Battlestar Galactica 2 - The Cylon Death Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  "Apollo? From the Galactica?"

  Cree felt a surge of joy. The invocation of the name of his flight commander and his home battlestar buoyed his spirits. But where was Apollo? It seemed unlikely that the captain would be here on a mission to rescue a cadet.

  Vulpa turned to a nearby subordinate and said in a sneering voice:

  "So humans cannot survive the plateau? Well, it seems that they have, centurion! Search the village. Every compartment. Find them!"

  The subordinate exited quickly, taking some other Cylon warriors with him. Cree almost laughed, but it was too soon to attempt such an exhaustive labor.

  As soon as Tenna increased the heat of the glowing light in the middle of the chamber, the team crowded around it, pulling in its warmth as if it could be gathered in tangible rays. Tenna touched Starbuck's arm and led him away from the group. Although he desired the warmth, he was interested in anything the attractive blond huntress had to say to him.

  And what she said surprised him.

  "I will warm you now."

  He glanced at the others. Thane seemed to have noticed the separation of Tenna and Starbuck from the group. Just like Thane to keep his cool unemotional eyes on everything!

  "Ah," Starbuck whispered to Tenna, "isn't there someplace, well, someplace more private?"

  "Private?" Tenna said, genuinely astonished.

  "Somewhere we can be alone," he whispered.

  Now they had caught the attention of the entire group. Everybody watched them, including Boxey, although the child's smile did not resemble the odd leers of the others. Again except for Thane, who, it seemed, never smiled.

  "There is no such place in the village," Tenna said. "Why should we have to be alone?"

  "Ah, well, um, then, I think I'm not so cold anymore. I'll just go right back to my friends and—"

  "But you don't have to be cold. In fact, it's preferred if—"

  "I get the idea. And it's a good idea, but . . . well, say, look, Tenna. See, ah—"

  Apollo and Ser 5-9 entered the chamber. Starbuck let out a sigh of relief.

  "Am I glad to see you!" he said to the captain, who seemed puzzled by Starbuck's welcoming enthusiasm. Boomer laughed.

  "What did you find out?" Croft asked Apollo.

  "There's only one man who can help us," Apollo said grimly. The group congregated around him as he told them about Ravashol. Then his voice dropped to a whisper. "If Ravashol won't help . . . well, then, we'll just have to take our chances."

  "Maybe we'll get lucky," Croft muttered. Starbuck couldn't tell whether the wiry-muscled mountaineer was being sarcastic or sincere. Before he could consider that problem, another clone resembling Ser 5-9 rushed into the chamber.

  "The Cylons are searching the village!"

  "Be calm," Ser 5-9 said to his duplicate. "Explain."

  "There're search patrols marching around everywhere. All through the village, the underground mall, everywhere. Pushing us aside, searching us, kicking any worker who stops to look at them. They're going into our living quarters, searching, ripping things, smashing furniture, scattering us everywhere. At the meeting hall they're overturning the benches, tearing aside wall hangings. They say they're searching for the landing party and they'll start killing us if we don't tell them where they're hidden. They—"

  "Enough," Ser 5-9 ordered with an imperial gesture. "It must be the planners. One of them, or all of them, informed."

  "What did you expect?" Apollo said sarcastically. "We've got to get to Ravashol, and now!"

  "I agree." Ser 5-9 turned to Tenna, commanded: "Tenna! Take the others and hide them."

  "But where?" Tenna asked.

  Ser 5-9 hesitated. His keen eyes searched the ceiling as if trying to find a place of concealment up there. Then he sighed and said:

  "With the children."

  "Hear that, Muffit!" Boxey yelped. "There's children!"

  Muffit barked and wagged its tail. Beneath the tufts of overhanging fur, the metal surrounding the opening from which the tail protruded was briefly evident.

  "What's this about children?" said Boomer. "Nobody said anything about children before."

  "We were thought to be sterile," Tenna said, smiling. "It was a Cylon prerequisite to maintain what they termed the purity of the Theta life form. But we have been bearing children."

  "And hiding them?" Boomer asked.

  "Yes."

  The clone who was a match for Ser 5-9 said nervously:

  "Please, we must hurry!"

  Standing by the entranceway, he motioned for the others to move quickly. Some of the expedition members seemed to linger behind, as if afraid to leave the rare spot of warmth.

  In the corridor, they split into two groups. Apollo and Ser 5-9 headed in one direction. The others followed Tenna. To the children, Starbuck presumed.

  Glimpsing a squad of Cylons passing in a cross-corridor up ahead, Tenna motioned the group into alcoves located along the walls of the corridor. Thane chose to hide in the same alcove as Leda. She had no doubt Thane's choice was calculated. She'd had trouble with him before. He kept his attention on her as she watched around the edge of the alcove for an all-clear signal from Tenna.

  Suddenly, without a warning, without any emotion showing on his face, Thane put his arms around Leda. Squirming within his grasp, she turned on him, her eyes blazing with anger. Thane whispered:

  "Scream if you want. Then they'll hear you and we'll all die. I don't care."

  He leaned in, tried to kiss her, while at the same time forcing her body against the wall.

  Leda worked a hand free and quickly brought it up to Thane's throat. He stopped forcing her as she gripped the throat and squeezed. Slowly, utilizing the powerful strength in her arm, she forced him back. What little color there was in his face left it. His arms dropped to his sides.

  "Scream if you want," Leda whispered, aping his intonations.

  Obviously Thane could not scream. Not even if he wanted to. She might not have let him go if the all-clear signal had not come from Tenna.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Croft:

  The place is crawling with Cylons. When Starbuck says it's all right to leave our hiding place, I'm reluctant to go. Perhaps I could run to the Cylons, make a deal, offer them—but no, no deals can be completed with Cylons. They make deals, sure, but soon as they've got what they want, they renege. I'm better off trying to climb Mount Hekla blindfolded than making small talk with the red-lights.

  As the group reassembles, I decide to take the point again. Ahead of me, Leda, her face red in the aftermath of anger, moves out of her hiding place. A short interval later, Thane slinks out of the same alcove. His eyes shift about. He doesn't notice me, or doesn't care. Instead of rejoining the group, he begins taking steps backward. What's he up to? God, Thane, this is no time to try an escape. But that looks like exactly what he's trying to do. I'm about to pursue him, but I'm afraid he'll deliberately create a disturbance. He has no instinct for his own survival. Let him go. Perhaps we're better off without him. I follow a couple of steps anyway. He disappears into another alcove. When he comes out, he's in one of the clone leather working uniforms. How in the twelve worlds did he find that? It doesn't fit his lean body very well. After all, these guys are man-mountains and Thane's got that ax handle of a body! Still, he goes off down the corridor, with all the confidence in his stride that he's pulling it off. I have to let him try. As a prisoner, it's his right to try to escape. I used to think of nothing else but crashing out when I was on the prison ship, but I wouldn't join Thane now on a bet.

  I catch up to the group. Leda hangs back and whispers to me:

  "Thane's not here!"

  "I know. He's off somewhere looking for an exit."

  "Crashing out?"

  "You got it."

  "That creep! Least he could do was take me with him. Guess he couldn't, not after . . ."

  "After what?"

  "Nothing I'm going to tell you about, Croft. But you and him
deserve the same fate, believe me."

  "Maybe. But it's a fool's play, trying to escape from down here. Where can he go? What can he do?"

  "I don't know, but at least he's trying."

  "I get your drift. You're saying that he's trying and I'm not."

  "Believe what you want. I don't know why I'm talking to you. I think you really buy that line these colonial warriors spout. You want to be returned to rank, to—"

  "Stop it, Leda. I'll never be returned to rank. It's back to the grid-barge for us after—"

  "And you're still going to help these idiots?"

  "I don't know what I'm going to do."

  "Well, you're going to have to decide soon. I hope nobody needs to crank your brain for you."

  "Leda, I . . ."

  I stop, hating myself for almost saying what I almost said. Leda seems to understand anyway. She says:

  "No, nothing can be like what it was before. Don't you know the real truth that keeps us hustling—nothing is ever like what it was before."

  "You didn't used to be so bitter."

  "Maybe. You were always the bitter one, Croft. What a switch, huh?"

  Tenna signals for us to be still. Leda seems relieved at the signal. I wish I could haul her into one of these alcoves and talk sense to her.

  Tenna leads us to a compartment that is identical to the one she took us from, except for a row of clone worker uniforms hanging on the far wall. Starbuck stays behind in the corridor to guard the entrance. Another glowing warm light dominates the center of the room, like in the previous place. Standing next to the light, brilliantly illuminated by it, is another woman. I know it's another woman, because I can clearly see that our guide is still with us, standing next to Wolfe. The woman in the room must be a clone of the same series as Tenna. She is introduced to us, for convenience' sake, as Tenna II. She's so identical, she might as well be called "Tenna too".

  "Quick," the first Tenna says to the second, "we must hide these humans."

  "But—" Tenna II says.

  "No time for planner-type talk. The planners'll talk us all into death. We need to put them with the children."

  Tenna II nods and presses a button. A piece of wall slides open, revealing another compartment, a large chamber populated by several fair-haired blue-eyed children. The room is not like the others. It's brighter. More color on the walls and in the children's clothing. Rough-crafted toys are scattered around the rocky floor. At first I think the children must be more clones, but closer study shows some variation in feature, some difference in body type.

  As soon as the daggit-droid sees the children, it barks stupidly. The children, who clearly have never before seen such an ugly ball of animated fur, cower at the noise of the daggit. The kid rushes forward, grabs his pet by the collar. He addresses the children:

  "He won't hurt you. He's just a daggit. Come on, Muffit."

  The kid and the daggit step into the children's chamber. For a moment it's a standoff; then the clone kids gather around the daggit and compete to stroke its fur.

  I go quietly to the entranceway to the corridor and motion for Starbuck to abandon his guard post and come in. As soon as Starbuck sees the two Tennas standing gorgeously side by side, his face brightens and he says:

  "This is really getting interesting."

  "Yeah, and I'm sure they'll both be responsive to your charms on an equal basis."

  "Don't I wish."

  Boomer catches sight of us, and rushes up.

  "Starbuck!" He notices where Starbuck's attention is riveted and pulls at him, saying: "Later." He glances around the chamber. "Where's Thane?"

  "I don't know," Starbuck says. "Maybe he got separated in the passageway."

  I decide not to let the two of them in on what I saw in the corridor. Thane deserves his chance, even if he is an imbecile for making his play now.

  "What do you say, Croft?" Boomer says suddenly. "I think Thane's been looking for the chance to make a break."

  "Nobody's ever sure what Thane's looking for," I say noncommittally.

  "We'd better go look for him," Starbuck says.

  "No," says one of the Tennas. The first one, I think. "Let us do it. We've got a better chance to find him. As you can see"—she gestures toward the other Tenna—"in our small world, strangers are rather easy to single out."

  She herds the team into the children's chamber, then closes the door behind us. The kids are chattering, asking Boxey a lot of questions, giving the daggit a good rubdown. I find a comfortable spot against the thick fur on one wall. This is terrific! Apollo's off on his little escapade to catechize the father-creator, and we're all stuck in the nursery. Maybe I can do the mountain on a rocking horse.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The entranceway to Ravashol's domed dwelling was decorated with scrollwork that, Apollo assumed, must have something to do with the religious hold he had on the clone population. Ser 5-9 and Apollo entered Ravashol's quarters through a small, cramped, obviously secret passage, and emerged behind a pile of equipment cases.

  Ravashol's living space was, Apollo noted, in definite contrast to the primitive look of the rest of the village. A libraryful of books lined the high walls, and far off in a corner was an area crammed with research equipment, both electronic and chemical.

  Ravashol himself sat at an enormous flat worktable. A single light shone down from a source high in the ceiling. Apollo wondered if the effect was calculated to add a religious aura to the image of the father-creator busy at work. Added to the bright light was an eerie glow which seemed to emanate by itself from walls not containing books or scientific equipment. It was easy to see why the clones held their creator in such awe. Clearly, Ravashol wanted it that way.

  At first Ravashol didn't notice his two visitors. As he scribbled busily on a piece of paper, his small eyes squinted and his doll-like hands pulled at his thin beard. His hair was graying and brushed back from his forehead. One deviation from his religious appearance was his clothing, which appeared old, dusty, and ruffled.

  He suddenly became aware of his intruders and looked up, alarmed. His hands went to his papers as if they were more worth protecting than himself. As Ravashol reached for a warning button, Apollo noted that the little man's spine appeared to be subtly deformed, a slight twist that turned his torso a few degrees sideways from the lower portion of his body.

  Ser 5-9 ran forward, pleading in a voice that sounded much like a supplicant's in prayer:

  "Please, father-creator, don't call for help."

  Ravashol drew back his hand, a bit calmed by recognizing one of his clone creations. He took a slow walk around the large worktable until he was standing before Ser 5-9. Ravashol was about half the height of the clone.

  "You are not permitted here," Ravashol said. "Only planners. And workers are never allowed to use the secret passage."

  "Father-creator, we are in need of your help."

  "You are one of the Five series."

  Ravashol seemed uncertain.

  "Yes," Ser 5-9 said proudly. "Series five, Culture nine."

  So that's where they derive their names, Apollo thought, words and numbers, that's their identity.

  "But you . . ." Ravashol said to Apollo. His voice had become fearful. "You are not one of mine. You . . . you are human!"

  "Flight Captain Apollo, from Battlestar Galactica."

  Shocked, Ravashol backed away from Apollo as if he were tainted by something—disease or unbelief or the quality of being human.

  "The Galactica is a vessel of war!" Ravashol yelled. "We came here, my colleagues and I, to escape war. I am opposed to war, to violence of any kind."

  "You have a strange way of showing it!"

  Ravashol seemed genuinely surprised by Apollo's angry declaration.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "What do I mean? So you're opposed to war. Well, what do you call that monstrosity on the top of that mountain? A weapon of peace?"

  Ravashol seemed confused, embarra
ssed. He was caught in a trap and he knew it, but he still was looking for a way to pull himself out, even if it meant cutting off a limb.

  "It . . . it . . . is an energy lens system. Designed to transmit intelligence across galaxies."

  "Your energy lens system has fried two of my fighters and is holding the colonial fleet at bay until Cylon battlestars can reach and destroy it."

  Ravashol's eyes looked frantically around the room, at Apollo, at Ser 5-9, at the shelves of books, at the scientific equipment.

  "Impossible!" he said. "My system is maintained by Series Five Theta life forms!"

  The shiftiness of the father-creator's eyes led Apollo to suspect that the man was lying, trumping up quick excuses to justify himself before his intruder. Ser 5-9, towering over his creator, took a step forward and said to Ravashol:

  "With all reverence, father-creator, the workers among the Series Five Theta life forms are whipped if they come near the pulsaric weapon, except at times when you are present."

  Ravashol looked at Ser 5-9 as any god would at a subject who had rebelled, who was in danger of falling from grace.

  "You are wrong!" Ravashol said sternly. "I . . . I make adjustments. Repairs. I transmit, and my helpers are Series Five."

  "Maybe so," Apollo said, "but right now your precious pulsar gun, or whatever euphemism you want to call it, is manned by Cylons! And as a weapon of war!"

  Ravashol began to pace.

  "But that's . . ." he said. "I mean, it's . . . there's no . . ." He took a deep breath and addressed Apollo: "Don't you see? That's only a temporary misuse of its true function. A temporary abuse of—"

  "So you do know how it's being used," Apollo said.

  Ravashol could no longer hold in his anger.

  "I have no control over the use of my creations! I'm lucky I wasn't eliminated, that I still have the chance to create. Ultimately, my inventions will be used properly, for peaceful—"

  "Ultimately?!" Apollo shouted. "How long can you wait to get around to your precious peacetime uses of it?"

  "I've no control, I said, no responsibility."