[Battlestar Galactica Classic] - Battlestar Galactica

by Glen A. Larson

  Although he rankled at Adar’s patriarchal phrasing, Adama decided not to reply in kind.

  “It’s what awaits us out there that troubles me,” Adama said, pointing toward the bright starfield. Adar smiled his best condescending smile.

  “Surely,” he said, “you don’t cling to your suspicions about the Cylons. They asked for this armistice. They want peace. For myself I look forward to our coming rendezvous with the Cylon representatives.”

  Adama studied the president’s bland, confident face, and considered addressing him in the blunt vocabulary of their space-pilot days. No, Adar had been too far removed from the field for too long to understand plain language anymore. Adama resorted to diplomatic phrasings.

  “Forgive me, Mr. President, but—but the Cylons hate humans deeply, with every fiber of their existence. In our love of freedom, of independence, our need to feel, to question, to affirm, to rebel against oppression—in all these ways we are different from them. To them we are the aliens and they’ll never accept our ways, our ideas, our—”

  “But they have accepted. Through Baltar, they have sued for peace.”

  There was a finality in Adar’s voice, a this-is-the-end-of-the-discussion command. Adama stared at the bearded man who, even though they were contemporaries, looked so much older. He knew there was no point in opposing him at this supposedly joyous moment. As in any battle, there was also a logical point of retreat in political disputes.

  “Yes,” Adama said, “of course you’re right.”

  And of course Adar had come to him requiring this capitulation. Pleased, the president stopped stroking his long beard so nervously, and grabbed his old comrade by the shoulders. The man radiated confidence. Adama wished he could be that assured, but Baltar’s vigilant stare only added to his present uneasiness.

  Leaving Adama alone, Adar strutted back to a group of the more jubilant Quorum members. Adama, sullen, walked along the rim of the giant starfield which composed nearly one-half of the dining chamber. He stopped at a position from which he could observe his own ship, the battlestar Galactica.

  He took great pride in the unanimous acknowledgment of the Galactica as the greatest fighting ship in the Colonial Fleet, and the most efficiently run of the Fleet’s five battlestars. Commissioned at least two centuries before its present commander’s birth, and commanded by Adama’s father before him, the Galactica had survived thousands of rough encounters with the enemy, no mean achievement when one considered the notorious Cylon deviousness. With the destruction of the Atlantia’s sister ship, the Pacifica, Adama’s craft had become the largest fighting battlestar in the Fleet. And since he had taken over command its record had become as impressive as its size. The most heroic exploits, the most suicidal missions, the highest number of Cylon kills were all now part of the Galactica’s gallant history. If this peace lasted any time at all, the battlestar would surely be declared a monument to human achievement.

  While it appeared to drift placidly, the Galactica was actually “idling” at near light-speed. Its slowness was due to the fact that it had, as guardian to the Atlantia during the peace conference, to keep its pace down to the Command Battlestar’s speed. No wonder. Where the Atlantia was a hive of bulkily designed sections, the Galactica was a slim-lined, multi-level vehicle whose functional components allowed for the rarely achieved combination of size with speed. In regular space it could traverse distances nearly as fast as the fighting craft launched from it. Its fuel system provided the most power possible from the mixture of Tylium with lesser fuel sources. Its launching decks could be activated within minutes, emerging as long extensions from the cylindrical core of the vehicle, and its guidance systems had been refined—at Adama’s orders—so that his pilots could land on an InterFleet Memo without smudging a single letter.

  Adama was equally proud of the efficient social system within the ship. A commander could not wish for a more cohesive crew—amazing when one considered the thousands of people required to keep a battlestar going. His daughter Athena was always saying the crew worked well because they knew they had a fair and understanding commander. While he chided her for the sentimentality of the observation, he was pleased that the skillful performance of everyone on the Galactica testified to the abilities of Adama as commander. (His father had predicted that Adama would surpass his own achievements after he regretfully retired from active command, and the prophecy had proven out—so far.) Yes, it was a fine ship and a fine crew. Even his impulsive children—Apollo, Zac, Athena—shaped up when it came to the needs of the Galactica and its commander.

  Now, though, more impressive than his battlestar’s efficiency within or without was the image of beauty it created set against the background of flashing stars. So delicate were its lines, so multifaceted the jewel of its blue-gray surface that a casual observer looking out from the viewing wall of the Atlantia’s starfield would not in the least suspect that its dimensions were so monumental, its overall size so huge. Adama recalled his father saying that the Galactica was the size of a small planet, that a traveler could use up most of a lifetime walking its corridors without having to retrace a single step. He had learned later that the old man’s description was somewhat exaggerated, one of the outrageous tall tales he had so savored in the telling. Still, the Galactica would be a mighty challenge for the dedicated hiker. Viewing it now, he was struck for a brief moment by the feeling of disbelief that it was his domain, his world. He had felt that way when command had originally been transferred to him two and half decades ago, and he now felt it quite deeply again. He grew impatient to return to the Galactica as soon as possible, to escape from the emptiness in the joyous sounds of the Quorum’s victory celebration.

  Starbuck didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that a gallery of onlookers had formed behind him. When he had a pair of rubes like these two on the line, word always spread through the ranks of the Galactica, and people came running to the ready room. It was considered a privilege to be in on the kill. Starbuck’s gambling acumen had become so famous that his name was now a part of fighter-pilot slang. To be starbucked meant that you had allowed yourself to be maneuvered into a situation in which your defeat was inevitable. It was in the vocabulary of battle as well as in that of the gambling tables.

  Like an actor, the handsome young lieutenant knew how to play to an audience. He let his face, so clean-cut for a man so diabolically shrewd, assume a mask of naïveté, as if he had just boarded the battlestar fresh out of space academy. Awkwardness substituted for the normal grace of his movements, and he leaned into the table like a man who wondered how he had gotten himself into this mess in the first place. All part of the setup. The gallery knew it, just as they knew he was ready to sweep down on his foolish opponents like a Cylon patrol from behind a cloud cover.

  This time his marks were a pair of Gemons from the planet Gemini. Apparently Starbuck’s notoriety had eluded them, for they held their round cards with a cavalier sureness characteristic of men positive their hands are the winning ones. Like all Gemons they resembled each other, even though their features were quite dissimilar, one thin-faced, the other with a hint of chubbiness. Something in the expression of the Gemons, a placidity bordering on inanity, seemed to make all of them look alike. Gemons were among the most intelligent members of any battlestar crew, but when it came to gambling they were often the easiest victims of all.

  Starbuck was ready now. He could feel victory on the smooth surfaces of his cards, as if it had been encoded there as a private communication for his hands only. Keeping his voice steady, he announced:

  “Just to keep the game instructive and because you’re new to it, I’ll only wager… oh, say, this much.”

  Coolly he pushed out half his stash, an evenly stacked high pile of square gold cubits. His dark blue eyes hid the mockery of his opponents which he felt inside. The two men looked quite astonished. Simultaneously, and with a duplicate raising of eyebrows. As they had done all game, they passed their single hand o
f cards back and forth, while whispering together about their next move. Some smiles and a pair of chuckles activated the previously stoical gallery. They all had a stake in each of Starbuck’s strategic moves. As each of them had arrived, Starbuck’s buddy, Boomer, had collected cash from him to add to Starbuck’s cubit-pile. Now they were sensing their own profits.

  “Despite the humbleness of this hand,” said the Gemon who now held the cards, “for the honor of our home colony, we must challenge you.”

  “Honor. Challenge. Gemini,” said the other Gemon. Whichever one spoke, the other usually echoed the main points of his statement.

  The Gemon with the cards pushed forth a pile of cubits equal to Starbuck’s wager. Starbuck could feel the gallery tense. He was about to speak, say it was time to call, when the Gemon quietly spoke again:

  “And for the glory of Gemini, another equal measure.”

  “Glory. Equal. Measure,” said his partner, who now took the hand back and himself pushed the pile of cubits that would double the stakes. Feeling the nervousness of his gallery, Starbuck knew it was important to continue feigning his relaxed manner.

  “Well,” he said, fingering some long strands of his cornstalk-yellow hair, “in the name of our planet Caprica and for her everlasting glory, I’ll measure your increase and double it.”

  If they hadn’t been packed so closely together, some members of the gallery might have passed out and fallen to the floor. Starbuck shoved in all his remaining cubits and sat back confidently. He felt a tap on his shoulder, and he looked up into the tense black face of his buddy. Lieutenant Boomer. Who else but super-cautious, never gamble unless it’s surer than a sure thing, intellectual Boomer?

  “Where is the remaining portion of your bet?” said the cardholding Gemon.

  “Remaining. Bet.”

  “Just a moment,” Starbuck said. “Come on, guys, up with the rest of it.”

  The gallery seemed to take a collective step backward. Boomer acted as its spokesman:

  “Could we speak to you for a moment? In private.” Turning to the Gemini, he said: “Only be a flash, fellas.”

  With an exaggerated courtesy. Boomer led Starbuck away from the table. Out of sight of the Gemons behind a nervous wall formed by the onlookers’ gallery, they were joined by Lieutenant Jolly and Ensign Greenbean, the Mutt and Jeff of the fighter crew, whose physical appearances made it clear why the Galactica’s crew had awarded them such descriptive names. Jolly was hefty, a strong but overweight young man—while, of course, Greenbean was tall and thin. The conference among the four men was conducted in heated whispers.

  “Are you crazy?” Boomer said. Boomer, who rarely sweated, now wiped away lines of glistening perspiration from his brow.

  “Were you listening?” Starbuck said. “This is for the glory of Caprica.”

  “Glory, Caprica,” Jolly said.

  “Are you a Gemon, too?” Starbuck said, smiling. “Look, have I ever steered you guys wrong?”

  The faces of the three men, especially Boomer’s, displayed the message that of course he had.

  “All right,” Starbuck said. “Once or twice. But this is the real goods, I can take these guys. Look at it this way, we’ll double our money. They’re trying to buy the pot.”

  “You told us they didn’t understand the game,” Jolly said.

  “Evidently they caught on fast,” Boomer growled, but he sighed. He was always a pragmatist, whether in gambling or in a furious encounter with the enemy. All that reading on his bunk viewer had made him a thoughtful analyst of any situation, and for this one he could see that cutting losses was simply just not practical—the investment was much too high.

  “We’ve got to do what Starbuck says or we lose everything we’re already got in the game.”

  Boomer moved among the gallery, forced its members to cough up enough to cover Starbuck’s impulsive wager. Handing a neatly stacked pile of cubits to Starbuck, he told him to go to it. Starbuck nudged the cubits to the center of the table and turned his cards over.

  “Beat that,” Starbuck snarled, his voice sending up an unsettling echo through the stillness of the room.

  The Gemon smiled and revealed his cards. The gallery stared at the tragedy revealed by the pasteboard circles, then collectively they sagged as they had to watch the Gemon rake in the golden cubits.

  For a brief moment Apollo got a good look at a second tanker, the one that had been revealed as the companion of the first on his and Zac’s scanners, before it disappeared into the cloud layer. He couldn’t tell whether the move was a strategic one, or whether the apparently empty ship had simply drifted into the portentous clouds.

  “There’s the other ship tucked in nice and neat,” he said to Zac. “Now what is she and what’s she doing?”

  He restrained his urge to chase after it. He wasn’t ready yet to follow a possible ghost-tanker into possible jeopardy. Not until he had made every other kind of check first. However, as soon as he tried to punch out a scanner program, the scanner’s screen began presenting a meaningless jumble of symbols. It was as if something inside those clouds were trying to lure him inside, one of the space Loreleis so dear to saloon storytellers. After trying every check he could think of, he told Zac of the failure of all his sophisticated equipment to get a fix on the mysterious clouds.

  “I get the same mess from a scan of that tanker back of us,” Zac said. “Whatever I try, just a jumble.”

  “Somebody’s jamming us.”

  “I don’t know. Warbook says they’re both freighters.”

  “My foot. If they’re jamming us, they’re hiding something. There’s no choice. I’m going in there.”

  “But the cloud—”

  “I’ll take the chance.”

  “All right, but I’m not sure I like the idea of us flying in blind.”

  “Not us, kid. You stay put.”

  “I can’t—”

  “If I need you, I’ll call you to come in after me, Lieutenant.”

  Apollo headed his viper ship directly into the cloud mass. He heard Zac’s agitated voice over his communicator:

  “This jamming’s knocking out my scanner now.”

  Inside the clouds Apollo tried to work his own scanner again, and received the same jumble.

  “Nothing but a harmless cloud cover,” he said. “Not heavy at all, not as dense as it looked. I don’t see why they’d send up all that electronic—”

  Breaking through the other side of the clouds and looking down, he suddenly saw why. Below him was an immense Cylon staging area and he had flown right smack into the middle of it.

  “Apollo, what’s going on?” said Zac.

  As far as Apollo could see there were Cylon warships, with their odd curves and arclike limbs. In one of the ships he could see the usual triad that composed a Cylon fighting crew. Two helmeted pilots sat side by side. Their tubular shaped helmets covered what Apollo knew from a closeup examination of Cylon corpses to be many-eyed creatures with heads that apparently could alter shape at will. In the center of the helmet was a long but narrow aperture from which emerged fine concentrated beams of light. No human had ever discovered whether the light was generated by the Cylons themselves or was some facet of the helmet’s technology. Now, as Apollo stared at this particular trio of Cylons, he was startled to see one of their helmet lights swing upward toward his viper. At the same time the Cylon observer motioned to his fellows to follow his gaze. Apollo punched a reverse loop on the directional touch plate. His ship rolled upward and over, and screamed off in a tight turn. At the same time, he radioed to Zac:

  “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Why?”

  He caught sight of Zac’s ship as he came out of the clouds.

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Zac’s viper promptly rolled over to follow his brother’s accelerating craft.

  “Apollo,” Zac said, “for a couple of harmless tankers, it seems to me you’re burning up an awful lot of unnecessary—”
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  Zac’s voice was interrupted by the sound of explosions.

  “What is it. Zac?”

  “Ships. Cylon ships. Coming at me. They’re firing. Hold on, I’m coming….”

  Checking the scanner, Apollo could make out four Cylon ships pursuing his brother’s plane. He punched in the direct-com line to the Galactica, got only static in reply.

  “They’re jamming our transmission, kid. We’ve got to get back to the Fleet, warn them. It’s a trap, an ambush. They’ve got enough fire power to destroy the entire Fleet.”

  “But Apollo, there’s the peace mission, the whole Quorum of the Twelve, they couldn’t—”

  Apollo heard an explosion through his earpiece.

  “What is it, Zac? Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  Zac’s frightened voice responded.

  “Apollo, they hit my port engine.”

  “Take it easy. Look, we’re not going to make it showing those louses our backs. I can see four ships on the scanner. How many you make out?”

  “Same. Four.”

  “Damn, they only sent that many after us. It’s insulting.”

  “Maybe, Apollo, but they’re doing awfully well.”

  “Only because they’re behind us. Okay. When I count three, hit your reverse thrusters and maximum breaking flaps. We’ll give them a little surprise. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “One… two… three!”

  While the sound of his own craft’s reverse thrusting was deafening in his ears, the subsequent silence of the Cylon fighters flying past him was disconcertingly eerie. Although he could not see his helmeted enemies, Apollo was sure they were confused by the abrupt maneuver. He could picture them scanning the sky, their beams of helmet light going every which way, trying to locate him and Zac.