Battlestar Galactica 3 - The Tombs Of Kobol

by Glen A. Larson

  "Apollo?" came Starbuck's voice over the commline.

  "Yo, Starbuck."

  "You remember those healthy little Taurons who-got so flashed by our jungle-survival gas that they nearly giggled us right into the Galactica brig?"

  Apollo chuckled.

  "Do I? They were—"

  Wait a moment, he said to himself. There goes Starbuck again, sucking me into his morbid nostalgia. He's got to give it up.

  "Hey, Starbuck. Enough."

  "I was just—"

  "I know, I know. But somehow, I don't know, it's not fitting. We shouldn't be mooning over past conquests, not now when I'm practically—"

  "See? That's what I meant before. Even you see a difference!"

  "Yes, but it's not as significant as you—"

  "Yah, yah. I know. Sorry, Apollo. I just can't help it. All these memories, we've had so many good memories."

  "Starbuck, I'm not dying."

  Even the crackle coming over the commline from Starbuck's ship sounded sarcastic as he said:

  "No, not exactly."

  Apollo sighed.

  "Look at it this way. I'm about to embark on the most important mission a man can undertake."

  "Yeah, it's kinda like flying right into a Cylon base ship with your cannon blazing."

  "Starbuck, you seem to think this is a one-way mission. Being married to the woman you love is more like, more like a gentle reconnaissance voyage to the most intoxicating place in the stars."

  "With your cannon sawed off."

  "Starbuck . . ."

  "What I mean is, you don't need weapons on a reconnaissance mission."

  Apollo laughed.

  "Okay, so I was being pompous. I just wanted you to know that I can separate my feelings for Serina from the sense of comradeship that you and I and Boomer and the others feel as part of a precision flying team. I value her love as much I value your friendship. Believe me, nothing will change. But let's ease up with each other, huh? Just understand. I've thought a lot about what I'm doing, and I've never been happier about anything in my whole life."

  When he spoke again, Starbuck's voice was softer:

  "You're right. I'm really sorry. I don't mean to keep slipping through your vapor trail, old buddy."

  "Forget it. We'll—" Apollo's thought was interrupted by an urgent buzzing sound from his control panel followed by the staccato flashing of a yellow alert light.

  "Starbuck!"

  "I got it. My panel's lighting up like a meteor fire and—Apollo—dead ahead, look."

  Ahead of them, stars appeared to be flickering out. A great blackness seemed to be expanding, swallowing up the stars as it spread across space, Apollo realized suddenly that the illusion was caused by the high speed of the vipers' approach. Nothing was swallowing anything, nor were there any stars vanishing. Nevertheless, an awesome dark emptiness, an immeasurable void in space, lay in wait for them like a monster lurking in a dark cave.

  "What is it, Starbuck? It's so dark, so empty."

  "Like a dead sea. I've never seen anything like it."

  "Neither have the instruments. Everything on my panel is spinning and flashing."

  "Yeah. Mine, too. What could it be?"

  "First of all, there's clearly nothing out there for them to lock onto. The navigational sensors are lost."

  "This is no place to bring the fleet."

  "But as long as we're here, I'd better edge out a little farther, see if I can pick up something from the other side of this void,"

  "Apollo, I don't think—"

  "I'm going, Starbuck."

  "Wait. Once in there, you may not find your way back out! Let me do it. You've got somebody waiting for you back—"

  The rest of the lieutenant's sentence was drowned out by a burst of static produced when Apollo engaged the turbos of his viper and set it streaking toward the void. For a moment, he wondered why he was putting himself in such jeopardy. Starbuck was right. With Serina anxiously awaiting his return, it was a foolish and inconsiderate act to plunge so cavalierly into a void containing unknown obstacles. Or could it be that all of Starbuck's odd chatter was leading him to take unnecessary risks. Maybe, after all, he was afraid of marriage, especially of the way it might affect his performance in action. Maybe he had to prove his own daring to himself by confronting this present danger.

  Starbuck's voice reemerged through the static.

  ". . . already out of sight. Apollo, don't get too far from me, I'm barely holding a fix on the way back as it is. Apollo—"

  The voice faded. Apollo cut his viper's speed and took a look around. He had never experienced such complete darkness before, not even in nightmares. If it weren't for the dim lights inside his cockpit, everything would be blacked out, everything.

  It's an ocean of darkness, he thought. Nothing as far as the eye can see. No stars, moons, planets, nothing.

  ". . . is too much to grasp. Apollo, I can barely scan you. Turn around."

  "Keep talking, Starbuck. I'll use your voice as a navigational fix."

  But the voice faded again, replaced by the irritating, everpresent static. Apollo stared at his control panel, where he could discern no clue to what to do next. Any move he might make now was speculative, he had lost all sense of direction. A turn could save him or lead him further into the void.

  Starbuck's voice returned abruptly:

  "Changing wave lengths. Read. Over."

  "Starbuck . . . Starbuck."

  "Read. Over."

  It was clear that Apollo's transmissions were not getting through to Starbuck.

  "Apollo, are you out there? Is anything wrong? What a stupid question, right? C'mon, reply! I'm as far out as I can go without losing my fix on our return. Should I come out to find you? Do you read me? Apollo . . . Apollo?!"

  The fear in Starbuck's voice made the void seem even darker to Apollo. He felt as if it were about to surround and engulf him, engorge him as a gift meal that had wandered in from space. This menacing blackness, plus his control panel well on the way to going haywire, plus Starbuck's panicked voice providing an eerie wavering counterpoint, all made Apollo begin to feel really scared.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Aboard the Galactica the ready-room had been transformed into a festive chamber, as Starbuck had ordered. All combat and shuttle pilots not involved in tours of duty had worked hard to decorate the area.

  Balloon-lights in various colors had been fitted over the normally stark bulbs adorning ceiling and walls. Silver streamers formed a brilliant network of decoration from wall to wall and, in some areas, from ceiling to floor. Tables had been set with colorful cloths. The best glassware and crockery had been liberated from storage.

  Ensign Greenbean, a tall and gangly young man whose limbs did not always coordinate well with the rest of his body, stumbled into the ready-room, flinging in front of him a large and heavy case of ambrosa. Bottles clanked ominously as the case collided rather violently with the metal flooring. Greenbean cocked his head, listening for any breakage sounds. When he was satisfied that all bottles were intact, he cried out:

  "Hey, somebody give me a hand. I got another case of this stuff out in the corridor."

  Ensign Giles rushed to his side.

  "By the lords of Kobol," Giles said, "is this what I think it is? I hope and pray it is."

  Greenbean nodded. With a whoop Giles ran to the corridor and hauled the other case of ambrosia into the ready-room. Laughing, Greenbean yelled:

  "This is going to be the biggest bachelor sendoff any warrior ever got. No, don't put any of it on the tables. For the moment, hide it in that cabinet there. Beneath the counter."

  "Greenbean," Giles muttered suspiciously, "where'd you get this?"

  "Requisitioned by order of Lieutenant Starbuck. And, Giles my boy, that's all you need to know about it. Loose lips can shatter—"

  "Greenbean," a warrior by the door whispered, "ssshhh. Sentries."

  The young officers automatically came to attention wh
en they heard the word "sentries." Ever since the Council of Twelve had, with one of those sweeping political decisions characteristic of a panicky ruling body, created the patrolling squads to maintain internal discipline and enforce the regulations and curfews, a rivalry had developed between the militaristic sentries and the easier-going devil-may-care pilots. Commander Adama, who had argued against the creation of sentry platoons, predicted they would not last but cautioned his officers to endure them with a warriorlike dignity. Restraint had proven difficult and irksome, especially since sentries were recruited from the ranks of men and women who had not been able to qualify for colonial warrior status, even on a temporary call-up basis.

  Two sentries, dressed in the dark security-squad uniforms, strode aristocratically into the ready-room.

  "Stand alert," one shouted. The command seemed to loosen up some of the pilots, who relaxed their bodies and slouched against the nearest available piece of furniture, as a physical gesture of defiance against the sentries. The sentries ignored the apparent insubordination. The second one, sneering arrogantly, surveyed the room, eyeing particularly the multicolored decorations.

  "Well," he said, "it looks as if we're having a festivity. Has this been approved by the Council subcommittee? Where are you getting your victuals?" When he received no answer to either question, his voice became angry as he barked: "Who's responsible for this?"

  "I am," said a voice whose deep, mellow sound filled the room. Colonel Tigh, Adama's second-in-command and aide, stood in the ready-room entrance. The sentry whirled angrily on him, then grew suddenly timid when he recognized the colonel.

  "Just what do you want, Lieutenant?" whispered Tigh, an edge of authority in his calm voice.

  The sentry discovered he could not talk straight.

  "Colonel Tigh, uh, excuse me. I mean, uh, well, we were just performing our, it was just our duty, we were—Some ale and ambrosa, they, well, disappeared from the officers' ration and, well—"

  "Yes, Lieutenant?"

  "Well, obviously if the Galactica's executive officer is in charge here, there's, uh, there's no reason for us to ask any further questions. By your leave . . ."

  "Dismissed."

  As the sentries marched out, a collective gasp of relief came from the young pilots. Their happy mood was quickly dispelled by the stern look which Tigh then directed at them.

  "There's only one thing worse than lifting rations from the officers' mess," Tigh said, his voice still patient and authoritative. "Do you know what that is, Greenbean?"

  "No, sir," Greenbean said, his eyes widening in fear.

  "It's getting caught lifting rations from the officers' mess. Do I make myself clear?"

  All the pilots joined in the subsequent, "Yes, sir!"

  "Good. The patrols should return any time now. When Starbuck and Apollo arrive, let's see that things are in full swing."

  Tigh's exit was accompanied by a cheer from the pilots. As he took an elevator back to the command bridge, Tigh wondered if he had been presumptive in countermanding the sentries. However, like Adama and all the pilots, he disapproved of the Council's minions. Not only that, the crew, exhausted and overworked as they were, deserved every chance at a short celebration. The bachelor party for Apollo had to take place. That was infinitely more important than a statistical shortage in the officers' mess reports. Even an old paper-shuffler like me can see that, he thought.

  As he arrived on the bridge, he heard Adama's anxious voice asking a bridge officer:

  "Patrol status?"

  "Captain Apollo's patrol is still beyond scanning range."

  "That's odd," Adama muttered.

  Tigh, alerted by the concern in his commander's voice, felt a surge of apprehension. Apollo had to return, he thought, it wouldn't he fair for anything to happen to him now.

  Starbuck racked through the communication channels trying to pick up a response from Apollo. All he received for his frantic efforts were several degrees of crackling static. With his control panel functioning so erratically, he could not even begin to determine the whereabouts of Apollo's ship in the void. Cursing inventively, Starbuck realized there was nothing to do but to enter that hellhole. Well, he'd trusted to luck before. Some said that luck was Starbuck's chief attribute as a fighter pilot.

  "Apollo," Starbuck shouted, one last attempt to get a response. "Do you read? Do you read?" The static grew louder and more irritating. "Okay, captain. I'm about to disobey orders. You can testify at my court-martial. So if you want to stop me, I'll give you one last chance, then I'm going to barrel ahead at full turbo, firing my lasers. Sooner or later I'll either find you or we'll both be lost. But I don't cotton to finish off my combat career in the middle of a stupid void, so I'm planning to survive. I have a high survival quotient, all my tests say so. If I do find you, I'm going to execute a perfect one-eighty-degree turn and head back out the way I came in. Just follow me and we'll have a pretty good chance. As good a chance as any other pair of flyboys trapped in a void the likes of which they've never seen before. Now if you're reading me and can't transmit, fire off a laser volley when you see me. I'll know you know what to do. Any objections? Good, I knew you'd approve. Here goes nothing."

  Starbuck pressed the joystick button marked TURBO and felt the familiar momentary shudder that preceded the engines kicking in. The stars seemed to blur as his ship roared forward. Entering the void, he was encompassed immediately in darkness. It was as if he had been shoved into a compartment which was then completely sealed off, every crack and vent filled so that not a speck of light could enter. What had possessed him, he thought, thinking he could fly normally in such disorienting darkness. He must concentrate. Concentrate. It was his only chance. He had to keep his viper steady, had to maintain his sense'of direction. If he lost that, he could not lead Apollo and himself out of the void. Provided he could find Apollo. Where in all the twelve worlds was he? All Starbuck could see was blackness, not a sign of another spacecraft anywhere. Not a sign of anything anywhere. Moving his thumb to the laser-firing button of his joystick, he let off a couple of blasts. They seemed to fade only a short distance away from his craft. Blasting steadily, he barreled his ship forward while simultaneously trying to contact Apollo on the commline. It seemed an impossibly long time before he finally heard Apollo's voice again, slipping through the sounds of interference intermittently.

  "Probe . . . Galactica . . . Read do you . . . to Starbuck . . . Read . . . Come in . . . buck . . . Star . . ."

  Then the voice suddenly came in loud and clear:

  "Starbuck, got a scanner reading on you. We're close now. Look off to your, to your left."

  Apollo's ship was a black shadow against blackness, but Starbuck could see it. He smiled broadly.

  "Okay, probe one. Eye contact verified. Heading your way."

  "Starbuck?"

  "On my way."

  "What's up your sleeve? Now we're both as lost as—"

  "Take it easy, Cap'n. As soon as you get a visual on me, fire off a volley and I'll swing around and head straight back out, on one line. Just follow me."

  "But what're you using for a fix?"

  "The end of my nose. Now don't disorient me. I used to be pretty good at this at the academy. Don't tell anybody, but they used to call me old seat-of-the-pants. So just break off the chatter and get ready to jump on my tail."

  Starbuck zeroed in on Apollo's ship. His run at Apollo's viper felt odd. Usually a sweep like this ended in a Cylon ship coming into target range.

  "I've got you," Apollo yelled, then fired the volley to signal Starbuck.

  "Then follow me. We're going home."

  Starbuck, after insuring that Apollo's viper was tight on his tail, headed his own ship back the way—he believed—he had come. As he urged his viper forward, he was aware of the fact that there was no way, in this void, to tell whether or not they were making any progress.

  "How far in was I?" Apollo said.

  "Don't talk," Starbuck replied.


  Starbuck thought the blackness was never going to end. Then, suddenly, he saw a star—a weak low-grade star dimly flickering, but for him it was brighter than the explosion of a supernova. Quickly it was joined by other stars, and he knew they had flown out of the void. He was so happy he felt a sudden urge to pat the seat of his pants for rescuing him again.

  "Okay, Apollo. That's one big fat foul cigar you owe me."

  "You got it, Starbuck."

  "Let's go home, buddy."

  As both pilots yelped joyfully, they eased their vipers into a steady roll, executing the maneuver together in perfect textbook fashion.

  Inside Boomer an organism lived, roamed, ate. It did not fit precisely the categories of germ, bacteria, or virus, although it was slowly making Boomer quite sick. It was like nothing humans had ever encountered before on any world. It thrived in moist environments and zeroed in on nutrients like a viper making a run at a Cylon raider. It served no ecological purpose on its world; all it could do was grow and kill. Once it had sensed that Boomer was a harmless nutrient-filled environment, it had entered through the exposed skin of the man's hand. Actually, although Boomer might have cursed himself for removing his gloves, clothing would not have protected him. The organism would have found the treated jumpsuit no obstacle. It went where it wanted to go, anywhere it could carry sickness and death. Another trait of the organism was an ability to multiply itself indiscriminately according to the amount of nutrients available. It sought out new environments eagerly and proliferated. Just before the pilots had climbed back into their ships, it had instantly duplicated itself, and, in a moment when Boomer and Jolly had briefly touched, the duplicate had penetrated Jolly's body. Each pilot now carried a thriving version of the organism inside him. Boomer and Jolly thought they were merely dizzy from overwork, tired from too many patrols.

  The lines of Boomer's navigational scan seemed to waver, then do a snakelike dance. He shut his eyes tight for a moment, then opened them to find that the image on the scanner screen had miraculously steadied itself. Still, he could not understand the erratic waves of dizziness that had afflicted him during the flight back from the strange asteroid. Well, they'd be landing soon and he'd rush through decon and make his report and maybe get to his bunk for some rest. No, not his bunk. There was the party for Apollo first. He mustn't miss that. He owed it to the captain and, anyway, a few sips of ambrosa might just put him right back on his feet.