Battlestar Galactica 4 - The Young Warriors

by Glen A. Larson

  "Promises aren't worth much when you've been in here long enough," Kordel said, "but I'll pass the word back."

  After the instruction had gone through the ranks of prisoners, Starbuck nodded to Jake.

  "Okay, Jake, your move."

  Jake hurtled through the entrance. Staying right next to Starbuck, wanting desperately to touch and hold Megan myself, I ran out into the yard.

  The fuel dump cast eerie lights on every surface, and I was momentarily disoriented. Everything looked so different, I didn't think I could find my way back to the warehouse any more. Running ahead anyway, I took one look back. Prisoners were pouring out of the tower doorway and following us on their weak but determined legs. We looked, I'm sure, like a mob out to kill the king. Fortunately, the king was in too much trouble already to pay much attention to the masses, and we made the dash across the courtyard without attracting any attention from the tincans.

  Ratzi threw open the door of the warehouse. Jergin and the Genie had taken charge and their lovely smiling faces greeted us as we plunged into the building. I'm sure they must have looked like angels to the prisoners as they stumbled through the doorway.

  The children had set up a line leading to the fireplace panel, and Jergin pointed the way. I stopped Starbuck in order to take a good look at Megan. She was hardly breathing.

  "I've got to tend to her, Starbuck."

  "Back at camp."

  "There's not enough time. It can't wait."

  "You can't do anything now, not here."

  "Not right here. But in the passage somewhere. In the art storeroom, there's plenty of space to work there. Jake!"

  "Yes, Miri?"

  "Run like blazes through the passage, get out to the forest. You know what herbs I need. Get them!"

  Jake nodded and pushed a couple of prisoners aside in his haste to get through the fireplace exit. Outside, a second explosion showed that Herbert was a master saboteur.

  I told Starbuck to follow me. At the same time, I drew Magician's horn out of my pack before entering the passage.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It seemed that, if a duty-tour passed without a chat with Spectre, Baltar became glum. Lucifer regretted that. It was difficult enough to run the ship without interference from its actual commander, but when that commander decided to be temperamental, the job became impossible. Some day Spectre would slip on some of his own lubricative and fall flat on his face. Until then, Lucifer thought, it was no doubt better to allow Baltar and Spectre to continue in their mutual folly.

  When the next message from Antila came in, it was all Lucifer could do to stay silent, hold in his distaste for Spectre. He refused to look screenward.

  "Any progress, Spectre?" Baltar asked eagerly, his body leaning in toward the screen.

  "Ah . . . I regret to report, honored sir, that the colonial warrior has terminated."

  "That is too bad. I was hoping, but—did you get any information at all out of him before his death?"

  "Only his name, sir."

  "Well, that could be significant, Spectre. I know many of the enemy's military officers. What was this one called?"

  Spectre appeared to pause, as if searching for the answer.

  "It was Starbuck, I believe, sir."

  Lucifer whirled around, hoping that his auditory circuits had malfunctioned. Starbuck! It could not be! Not Starbuck! He could not terminate. It would not . . . would not be like him.

  Baltar did not seem at all shocked. If anything, he appeared to be happy at this unexpected news.

  "Starbuck," he said. "One of the Galactica's finest, Spectre. My, my, you have done well."

  It seemed, Lucifer thought, that this Spectre could fall into a vat of acid and come up shining like a new model.

  "But I obtained no strategic information from this pilot, sir."

  "No, but you got Starbuck. You have removed an especially irritating piece of dust from my eyes."

  "I don't understand, sir. How is dust on the eyes irritating? Don't you have a built-in cleansing system for—"

  "Never mind, Spectre. Just take your credit humbly. We are all well-rid of Starbuck. Isn't that so, Lucifer? Lucifer?"

  For a moment Lucifer thought he had entirely malfunctioned and somehow this was cybernetic hell, then he responded:

  "Yes, Baltar. Well-rid."

  It could not be Starbuck. Lucifer had counted on seeing that man again. If only to test out his new system for pyramid.

  "Well then, Spectre, what else have you to—"

  From the speaker beside the screen came a loud sound, unmistakably an explosion. Behind Spectre, Lucifer could discern centurions racing furiously about.

  "What was that, Spectre?" Baltar said.

  "Wait one moment, honored sir."

  Spectre conferred with an aide. Both their heads bobbed from side to side energetically. Either something was wrong on Antila, Lucifer thought, or Spectre was not operating on all circuits. Perhaps the explosion had somehow unnerved him.

  "Sir," Spectre said, "we have found a small guerilla unit of humanoids we had missed in our initial conquest. The noises you heard were the final sounds of our mopping-up operation." There was another explosion. Spectre glanced sideways. "Almost the final sounds of our mopping-up operation."

  Lucifer, who could interpret auditory phenomena even when distorted through a speaker system, could have sworn that the explosions were larger in nature, not the kinds of sounds associated with the removal of humans. To him, they sounded more like fuel dump explosions.

  "Excellent, excellent," Baltar said. "Mopping up, good work. You are a wonder, Spectre."

  "Thank you, sir. I am, as usual, proud to serve."

  "Well, Spectre, I'll be looking forward to hearing from—"

  "Sir?"

  "Yes?"

  "I have one more observation. A request, actually."

  "Proceed, Spectre."

  There were some uninterpretable noises in the background, and Spectre again glanced sideways. He seemed to be receiving a report, an important one apparently, because the noises ceased briefly while Spectre closed down the sound part of his transmission. When he came back on, he said:

  "Sir, I have many ideas, most of which are wasted here on Antila, where the main military tasks are, as you see, already accomplished. Additionally, the climate here, moist and erratic, is harmful to my circuits. I propose that you could have better use for me at a post elsewhere in the Alliance."

  Baltar nodded, impressed by the sound logic.

  "Good, Spectre. Abandon your post there when the, the mopping up operation is complete. Sounds to me as though the post could be closed down completely."

  Spectre again glanced sideways.

  "I agree with you on that matter, sir."

  "Good. Report to me here whenever you can reach the base ship and we'll discuss reassignment."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Don't mention it. Looking forward to seeing you, Spectre."

  "By your command."

  Spectre's image faded. Lucifer thought he heard the beginning rumblings of another explosion just as Spectre signed off.

  Baltar swung around on his chair.

  "Well, Lucifer, what do you say to that?"

  "I prefer not to say anything."

  Baltar's eyebrows raised.

  "Still envious? I thought you would've worked that out of your system—or systems—by now."

  "I am not the least bit jealous."

  "Good. Then you won't mind if we keep this Spectre around the ship for a while. To lend us his expertise. As your aide, of course."

  Lucifer thought that, if the present situation had been a game of pyramid, this would be the strategic time to throw down one's cards in disgust.

  The base star command to abandon Antila could not have been timed more strategically for Spectre. Outside, the fuel dump explosions had started fires in most of the other garrison buildings. The wretched children still ran free, still inflicted damage. The prisoners had
been let out of their cells. The courtyard was in chaos, centurions programmed for duty trying their best to be dutiful, and failing.

  In a very real sense, Spectre's world was falling apart around him. He turned to Hilltop.

  "I have signalled the pilot of our single remaining raider to make the craft ready for immediate launching off Antila."

  "Yes sir."

  "Hilltop, you and I are leaving this miserable planet."

  "The two of us, sir? And leave the rest of the troops here?"

  "Yes, we don't have room on that small vehicle. And, if I send for a transport ship, they'll know how I've failed here. Our best policy, Hilltop, is to take the escape route. We can be of more use to the Alliance elsewhere, both of us."

  "You, sir, perhaps, but not me."

  Spectre glided close to Hilltop.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I intend to remain here, sir, on Antila. I am not coming with you."

  "I order you to accompany me. I need at least one warrior-level robot with me."

  "But not me, sir."

  Again, Spectre noticed strange whirs emerging from somewhere within Hilltop.

  "Very well, Hilltop. You may remain here."

  "Yes sir."

  "But it is not, I am sorry to say, in my best interests to allow you to remain functional."

  In a quick move, Spectre managed to touch the fasteners of Hilltop's power pack and he deftly removed its cover. Reaching inside the pack, he separated three wires from their terminals, and tore them out completely, flinging them away over his shoulder into a corner of the command room. The light in Hilltop's helmet stopped functioning, and his body slumped over until the torso was parallel to the floor and his arms dangled like a doll. With the wires to the sentient circuits separated and thrown away, nobody would ever be able to activate Hilltop again. There was no way he could ever divulge any of Spectre's secrets.

  Centurions rushed in and out of the command room, reporting new disasters occurring outside. None of them took any special regard of the deactivated Hilltop.

  "You're just a shell now," Spectre said to the slumped form. "You should have decided to come with me, Hilltop. Centurion!"

  The most recent message-bearing warrior responded immediately.

  "Yes, honored sir?"

  "Accompany me to the launch field. We're going on a trip, you and I."

  "Yes sir."

  Spectre took one look back at Hilltop before leaving the command room forever. The light from the fuel dump flames gave an eerie look to the room, especially with the ghostly shell Spectre was leaving behind.

  After Spectre had been gone from the doorway for a sufficiently long time, the form of Hilltop straightened up and began to move again. Methodically, he reached into his power pack and made a few adjustments.

  It had been a shrewd decision, he realized now, to exchange with a fellow warrior for the bypass capability insert, a shrewd decision. Spectre could not have known that the trade had been made and that the pulling out of the three wires did nothing but disconnect an already unused power source.

  Hilltop replaced the cover on his power pack and went slowly to the command console. He summoned a centurion officer into the command room.

  "Treebark," he said, "Spectre has left us. I have taken over command. You will be my aide."

  "Thank you, honored sir."

  "Inform the troops to make ready for the surrender."

  "Surrender?"

  "Treebark, a good commander knows when he is beaten. We will surrender to the humans with honor."

  "Honor, sir?"

  "Don't worry, Treebark, a minor reprogramming and you will understand."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  FROM MIRI'S BOOK:

  Starbuck lay Megan gently onto the storeroom floor. I forced myself not to look at her as I took out my hunting knife and started scraping medicinal powder from both the base and tip of Magician's horn onto a cloth. Jergin and the Genie stood guard at the entrance of the room. Other children were stationed all along the passage.

  While I ground the scrapings into a powder, Starbuck removed Megan's dressing with a delicacy I wouldn't have expected of him. When the wound was visible, I inspected it. I tried not to look up at her face, but caught one terrifying glimpse of its pale lifelessness.

  The wound, though ugly—black around the edges, a thin trickle of blood still running from it—would not have been mortal in a healthy person, but Megan's condition made quick treatment vital. She did not have the energy to sustain life if her condition got any worse.

  Where was Jake? I needed those herbs.

  Herbert the Singer came into the room. Starbuck greeted him warmly.

  "Saw your work out there. Efficient. Glad you got away all right."

  "Not only that, lieutenant, but it's all over. The garrison commander's flown off, and his replacement's surrendered to us. Kordel has taken charge of the Cylon warriors. We await your orders."

  "I'm afraid now it's the colony's problem. The warriors of Antila are merely cybernetic devices, all of them. Perhaps they might be useful to you—I mean, if you fooled around with their nuts and bolts a while."

  "I'll tell Kordel that, although he might not be happy."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. He's in a mood to line them up and blast them to smithereens."

  "I thought your colony was devoted to peace."

  Herbert shrugged.

  "They've been held captive a long time."

  "Good point. I see."

  Ratzi, whom I'd sent to the medical supply alcove, came back with fresh bandages for Megan's wound. With her help, I applied some bandaging loosely.

  Where was Jake?

  As if in telepathic response, Jake came rushing into the room, his pack filled with collected greenery. He sat beside me and started handing me the proper herbs, one by one, in the proper order. He'd assisted me enough times to know what I wanted before I asked for it. Working as quickly yet as efficiently as I could under these adverse conditions, I broke up the herb leaves and added bits of them to the powder. With a little water from my canteen, I began the laborious process of turning the powder and herb mixture into a thin paste. It was essential that the paste be just right in consistency and that the elements from the horn be in proper balance. My fingers still trembled. I did not know if I could do the work. I had prepared this potion so many times, it should have been routine. But not when my fingers wouldn't work.

  I cursed aloud. A hand touched my shoulder. I looked up. It was Starbuck, saying soothingly:

  "You fixed me fine. You can do it again, for her. There's time."

  His confidence cured my trembling. My fingers started working more deftly, and soon I had achieved the consistency I wanted in the medicine. Jake handed me the green-blue leaves to form the poultice. I took it to Megan and applied it to her wound, first sprinkling some of the leftover unicorn powder directly into the wound itself. Megan flinched at my touch, a good sign.

  As Jake wrapped bandages around the poultice, I took some scrapings from the central portion of the horn, ground them into a fine powder, mixed the powder with a small amount of water, and forced some into Megan's mouth with my fingers. Without waking, she swallowed most of it and did not choke. Another good sign.

  "Now we wait," I said to Starbuck.

  "For how long?"

  "No way for me to tell. Sometimes these powders and potions work, sometimes they don't. We won't know on this one until she lives or dies."

  Megan looked peaceful. That was good, too. Her face had displayed such pain before.

  Starbuck told Jergin to start organizing the children for an evacuation back to camp. When Megan was ready to be moved, we would move her, he said. Jergin nodded and went out. The Genie stood to the side and moved her fingers nervously, as if they needed some item she could use for a magic trick. Perhaps she was seeking some magic to help Megan. Ratzi sat beside Megan, her hand cupped, as if she were just waiting for Megan to wake up so she could fee
d her.

  Kyle came, and joined Ratzi in the vigil beside Megan. He held Megan's hand in his. He did not speak, did not volunteer a single detail of any of his heroic escapades. How ironic, I thought, here he'd played the role of a real hero, and he didn't even choose to talk about it.

  I tired of sitting and watching Megan breathe, tired of looking for signs of improvement. Sharp pains ran up and down my back as I stood up.

  "Let me show you something," I said to Starbuck, who had been sitting silently, too, watching the rest of us. "I think I promised to show it to you when I had time."

  I picked up the package and worked off its wrappings, which were already quite worn from my many viewings. Without commenting, I held it up for Starbuck to look at.

  "Impressive," he whispered. "You're right, the woman on the unicorn, she is like Megan. It's not a physical resemblance exactly, but it suggests something of her spirit. Not only her spirit, but her serenity, her beauty, her strength."

  "All that in one picture."

  "Yes. Don't you see it?"

  "Of course I do. I just wanted for you to say it."

  "It's a lovely painting, Miri, as you said. A very lovely painting."

  "Perhaps we could give it to him," came a weak voice behind us. Megan! We both whirled around. Her eyes were open. Not only open, but quite lively. She was almost smiling. Kyle could not help it, he started to cry. So did I. So perhaps did Starbuck, although, if he did, he walked out of the room so quickly I didn't have a chance to observe it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Two Antilean days later, when her mind was clearer, Megan again offered the painting to Starbuck. They sat in the cave, where Miri believed that her mother would recuperate best, removed at least from the worst aspects of the planet's climate.

  "No," Starbuck responded, "I think the picture means too much to Miri for me to have it."

  "We've discussed that. Miri wants you to have it, too."

  Miri, busy feeding her mother an herbal tea by the spoonful, looked up shyly and nodded in agreement.