Battlestar Galactica 13 - Apollo's War

by Glen A. Larson

  "Good a time as any."

  The group slowly filed out of the alcove and, walking as quietly as they could, went around the Viper toward Starbuck. He didn't see them approach. He now seemed more determined than ever, ready to leap into the cockpit and take off.

  "What's up, good buddy?" Boomer said softly.

  Starbuck's first look was fierce and angry. He was ready to castigate Boomer. Then he saw the crowd of observers, and he became confused.

  "Hi," he said, a little uneasy. "What're you guys up to?"

  The glances that passed among the group might have suggested to him just what their mission was. Boomer stepped forward.

  "Let's cut through the felgercarb, okay?" he said. "We've figured out what you're up to, bucko. We know you're figuring on deserting us . . ."

  "Deserting you? I see, you're trying to personalize this. It's time to make old Starbuck feel guilty for leaving his comrades, hey? But you don't understand, Boomer, all of you. It's not deserting. I'm going after Apollo. I know he's all right. I know I can find him."

  "Starbuck, stop fooling yourself," Boomer said. "Apollo's gone. We don't like that any more than you do, but—"

  "How can you be so smug, so sure? All you guys."

  "Starbuck," Giles said, "the Commander says—"

  "I don't give a damn what the Commander says, or does, or if he raises his robe when he—"

  "Don't go, Starbuck!" Jenny cried. Her voice had the sound of desperation in it.

  "Oh?" Starbuck said, raising his eyebrows. "And why not, Jenny?"

  Her voice became suddenly calm.

  "Then I might have to work for one of these bozos. I don't cotton to that."

  The remark at least drew a smile from Starbuck.

  "Well, that's almost reason enough to stay. But I just can't."

  "Boomer," Bojay said, striding forward from the rear of the group, "let's stop listening to him. Let's just shut him up and hold him down."

  "Oh, Bojay," Starbuck said. "And how do you propose to do that?"

  He had reached into the cockpit and come out with a pair of laser pistols, which he now aimed casually at the group.

  "I know," he said. "You think I'd never use these on you. No, I wouldn't hurt any of you. But I don't mind giving each of you a good dose of stun. When you come to, I'll be history. So just let me go."

  "Dry up, Starbuck," Bojay hollered. "You're not going to use those, not for any reas—"

  Starbuck casually pulled the trigger of one gun and shot at Bojay. Bojay fell heavily to the launch-bay floor. Jenny immediately crouched by him.

  "He's all right," she said. "Like Starbuck said, the gun's just set on stun."

  "And the whole bunch of you can go to dreamland, all I care," Starbuck said, waving both pistols toward the group. "So just stay where you are, and I'll just take up my Viper for a little joyride. Good-bye, chums."

  He started to step up to the cockpit. Hera, feeling her moment of choice plunging toward her, recalled her conversation with Adama. She didn't want to be a fink, but she did trust the Commander. She stepped forward.

  "Wait, Starbuck!" she shouted.

  "You're gonna make your play now, Cadet Hera?"

  "In a manner of speaking. I want to go with you. I'll help you search for Apollo."

  Her words startled Starbuck. He had not expected support from her.

  "Why would you want to do that?"

  "Selfish reasons. You know I got the hots for you, Starbuck."

  "And you know why I haven't for you."

  "Well, we can work it out. I won't make it difficult for you anymore. We'll do all things your way. I promise."

  As she walked forward, her voice became deeper, sexier. It became the voice Starbuck had always wanted to hear. He had so many times been put off by her directness, by her making the proposition that, in his mind, were his privileges.

  "Come on, Starbuck. We can let down the observation seat in your Viper. I can ride there right next to you. It'd be good to have two pairs of eyes to scan horizons, and I can fly when you rest—"

  "Hera, I want to do this alone!"

  "Stop encouraging him, Hera," Boomer called after her.

  "Go suck a launch tube, Boomer. Starbuck, please let me come with you."

  Starbuck hesitated. It would be useful to have help in the search for Apollo.

  Hera now stood in front of him. Gently she pushed both his pistols aside and leaned closer to him. Her voice was equally gentle: "I'll really help, Starbuck. You won't regret it."

  "Hera, I don't think—"

  "I don't care what you think, pal."

  Abruptly she jabbed her right fist upward, catching Starbuck on the point of his jaw. He fell back dazed. She grabbed both guns in a smooth maneuver and tossed them to Boomer and Giles, who caught them simultaneously. She smiled at the confused look on Starbuck's face.

  "Sorry, pal. You missed this trip out."

  As the other crewmembers rushed forward, Starbuck's eyes glazed over and he fell to the floor on his back.

  "What do we do now?" Boomer asked.

  "I think we need a strategy meeting," Hera replied.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sarge did not ordinarily feel distress about anything, and so the feeling that had come over him since the loss of Apollo both disturbed and confused him. Suddenly the elite squad did not seem so elite anymore. It had, in fact, been falling apart. Sheba still responded to her conditioning but in an increasingly lackluster and mechanical fashion. Xiomara's stubborn ability to resist the belt's impulses had strengthened her. Unfortunately, her individualism made her less effective for the squad. And Croft was nearly a total wreck. Perhaps, Sarge thought, Apollo had held the squad together. It was not a pleasant thought for him. He should have been able to control the squad, with or without a single member. Perhaps he had lost his touch. Perhaps there had been too much duty in training camps, too many battles, too many losses. Perhaps he wasn't the top soldier he had once been.

  Now the squad returned from a botched mission. They had run a sneak attack on an enemy encampment and been lucky to come away alive. The defenders had been ready. Sarge assessed the situation immediately and ordered a pullout. Even that had not been performed smoothly. Croft had not moved. Sarge had risked his own life to drag him out. When they were safe, Croft had not shown a single reaction to the escapade. Sarge got the impression that Croft stayed behind in order to get himself killed.

  He considered dissolving the elite squad. Its members could be rested and retrained. If the new training did not take, they could be sent back to the front lines as cannon fodder. He always regretted making such decisions about fine soldiers, and he didn't understand why so many of them lost their motivation after several battles. Why did they become empty shells, prime targets for the enemy? It might have something to do with the conditioning. The conditioning might be too strong, too draining.

  Still, these were only just questions in Sarge's mind. He did not truly understand the awesomeness of the conditioning. After all, nobody had ever needed to condition him. He was a natural soldier. Until lately, he had needed no convincing, no mechanical prods, to fight for his side. This group of humans had, however, shaken him up a bit. Some of their ideas, strange as they were, were appealing to him. He liked especially their bravery under stress and their apparent need to risk their own lives for each other. They were a puzzle, but an intriguing one, at least.

  The squad marched far in back of him. He heard Xiomara attempting to talk to Sheba and wondered if they would have such a private talk if they knew his hearing was so keen, that he could hear every word. It had been an advantage to him to eavesdrop on them ever since the squad had been formed.

  "Buck up, Sheba," Xiomara was now saying. "Things could be worse."

  Sheba's reply was so laconic, it sounded phantasmal.

  "Give an example."

  "We could be dead."

  "And you think that's worse?"

  "Yes! I do! We've always got
a chance."

  "Tell that to Croft."

  Xiomara glanced back at Croft, who was barely lifting his feet off the ground as he sludged along after them.

  "Yes," Xiomara remarked, "he is kind of wiped, isn't he?"

  "He's gone. There's nothing of him left."

  "It's not that bad."

  "Your opinion."

  Xiomara stopped talking. What use was it anyway? Why did she even try to encourage Sheba and Croft? They were both unresponsive and pathetically sad.

  She had, she realized, taken over Apollo's role in the squad, trying to keep it together and keep up its spirits. She wished she could tell tales of Starbuck around a campfire and give everyone hope, but they wouldn't accept either Starbuck or hope from her. An optimistic message, she knew, looked peculiar when emerging from her twisted face.

  It would probably not be long before she succumbed to the despair that had captured Croft and Sheba. She couldn't figure out why she had resisted so long. The only reason she could think of was that she'd been through even worse before being abducted into this army. Her wretched experiences in the village and the horror of her reconstructed face still seemed more frightful to her than anything that happened in combat.

  Perhaps she was losing ground. Whenever she tried to think of the old days, she could not remember what Trelon had looked like. She could only recall a few events of their life together. The rest was lost in a mental haze. It might not, after all, be too long before she went the way of Croft and Sheba.

  Suddenly Sheba spoke. Xiomara was surprised to hear a rare note of emotion in Sheba's voice.

  "What's the matter, Xiomara? You look so sad."

  "It shows? I didn't think anything showed on this face."

  "The face. What do you mean about the face?"

  "Don't mock me."

  "I wasn't mocking you, Xiomara. I haven't the foggiest notion what you're talking about."

  Xiomara stared at Sheba and realized that what the woman was saying was quite true. Part of Sheba's personality breakdown evidently included an inability to see Xiomara's ugliness. Xiomara almost smiled, sensing the irony of this development. She could be a normal person among zombies. Wasn't that amazing?

  "I'm sorry, Sheba. You are right. I was sad. I was thinking of my past. Trying to think about my past anyway. It wasn't coming through very clearly, I'm afraid."

  "I know what you mean. I try to think of my father. He was a great warrior. His name was Cain, Commander Cain. His exploits were famous. I can't remember any of them."

  They walked a few steps further before Xiomara spoke again.

  "You miss Apollo, don't you?"

  "Apollo? Who's he? He's gone. No point in thinking of him anymore. I don't miss him. I don't even remember who he was. He's just part of the body count now. Good riddance."

  In spite of the trancelike tone that had returned to Sheba's voice, Xiomara noticed one thin line of tears coming out of the corner of her eye.

  "He might not be dead. He might be alive somewhere."

  "Yes. And daggits can fly."

  "What's a daggit?"

  Although Apollo was still alive, it would have been difficult for either Xiomara or Sheba to tell. The drugs that Razi Balzet and his crew had injected into him had turned him into one of the zombie soldiers that he had so often wondered about. When he was sufficiently under the power of the drugs, he had been given a quick session at the Pelters' underground basic training camp. It was quick because, as Razi Balzet had suspected. Apollo's skills were so honed he didn't even need the training. All he needed was the conditioning that would make him hate his former allies. He accepted the basic tenets of the Pelter Code excellently.

  Now Razi Balzet and Tren watched Apollo chow down eagerly, his enthusiasm for Pelter food just as strong as when they had been giving him tasty stuff instead of the typical training swill.

  "I like this one, Tren. Immensely. He can be a superior soldier, I can see that. What a fine animal! I will enjoy being his control."

  Apollo was hardly aware of their concentration on him. He looked up once and caught Tren's eyes. Even though Tren maintained his grim look and Apollo his glazed one, there nevertheless seemed to be a momentary connection in the eye contact. It interested Razi Balzet.

  "I think, Tren, you and this Apollo should be companions in combat. You'll make a good team, I suspect. Your assignment will be the usual this time. Enter the battle at any point that catches your interest. Guide Apollo. Protect him. But see to it that he cuts a wise swath through the enemy, one that our side can charge through. Is that clear?"

  Tren nodded. When Apollo was finished with the meal, Tren guided him out of his chair. Tren was very good with Apollo, Razi Balzet noted. Apollo followed Tren's lead quite willingly. The two came to a stop in front of Razi Balzet.

  "You're going to war now, Captain Apollo. Your mission is to break up enemy lines. And, by the by, to kill as many of the enemy as you can. With your considerable skills, you might be able to wipe out a whole battalion unassisted. From time to time during the battle, you will receive messages from me. They come through the receiver we have placed in your chest pack." The chest pack was also, Razi Balzet could have said, the device that would allow them to control Apollo from afar. "You will obey whatever I say. Is that correct?"

  "I am your servant."

  "Of course you are. That is all. Tren will lead you. Dismissed."

  Tren and Apollo walked away, their gaits a little stiff, like proper automations. Razi Balzet was quite satisfied with himself.

  Tren carried Apollo to battle in an odd air vehicle. It was flat with, it seemed, hardly enough dimension in its structure to contain any machinery. If Apollo had been himself, he might have wondered about how the vehicle operated. He and Tren sat inside a domed soft-walled canopy that rose tall above the vehicle. However the vehicle was operated, it flew along at great speed.

  Silently Tren pointed. Ahead of them there was an enormous patch of smoke and fire. The battle. As they got closer, it was clear that the battle stretched across a great amount of terrain. While some of its activity could be seen from their high vantage point, it was difficult to pick out one side from the other.

  Tren manipulated a soft bulb that evidently controlled the vehicle, for it began to descend slowly. At a lower height, Tren squeezed the bulb again and the flat vehicle began to cruise.

  If Apollo had been able to see himself and understand anything about it, he would have been appalled. He looked exactly like the person he had dreaded becoming. His eyes were emotionless. They almost did not exist as a part of his face. His hair was disheveled and dirty. His mouth was slack and wet.

  They could see individual fighting now. Apollo watched it lethargically. He remembered what combat had looked like and had no interest in it.

  The ship, its landing guided by Tren's squeezings of the control bulb, landed on a clear patch of ground right in the middle of some furious fighting. Raising the bulb, Tren made the canopy fly off. He jabbed Apollo in the arm and pointed toward a section of combat. At first Apollo didn't seem to notice anything, then Tren pushed him forward, off the vehicle. Apollo stumbled before regaining his footing. Razi Balzet's voice came to him out of his chest power-pack, and suddenly Apollo enlivened. Anger came into his eyes, and his body tensed, ready for the fight. He drew his pistol and looked about for enemy, enemy to kill. He did not recognize that what he now regarded as enemy were once on his side. All of the soldiers, except for some differences in uniform and equipment, looked the same to him—in this battle or any other. He charged forward, already firing his pistol. Tren followed him, no approval for his combat eagerness on his grim face.

  Razi Balzet and his aides watched the battle on a monitor. Their command position was some distance from the battle itself. They monitored Apollo's actions through the camera-transmitter attached to Tren's clothing. So long as Tren pointed himself toward Apollo, they could see him fight. And they were pleased with what they saw. Apollo was killi
ng enemy soldiers left and right.

  "There," Razi Balzet said excitedly. "Didn't I tell you this one would make a terrific fighter?"

  "Correct," an aide said. "He certainly is a battler. A fine soldier."

  "Perhaps we should get him out of the battle," another aide said. "Forget the test now. Protect him for a major mission."

  "No," Razi Balzet said, his eyes fixed on the screen, where Apollo was dispatching still another Sweeper. "To be a full test, we must see him cut a wide path through enemy ranks. And there are tests I must try. Watch. Ooooh, look at that shot!" He leaned down toward a large bulb that functioned as a microphone. "Very good, Apollo. Now—look for the leaders. We must kill their noncoms."

  Sarge had been ordered to proceed at once with his elite squad to a new area of combat. The order had come through his communicator from the damn officers who remained in their command bastion guiding troop movements and supervising the battle.

  The squad moved quickly through their own ranks. Croft led the way. Sarge noted the unusual daring in Croft's movements. He was now convinced that Croft was trying to get himself killed. Well, he might as well. He had become useless as a part of this fighting unit. It would soon be time for Sarge to form a new elite squad from newer, more eager trainees.

  They came to the area of battle where the fighting was fiercest. Sarge barked an order to Croft to approach by the left flank. Croft paid Sarge no regard and instead plunged forward, his sidearms blasting away. Ahead of him, enemy soldiers fell. Sarge tried to order him back, but Croft was not hearing, or not listening. Something had definitely gone wrong with Croft. It was possible his belt was malfunctioning or that he had just gone berserk and, by doing so, discovered the one way to counteract the belt's power. It was not unusual for an experienced soldier to go berserk in this army. Performing a reptilian equivalent of a shrug, Sarge ran after Croft.

  Croft rushed into the battle, skillfully dropping enemy warriors all around him. Sarge had nearly caught up with him. A few of the enemy fell to Sarge's almost casual shots. Then he saw something that could startle even the usually unshockable Sarge. The warrior in the midst of the battle ahead was Apollo. Not Apollo as he had known him, but a nightmare version of him. His now evil face had been twisted into battle hatred. And he was killing what had been his own side in large numbers.