starbuck.
"I thought Earth was just a legend."
"Not to Adama. He claims he has proof. Some words he read on the wall of an ancient tomb before Cylon bombs destroyed it. I don't know what he read but, whatever it was, it's given him great faith that we'll find Earth, and I have faith in him."
"Such loyalty. Characteristic of the military spirit."
"You tend to slip into dogma rather easily, Megan."
"Forgive me. I didn't mean that it wasn't an admirable trait, only that it was characteristic. You were just talking of faith yourself. I suppose we each respond to our own dogma."
"I suppose."
Megan's eyes cleared for a moment, becoming youthful, less tired.
"You think we failed here on Antila, don't you?"
"I really don't know enough about it to—"
"Well, we did fail. But not because we were against war, not even because we were invaded by Cylons. The threat of evil coming from the outside was always real, always possible. But the work inside the colony was worthwhile and, even at its worst, productive. We were beginning to find our way back to the old ideas, the ones that had gotten us shipped off Scorpia in the first place. We can do it again. That's what colonies like ours are all about, really—striving, trying to get to a sense of something more than living out one's life in tedious quests. Or in war. You want to bite off my head, don't you?"
Megan could not tell what Starbuck was thinking, especially since he smiled through her attack on him.
"I'm not against you," he said. "I admire what you people tried to do here. It may surprise you to know that there's a part of me that'd probably enjoy living and working in a useful society like yours. A machine revealed that part of myself to me not long ago, in fact. But my programming's different, I guess."
"That's a pretty coldhearted way to put it, Starbuck. Programming. I mean, you're not a machine."
"No, I'm not. And yes I am. Yes, we all are. We're all presented with various programs at various times of our lives. Sometimes we accept them, sometimes we kick them back, sometimes we just go along without any conscious decision. Look, I was brought up in a less warlike society than Scorpia's. Caprica was—"
"They were all warlike, all the twelve worlds."
Starbuck shrugged.
"Maybe so. From your vantage point. But there were differences. If I had been born on Scorpia, perhaps I'd be the fiercest fighter in the fleet and not entertain occasional doubts, not wish for my peaceful home back on Caprica to be restored. But, see, my programming's for war, and I've accepted that. I'd like to get out sometime and get a better scam but—"
"But what?"
"I don't know. It's a . . . problem I haven't been able to resolve. Maybe I'll never resolve it."
"I was born on Scorpia and I didn't become a fierce fighter."
"Didn't you?"
Megan looked at him, puzzled, then got his point. She laughed.
"I suppose you're right. In my own way, I've fought pretty fierce battles here, even before the Cylons came. Maybe it's just a question of rechanneling resources."
"Or of reprogramming."
"Have it your way, warrior."
"See, you even use the word warrior as a weapon. Fierce. I think, if we can get you out of this jam, you can really make a go of your colony. At least if you take charge, Megan. You can do it. I can see that, feel that."
She smiled.
"Now you, the warrior, are encouraging me to return to my peaceful life."
"By all means. Do. Please do."
"Would you stay with us, help us to restore the colony?"
A wistful look clouded Starbuck's eyes.
"I wish I could. I really do. But I have to go on. On with my own quest, if you will."
"To rejoin your ship and search for this mythical Earth?"
He nodded.
"In a way, yeah. We've got to keep going, searching. We even have to keep fighting the Cylons. You only have a taste of their evil here. But I have a feeling . .
. "
"Yes?"
"I just can't see myself getting to Earth. Maybe others will make it, but I just think that a lot of us will merely keep the quest going, while others-—descendants perhaps—will be the discoverers, the—"
"Perhaps you're just depressed. A kind of battle fatigue. Or nonbattle fatigue. Stuck here, away from your ship and all."
"Yeah, maybe."
They rode in silence for a long while. Behind them the Cylon guards walked, their pace rapid even through the treacherous terrain.
"They just don't look right," Starbuck said.
"What? I'm afraid I don't—"
"These Cylons. The outfits are right, the red lights move right, but there's something different. They move more easily, more—"
"That's Spectre's work."
"Their leader."
"Yes. He's a cybernetic expert, proficient at making other models more or less in the same model series from which he originates. He makes them less clever, of course, and programs an absolute obedience into—"
"Wait," Starbuck interrupted, recalling the Cylon in the forest that he had thought was just an abandoned uniform. It had been so weightless. "You're saying that some of these Cylons are not the real thing? That they're not genuine aliens at all, but cybernetic devices?"
Megan nodded.
"I'm beginning to suspect that none of them are from the original landing party," she said. "When they came, Cylons were more susceptible to the wretched diseases of this planet than ever our colony was. I can't be sure, but I think they've all died off, and Spectre has built these fake Cylon warriors to take their place."
"But why?"
"Can't be sure. Perhaps he realizes that reinforcements would just contract the planet's diseases and die just as quickly as the originals. Perhaps he prefers an army over which he has absolute control without worrying about his position being usurped by a real Cylon who outranks him. He was not the first leader here, you know. Whatever the reason, they all serve the same purpose for him. He maintains his power, his position as commander is not threatened, and nobody transfers him away from a post where he enjoys the kind of power that a cybernetic creation rarely achieves. But all these are just suppositions. He doesn't choose to confide in me. Just never trust Spectre, that's all I can say for sure. He's worse than a killer soldier, he's a power-hungry bureaucrat."
"This place gets crazier all the—"
Starbuck was interrupted by a sudden movement among the marching Cylon guards, followed by a shout from Spectre who was sitting at the front of the three-wheeled vehicle pulling the wagon.
"What's wrong back there?"
As if in response, three Cylons fell to the ground. Bounding over them in a magnificent graceful leap was Magician, his black hide darker than the night itself.
While watching the unicorn's leap, Starbuck received a thought from him:
Swing onto my back as I race by the wagon!
"Get on your feet, Megan," Starbuck whispered.
"Why?"
"Never mind. Just get up!"
Magician had disappeared into the darkness on the opposite side of the road.
Another thought: I'm about to make my run now.
Wait for Megan, Starbuck returned. Take both of us.
No time. Save her later. Here I come!
Megan almost got to her feet then a lurch of the wagon sent her falling backward against the wagonside. Spectre shouted orders to his troops, telling the ones on the ground to get up, telling those still standing to prepare for another attack.
Magician appeared near the wagon. As soon as he saw the unicorn, Starbuck started his leap over the side. It was perfectly timed. He came down on Magician's back just as the animal passed the wagon. Starbuck nearly slid backward and off the unicorn, but managed to hold on for dear life.
"We'll be back for you, Megan!" Starbuck yelled as Magician bounded back into the forest's darkness. Starbuck heard the shrilly mechanical voice of Spectre fading as they galloped away.
We must go back, save Megan, he thought.
No.
Please.
Pause, then: All right, one try. Only one try.
Magician swung around without breaking pace and headed back toward the road, where the sounds of turmoil were just beginning to subside. Megan still clung to the side of the wagon, looking outward. As they halted near the edge of the trees, Starbuck thought:
She's very light, almost weightless. You stop next to her side of the wagon, I'll lift her out.
It won't work.
We'll try.
All right, the one try and the one try only.
Timing his jump perfectly, Magician was out on the road again, just behind the patrol. He raced right through the patrol, scattering Cylons left and right, most of them plunging to the ground.
"Megan!" Starbuck shouted. "Reach for me!"
She held out her thin arms as Magician came to an abrupt stop. Putting his arm around her shoulders, Starbuck half-lifted Megan out of the wagon. Spectre shouted an order to shoot.
"Use your feet, Megan, scramble over the side," Starbuck cried.
"I can't. I'm too weak. I—"
The Cylons started firing. A shot hit Megan immediately, and Starbuck felt her go limp in his arms. He almost lifted her all the way out, but her clothing had caught on a metal outcropping on the inside of the wagon.
Let her go, Magician thought. We can't stay like this.
But I—
LET HER GO!
Starbuck released his hold, and Megan fell back unconscious into the wagon. Magician immediately started to gallop away, and they were quickly surrounded by darkness again, although this time the night was interrupted by lines of light from Cylon rifles.
They were out of range quickly.
Are you all right, Magician? Starbuck thought and, in response, he received waves of feeling from the animal, informing him that everything was okay except for a couple grazing wounds on his tough hide.
I may have killed her. I may have killed Megan just for a fool act of—
No, she's alive. I can sense her aliveness. She is hurt but she is alive.
Thank God. We must try again to rescue her, we must—
Not this time. One time only, that was my promise.
Promises are important to you.
They are everything.
There is something magical about you, Magician.
Starbuck received warm waves of pleasure from the unicorn.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
If he had closed his eyes, Starbuck would not have known he and Magician were racing furiously through a tangled forest. Magician was surefooted and he avoided obstacles effortlessly. He seemed to pick out his route by a kind of internal radar, never stumbling, hardly even brushing a leaf when he hurtled through a narrow space between trees.
Starbuck could not get his last view of Megan out of his mind. He regretted that he had almost caused her to die as a result of his blunder, his botched less-than-heroic attempt at a rescue. He hoped Magician had received his sensory impression correctly, hoped that she was all right.
Magician: Of course she's all right.
She might be all right now, but her condition was definitely weak. Even if the Cylon shot had only grazed her, it would be just another contribution to her deteriorating state. There was no question about it; she had to be rescued, and soon. He could no longer wait for the Galactica's search party to show up and help him storm the fortress. For that matter, what guarantee did he have they would ever show up? Something might have happened to Boomer. Starbuck didn't like the idea much, but he had to admit to himself it was possible. His comrade could have encountered more enemy ships and not even reached the home base. Even if he had, the situation aboard the Galactica—with the continuing threat of Cylons breaking through the fleet's erratic defensive force field, or of a destructive malfunction on any of the fleet's ships, or of any other disaster—might prevent the Galactica from sending a rescue party. The commander might e
ven be forced to deem Starbuck expendable, dispatch no rescue ships. Anything could happen. And Starbuck did not have time to waste on waiting for an official rescue.
He could not attack the fortress alone—Spectre and his robotized Cylons were too numerous, the garrison close to impregnable. That left him with an unpalatable but practical course of action. He could use the children. He would have to ally with Kyle who had, after all, double-crossed him, lied to him, and delivered him as a gift package, wrapped, to the enemy. He did not like enlisting the aid of children, but it seemed the best and most feasible plan. Kyle's braggadocio might be a handicap, but he was a brave young man, and he did want Megan rescued, so he might just cooperate. He just might—
Magician came to an abrupt halt, almost heaving Starbuck over his bobbing head.
What is it?
Bad animal is near, sensing us. Very near. Stand on my back.
What—
Stand on my back. Pull yourself onto the large limb. Now!
Starbuck obeyed Magician quicker than he had ever obeyed an order from a superior on the Galactica. He pulled himself up to the branch, hung there for a moment, then worked his way around to the topside of the branch. The branch held his weight firmly. Beneath him Magician braced tensely, only his head moving, his slanted eyes searching the perimeter of the small clearing ahead for a clue to the whereabouts of the beast of prey.
He is on the other side. Watching. Watching me. He is ready to spring.
Magician was right. From out of the darkness, with a leap that seemed impossible for such a massive and heavy animal, a lion sailed through the air across the clearing. Magician lowered his head and rushed toward his attacker. Clearly he aimed to impale the lion on his horn, but he just missed. The lion landed on the ground in front of Magician and immediately lunged for the unicorn's throat. Starbuck's stomach churned as he saw a small bloody chunk of Magician's hide come away in the lion's mouth. Magician twisted away, pranced sideways as if looking for an escape, then suddenly whirled on the lion and came at the beast from the side. Magician's horn cut a rip along the lion's flank that virtually tore the animal open from neck to tail. In a frenzied leap, the lion tore again at Magician's throat. This time its teeth went deeper and it was able to hold on, cling to the unicorn's throat. Magician, in a splendid rearing motion, rose on his hind legs, attempting to throw the lion off. Instead, the predator hung on, bouncing against Magician's hide like an ugly bloody necklace. As Magician came down, the lion Finally released its grip, landed on its feet, and staggered backwards, toward the dark jungle from which he had materialized. Intending to find a warm place and die there, it appeared. But Magician wanted the beast to die now and he lowered his head, blood still streaming from his throat, and lunged toward the lion. With the last of its strength, the lion fell sideways, out of the unicorn's path. Magician could not stop—he kept galloping forward. He collided with a tree at the forest periphery, and his horn stuck there, deep in the bark. He tried to pull it out, struggling backwards furiously, but his wounds had drained the strength from his body and his strenuous efforts to remove the horn failed.
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