Battlestar Galactica 2 - The Cylon Death Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  "Captain Apollo," I interrupt, "we do need someone of Ser 5-9's abilities on Hekla. Remember, we've never seen it, never had a chance to scout the terrain up close. It's like he said. He may know the trails, the chimneys, the easy slopes—he can save us a lot of time."

  Apollo lets all this bounce around inside his head for a moment, then nods in agreement.

  "All right," he says. "Let's set our timepieces."

  We all look at the chronometers supplied us by the Galactica quartermaster. I never could make out how to use one, but I fake the synchronization anyway, and I press my button when Apollo tells us to start timers. After the synchronization ritual, Apollo gets grim, tightens his mouth, and says:

  "We'll reach the top and start our attack in exactly eighty-five centons."

  "Captain," I say, "it takes me eighty-five centons just to lace my boots."

  God, the look he gives me is so hard I couldn't drive a piton into it.

  "We must reach the top in eighty-five centons," he says. "The Galactica will be moving forward after that."

  "You say so, Captain," I say, then mutter to Ser 5-9: "You guys don't know any shortcuts, you'll have to throw us to the top."

  Ser 5-9 smiles. A revelation: clones have a sense of humor. I'm glad he's joining us.

  "You're the key down here, Starbuck, you and Boomer," Apollo says. "We can't get down the elevator, we blow up with the gun. For all our sakes, Starbuck, don't be late!"

  Again Starbuck reacts to a mean look from the captain; then he says:

  "No, sir. We'll be there."

  As I test all twelve points of each crampon before attaching them to my climbing shoes, I feel the kind of fear I felt during my preparations for every tough climb I've had to make. It's a good sign.

  Ser 5-9 brings us out a cave set in the foothills of the mountain. Surrounded by high boulders and snowdrifts, we can't be seen from the main Cylon garrison. I turn around and look up at Hekla. Although not a high mountain in the usual mountaineering judgment of height, it is still awesome, since it rises from a relative flatland, with no easy smaller mountains or hills to make the approach to it gradual.

  Like the best mountains I've seen, Hekla looks designed. Its slopes and angles seem freshly handled by a master sculptor who'll never grow tired of altering the look of it. Although this mountain's surfaces do not change their colors with the seasons and the position of a sun in the sky, its dark gray cast is varied with mysterious, and mysteriously attractive, shadows. The howling winds and the irregular plumes of blowing snow make Hekla all the more mysterious and terrifying. As the bitter cold begins to penetrate the many layers of my clothing, I feel more confident about the whole escapade. Well, if not confident, at least more buoyant in spirits. Like all experienced cragsmen, I long for the challenge of a mountain such as Hekla. The pain it will cause, the imminence of sudden death, the possibility of exhaustion and defeat—they're all part of the challenge. My body begins to long for the pain, the exhaustion, the cold. Maybe even the death, since I'd rather die huddled in the niche of a mountain than spread out in the most luxurious cell a prison has to offer.

  Silently we all work on readying the ropes and harnesses. I check out the pitons, carabiners, ice-axes. In spite of the clinging material of our parka hoods, intruding snow and ice start to form cliffs and overhangs on the geography of our faces. Breathers might have protected our faces more, but there was no evidence, or even likelihood, of di-ethene on the mountain, so I'd argued against them. Breathers could get too easily clogged in a mountainside blizzard. I remember long ago coming across a climber just resting against a rock, smothered because his breather had iced over.

  The storm noise around is so loud I don't hear Wolfe and Leda approach me. When I glance up, the two are just standing there, examining me with looks that suggest they've already decided the answers to questions they haven't gotten around to asking yet.

  Wolfe speaks first:

  "One of the clones told me there's a supply ship at an airfield at the top of the mountain, behind the pulsar emplacement."

  "Yeah," I say. "Apollo told me about that. He thought we might be able to make our escape in it but, since he didn't know whether it would be there or if we could operate it, he's put it in our plan only on a contingency basis."

  "Well, I can pilot one of those Cylon crates. Remember, I learned for the platinum raid? I say, when we get to the top, we grab the ship."

  "And go where? How long do you think it will be before the Galactica hunts us down?"

  "The Galactica is the hunted. Adama's not going to waste a squadron trying to track down three escaped convicts."

  "He knows that," Leda says contemptuously. "You also know that, if we bug out on the mission, the chances are the Galactica's not going to be in any shape to hunt us down."

  "We can't let them die, we can't—"

  "Since when are your loyalties with your jailers?" Leda says. "The Galactica and the whole fleet are finished."

  "They will be if we don't knock that weapon out."

  Leda steps back, looks at me as if I'm a painting that she doesn't want to buy because its surface layer is cracking apart.

  "That's right," she says, "they'll all be destroyed. And we'll be free. Don't give me any of that bilge about how this planet's too hostile an environment—anything's better so long as you're free. We'll find another planet. Starlos isn't all that far. We can pick up food, water, fuel. Go anywhere. C'mon, Croft, are you with us?"

  All I can think is she really wants me to come with them. Maybe we can get together again. Maybe it'll be like the old days—the cheerfulness, the joking around, the love. Looking into her gelid eyes, it's hard to see any possibility of cheer, love, or jokes reviving there, but there's always a chance.

  "Are you going to turn your back on freedom, Croft? Again?"

  Her words go through me more fiercely than the piercing winds of the mountain. She's blaming me for my failure, my ineptitude during our confrontation with Adama's warriors right before our capture. I had had their pursuing ship in my sights and had not been able to fire.

  "I couldn't shoot down colonial warriors," I say to Leda now. It was what I'd said to her then, too.

  "I know," she says, hate in her voice. "The code. The bloodline. And for your compassion they chained you like an animal. Now's your chance. Our chance. One last time, my husband."

  What can I say to her? She knows if I don't respond to that last plea, I'll never agree to their plan. And she's right, it is our chance. I thought I'd trade my soul to have Leda back. Now that the opportunity is here, and my soul isn't even on the line, I am no longer so sure. Or perhaps my soul is on the line and that's why I feel so empty.

  Wolfe leans toward me, says:

  "Are you with us?"

  If I say yes, I win Leda back. If I say no, I not only lose her but we'll blow the mission—Leda and Wolfe'll make their move without me, Apollo and I'll wind up dead, and so much for saving the fleet from the damn laser gun. I can't say no at all, whether it's truthful or not. With a certain feeling of relief at postponing the real decision, I accede to their plan.

  "I'm with you."

  As I look again up the majestic sculpturesque slopes of the mountain, and consider how futile this mission seems, I realize that maybe I am telling Leda and Wolfe the truth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  "It's about time we moved out," Boomer said. "We haven't much time."

  Starbuck, peering at his chronometer, nodded.

  "I'll be ready," he said grimly.

  Boomer frowned.

  "What's on your mind, old buddy? You and Apollo've been about as tight-lipped as—"

  "It's Cree," Starbuck said. "The Cylon commander told Ravashol they had a prisoner."

  "Sure, Thane, but he's dead."

  "No, this was before Thane was caught. They already had a prisoner. It's got to be Cree, couldn't be anybody else."

  "You have any idea where they're holding him?"

  "No. The
maps Apollo brought back don't indicate any prisoner-detention areas. But I'm going to find Cree somehow."

  Boomer sighed.

  "Look, bucko, I know you're upset about losing those cadets, but get it through your head it wasn't your fault. There's no reason to turn this job into a lousy crusade just for—"

  "He's somewhere in the Cylon underground complex, Boom-boom. I'm sure of it."

  "Well, let's keep an eye out for him, then. The both of us."

  Starbuck smiled at Boomer.

  "Thanks, old buddy."

  "Forget the thanks. Let's get hopping."

  "Right. As soon as I give our rear-force officer his instructions."

  "Our rear—oh, I get you. I'll wait for you by the door."

  Starbuck walked to Boxey and knelt beside him. Muffit tried to squeeze into the embrace the lieutenant gave the child.

  "Okay, Boxey," Starbuck said, "as a colonial warrior, first class, I'm leaving you in charge of these children. They need somebody who knows the ropes. You and Muffit have to protect them by keeping them all together. Don't make a sound, no matter what you hear."

  Boxey frowned.

  "What will I hear?"

  "We're going to be making some noise. Then we'll be back for you. For all of you."

  Starbuck stood up, started for the door.

  "Take care of my father," Boxey said.

  "I'll do that."

  In the corridor outside, they were joined by one of the Tennas—which one, Starbuck wasn't sure. He had seen so many of them now. When he'd dozed off once, he'd had a dream in which hundreds of Tennas seemed to be approaching him, all with their arms out, inviting him to love. This Tenna looked afraid.

  "Something's bothering you," Starbuck said to her. "What is it?"

  "I don't wish to betray my people."

  "I was right then. Something is wrong. Are they bugging out of attacking the garrison?"

  "No. They will help you destroy the Cylon garrison."

  "Then what is it?"

  She paused, seemed to wish she could disappear into one of the niches along the corridor, then let out her breath and said:

  "The planners have been at them. Now they want to stop you and your team from destroying the pulsar weapon."

  Starbuck nearly groaned in agony and despair. He had suffered the meddling interferences of bureaucrats before. They always seemed to come up with some reason for wavering from a goal; perhaps it was their specialty.

  "How will they stop us?" Starbuck asked Tenna. "Apollo and the others will be setting the charges while we're taking the garrison and the elevator."

  "I'm not sure. I think they plan on using the elevator themselves, after you get control, then going up and talking Apollo out of the destruction of the gun."

  "Then they have a lousy sense of timing. They'll never be able to—"

  "Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that they'll try to stop you by whatever means they can. Here, they're waiting in this chamber."

  "Well, let's talk to them."

  Starbuck's voice was grim, determined. The room into which Tenna took him and Boomer was wide and high. Nevertheless, it seemed packed with planners and worker clones. A worker clone who identified himself as Ser 7-12 stepped forward, his feet planted firmly apart, appearing ready to confront Starbuck. Starbuck asked for the group's attention and said:

  "Before we rush into anything rash, let's understand what our objectives are."

  "The Cylon garrison," Ser 7-12 said.

  "That's right. We have to knock it out and gain control of the elevator area within twenty centons or the Galactica is lost. We have to rescue our team from blowing up with half the mountain."

  Starbuck took a pause, giving Ser 7-12 a hard stare, challenging the clone leader to reveal his mutinous attitudes. Ser 7-12 replied in a cautious and quiet voice:

  "We will help you attack the garrison, as we've agreed. Many of us here will be pleased to help you kill Cylons. But the pulsar weapon belongs to us and should be preserved intact."

  "Keep that gun, and the Galactica will be blown out of the sky."

  Behind Ser 7-12, a group of the planners kept a watchful eye on the confrontation. Suddenly they parted their rank, and another man, an older man, was revealed standing behind them. The old man's attention seemed elsewhere. Starbuck wondered if he was some kind of older planner.

  "If the gun is destroyed, so are we," Ser 7-12 said. "Once news of our revolt reaches a Cylon outpost or base-ship, they will come here in their fighters to destroy us. Our only hope is in turning the weapon against them. You of the Galactica and its fleet will have accomplished your heroics and will be gone. What's left then to us? We will be here alone. Defenseless. Unless we have the pulsar cannon to repel them."

  A deep faraway rumble seemed to shake the walls of the chamber.

  "Can't you hear that?" Starbuck said. "That's the gun. It's firing automatically! A random shot could destroy the Galactica, even while the position of the ship is unknown. Once the Galactica's position is discovered, one shot will take it out. Don't you understand? The Galactica is the last colonial battlestar. It has to survive. The fate of an entire race depends upon it."

  "Perhaps. But we don't know your people. All we do know is that you are willing to sacrifice us for yourselves. Why should we care about you, then, if you don't care about us? You are not our concern . . ."

  "But, Ser 7-12, they are mine," the older man announced, limping forward. Ser 7-12 and the others seemed astonished at the man's interference. "I am a member of that race that is fleeing from Cylon tyranny."

  "Father-creator," Ser 7-12 said, frightened. So that's who the old man is, thought Starbuck, the notorious Dr. Ravashol. "Their battle isn't ours, sir. We must protect ourselves. We will not be subjugated again. We are not perfect, but—"

  "But you are human," Ravashol said, reaching up to put a small hand on Ser 7-12's massive shoulders. "More human than I could have imagined." He laughed wryly. "I must review my notes to see where I went wrong."

  Ravashol stepped back from the clone leader and addressed the entire group:

  "Those are your brothers in trouble in space. In an odd mythic sense, they are your genuine ancestors, the race whose cells provided the raw materials for the creation of the series of what I so confidently thought were more perfect versions of a humankind I had hated too long and too bitterly. I see now that what I may have hated was not my fellow humans, but myself. And you, all of you, are the manifestations of that hatred. Well, I was wrong. We have to help them. Allow the pulsaric unit to be destroyed and"—Ravashol paused as he examined the puzzled faces staring at him—"and I will protect you." The clones did not seem quite yet willing to accept that comforting statement, in spite of the man it originated from. "Trust me, my children."

  Starbuck advanced toward Ser 7-12 and said firmly:

  "We're out of time. We go now or not at all."

  Ser 7-12's answer came back just as firmly:

  "We're with you."

  As Ser 7-12 began assembling his troops, gathering them into squads and platoons, Boomer whispered to Starbuck:

  "You give any thought to what we would have done if they'd said they wouldn't go?"

  "Don't scare me with logic."

  Starbuck avoided Boomer's next question by going to Ravashol and saying softly to the old man:

  "Either that was some fine con or you've got something up your sleeve, doctor. How are you going to protect them?"

  Ravashol's grimness dropped away like a mask, and he smiled.

  "I'm not exactly the quivering traitor that you people think. I did not give the Cylons all my creations. Perhaps I knew there'd be a time when someone like your Captain Apollo would arrive here and challenge me out of my self-induced trance, I don't know. Anyway, do not fear. We will be safe."

  Starbuck matched Ravashol's smile.

  "Yeah, I got a feeling you will. Some people'd envy you."

  "Oh? Why is that?"

  "Well, your godlike s
way over these creations of yours is the kind of thing that fulfills some people's fantasies."

  Ravashol stopped smiling abruptly, narrowed his eyes.

  "Godlike, eh? I suppose you're right. Father-creator and all that inanity. I shouldn't have allowed it. It was merely convenient. More than that, it just froze my creations into attitudes of mindless duty. Thank you, Lieutenant."

  "Why thank me?"

  "You've made me realize I may have to do strenuous battle . . . with a false god."

  Starbuck felt the need to say something comforting, but couldn't think of anything. Just as well, he thought. What do you say to comfort a fallen god?

  Ser 7-12 had his troops all organized and moving out of the chamber. With a casual salute Starbuck backed away from Ravashol and joined Boomer.

  "We're gonna have to move fast," Boomer said. "I wish I knew how the captain and the others're doing. We might just liberate that elevator and find Cylons coming out at us when the doors open."

  "True. With Croft and that gang of his with Apollo, they—God, I wish I'd talked Apollo into letting me go."

  "Well, one thing at a time I guess. Let's go."

  Boomer looked back at Ravashol.

  "Funny," he said.

  "You find something amusing in all this?"

  "No. But look at him. He looks so small, so solitary, left behind there."

  "Yeah, but I think he's thinking about five steps ahead of any of us, Boomer."

  "Maybe."

  Turning around, the two Galactica officers rushed out the doorway of the meeting chamber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Croft:

  I swear this mountain's living. It's out to get us. You can't go two steps without being enshrouded by blowing snow. Hard, icy snow looking to rip slices in your clothing. Every six or eight steps I have to tap ice off my crampons with my ax. Takes all my concentration to maintain friction on this jagged approach slope. Apollo keeps slipping and sliding. My legs aching already, I move up beside him, holler in his ear:

  "Walk up straight!"

  Some defiance in his eyes. He still doesn't like to take orders from me.