The Cylon Death Machine

by Battlestar Galactica 02

  Apollo nods and looks up the mountain. You can't see the top. All you can see are vague shadowy shapes, the snow plumes rising regularly from ridges—a sure sign of strong-wind areas—a low-hanging band of clouds in the distance. Even in the darkness of this ice asteroid, the suggestion of color in the surface of the mountain is impressive to me. Far away the ice veneer is a shadowy gray; closer there are streaks and blots of blue; nearby, in the meager light of our lanterns, I can make out a faint crystalline suggestion of purple, the same near-purple I've seen on the ice mountains of Caprica.

  "What're the chances of avalanche?" Apollo asks suddenly.

  "From what I can tell, no worse than usual. No guarantees I know of that they won't happen. Still, this mountain's less likely than some."

  "Oh? Why?"

  "Well, this's a dark planet. No sun to screw things up-melting surfaces, altering terrain so that weight pressures change and cause the kind of shifts that result in avalanches. Everything stays cold at about the same temperature, so there's no shifts of climate to get an icefall started. Terrain and climate here should combine to make the mountain relatively stable. But God, man, you never know. And there's always a good chance of a loose-snow avalanche, if there's any disturbance or one of us sets up a chain reaction that jars some snow away from someplace higher up and it starts charging down at us, gathering more snow to it. Creating an avalanche with a snowball effect, see? But, I were you, I wouldn't spend much time worrying about avalanches. There's lots more out there to get us. And we've had enough rest. It's time to move out, Captain."

  I whisper the last as a hint so that the others can't hear. It's important to Apollo that he appear to be in control of the expedition. Any takeover from me would just cause resentment all around. I have to control this little foray with subtlety. Always good to employ subtlety on your superior officer if you want to get anything done.

  The next stage of climbing is easier than I'd expected. In spite of the rough appearance of the terrain, there are plenty of holds. Ser 5-9, with his knowledge of the mountain, has saved us a great deal of time. We're able to cover a significant amount of distance just using pull holds to move our bodies up, and there's a good deal of friction to create an anchoring counterforce. Watching Apollo frequently check his chronometer, its faint illumination sending evil-looking shadows into his face, I begin to get hopeful. Maybe Hekla is one of those mountains that look rough but prove to be no real challenge to a good set of climbers.

  Suddenly things get tougher, as we reach a glacial formation. Apollo wants to head straight up, but I counsel traversing the glacier as the best strategy. Ser 5-9 agrees. I take the lead, setting a slow pace, tapping and puncturing the snow-covered ground ahead of me with the point of my ax. It's important here to maintain the slow pace. Any point ahead of us can turn out to be a crevasse and plunge us all to sudden death.

  Coming upon a wide crevasse, we cross over a snow bridge, each climber taking it alone and slowly. On the other side of the bridge, Apollo keeps peeking at that chronometer. He's obviously getting twitchy, but I refuse his suggestion that we cross the snow bridge in pairs. This is the wrong time to take that kind of chance.

  Reaching a steep icefall, Ser 5-9 signals that it's the best and most direct way up. I agree. Using some of its jagged points to make my way a short distance upward, I start bringing out the pitons, which till now I've hoarded. They're in short supply and had to be saved for a difficult part of the ascent. I'm glad that they're molecular-binding, since I am afraid of excessive sound in this area of the mountain. One good solid echo, and who knows what's going to fall on you. I push the setting on the outer edge of the piton to ice, and push it in. It goes in with a sound that rises in pitch. A good sign. Whether hammer-driven or molecular-binding, the piton whose sound descends in pitch signifies that it is insecurely anchored. Being able to interpret the song of the piton is a lifesaving technique. Quickly the piton's shaft works its way all the way in, and only the oval eye at its end is visible. There's not enough time to loop ropes through the pitons, so we'll have to use them simply for direct-aid climbing.

  Not thinking about our goals or the complications to them, I work slowly, pushing in one piton after another and forming a zigzag ladder up the icefall. I can sense the others climbing up behind me, but do not look down. I try never to look down. On a mountain there's no place you've been to that you are eager to see again right away. I just concentrate on setting the pitons in the right places and listening to the monotonous but comforting sound of their song.

  The top of the icefall is narrow and slightly sloped but secure. Above it is an overhang that could give us trouble. Twisting the tricked-up rope so that it's slack, I sling it over the overhang. The other end floats down. Ser 5-9 and Wolfe each take an end of the rope and pull at it to make sure the rope is anchored and in a secure place. Then I twist the rope in the other direction, making it hard and stiff as a cable. Climbing quickly hand over hand, I make my way to the edge of the overhang, then laboriously pull myself onto it. Up farther is a more secure ledge. Telling Ser 5 -9 and Wolfe to let go of the rope ends, I climb to the ledge, where I drive the shaft of my ax into the hard snow as far as I can. Far enough to serve as an anchor for a belay. The ice-ax shaft belay is the safest for the situation. I brace my right leg by kicking out a large step below the ax and setting my foot firmly into it. Supporting the ax with the upper knee of my left leg, I set the belay rope slack and feed it around the shaft of the ax with one hand in a round turn, low on the ax shaft, while holding onto the ax head with my other hand. Because of the slope, I also run the rope around the small of my back for further anchorage, then throw it back down to the others. Jerking on the rope, I alert them to finish their climb to this ledge. Gradually I watch each of them, Ser 5-9 and Tenna first, then Apollo, Leda, and Wolfe, come over the ledge.

  At Ser 5-9's suggestion we rope together and work our way along the ledge, sometimes holding close to the wall of ice at spots where the ledge narrows, sometimes crunching down to creep beneath low-hanging cornices. We reach a point where a fairly gentle slope eases away from us to our left. I signal the others to hold back while I take a look, and edge myself forward gradually along the edge toward the slope. As I look up, some clouds above me part briefly and I think I see the outline of the gun emplacement, dark against darkness, not far above us. I turn to tell Apollo, but before I can say anything, there is a great shuddering explosion above me and the sky is briefly lit up brilliantly by a pulse from the gun. It's firing now. Maybe the Galactica is within range. The sound of the weapon is deafening. The mountain seems tcr shake. The thunder of the gun isjoined by a rumble that seems to emanate from deep within the mountain. I look up. A huge crest of snow is coming down at me. I have just enough time to shout:

  "Avalanche!"

  Then the snow reaches me, and the ledge beneath me breaks off in a falling chunk. There is a brief jerk on my rope, then an abrupt sense of free fall. Apollo has acted quickly and sensibly. He's cut the rope to save the rest of the team. My face is briefly in the air outside, then I am completely enveloped by the snow. I seem to be falling more deeply into it, like a swimmer being pulled along by an unexpected fierce underwater current.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Landing his ship on the narrow airfield atop the mountain, Vulpa released it from the control of the guidance personnel, while a ground crew slung cables around it to secure it against the high winds. Snakelike, a tunnel emerged from the side of the gun-emplacement building and attached itself to the ship's exit hatch. Inside the tunnel, a gunnery master joined Vulpa and a moving runway carried them into Summit Station. The gun took up most of the space within the emplacement. It looked like a massive chunk of gray metal cut out of the mountain itself.

  "Are you ready?" Vulpa asked the gunnery master, who turned to the chief gunner and said:

  "Lens system aligned?"

  "Aligned," the gunner replied.

  "Pump system to speed?"

  "
Speed."

  The master turned to Vulpa and announced:

  "Ready."

  Vulpa, feeling a moment's glow of satisfaction, ordered:

  "Commence automatic fire."

  The master pressed a button and the weapon shuddered into action. Vulpa could sense the energy gathering within the bore of the gun as it quickly built up the power to generate its pulses. The first pulse seemed to burst from the gun unexpectedly. As it blasted upward, the sky was briefly filled with a flaring light. For a very short time the asteroid seemed lighted by a returning sun; then the beam entered the cloud cover and darkness came back abruptly. Beneath them, the mountain seemed to shake, the usual reaction. Vulpa heard the sound of a small avalanche developing. Even though the foundation of the emplacement went deeply into the mountain, Vulpa sometimes worried that the entire structure could tumble from the mountain as the result of a massive avalanche. But the gun rumbled again and another sky-lighting flare burst forth from the mouth of the cannon.

  Vulpa checked with his control room to see if the Galactica had yet been discovered within the sector. The report was negative. Still, Vulpa knew, one of these powerful beams from the pulsaric-laser-unit weapon could still find its way randomly to wherever the Galactica was. If that happened, even more glory would accrue to him, and Imperious Leader would be suitably impressed, Vulpa was sure. Vulpa's ambition was suddenly making sense again, and he looked forward to the successful outcome of this assignment—the termina­tion of the human enemy and Vulpa's restoration from exile to full rank and responsibility.

  Imperious Leader had to interrupt his dialogues with the Starbuck to direct the final phase of the assault upon the human fleet. His base ship had now arrived at the sector where the Galactica and its fleet drifted. He directed a Cylon task force to initiate attack upon the rear of the fleet, not a sneak attack this time but a full-fledged assault.

  He would send wave after wave against the humans, enough warships to finally wear them down or push them into the range of the Hekla weapon. It was a flawless plan. To Imperious Leader the attack seemed already ended. His active third brain was already contemplating post-battle problems and matters upon Cylon-dominated planets. Strange political factions seemed to be emerging around the Cylon empire, and the members of these nearly rebellious groups had not yet been located and shunted off to the harmless classes of Cylon society.

  He looked over at the Starbuck-simulacrum, which was lounging in its usual arrogant way. Logic dictated that the simulator be removed from the pedestal, but Imperious Leader wanted the simulacrum to view the final defeat of the race for which it was a representative illusion. The Leader realized that, once the simulator was deactivated, the simulacrum would no longer exist—that any feeling of vengeance the Leader might achieve from the Starbuck's reaction to the annihilation was merely a response to information gathered from data banks and presented in human form. The Starbuck would be returned to nothingness, a collection of data bits that would never form again. Imperious Leader wondered what revenge he would gain by showing the Starbuck the annihilation of the human race. His feeling of vengeance would be as illusory as the Starbuck itself. Nevertheless, if the Starbuck displayed any reaction—shock, anger, disgust—it would be a satisfying coda to the moment of victory. And Imperious Leader very much wanted to observe the arrogance of the Starbuck collapse.

  Adama watched the attack of the Cylon task force on a series of screens above the communications console. Colonial vipers were fiercely engaged in a running battle with the front ranks of the Cylon force. On a central screen, he could see a wave of Cylon fighters sweeping into position and firing their lasers in a wide-arced multiplaned pattern of fire. Two colonial vipers shattered into fragments and disintegrated in a consuming fire. Athena, standing beside Adama, cursed under her breath and clenched her fists. But there were only communica­tions screens to hit.

  A quartet of vipers peeled off from the main group as if to flee, then abruptly turned and fired furiously at the right flank of the attacking force. Lines of laser fire crossed and intersected, forming a brief asymmetric network of fine-lined light. A pair of Cylon ships fell from the rank and blew up, then a third, and a fourth. With each destroyed Cylon ship, Athena whispered encourage­ment to the vipers that had knocked them out. In a moment the screens seemed filled with exploding Cylon ships.

  Although the Galactica squadrons had turned back the first line of Cylon attack, there were more warships in the distance. Tigh silently handed Adama a report which showed that the Cylon base ship had now entered the sector and was bearing down on the ragtag fleet at high speed.

  Adama looked up from the report just in time to see a massive spear of light stabbing into space ahead of the battlestar. It had passed by them and narrowed to a dim line in the distance before anyone on the Galactica had had time to react to it. Another beam of light followed it, at a different angle, farther away. A third seemed dangerously close.

  "They're sweeping the entire corridor with that laser cannon," Adama said to Tigh.

  "Blue Squadron coming in," Athena reported. "Nine destroyed vipers, seven of them piloted by cadets. Seventeen too damaged to go out again right away, perhaps a dozen ready for another battle. Red Squadron reports similar damages."

  "What about the Cylon forces?" Adama asked her.

  "They're retreating. But more Cylon warships have entered the quadrant. Base ship not far behind."

  Adama looked at Tigh, who nodded in agreement to the question on the commander's face.

  "Our time is up, Colonel," Adama said, then turned to the bridge officer and ordered: "Flank speed ahead. We're going right through."

  Another spear of light was too far in the distance to be threatening, but it went through that part of the sector that was right on the Galactica's course.

  "The expedition must have failed," Tigh said, the suggestion of tears in his eyes.

  Adama glanced at the console timer.

  "They still have six centons left," he said.

  "Six centons," Athena whispered, and tried not to think that Apollo and Starbuck might be already frozen dead upon the planet.

  Starbuck, dodging blasts of laser fire from Cylons defending the entranceway to the underground complex, felt quite the opposite of frozen. Heated by the burning materials around him in the destroyed command post, he felt warmer than at any time since he'd descended to the ice planet.

  Ravashol's clones, driven by the kind of hatred that accumulates from a long oppression, had easily gained the advantage on the Cylons guarding the command post. Approaching the headquarters in white and gray furs, the clones had so blended in with the landscape that they had caught the enemy by surprise. Boomer and Starbuck held back until combat had begun in earnest, then they entered the fray, laser pistols drawn and shooting. After disposing of the guards, Starbuck leaped down into the corridor leading to the main underground complex. Boomer remained right behind him.

  As they ran down the passageway, one of the Tennas caught up with them. A Cylon lumbered out of a side corridor. Reacting quickly, Tenna fired at it. Sparks from the wired suit flew as the Cylon fell.

  A group of Cylons at the end of the corridor began firing at them. Starbuck, Boomer, and Tenna plunged to the ground.

  "We're trapped," Boomer yelled, looking behind him at the fight raging between the Cylon command-post guards, then ahead at their new attackers.

  "Over there," Starbuck cried, pointing to a hatchway on his left. "What's on the other side of that?"

  "The cold cells where the Cylons hold prisoners," whispered Tenna.

  "Prisoners? I asked you before where the prisoners were kept, you told me you didn't know."

  Tenna's eyes widened, in surprise, then in amusement.

  "You didn't ask me. You—

  "I know, I know. One of the others in the Ten series. All right, all right. Can you open that hatch?"

  Tenna crawled over to it, and slowly began to turn the valve which opened the hatch. There was a
small surprising squeak, and Starbuck tensed himself for what might spring out, aiming his laser pistol directly at the hatchway.

  "There's bound to be guards," Tenna said.

  "I'll take them. They're probably not used to people breaking into a prison."

  As Tenna slowly opened the hatch, Starbuck eased himself through the narrow opening. He motioned for Boomer to follow. A blast of cold air quickly dissipated all the warmth he'd accumulated in the battle.

  Cree had been concentrating on moving his head from side to side for some time. It was the only movement of which he was capable. He seemed to have lost contact with the rest of his body long ago, right after the Cylon guards had roughly dragged him to this chamber and pushed him into a tubular frost-gray cold cell. At first he had tried to keep his fingers and toes moving, but when they had turned completely numb he had started to do the exercise with his head and neck. Now he felt like stopping that, too.

  His eyes were just beginning to droop shut when he saw a quick flash of movement to his right. He had just enough strength to look that way. A man was firing at the two Cylons who were standing guard in front of the triple row of cold cells. A colonial warrior, from the look of the outfit. Starbuck. It was Starbuck. Who was Starbuck? He could barely remember, even though the name had flashed into his mind.

  First one Cylon fell, then the other, both dropped by the crouching Starbuck. The clang of their metallic uniforms against the floor echoed through the cold-cell chamber. There seemed to be more movement on the right, but Cree found he could no longer turn his neck in that direction. For a moment he lost consciousness.