Battlestar Galactica 2 - The Cylon Death Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  As they ran down the passageway, one of the Tennas caught up with them. A Cylon lumbered out of a side corridor. Reacting quickly, Tenna fired at it. Sparks from the wired suit flew as the Cylon fell.

  A group of Cylons at the end of the corridor began firing at them. Starbuck, Boomer, and Tenna plunged to the ground.

  "We're trapped," Boomer yelled, looking behind him at the fight raging between the Cylon command-post guards, then ahead at their new attackers.

  "Over there," Starbuck cried, pointing to a hatchway on his left. "What's on the other side of that?"

  "The cold cells where the Cylons hold prisoners," whispered Tenna.

  "Prisoners? I asked you before where the prisoners were kept, you told me you didn't know."

  Tenna's eyes widened, in surprise, then in amusement.

  "You didn't ask me. You—"

  "I know, I know. One of the others in the Ten series. All right, all right. Can you open that hatch?"

  Tenna crawled over to it, and slowly began to turn the valve which opened the hatch. There was a small surprising squeak, and Starbuck tensed himself for what might spring out, aiming his laser pistol directly at the hatchway.

  "There's bound to be guards," Tenna said.

  "I'll take them. They're probably not used to people breaking into a prison."

  As Tenna slowly opened the hatch, Starbuck eased himself through the narrow opening. He motioned for Boomer to follow. A blast of cold air quickly dissipated all the warmth he'd accumulated in the battle.

  Cree had been concentrating on moving his head from side to side for some time. It was the only movement of which he was capable. He seemed to have lost contact with the rest of his body long ago, right after the Cylon guards had roughly dragged him to this chamber and pushed him into a tubular frost-gray cold cell. At first he had tried to keep his fingers and toes moving, but when they had turned completely numb he had started to do the exercise with his head and neck. Now he felt like stopping that, too.

  His eyes were just beginning to droop shut when he saw a quick flash of movement to his right. He had just enough strength to look that way. A man was firing at the two Cylons who were standing guard in front of the triple row of cold cells. A colonial warrior, from the look of the outfit. Starbuck. It was Starbuck. Who was Starbuck? He could barely remember, even though the name had flashed into his mind.

  First one Cylon fell, then the other, both dropped by the crouching Starbuck. The clang of their metallic uniforms against the floor echoed through the cold-cell chamber. There seemed to be more movement on the right, but Cree found he could no longer turn his neck in that direction. For a moment he lost consciousness.

  Suddenly he was awake again. Starbuck had broken open the door to Cree's cell and was pulling him out.

  "Can you move?" Starbuck asked.

  "Is he alive?" asked an attractive woman who stood behind Starbuck.

  "Unless those tears in his eyes are self-generating, he's still with us."

  Cree tried to talk but couldn't. Starbuck picked him up delicately, as if he were an expensive art item, and took him out of the cold-cell chamber. A rush of what seemed to be warm air in the corridor brought back feeling in Cree's toes and fingers. He tried to tell Starbuck. Although sound emerged from Cree's frozen lips, Starbuck said he couldn't understand what the young cadet was saying.

  Gradually Cree became aware that combat was raging all around them. He tried to force his hand to reach toward his holster to draw out his pistol, then remembered that the Cylons had disarmed him when he'd first been captured.

  Starbuck left him leaning against a wall inside a dark niche, like a sculpture propped up in a dusty forgotten museum storeroom. As he listened to the sounds of battle outside, Cree became aware of the feeling coming back into his body. When he was aware of the blood flowing through his body again, he knew he would be all right.

  Starbuck returned to the niche. The lieutenant's face was grimy with dirt.

  "Can you walk?" he asked Cree.

  "I can try."

  "Well, you better, cadet. I leave you here, the Cylons we missed might get you. If we missed any. C'mon, we're going to liberate an elevator."

  "An elevator? I don't—"

  "Don't worry about it. I just need the manpower. Maybe if the Cylons see you, they'll drop their guns and surrender."

  "Drop guns? Surrender? Lieutenant—"

  Starbuck seized Cree and pulled him out of the dark niche.

  Loud noises above and below frightened the clone children, made them gather together in tight little groups and crouch against walls, hide behind piles of fur, At each vibrating noise, Muffit ran toward the doorway and hopped up and down. It looked like it wanted to bark, but Boxey had ordered it not to, and Muffit was nothing if not obedient.

  The doorway slid open slowly. One of the pretty women came through it, and told the children to be especially quiet. Alerted by the action at the garrison headquarters, some Cylons were roaming the corridors, looking for the agitators. Afraid, all the children nodded they would be quiet, and the woman went out again.

  Boxey got down on his haunches by the doorway and listened. At first he could hear nothing; then—after another of the loud rumbling noises—he could hear the gravelly mechanical nasality that he knew was a Cylon voice. They were in the outer chamber. One of them thumped accidentally against the doorway. The woman was saying something to them, something about not knowing what was happening and would they please not violate her privacy. Another thump on the door, and he thought he could hear a Cylon asking what was on the other side of that entranceway. Boxey signaled the other children to come to him. Reluctantly they approached the doorway and Boxey told them:

  "We might got to get out of here. If that door opens, we got to run. Muffit?"

  The daggit-droid pivoted its head toward Boxey.

  "You lead the way, you hear, daggit?"

  Muffit responded with the low growl that was his programmed vocal response to a whispered instruction. Boxey crouched by the doorway, wondering if his dad or Starbuck would be proud of the way he took command just like a colonial warrior should.

  Suddenly the door was ripped open. All Boxey saw was a Cylon gloved hand at the edge of the door before he quickly sprang into action. Hollering, "Okay, Muffy, now!" he barreled through the doorway, gesturing to the clone children to follow him. Muffit leaped right at the legs of the Cylon who'd opened the door, and tripped him. The Cylon's metal suit was ripped open by the jagged boulder he fell upon. The other Cylons, astonished by the fact that it was children attacking them, made futile grabs at the small forms scampering past them. But Cylons, in their heavy metallic suits, tended to be awkward in movement, and not a single child was captured by the cumbersome giants.

  In the corridor, Boxey ran left, shouting:

  "This way!"

  He knew that his father or Starbuck would have led their troops with a shouted command like that. The only trouble was, he didn't know where he was going. Muffit dashed ahead. The best bet, Boxey figured, was to follow the daggit.

  Muffit led them through several corridors, stopping every once in a while when there were Cylons in the vicinity. The slightest noise that sounded like a Cylon patrol marching near them made the children crouch behind rocks and hide in the alcoves. The loud noises that shook the walls of the corridors and caused rains of dirt and small rocks kept sounding regularly.

  Finally the daggit stopped beside a hatchway whose portal had been loosened by one of the jarring explosive noises. Very cold air seeped in through the tiny spaces around the hatchway edge.

  "It's cold out there, Muffy," Boxey said.

  The daggit-droid growled in response but edged toward the hatchway and pointed its snout a little way out.

  "But you think it's our best chance. Right, Muffy?"

  Muffy growled again.

  "Okay, we'll try it. I guess everybody's warm enough." Boxey glanced around at his squad of clone children. All of them were securely
wrapped in fur outfits like the clothing that one of the pretty women had put on Boxey. But it still might be too cold. Maybe they should just head down the corridor. Suddenly there was the sound of a marching Cylon patrol coming toward them. Obviously Muffit was right. They had to go outside. Boxey got two of the larger children to push open the hatchway so they could all get out; then he gestured his squad to leave the corridor for the surface of the ice world.

  It was cold outside, but not as cold as it had been earlier, when the Galactica team had first arrived on the planet. Boxey didn't know where they should go now. A fire raged in the distance, across the ice field. It was the only light, so Boxey decided they should go toward it. A moment later, the sky itself suddenly lit up like a flare, and he could see the building where the fire was raging. It wasn't that far away. They could make it.

  The trek across the ice field was harder than Boxey had expected. Muffit kept returning from his guide position ahead and herding the children together, prodding them forward. Just when Boxey felt he was getting too sleepy to go any farther, they reached the edge of a field that wasn't covered by ice. Much of the rock underneath was showing. Some of the rock surface had scorch marks on it. Boxey looked up. It was an airfield. Arranged in rows were several Cylon fighters. Beyond the ships, inside the Cylon command post, the fire was now blazing out of control. They couldn't go inside there, Boxey realized. He looked again at the Cylon ships, dark silhouettes against the background of the fire. They looked warm and inviting.

  "Get inside the ships," Boxey ordered the children, and they began scrambling into the nearest fighters. One child reported back that they were indeed warm enough inside. Boxey went ahead farther, Muffit scampering at his heels. He chose a ship at the end of a line, where he would have a good vantage point if any Cylons came toward them. As he climbed into it, he was surprised at how empty it was inside, not at all like the complicated technological insides of a viper or of the holograms of Cylon ships that Apollo had shown him. It didn't seem real; it seemed like the ghost of a ship. But, unlike a ghost, it was warm, and that was what was important. Nestling his fur suit against Muffit's fur, he curled into a ball and tried to maintain a watchful eye out of a side porthole of the ship. He remembered that this was where the Cylon navigator sat. It was nice. Comfortable. Warm.

  He felt sleepy.

  He was asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Croft:

  At first all I can think of is how foolish I feel at having told Apollo there was almost no chance of an avalanche. Of course this is just the sort of avalanche I'd warned him about, loose snow set rolling by a loud explosive sound. What am I doing worrying about how foolish I might've looked? What'll Apollo care about that when he's examining my blackened, crushed corpse? What am I thinking about, corpse? He'll never come looking for me. I'll just go up with the laser cannon when it explodes. If it explodes. God, the laying of solenite's up to Leda now, and all that's on her mind is escape.

  Why am I worrying about Leda and Apollo? Got to start worrying about myself. Already I'm moving my arms in a swimming motion, seeking the surface of this crush of snow. It's important not to panic. Hold my breath. Find an opening of air, find the surface. I shake my ice-ax off my arm, work the pack off my back to lighten myself, give me the lightness to swim to the top of the snow. Don't panic. Keep the arms and legs moving. Grab at anything for leverage upward. Clear breathing space in front of me with my hands, take quick breaths, keep going upward.

  I can't do it. I must be too deep under. Can't do it. Must keep trying. Keep trying until I die. It's that simple. Death, simple when you get the hang of it. Keep the arms going, thrusting upward, reaching for life, reaching for anything I can grab, reaching. My hand breaks the surface. I make my arms work even harder. My head doesn't seem able to get there. It should be there by now, should break clear. Why isn't it breaking clear?

  Suddenly I realize I have broken the surface, perhaps for some time, and I take a breath.

  Everything around me is still; then the sky lights up with another pulse from the laser gun. Now at least I'm oriented. I haven't fallen far. I'm lucky. I should be halfway down the mountain.

  "Croft!"

  That's Apollo's voice. Where is he? By the light of another pulse I see that he's a short distance above me, descending by rope from the ledge I fell from.

  Working my legs slowly and steadily, I pull my whole body to the snow surface. Apollo, belayed by Leda back on the ledge, is laboriously making his way toward me, testing the surface in front of him with touches of his ice-ax. I pull myself into a semi-crouch, enough to dig my crampons into the loose surface. God, how I wish now this planet had some kind of sun. It'd be wonderful to feel the brittle kind of surface that comes from a sun melting ice and the ice then reforming. More friction for the crampons. Still I make my way toward Apollo. He reaches a gloved hand toward me. Reaching up, I can just about touch him. One more tough step, then . . . Got him! With a fierce jerk of his arm he pulls me toward him, and I grab onto the rope. My eyes search the line of rope all the way up to Leda's belay. It looks all right.

  "Slack," I holler up to Leda. She lets out more rope.

  "You all right?" I ask Apollo.

  "Was about to ask you the same thing."

  "I'm fine. I'm surprised you came down to get me. What'll this do to the timing of the mission?"

  Apollo smiles.

  "We need you to lay the explosives, Croft. Had to come get you."

  "Sorry, didn't mean to take a cheap shot at you. You're doing all right, Apollo. That was quick thinking back there, cutting the rope. You might've all been dragged down with me."

  "Just did what you taught me."

  "Well, it was good. You probably should've left me under the snow, but thanks."

  "Just get that gun for me, okay?"

  For a moment, I'm amused by the moral ambiguity of my position. I've told Wolfe and Leda I'm with them in their escape plan, even if I didn't know for sure whether I was. Now I tell Apollo I'll get the damn gun, even though I'm still inclined to take off with Wolfe and Leda. When we get to the top of Hekla, if we get to the top of Hekla, I may even be surprised by my own decision. Pulling at the rope, I yell up to Leda:

  "Climbing!"

  "Climb!" Leda yells back. And slowly Apollo and I ascend to the ledge.

  Ser 5-9 and Tenna seem glad to see me alive. Wolfe's not so sure, I think. Leda's eyes are as blank as Thane's ever were. Does she really mean it when she hints we can get back together? Or is that just a ploy to gain my help? Ploy or not, Leda can be depended on to fulfill her promises. Should I care whether or not she does it willingly or just to complete a bargain? It would be easier if I didn't care, but—unfortunately—I do.

  The rest of the climb presents few problems. The avalanche seems to have made it easier. There are hundreds of small ledges, footholds and handholds, that allow us to make it to the level of the gun emplacement in free climbing. Intermittently, the gun fires and its light shows us the route ahead. In a sense, the pulses from the gun are helping us to make up the time we lost, aiding us in its own destruction.

  In the last stages, as if driven toward it, Wolfe and Leda lead the way to the gun emplacement itself. Then they turn, their figures ill-defined in the shadows. It is a moment before I realize that Wolfe has his laser drawn and is pointing it at the rest of us.

  "If we go," he says to Leda, "it has to be now."

  "I'm with you," she says, moving to his side and staring at me, looking for my response. I stop climbing and Apollo passes me as if he doesn't know there's a laser pistol pointed at his head. Pulling himself up to the level of the gun emplacement and standing up a short distance away from Wolfe, Apollo says:

  "There's nowhere you can go, Wolfe."

  "You didn't look careful enough, Captain, or you would've seen the Cylon ship anchored just over there."

  He gestures to the left. Sure enough, the ship rests there, held down by electronic anchoring rays that give
off occasional sparkles in the dim mountain light. I start climbing directly at Wolfe.

  "We're getting off this piece of ice, Captain," Wolfe says, "and flying right out of—"

  "There isn't time," Apollo says. "Don't you understand"—he points to his chronometer—"the Galactica is passing through the quadrant right now. We've got to silence that gun."

  "You got a one-track mind, Captain." Wolfe's smile is grim, sinister. "You think I care about what happens to the Galactica?"

  Apollo takes a step toward Wolfe. I keep climbing, my eye on Wolfe.

  "The Galactica is the only ship that can protect you. All of you." He looks desperately at Wolfe and Leda, squints down at me. "Without us, you're finished."

  Leda smiles. In the dim light, there's a lot of evil in that smile.

  "You don't seem to realize who is finished here, Captain," she says. "Your mission. Your battlestar. Yourself."

  I keep climbing.

  "The Cylons won't rest until every one of us is put to death," Apollo says. "Every one of you."

  "Don't worry about us," Wolfe says. "We're going to make it. We've been through just as tough. We'll make it."

  "To where?"

  Wolfe's voice drops, is just barely audible:

  "Well, now, that isn't really going to matter a whole lot to you."

  I'm up to the ledge now. I pull myself onto it, next to Leda, on the other side of Wolfe and Apollo.

  "The Ice Gang's together again," Leda mutters. "What's left of it, anyway."

  I nod.

  "Glad you're with us, Croft. I wanted you back on my side."