Battlestar Galactica 6 - The Living Legend

by Glen A. Larson

  For two yahrens, the Pegasus had been waging war against the Cylons all by herself. Yet, in spite of that, in spite of the battle-worn external appearance she presented, the battlestar was maintained in a condition to stand a fleet inspection. There was no war-weariness on the faces of the crew they passed. There was a crispness to their movements, a spit-and-polish aspect to their demeanor. The crew of the Pegasus, allowing for the inevitable deprivation caused by the lack of fleet supply, appeared ready to turn out on parade. Cain obviously ran a tight ship and military discipline was rigidly maintained. It became increasingly clear to Starbuck and Apollo how the crew of the Pegasus were able to withstand such a long and impossibly demanding struggle. They drew on the iron will of their commander.

  After all, Apollo thought, they were all serving under the command of a living legend. They had a lot to live up to.

  By the time they reached Cain's quarters, Apollo discovered that his palms were sweating. He was about to meet his childhood hero. He felt, suddenly, very young and very green. Tolen buzzed to announce their arrival. From within, Cain bid them enter.

  The accommodations were not what they would have expected for the commander of a battlestar. It was true that aboard the Galactica, Adama's quarters were far from luxurious, but Cain's cabin was positively spartan. Except for the fact that it was larger and had a console with multiple screens, a sitting alcove, a large and comfortable chair that was obviously the sole privilege of rank that Cain allowed himself, and a window to space, the cabin was no different from that of any warrior's. The window, not shielded for the moment, afforded a wide view of the stars, and the lights inside the cabin were very dim. A man stood with his back to them, silhouetted against the panoramic window. He was dressed in a uniform identical to theirs, that of a Viper pilot. He turned around and faced them, but he was still in shadow and they couldn't clearly see his features.

  "Get our visitors something to drink, Tolen," he said. "They look a little pale."

  With a slight movement of his head, he indicated the sitting alcove.

  "Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen," he said. "I believe in discipline, but I don't stand on ceremony. Besides, you don't look all that steady on your feet."

  The two men took their seats. Apollo licked his lips nervously.

  "It's an honor to meet you, Commander," he said. "A very great honor."

  "Yes, I should imagine that it is," came the reply.

  Apollo had no idea what to say to that. There was a moment of awkward silence.

  "A slight attempt at humor, Captain," Cain said. "You'll have to excuse me, but I never did get used to having people stare at me and treat me as if I were some sort of god. I'm not. I'm just a soldier. A warrior, like yourself. As it happens, I'm a good one, but I'm still only flesh and blood."

  It was, if anything, an understatement of incredible proportions. As Cain stepped forward into the light, they could see that his simple uniform bore more decorations than either of them had ever seen, including the Gold Cluster he wore at his throat over an ascot scarf, his sole affectation. The Cluster was not bestowed on anyone who was merely a good soldier. To wear the gold, it took heroism.

  It felt somehow unreal to Apollo, to finally meet his idol face-to-face, a man he had considered long dead. Cain was not a tall man. He was of average height, muscular, with iron-gray hair. His strikingly blue eyes were his most prominent feature. Their gaze was uncomfortably direct. His face seemed to have been carved from granite. He was a handsome man, no longer young, but still ramrod straight and every inch a leader.

  "I had thought that I would never see another human face," said Cain, "with the exception of my people on the Pegasus. Yet, there you are. The question is, where in Kobol did you come from?"

  "From the Galactica, sir," said Apollo. He felt uncomfortable sitting in Cain's presence. "Under the command of—"

  "Adama?"

  Cain moved forward suddenly, staring intently at Apollo.

  "Yes, sir. My father."

  "Yes . . . Yes, I can see the resemblance now. So you're Adama's boy. How is the old modocker?"

  "Well," said Apollo, "considering the load he's carried since the destruction of our nation."

  Cain nodded. "Yes, I can well imagine. And the rest of the fleet?"

  "Only the Galactica survived, sir. Along with some hundred and twenty-odd ships of various classifications carrying what's left of our people."

  "My God," said Cain. "I thought we had it bad. Only one hundred and twenty ships? That's all that's left from all the colonies?"

  Apollo nodded.

  Cain seemed lost in thought for several moments.

  "There was a certain young lady . . ." he said, almost to himself.

  He moved toward his desk, upon which stood a small hologram projector. There was an intense quality to his voice as he spoke, as if he wanted to know the truth, but was at the same time afraid to know.

  "Out of all those people from the colonies," he said softly, "I suppose it's quite unlikely that she would be among the few survivors. Still . . ."

  His hand reached out toward the projector, then hovered above it uncertainly.

  "What was her name?" Starbuck asked gently.

  "Her name was Cassiopeia," Cain said.

  As he spoke, he turned on the projector and a column of diffused light appeared in the center of the cabin. Cain punched in the projection and a holographic image of Cassiopeia appeared. Apollo heard the sharp intake of Starbuck's breath. The image of Cassiopeia cocked her head and smiled.

  "I'll never forget you, you old wardaggit," she said. "Hurry back. Hurry back to me."

  The image disappeared.

  The two men sat stunned into silence. There was no mistaking the look on Cassiopeia's face, no mistaking the inflection in her voice. Yet, she had never mentioned knowing Cain to them. And then again, neither of them had ever asked.

  Starbuck thought back to the first time they had met. It had been shortly after Caprica had been destroyed. Even as the Cylons sued for peace, their base ships had moved into position to attack the colonies. By the time their treachery had been discovered, it had been too late.

  Among the handful of survivors Adama had gathered together, there had been a woman who had been a socialator, a highly skilled courtesan and paid companion. There was as much separating a socialator from a common prostitute as there was separating a Viper from a shuttlecraft, a seasoned warrior from a green cadet. It was an old and honored profession, but there were still those who did not appreciate the difference between women of Cassiopeia's profession and whores. Starbuck had told himself at the time that he had removed Cassiopeia from their presence because she had a broken arm and required medical attention, and because the people she had fallen in with had not desired her company and had been abusing her. But there had been more to it than that. Much more.

  He had no claim on Cassiopeia, but the thought of competition in the form of Commander Cain disturbed him greatly. What was it Apollo had called him—a living legend? How do you compete with that?

  "I can see she's had the same effect on you gentlemen that she's always had on me," said Cain, misinterpreting their silence. "Apparently you've never seen her before."

  He looked away from them, back at the projector. It seemed to the two pilots that Cain felt embarrassed at having revealed his feelings to them. Before either of them had a chance to speak, Cain quickly changed the subject.

  "Speaking of lovely ladies," he said, "have you met my daughter?"

  Cain punched in another projection and a holographic image of a young, long-legged brunette with flashing dark eyes appeared. She was as lovely as Cassiopeia in her own way. She had a dark, smoldering beauty, an aggressive bearing.

  "Happy birthday, Father," she said. "I love you. I'm the luckiest daughter in the cosmos."

  If there was more to the message, they didn't hear it because Cain shut off the projector at that point.

  "If I'd met that young lady," said A
pollo, "I would most certainly have remembered."

  "Her voice sounds a bit familiar, though," said Starbuck.

  Cain chuckled.

  "It should. She's the pilot who almost flew you right out of your britches, Captain Apollo. Like father, like daughter, wouldn't you say? She's the best damn Viper pilot on the Pegasus."

  "You'll hear no argument from me," said Apollo, recalling all too well the sinking feeling he had experienced when he had realized that nothing he could do would shake the fighter that pursued him. Had she been a Cylon, he would have been blown to space dust.

  Cain smiled again and turned back toward the window, as if seeking something out there.

  "Adama," he said softly. "Who would have guessed it? The Galactica is sure going to be a sight for these sore eyes. The two of us together once again, on the offensive. Full strike against the Cylons!"

  He turned back to face Starbuck and Apollo.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "I believe our troubles are over. The Empire is about to fall."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Adama was bone weary. Had his hair not turned prematurely white many years ago, it would most certainly have been that shade by now, a result of the rigors of command. And it was more than just the pressure of command that was making Adama feel his age as he never had before. Although he was not a young man anymore, Adama was able to draw on reserves of energy that not even the youngest warriors under his command could match. He had to. The burden of command he carried as chief officer of a battlestar was nothing compared to the weight of the responsibility he bore. The task of shepherding a rag-tag fleet of ships that had never been designed for duty in deep space on a journey of incalculable length was severe enough without having to worry about the constant pursuit of the Cylon Empire.

  They were relentless. Their leaders had vowed to exterminate the human race, and the Cylon warriors were tireless in their efforts to carry out the commands of their superiors. Indeed, they could not tire. They were like drone missiles, programmed to destroy and they would carry out their programming or die fighting. It was all they knew. Such a singleminded purpose made them the most formidable foes that humans ever had to face.

  Perhaps, had they been anything but Cylons, Adama might have felt an admiration for their ceaseless efforts; he might have felt the respect of a soldier for a worthy enemy. But Adama could summon up no feelings of respect for a machine society where the concept of free will was completely alien. Alien. It was an apt term to describe the Cylons. They were the most alien creatures Adama had ever come across. Humans could not even begin to understand them. What little they knew of the Cylon race was frightening enough. What they did not know was terrifying in its implications.

  The structure of Cylon society seemed to have much in common with that of insects. The lowliest level of Cylon society, at least that which humans had come across, were their warriors. A Cylon warrior was little more than a machine. Indeed, they even resembled robots in their armor and no one was really certain where the armor ended and the being began. Cylons were like cybernetic organisms. Living beings made part machine by the armor that they wore. Each and every Cylon, by virtue of its sophisticated armor, was part of a vast communications network. They were like pawns, moved about on some massive chessboard by their leaders. Yet the very size of their organization was a handicap to them. With so much information coming in, their leaders could react only to the extent that they could sort the input and assign priorities. Even though the Cylon leaders were said to have several brains to assist them in this task, it was fortunate for Adama that they were not computers. They could make mistakes.

  Cylons were slow to take action on their own. Their dependence on their leaders gave humans an advantage. Cylons had nothing resembling human initiative. In battle, they were ruthlessly methodical, but human pilots were capable of improvising, of using their intuition. In a one-on-one encounter, a Cylon fighter was no match for a Viper, but Cylons did not fight one-on-one. In battle, their warriors were like a series circuit, each one functioning with all the others like a unit. It was this which made their pinwheel attacks so devastating. It took pilots like Starbuck and Apollo yahrens to learn each other's reactions and response times well enough to enable them to work together like a single unit. Cylons did it automatically.

  Adama could almost understand why they considered humans such a threat. Their idea of perfection stemmed from a society in which individuality was sacrificed to the ideal of the common good. There had been, in ages past, human philosophers who had expressed similar ideals, but the Cylons had taken such principles to their furthest extreme. In Cylon society, the individual did not exist. Each separate organism was but a cog in the massive Cylon machine. As such, they had certainly achieved order, but at a price no human would ever be willing to pay. And it was for that reason, Adama felt certain, that the Cylon leaders ordered all humans to be exterminated. It was not enough for them to destroy the colony worlds. Humanity had to be wiped out completely, totally. Not one could survive.

  Adama often wondered why, if the Cylons had achieved perfection as they claimed, they feared humans so. He thought he knew the answer, but he could take no comfort in it.

  Adama's task had come down to a single dictum. Survive. At any cost, survive. He could not allow himself to lose hope. He had to be strong, so that the others would have confidence and would not lose hope. Yet, in their present predicament, it was very hard to remain optimistic. They were faced with seemingly insurmountable odds. Added to that, the latest status reports were far from encouraging.

  "We're down to the last of it, Skipper," said Flight Sergeant Jolly. "I've checked every ship in the fleet. Everyone's down to life support now. Unless we come to a dead stop . . ."

  Adama wanted to close his eyes and just not deal with it anymore. It took all his effort to remain composed as he stood before his monitor screens on the Galactica's command bridge. Once again they were faced with disaster, but Adama could not allow his fears to show. He was the commander. His people would be looking to him to find a solution. The only thing Adama could look to was his faith.

  "Thank you, Sergeant Jolly," he said, shutting off the monitor. There was nothing more to say.

  Colonel Tigh came up beside him. Adama turned to him, thankful for his presence. There was only so much frustration he could keep bottled up inside.

  "Well, that's just fine," he said. "To have come all this way to simply run out of fuel . . ."

  "That isn't the worst of it," said Tigh, wishing that he could have brought his commander some encouraging news, but the news he did have was all bad.

  "Oh?" said Adama. "You mean leaving ships behind, cannibalizing them to what extent we could and doubling people to what miserable quarters we have isn't the worst of it? What could possibly be worse?"

  "We're picking up unusual communication traffic, sir," said Tigh.

  Adama frowned. "But that means we could be close to a civilization."

  "Yes, sir. But the transmissions are Cylon."

  "Good Lord," said Adama. "Just what we need. We're down to our last supplies of fuel and we're picking up transmissions from a base star."

  "No, sir, not a base star," Tigh replied. "Much of what we're hearing is civilian."

  "Civilian? But we're a full star system away from Cylon!"

  "I know, Commander. I can't explain it, but there's no arguing with what we're picking up." Tigh took a deep breath. "Somewhere out there, not too far away, is a city. A Cylon city."

  Omega approached just as Tigh was completing his statement.

  "That could explain why our scouting patrol is so long overdue," Omega said.

  "Who was flying the mission?" asked Adama, fearing the worst.

  "Starbuck and Apollo, sir," said Tigh.

  Adama turned away from them, not wishing them to see the expression on his face.

  "How long before the patrol would have exhausted their fuel?" he said.

  "If they've been flying continuously sin
ce launch," said Tigh, "they'd be out of fuel by now."

  Adama sagged against the console. He clenched his fist and raised it slightly, then let his hand fall against his side.

  "Then it's over," he said softly.

  Tigh and Omega exchanged glances. They could understand what Adama was feeling at that moment. They had both lost family in the war with the Cylons.

  "Sir," said Tigh, "perhaps if we launched a shuttle probe—"

  Adama straightened and turned to face them. He realized that there was nothing he could do for Starbuck and Apollo. He had the fleet to think of now.

  "We have no fuel to spare to be searching for two warriors. We have to conserve every bit of fuel we have to maintain life support systems in the fleet. List the scouting patrol as missing in action."

  Flight Officer Rigel looked up from the scanner screens.

  "Sir? I'm picking up something very odd . . ."

  "What is it?" said Tigh, moving to the scanner screens.

  "I don't know. It seems to be some sort of echo effect, perhaps the Galactica's image bouncing off some ion field . . ."

  Tigh shook his head.

  "I'll handle it, Commander," he said. "She's new on scan, I'll take a look at whatever it is she's picking up. Feed it to the bridge monitors, Rigel."

  An image of the scanner readout appeared on the large bridge monitor screens. Adama and Tigh both stared at it. Rigel had been right. The image did, indeed, resemble a battlestar. Tigh leaned forward and contacted the maintenance crew over the ship's intercom.

  "Have this scanner turret checked immediately," he said. "We obviously have some sort of malfunction, Commander. Control . . . shift to high resolution . . ."

  After a momentary hesitation, the image on the monitor screens seemed to jump, growing larger and more clear. There was no doubt about it. It was a battlestar. But that was clearly impossible.

  "If that's an echo," said Adama, "it's the cleanest transmission I've ever seen."

  Tigh shook his head. "We must be picking up some old transmission, Commander. Something that's been bouncing around for yahrens, it's the only explanation that makes sense. Nevertheless . . ."