Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica!

by Glen A. Larson

  Suddenly vivid memories of Starbuck flashed in front of Lucifer's eyes. He realized he had known the man before. He had sat on the other side of a table playing cards with him, talked for long periods about the differences between humans and Cylons. The man had laughingly tried to explain humor to him. He had liked Starbuck. And now he must kill him. He did not want to kill him. How could he resolve the contradictory impulses, counteract the programming within him, resist the compelling need to slay Starbuck?

  "You seem a shade reluctant," Starbuck said tauntingly. "Don't really want to mix it up?"

  "Starbuck," Adama gasped. "He's a Noman . . . too strong for you."

  "I've got a hunch he's not a Noman at all."

  Starbuck's insight astonished Lucifer. No wonder Starbuck was the human he most admired. But how did he know that? How did he know he admired this human? Did all the memories of the card-playing, articulate, fun-loving Starbuck prove he was in any way admirable?

  Nevertheless he was here to kill. He had to kill. Reaching out abruptly he got his hands around Starbuck's neck. Starbuck's eyes widened as he tried to resist.

  In a moment Starbuck would be dead. All Lucifer needed to do was apply a little more pressure.

  But he could not do it. His limbs defied him. He did not want to strangle Starbuck.

  Adama crawled partway across his desk to help Starbuck, but he collapsed, unable to move farther.

  Lucifer tried to shut off the impulses that were blocking him from finishing off Starbuck. He peered into Starbuck's frightened eyes—and, inside Lucifer, everything seemed to snap. He seemed to see all his memories of Starbuck reflected in the man's eyes. And he knew he could never kill him. He couldn't kill anyone! He was never supposed to be an assassin. Spectre had put a circuitry overlay into him, turning him into a potential killer. Potential? He had killed once already—that Borellian Noman back on the Broadside.

  Spectre had transformed Lucifer from one of the finest cybernetic creations in the Cylon universe to a mere hired killer, a machine of evil.

  As this knowledge came to him, his programming still seemed to urge him on to kill Starbuck. But now he had understanding. He could bypass the programming, defeat it.

  With a great effort, he released Starbuck, who was only half-conscious now. Starbuck fell, his body hitting the floor with some impact.

  If the three colonial warriors in the room had been clear-minded enough to observe, they would have perceived a Lucifer in torment. Lucifer himself was not even aware of his actions. As Spectre's programming tried to dominate him, Lucifer resisted it. When the urge to kill Starbuck again became strong, Lucifer turned away from the man. Picking up a chair, he crushed it in his powerful grip and hurled it against the far wall. Then he charged the desk, making a large dent in it, forcing Adama to slide backward off the edge.

  Lucifer hurled himself backward against the wall and began to beat his arms against it in a backhanded gesture. Still he felt the urge to kill these people. He concentrated on an entertainment console standing in a corner. He slammed his arms against it, and heard things inside it break.

  Starbuck and Hera had both come to their senses. They exchanged a glance.

  "Can we take him?" Hera said.

  "We can try," Starbuck answered.

  They charged at Lucifer, each grabbing one of his flailing arms. With concentration and extreme effort, they pushed the apparent Noman against a wall and forced him to slide down ward. When he was settled on the floor, the fury seemed to go out of him. He merely sat there, his Borellian eyes staring blankly at Hera and Starbuck. Adama, revived, had come around his desk to help.

  "What is this all about?" Adama asked Starbuck.

  Starbuck shook his head in puzzlement. "Don't know. This doesn't have any of the earmarks of a blood hunt. Borellian Nomen are not hired assassins. It's against their code."

  All three started when Lucifer spoke suddenly, in an eerily different but calm voice. "I am not a Borellian Noman . . . Starbuck."

  There was something familiar about the creature's new voice, Starbuck thought. And how did he know Starbuck's name? "What do you mean?"

  "I am Lucifer," Lucifer said slowly.

  Starbuck peered into Lucifer's eyes, saw a look he recognized. "Lucifer? The Cylon robot?"

  "Not a robot. An ambulatory sentient computer. I explained all that to you once."

  "Yes . . . you did. But you don't look . . . that is . . ."

  "This is a disguise. I would have been recognized here as Lucifer. You would have recognized me."

  "You bet. But I don't get it. You tried to kill the commander. You're not a killer, Lucifer."

  "Spectre . . . restructured my program. He did this to me. Made me a killer. It is . . . detestable. I cannot control myself. I . . . must shut myself off."

  Starbuck felt Lucifer's body go limp. He looked toward Hera, who was completely bewildered. He started to explain to her, but Adama, kneeling down, interrupted. "They sent him aboard to kill me. But why? What good would that do? There's got to be more to it than—"

  A massive explosion sent all three of them off balance and sliding across the floor. Lucifer's apparently lifeless body glided after them. Adama struggled to his feet and rushed to his desk, where he flipped on his intercom.

  "Tigh! Tigh! What happened?"

  The voice that answered was not Tigh, but Flight Officer Rigel. "Colonel Tigh isn't on bridge at present. Sir, the explosion seems to have been a bomb. Sabotage in the engineering section, it appears."

  "A bomb? But—"

  He stopped talking as he sensed machinery all over the ship stop operation with growling and whining sounds. He stood flabbergasted, disbelieving, as his ship, the enormous and powerful Galactica, ground to a halt.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The engine room looked like a city in ruins. Jagged and glowing pieces of wreckage disappeared into piles of rubble. Smoke drifted slowly, traveling aimlessly from one to another of the hundreds of small fires. Rescue-duty crewmen and paramedics pulled engine room personnel out of the debris. Some of the people were already dead, but not so many as had been feared. The engine room had been on skeleton staff so that many of the crew could attend the theatrical performance.

  Apollo, following Croft and Sheba into the engine room, stopped in his tracks and stared at the wreckage with shock and disgust. He asked a crew chief for a damage report. The man's face was streaked with dirt and tears. "Bad. Terrible. Ship should be down for several duty periods, sir."

  Apollo let him go about his duties.

  "What could have done this much damage?" Sheba asked.

  "Looks like solenite to me," Croft said. He and Apollo were quite familiar with solenite. They had seen its volatility during their mission on the ice planet Tairac many centons ago.

  "Solenite," Apollo said. "Where would anybody get solenite? It's against the law to have solenite aboard the Galactica."

  Croft shrugged. "Must've been smuggled aboard."

  "But the detection devices—"

  "Only work if somebody's paying attention. In any kind of confusion a clever smuggler can—hey, I was around when that theater company came on board. Man, talk about confusion! You could've slipped ten bombs in with them and called 'em props."

  "You think the theater troupe's responsible for this?" Sheba asked.

  "Well, no, I—," Croft said.

  "Don't discount them," Apollo said firmly, then told them what he'd learned from Starbuck back on the bridge,

  "And this Lucifer," he finished, "in his disguise, came here with the actors."

  "You think there are others like him?" Sheba said. "In disguise?"

  "Possibly. We can check that out later. For now, let's see what can be done here."

  As they began to pick their way through the debris, stopping to help the rescue teams from time to time, Adama and Athena were busy on the bridge, trying to coordinate the damage reports coming in from every section of the Galactica. Rigel approached them, her normal
calm disrupted by the news she had to impart. "Sir, there's sudden activity near the rear of the fleet. I'm not sure how but—"

  "Out with it, Rigel," Adama said impatiently.

  "A Cylon task force appears to have materialized out there. They're on a direct course to intersect."

  Adama turned quickly. "Athena, put the ship on full battle alert. Send out the ready reserve."

  "Sir, they're mostly cadets. Some of them are untrained."

  Adama's next words were spoken abruptly, with the kind of apparent coldness that he'd had to cultivate for harsh decisions. "Can't help that. They have to mount a diversionary action while we assemble the main combat squadrons. There's not enough time to—"

  Athena didn't wait for him to finish the sentence. She raced into action, barking orders left and right.

  When the alert klaxon began ringing, it made eerie echoing reverberations through the engine room. Apollo had to weave his way through the wreckage, Croft and Sheba after him, to get to the nearest wall communicator. When he'd heard the news and been ordered back to the bridge, he turned to his companions. "My God, if they get by our defenses and we can't mount a proper counterattack, and with the Galactica down, why we'll—"

  "The Galactica'll be a sitting duck, Captain," Croft said bitterly. "You better go, be a hero."

  "Are you two coming?"

  Croft smiled. "No, this sort of operation's my bailiwick. If the Galactica is down, it doesn't matter how many Vipers we send out. Without tactical advantage, the whole fleet can be destroyed. We, me and Sheba, have got to jerrybuild some kind of setup to get the old barge going again."

  "You think you can—"

  "Anything's possible. Look, this ship's a monster, but its principles of locomotion aren't much different from any ship I've handled. And, remember, I'm supposed to be an expert on solenite, so I can deal with solenite damage, too. I'll figure out something. Get out of here, Apollo. I can't abide amateurs looking over my shoulder."

  Apollo nodded and left, quickly finding a way out of the maze of wreckage. Croft gazed after him. Sheba spoke to his back. "God, Croft, you do arrogance better than those actors."

  "Had a lot of practice, doll. So—you gonna help me or not?"

  "I don't know what I can do, and I don't believe you know as much as you pretend, but I'll be right with you, ready to hand you a laserwrench when you need it."

  "Okay, let's organize the crew here, those no longer needed for rescue work. We're gonna need all the help we can get."

  As Sheba rounded up crewmen, Croft examined the damage. He did know something about battlestars and demolitions, but he'd never faced a job as big as this. He wondered if his old tricks, learned back when he was young enough to perform them skillfully, would work this time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Spectre's gaze was fixed on the long-range transmitter screen. With cameras located in the nose of each Cylon raider, pictures of the battle were sent back to the base-star. Several areas of combat could be monitored simultaneously.

  He was pleased with what he saw. The new model of Cylon Raider, commissioned for this conquest of the Galactica and its fleet, was performing extremely well. More maneuverable than its predecessors, it also had more power. Several of them seemed to hover around the disabled Galactica. Vipers were being destroyed almost as soon as they cleared the big ship's launch tubes. The few Vipers that did manage to escape the initial ambush became easy marks for the Cylons. Galactica's artillery batteries, unable to maneuver properly with the ship powerless, caused few Cylon casualties.

  Not much longer, Spectre thought, and I will be able to begin my journey to the top of the Cylon hierarchy. Imperious Leader would definitely be impressed. This success would easily make up for Baltar's debacle with the nightmare machine.

  "Centurion," Spectre said, without taking his gaze away from the screen, "have you made contact with the commander of the Galactica yet?"

  "Yes sir. Commander Adama is waiting on the other end of the line."

  "Very good. I am pleased to talk with him now. Transfer his image to the main screen."

  "By your command."

  The many images of battle were quickly replaced by an enormous view of the head of Commander Adama. Spectre was surprised to see that the man's face was impassive. Humans kept coming up with new surprises. How could he maintain such calm in the face of certain defeat?

  Spectre assumed the voice of command authority which he carefully had copied from Imperious Leader. "Commander Adama!"

  "To whom am I speaking? And whom do you represent?"

  Spectre was momentarily disconcerted by the tone of authority in the human officer's voice. How could he display such confidence? "I am Spectre. I represent the Cylon Imperious Leader, your rightful ruler. I and my forces, as you can see, can destroy you. You must place yourself, your ship, and your fleet under my authority. Then our attack will cease."

  "We do not accept your offer, sir."

  "It is not an offer, it is an order."

  "We don't take orders from tin soldiers or Cylons. I suggest you abandon your attack before we wipe out your troops."

  Spectre's jaw almost dropped open. He had not anticipated such brazenness. "Empty, vain words, Commander. You are condemning everyone under your command to death. I have one order only for you." Spectre deliberately raised his voice. "Surrender the Galactica!"

  Adama's face or voice did not change one whit. "My response to you, sir, is one word: Felgercarb!"

  Adama's image instantly flashed off. Confused, Spectre turned to his centurion aide. "Felgercarb? What does he mean, felgercarb?"

  "I do not know, sir. There is no word of that nature in our human lexicon. It appears to have strong negative connotations."

  "Yes, doesn't it? Well, no matter. I expected defiance from humans, ignorant as they are."

  "Perhaps their confidence, sir, derives from the fact that, in nearly all encounters between the Galactican fleet and Cylon combat forces, the humans have won decisively."

  Spectre decided to demote this aide later. "A statistic I do not need to hear at this moment, Centurion. Forget it."

  "By your command."

  "Send a message to all our forces. Phase one of the attack has ended. Initiate Phase Two. Destroy every ship! No human is to be left alive."

  As the centurion transmitted the order, Spectre pondered the futile human response to his demand. He had planned to preserve the Galactica, take it and its officers back to the Cylon capital and parade his own victory there. Perhaps, however, exterminating the human pest would ensure his promotions even more.

  What his aide had said gnawed at him. It was true that the humans of the Galactica had generally discovered ways to defeat Cylons. But now their ship was disabled, their fighters were being picked off easily, their artillery was ineffective. What last-centon strategy could they come up with now? There was none.

  None.

  None at all.

  Was there?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The old man hadn't seen his pursuers since the explosion. He had no idea what had rocked the ship or what the new reverberations were. He didn't care. All he wanted to do was get back to the Pit. There was safety in the spooky shifting shadows of the Devil's Pit.

  Coming to an elevator bank, he began frantically to push all the buttons on the call panel. All elevators were busy because of the ship's alert. A car finally stopped at his level. He started to charge into it, but he was pushed back by emerging warriors in combat gear. When the warrior egress had ended, the old man took a tentative step into the car. There were still a few people inside, all of them staring at him strangely. He backed away, gesturing that he wasn't entering the car after all.

  Four passageways led away from the elevator bank. The old man looked from one to another, trying to figure out which one to take. Before he could decide, Dwybolt bounded out of one of them and cornered him against a wall. The old man tried to appear calm. Dwybolt inspected him with a theatrical
gaze and smiled ironically, happy tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks. "So it is you! The Great Franda!"

  "No. I'm an engineer. Well, not anymore, but I was an engineer. Now I'm just . . . nobody."

  Dwybolt nodded. "Uh-huh. I believe you."

  "You do?"

  "It's been a long time since you disappeared. You must've done something during it. So you were an engineer, Franda."

  "I'm not Franda."

  "What is your name then?"

  "I . . . I forget. I was in the Devil's Pit so long, without a name, I forget my name now."

  The corridor vibrated from another direct hit on this side of the ship. The walls seemed to bend inward. The old man fell down and Dwybolt helped him up.

  "What was that?" the old man asked.

  "The ship is under attack, I understand. Cylons. Nothing we can do. They'll take care of it. If they don't, this might be the end. So you might as well admit you're the Great Franda."

  The old man's gaze narrowed, hiding eyes which Dwybolt believed had once been the most expressive in show business. "You're a cool customer, Dwybolt. What if I am Franda?"

  "Then I intend to invite you into the troupe. No, I insist. We need your talent."

  "You can talk about that now? With the ship under attack?"

  "I can't do anything about the battle. I have no combat skills. If we're boarded and there's a fight, I'll be in the middle of it. I'll fight like anyone else. But, whatever happens, I always think of the troupe, the company, first. And it'd be wonderful to have you—"

  The ship shook again. Several hits seemed to have converged. Somewhere something electrical was burning. Dwybolt seized the old man's arm, saying they must get to a safe place.

  Cassiopeia had abandoned the pursuit of the old man. She ran for the nearest elevator to take one down to the level where the Life Station, the ship's enormous hospital facility, was located. Reaching the elevator bank, she saw Dwybolt with his arm around the old man. At the same moment, Shalheya came out of another corridor.