[Battlestar Galactica Classic] - Battlestar Galactica

by Glen A. Larson

  One of the singers had moved downstage for what sounded like a riff solo, while the others provided a complex harmony. Starbuck was beginning to be surprised that it took only six months to perform such musical wonders. Then he noticed that the soloist was only using her upper mouth at that moment in order to carry the viciously sweet melody.

  “We could make a fortune if we could put those girls on the star circuit,” Starbuck yelled. “I mean big money, Boomer.”

  Boomer raised frustrated eyebrows.

  “I really don’t believe you. Every creature in the universe may be out to exterminate us and you want to hire a vocal group!”

  “Have a little vision, will ya? Who knows how much longer this stupid war’s gonna last—I mean, the way things are, it might be over now and we just don’t know about it. Whatever, eventually we’re no longer of any use to anybody and get mustered out and dumped. Then what’ll we be? Antiquated, burned-out star fighters.”

  “Seems to be optimistic to plan on being burned out. Stop counting your pension money, bucko! We maybe lucky if we last till tomorrow morning.”

  “Now what’re you talking about?”

  “People disappearing.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve picked up some talk, some strange stuff about guests who just drop out of sight.”

  “The tour you mean? Boomer, it’s a big place and they have some kind of tour a lot of people go on before leaving for home?”

  “Home? What home? I just told you, nobody ever heard of anybody going home! And what home’re they gonna go to now? What—”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “And you’re not acting yourself. Something’s gotten to you, Starbuck. I’m telling you. Something’s not right around here.”

  “Well, they are. Listen to them.”

  The trio was building to their big finish. The two Tucanas singing harmony hit a sustained chord, while the soloist’s voice rose and rose and rose. Then, just at the final beat, the singer’s lower mouth came open and emitted a low resounding note that not only put a sensational capper on the piece of music but smashed the glass in Starbuck’s hand to pieces. The audience broke into tumultuous applause. Flabbergasted, Starbuck rose from his seat, shouting:

  “I gotta talk to ’em.”

  Boomer started pounding the surface of the table, hollering:

  “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!”

  Starbuck rushed toward the stage, trying to catch the attention of the Tucana singers.

  The unpleasant sweetness of the air, the slightly repulsive richness of the food, and the raucous noise of the casino all affected Apollo, while Serina seemed to revel in it.

  “I’ve spent too much of my life on my career,” she said. “Fought too may petty battles with too many venal people just to get a picture centered right, a news item reported correctly. I don’t know how to relax. I’m trying to learn. Will you help me?”

  “I’ve got some ideas,” Apollo said. “Let’s try the garden.”

  “You’re on, Captain.”

  The centerpiece of the casino garden was a fountain from which purple wine seemed to emerge as tiny waterfalls from between foliage. People scooped out portions of the liquid into golden goblets with broad handles. Then they held the goblets over the tiny fires that encircled the fountain. The result, as Apollo and Serina soon found out, was a tantalizing concoction which seemed to mix hot and cold in delicious bursts of taste. The Galactica’s crew, who had been among the first to sample the mixture, had nicknamed it “grog”. It was not only delicious, it seemed to have some aphrodisiac effect, as the couples who sneaked off into the surrounding foliage indicated.

  After taking a sip, Apollo found it difficult not to suggest a little trip into the trees to Serina. He was jarred out of his romantic mood, by the ugly voice of Sire Uri who, a few feet away, was talking with one of the other council members, Lobe, the representative from Piscera.

  “I had a long talk with their queen, what’s her name. Lorry or something,” Uri was saying. “Long talk. She’s very kind, generous, even attractive if you can adjust your thinking to one of these insect creatures being at all attractive. She said she was happy we seemed to like it here so.”

  “I’ll say,” Lobe said. “Uri, have you seen the guest accommodations? They’re as opulent as a king’s palace and endless. Endless. If this planet could fly, it could see us to our destination in true style.”

  “And why need it fly?”

  Uri kissed a pretty young woman at his side. Apollo thought it was a different pretty young woman than the one who had clung to him at the time of the arrest. A shudder ran up Apollo’s spine as he listened to the two councillors and their drunken rhetoric. Uri continued.

  “Precisely my point, Lobe. Precisely what I talked to the queen about. My God, look, if a man were to fantasize an environment for his complete fulfillment, he could not have done better. There’s the food, all the necessities to feed our people, and the Ovions can produce it in mass quantities. And, with the Ovions, we have the support of a culture quite content to be subservient to our needs. When I asked the queen if we could stay here, she said they would be happy to welcome us, except for one thing.”

  “What, Sire Uri?”

  “She said they are a peaceable race, and they fear our weaponry. Justifiably so, it appears to me. Justifiably so. What would you think if a superior race came down out of the skies and threatened us with superior weaponry? I mean, you can see their point. And, anyway, here we are so far away from the Cylons as not to pose a threat to them. At least we ought not to pose a threat, and would not, if we calmed the Ovions’ fears by giving up our weaponry, our awesome war machines.”

  It was not that Uri had spoken so preposterously that surprised Apollo, it was that people all around him were nodding assent to the idea.

  “Do you realize what you’re saying, Sire Uri?” Apollo said, stepping forward into the center of the councilor’s group. Serina stayed at the edge of the group, sipping at her grog and trying to focus her eyes on the scene before her.

  “Ahhh,” Uri said, “our young warrior-hero, or should I say savior? The son of our godlike commander. Captain, I was just pointing out that this planet offers us a marvelous opportunity.”

  “Sounds to me like an opportunity to be murdered for good and all by the Cylons.”

  “If they even bothered with us, which they would not.”

  “Sire Uri, they destroyed our worlds!”

  “They attacked us, I would remind you, because we were a threat to their order. Here, isolated from them, we pose no threat. Especially if we disposed of our ships and weapons. What do you think of my proposal, young warrior?”

  “I’d hope it’s the grog.”

  Uri raised his goblet in a toast.

  “Well,” he said, “perhaps tonight it is the grog, but tomorrow….”

  Apollo whirled and walked out of the center of the circle. Taking Serina’s arm, he led her along a garden path back toward the casino. Looking back, it seemed to Serina that Sire Uri stared after her somewhat lecherously.

  “Don’t let him ruin this wonderful glow,” Serina said, a bit woozily. “No one would take that proposal seriously.”

  “Maybe not. A lot of those people were nodding right along with what he said.”

  “I’m about to nod out.”

  “In that case, would you like to hear my proposal? It’s a bit more personal.”

  “Captain, I’ve been considering it for long before you ever got around to asking it. But I’m not sure about it. Not while my head is spinning, anyway. Would you mind if we discussed this again after we visit the guest quarters?”

  “Which brings me right back to my proposal. I wanted to take you there.”

  “This time I want to go there to make sure Boxey is all right. And after that, let’s hear no proposals you can’t live up to when the grog wears off.”

  A sign in the casino elevator i
nformed them that all guest accommodations were on the first three levels going down. Serina touched the plate for level two, where she had deposited a sleepy Boxey earlier in the evening.

  “I wonder what’s on these other levels further down,” Serina said, pointing to the array of buttons on the panel.

  “Want to have a look?” Apollo said.

  “Why not? I’m a snoop from way back, you know. Let’s start at the bottom and work our way up.”

  She touched the plate for the bottom level. Immediately a soft voice floated down at them from the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry, but you have indicated an incorrect stop. Guest accommodations are limited to the first three levels. All others are for kitchen, mining, and support personnel only. Thank you.”

  Serina smiled.

  “Off limits, I think they say in your profession, captain,” she said.

  “Curious,” Apollo muttered.

  The elevator came to a stop at level two. A quick check of Boxey’s room showed that the boy was sleeping quite peacefully. His arm was curled around Muffit Two, who maintained a droid alertness, even giving Apollo and Serina a fast once-over when they entered the room. Apollo pulled Serina to a dark corner and kissed her. At first her response to the kiss was tentative but, in a moment, she returned his passion in equal measure.

  “About my proposal….” Apollo said.

  “Let’s dispose with ritual. My room is next door. Mmmm… whatever’s in that grog, I’m considering taking it with me when we leave this place.”

  Arm in arm, they left Boxey’s room. Muffit Two’s head settled back on a pillow, its eyes staying open, keeping a steady watch on the doorway.

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:

  I’ve tried many times to make entries in this journal about Baltar’s treason, but somehow I can’t deal with the subject without seeing the man’s puffy egotistical face floating before me, ghostlike, and feeling excruciating waves of hatred go through my body. I become tense and can’t think of words. Trying to put his treason into words would give it a set of perimeters whose very limitations would diminish the pure and unalterably selfish evil of the act. And I’m not about to rationalize a treason of such dimensions. The acts of aliens like the Cylons or Ovions are at least understandable to me as manifestations of ideas that belong to different, perhaps ultimately incomprehensible, cultures. With Baltar I can understand the ideas he spouted, and I can even imagine the awesome selfishness that led him to sell out his own people for rewards that seem trivial in perspective—but that doesn’t bring me any closer to a clear conception of the man himself. It’s all I can do to make the ghost-face of him fade away. In his evil he is alien to me, more alien than any multi-limbed or multi-eyed creature from a different part of the universe.

  CHAPTER NINE

  On the Cylon base ship, Imperious Leader contemplated the latest report from his centurion on Carillon. The plan was proceeding efficiently; more and more humans were falling prey to the lure of Ovion contentment. Lotay had managed to doctor the food of several of the human leaders (except, unfortunately, for Adama) with a drug that helped her to sway their minds toward foolish decisions. She had been successful, she said, with planting the idea of unilateral disarmament into several councilors’ minds. Also, she had been successful in holding back on the shipments of Tylium to the fleet in the skies above the planet, supplying them enough of the liquid form of the fuel to lull any suspicions they might have developed. The leader wondered if the wily Adama could really be fooled so easily. All signs pointed to that conclusion, but one fact that had emerged in the leader’s many battles with Adama was the man’s unpredictability. If a conclusion about him seemed obvious, then it must be questioned.

  Nevertheless, the time to act was now.

  He sent out the order that the Supreme Star Force stationed at Borallus be immediately launched and set on a course for Carillon with the mission of annihilating human survivors and their spacecraft. This time Adama’s forces would be rendered impotent, even if a few humans did manage one of their miraculous escapes.

  Another message came to the leader a few moments later. The rest of the human fleet, the ships left behind by Adama that were traveling toward Carillon at a slow speed, had been located. A malfunction in their camouflage had given their coordinates away. The leader resisted an impulse to send out a force to destroy this group of wretched and battered remnants of the human fleet. The better strategy was, clearly, merely to maintain surveillance on these ships. They were powerless and indefensible, obviously low on Tylium and supplies. No, the logical move was to save their destruction for later. Adama was no doubt in contact with the ships he had left behind. Attacking them now might alert a rescue fleet, and that could not be allowed. Yes, the waiting game seemed best for now. It was a strategy he had learned from humans.

  Cylon victory was certain, the Leader told himself. The Supreme Star Force’s larger numbers would easily overwhelm the weakened human fleet, he told himself. The ships left behind could be toyed with and blasted to pieces, he told himself. He would have Adama’s head as a victory token, he told himself. Nevertheless, a certain uneasiness, an uncharacteristic tension, troubled his thoughts.

  On the bridge of the Galactica, Adama paced his usual path along the starfield. Frequently he made a fist out of his right hand, pounded it into the palm of his left.

  “Those fools,” he muttered once, “give them something to eat and all judgment flies out of their minds. It’s almost as if the food itself had muddled their minds. Is there any way I can stop this council meeting they’re planning, Tigh?”

  “Nothing in the regs gives you any authority with the council except in regard to military matters. In military matters you can countermand—”

  “Unilateral disarmament is not a military matter?”

  “Traditionally such decisions have been in civilian hands, sir. Many believe that it’s proper and logical, even—”

  “I know, I know. I’ve a firm grasp on the theories behind the separation of military and civilian responsibility. I even approve of it. In theory at least. It’s just that this group of muddleheads seem possessed, Tigh, I just want to go into the council room and knock heads.”

  Tigh smiled slyly, said:

  “May I remind you, sir, in all due respect, that if you had not resigned as president of the council you would have the privilege of going into that council room and knocking heads.”

  “I am all too aware of that, Colonel. All too painfully aware.”

  In the meeting room, the councilors eyed Adama’s entrance with apprehensive caution. To Adama they looked curious, as if they had been physically transformed into total strangers.

  Before taking his seat, which had been placed to one side to denote his present lack of status on the council, Adama said, “What, may I ask, is the purpose of this special council?”

  Anton, the new president, gestured at the chair and replied.

  “Adama, please respect the order of business until called upon by this chair.”

  Adama sat, his anger growing. Even Anton, who had once been his ally, seemed odd now. The emaciated old councilor called the meeting to order.

  “It is the growing consensus of every man, woman, and child in this body that to set forth into uncharted space is madness,” Anton said.

  “Hear, hear,” said the rest of the councilors, almost in unison. The muttered agreement sounded like a chant, orchestrated of course by Councillor Uri.

  “The question is,” Anton continued, “what do we do about the Cylons. Obviously to remain here is to run the risk of discovery. Councilor Uri has a measure to propose. Uri?”

  Uri rose to his feet, surveyed the council with a smile that displayed his smugness for all.

  “My brothers,” he said unctuously. “A hasty attempt to outrun the Cylons spawned in the midnight of desperation seems foolhardy in the light of day.”

  Midnight of desperation, indeed! Adama thought. How quickly these oily politicians coul
d reduce the circumstances of a tragedy to a cliché. Did Uri not remember the suffering, the panic, the Cylon fighters killing our people and reducing our cities to rubble? Did he not even remember the joy, however momentary, he must have felt when, safe in the plush compartments of his own luxury liner, he knew he was still alive, one of the few survivors? Or were men like Uri empty of all feeling, alive only to satisfy some instinctual greed or lust that moved them through their shabby existences like transistors inside a droid? Perhaps, Adama thought, he was just seeking rational excuses for what was in reality madness.

  “I propose,” Uri continued, with a significant glance toward Adama, “that, instead of rushing off on a doomed mythical quest, we now attempt to appeal for justice and mercy.”

  Adama could hold back his rage no longer. He rose to his feet, shouting:

  “Justice from the Cylons? Mercy? Did you actually say that?” Are you so far gone—”

  “Gently, my dear Adama, gently,” Uri said. His voice had dropped to almost a whisper. What really disturbed Adama was that the other councilors had appeared annoyed with him when he spoke and then had nodded at Uri’s soothing imprecation. “Commander, I know your opposition to us and I understand it. From the military point of view—the militaristic point of view, I might say—gestures toward peace almost always appear senseless. But you miss the total picture, I think. The spoils of enslaving us so far from their base of power hardly seems worth the effort for the Cylons.”

  “Enslaving? Base of power?” Adama, still unable to control the anger in his voice, shouted. “Gentlemen, it’s you who do not understand. The kind of reason you’re trying to employ might be sensible if we were dealing with other humans, with any species whose system of values was analogous to our own. But these are the Cylons. gentlemen! They said they would not stop until every human had been exterminated. Not even enslaved, exterminated. We have not even had the privilege of dealing with their leaders openly. All we know of them is by inference and observation. Why should they change their own methods? For that matter, why should they believe we are now willing to accept that which we always found unacceptable? To live under Cylon rule? We have always been just as adamant about that as they have been in their avowed desire to exterminate us.”