Adama briefs us on equipment. They have most of what we need. Good. There are even a few molecular-binding pitons. Normally I don’t like to use special equipment—too many second-rate climbers get to the top more through technology than effort—but in a climb with so many unknowns, a molecular-binding piton is a good tool. If the rock is good, this kind of tricked-up piton can be just pushed into it, while the binding effect makes it take hold. Two advantages to us: certain phases of the climb can be shortened simply because we won’t have to waste time pounding the little buggers in, and the Cylons won’t be able to detect us by hearing the sound of hammering. Our ropes are doctored, too. They’re made of Aquarian hemp, the kind with the alterable tensile strength. When you need extremely flexible rope, you twist your end to the left and it becomes as manipulable as a snake. When you need it stiff and straight, a twist to the right makes it as inflexible as metal cable. Even though I detest specialization in an ascent, I’ll make an exception for these tricky pitons and the magical rope this time.
Adama completes his briefing and introduces us grid-rats to the straights who’ll compose the remainder of the task-force personnel.
“The shuttle will carry a snow vehicle, Ram-class armed with lasers. Sergeant Haals is senior gunnery master.”
Haals nods. He’s a tough-looking bunny rabbit. I wouldn’t mess with him. Adama continues:
“Vickers is from a gun crew that helped to hold the rear guard in the last phase of the Battle of Caprica.”
Vickers looks like he has a high opinion of himself. A definite hero type. Another daredevil like Apollo. Well, at least he’s apparently good with a gun. That’s worth something.
“You’ll need a laser technician. Voight is chief of the weapons-repair section.”
Voight’s a no-nonsense type, I can see that. Tight-lipped but reliable on the job. Not much use in a fight with his fists, but you don’t have to be when you know the mechanics of laser weaponry.
“You’ve met the Snow Garrison demolitions unit under Commander Croft.”
That sets me right back on my heels. From the way Adama looks at me, I can tell that’s just the reaction he wants from me.
“Commander? Am I reinstated at full rank?”
Adama takes a long pause before replying.
“Temporarily. Full reinstatement will depend on the outcome of the operation.”
The strings have been attached. No matter. They’re to be expected.
“Reinstatement on one hand,” I say, “death on the other.”
Thane and Wolfe glare at me. I can tell they don’t like me being put in charge of them. Neither one ever liked being told what to do. Leda’s look is neutral. She may hate me, but she knows my reinstatement improves the safety of them all.
“Croft,” Adama says, “you and your fellow convicts are not all that different from us right now. We’re all in a kind of prison put up by the Cylons.”
Wolfe bellows with sarcastic laughter, and says:
“Yeah, Commander, our chains are exactly alike.”
I don’t know whether outsiders could receive his message as well as the rest of us, but I’m glad the stocky little bull said that. People on the outside of a prison barge never really feel the pain of being inside, in spite of their fancy philosophical analogies to their own prisons. For the moment, Adama’s point is well taken enough, but guys like him forget the fancy talk once they’re sprung from their traps. I decide to break the uncomfortable silence that follows Wolfe’s sarcasm.
“Am I in full command?”
If there’s any sense to life, I should be.
“Of the demolitions unit, yes. Of the expedition, no.”
I knew there was no sense to life, anyway.
“Three warriors will command you and your team. The officer in full command will be Captain Apollo.”
In my mind I throw up my hands in despair. That’s the final capper, Captain Apollo in full command. Not only is there no sense to life, its absurdity is a set of calculated cruelties.
Adama scrutinizes his list further. What more pleasant little surprises has he got to spring on me?
“Supporting your team will be two of my finest officers, Lieutenants Boomer and Starbuck.”
Well, I can accept that anyway. You can depend on a guy like Boomer to perform well, and I’d bet on Starbuck, too. Apollo is amazed by his father’s announcement.
“Starbuck and Boomer?” he cries.
Starbuck smiles and glances toward Boomer, who looks a tad confused.
“Guess it was that tour we pulled on that Aeriana Ice Station.”
I edge toward the two lieutenants. Something tells me there’s something to be learned by eavesdropping on them.
“We have picked up Cylon base-ships approaching on long-range scan,” Adama says. “They will reach us in eight to nine hundred centons. Whether you have destroyed the pulsar weapon or not, the fleet moves in exactly seven hundred.” His grim look takes in all of us. “Good luck. To us all.”
Neither Boomer nor Starbuck notices me standing behind them. Boomer whispers to Starbuck:
“We were never at any ice station on Aeriana.”
“Computers don’t lie,” Starbuck says.
Boomer shakes his head—a bit distraught, I suspect, at this turn of events. He moves a couple of steps away from his buddy. I wonder if I should expose Starbuck’s con, but decide not to. I’d still rather have him at my side, with or without ice-station experience, than hardheaded punks like Apollo.
Speaking of hardheaded punks, here comes the youthful captain himself, sidling up to Starbuck and whispering in a friendly voice:
“I know how you feel about Cree, about losing those cadets, but you don’t belong on this mission.”
Starbuck stands tall and takes his shot:
“That makes two of us, doesn’t it, Captain?”
“Tampering with a computer readout is a serious offense,” Apollo says.
“I imagine it is,” replies Starbuck.
I’m surprised by the broadness of Apollo’s smile. Apparently he’s glad to have Starbuck with us, too. At least he’s showing some good judgment there.
I’d feel a lot more comfortable about the mission generally, if Leda, Wolfe, and Thane would stop looking at me with such enmity in their eyes.
FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:
Communication is impossible. Communication is improbable. Communication is implausible.
I’ve often considered having a sampler made of those nine words, with each embroidered splendidly in gilt threads. I’d then hang it behind the desk in my official quarters.
When I’m particularly frustrated, I believe people can never reach an understanding. At best they attain a level of verbal exchange which they invest with the illusion of an understanding. In my particularly bleak moods I even believe that people cannot even reach a point of communication, much less understanding, especially one in which something that is really meaningful to both is exchanged at the same moment. So many things—factors, aspects, character traits, tics, timing, temporary obsessions, all the words we cloak intentions under—interfere frustratingly with human contact. For some people distinctions of class, race, and personality cannot really be overcome, except for the trading off of ordinary banalities, themselves substitutes for communication.
In military life, I’ve often found the obligations of rank to be obstacles in moments when I’ve vitally needed sufficient trust for a subordinate to speak openly. Aboard the Galactica, I have tried to establish the custom that the commander is open to all points of view. But I’m still the commander, and that interferes even when I’m dealing with outspoken crew members like Tigh and Starbuck. Even Apollo and Athena, who rankle at the formalities they have to employ to speak to me officially, seem to choke up a bit when expressing their ideas on the command bridge. At least they speak openly to me in private. No matter how much I try to put my officers and crew at their ease, there always seems to be a formality in the order of present
ation that affects my response to the message. I have to allow that formality as part of the necessary discipline required to keep our fleet continuing on its desperate quest. And always the point of real understanding, the bridge to genuine communication, seems to hang between us, invoked but not traveled. Sometimes I wish I could hear the message in the manner—be it angry, pleading, arrogant, or obscene—that would be most comfortable to the speaker expressing it.
I showed the above part of this entry to Tigh, to get his thoughts on the subject. He smiled and said not to sweat it, all the communication Galactica can handle is going on regularly. Any more, and he’d apply for transfer to the Colonial Movers transport ship.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Boxey could not get Muffy to master sit-ups. No matter how much the daggit tried, it had too much bulk to bend comfortably at the waist—although, since it had been programmed to please the boy, it gave the exercise a good try. Boxey told it that it was all right to stop trying. Muffit responded by standing on its head.
Boxey looked toward the doorway. His father, Apollo, stood there, wearing a snow parka. When their eyes met, he smiled at the boy. Boxey noticed there seemed to be tears in Apollo’s eyes, and he wondered why.
“You’ve got him trained well,” Apollo said, nodding toward Muffit.
“Muffit’s very intelligent. For a daggit.”
Sometimes Boxey remembered the first Muffit, back on Caprica, the daggit he’d lost. He was not always sure that the second Muffit was quite as nice as the first one. The first Muffit had been more affectionate, especially in the way it had licked his face with its wet tongue. The new Muffit’s tongue was scratchy and dry, and he’d had to tell it not to lick his face.
Apollo got down on his haunches to talk to the child.
“Boxey, I have to go away for a while.”
Boxey did not like that one bit.
“We don’t want you to leave us,” he said.
“It won’t be long. I promise.”
Boxey realized there was some mysterious force that guided grown-ups into making decisions that they, or anybody else, could not like. He did not know whether that force was the god he’d been told to pray to every night, or whether grown-ups just obeyed rules that were like his Dad’s instructions to him about eating or preparing himself to be a colonial warrior.
“Where are you going?” Boxey asked.
“Down to the ice planet. With Starbuck and Boomer.”
Boxey did like the sound of that.
“An ice planet!” he cried. “Can Muffit and I come with you? We’ve never seen real snow.”
“Not this time. See, it’s a special project. To help the Galactica.”
“But I’m a warrior.”
Apollo smiled and squeezed Boxey’s arm.
“I know,” he said. “And as one you’ll follow orders. Right?”
Boxey looked downcast.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. See, disappointment at being left off a mission roster is all part of your warrior training. When your qualifications meet the needs of a mission, why then you’ll be picked. Do you see?”
“I suppose so.”
“Okay.” Apollo’s voice became more military. “Your orders are to eat your primaries and go to bed when Commander Adama says it’s time, and—”
“And say my prayers.”
“Yes. Say your prayers.”
Apollo called to Muffit, who scampered over and offered a metallically taloned paw. The captain shook it, then hugged Boxey. It seemed to the boy that his dad’s hug was harder and longer than usual. Then, saying goodbye again, Apollo quickly left the room. Boxey stared at the doorway for a moment, then he said aloud:
“Remember, Muffy, when Dad showed us the shuttle as part of our training?”
The sensors inside the daggit picking up the questioning sound in the boy’s rising tone of voice, Muffit nodded.
“Well, remember that hatchway that Dad said was an emergency exit?”
The daggit nodded again. Since this time the boy’s question was more conspiratorial, the daggit’s sensors transmitted the message that the droid should add a low growl, and Muffit growled quietly.
“Well, remember he told us the story of the time he’d saved a trapped squadron by using it as an entrance?”
The daggit-droid kept nodding.
“Well, I can eat my primaries and say my prayers on that ice planet, Muffy. Let’s go try that hatchway.”
Muffit, reacting to sensor-transmission, barked eagerly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Croft:
Never seen it to fail. Everybody on a ship gets at least a little twitchy in those agonizing moments of waiting to launch. This shuttle’s no exception. Wolfe’s shifting his legs like there’s still chains attached to them. Leda keeps fooling with a breather, examining its straps like she’s never going to get the hang of them. Thane sits unmoving and straight. He looks calm. But Thane only gets that stiff just before he’s ready to set an explosion, or to explode emotionally.
The shuttle is so crammed with gear it’s hard to move around the compartment. I don’t know what’s in Adama’s mind sending down this much junk, we’ll never use half of it. I told him about traveling light. He just nodded like he understood. Guys like him always nod, then go by the book anyway.
The gun crew, who were down in the hold checking out the armored snow-ram vehicle we’re going to use on the planet’s surface, stumble into our compartment like a bunch of drunks just back from a spree. Vickers trips over Thane’s feet and sprawls against Wolfe’s barrel chest like a swan out to achieve duckling status. Thane snarls at him as Wolfe pushes him away:
“Watch who you’re stepping on.”
Vickers regains his balance and growls:
“Move your feet.”
Thane gives him a disdainful look but doesn’t move a millimeter. Sergeant Haals bursts into the compartment, his arms clutching a small arsenal. None of these guys believes in traveling light, it seems.
“Clear the way,” Haals says, “coming through.”
“Not over me,” Thane says.
“Out of the way,” Haals says. He hands his weaponry to Voight and grabs Thane by his shoulder harness. I consider interceding, decide against it. Let them get all the hostility out now. We’ve got to work as a team later.
“Take your hands off,” Thane says quietly.
Vickers pipes up:
“Listen, you grid-rat, when a gunner tells you to clear the way, you move your carcass on the double!”
I knew Vickers’d be real trouble. I’m going to have to get into this mess. Wolfe’s already sprung up to back Thane’s moves.
“Did you say grid-rat?” Wolfe shouts.
Turning toward Wolfe, Vickers—the idiot—says:
“Barge-louse would be more like it.”
Wolfe slams Vickers into the nearest wall. For a moment it looks like the gunner is going to go on clear through the metal. In rushing to hold back Wolfe, I miss Thane’s move to his shirt pocket. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him removing a small capsule. I should’ve known. No matter where he is, Thane always manages to find a supply of chemical commodities. He breaks the ampule under Vickers’ nose. Vickers’ head jolts backward and his body goes limp. Eyes glazed, he collapses to the floor. Leda seizes Thane’s hand as he thrusts the capsule even closer to Vickers’ face. Another dose and the gunner’s dead.
“You fool!” Leda whispers. “Our only chance to escape is on the surface.” So that’s her game. And she looks at me like I’m obviously going to agree to the escape. She turns back to Thane, whispers: “You want to get us thrown back to the grids?”
“No one steps on me,” Thane says calmly, his hands fingering his shirt pocket as if he’s ready to draw out another killer capsule. I want to tell him to lay off the chemicals, but the noise of a scuffle behind me stops the words in my throat. Turning around, I see that Wolfe is now fighting Haals. Both can just barely swing a punch in this gear-filled
compartment. On the other side of them, apparently attracted by all the noise, the three Galactica officers rush into the compartment.
“Haals! Wolfe!” Apollo shouts. “Break it off!”
I decide I better show some command-level initiative by backing up Apollo’s play.
“Wolfe! Back off!”
Reluctantly Haals and Wolfe separate. Both of them look ready to go at it again in a minute. It’s a fight that, under the proper conditions and with the proper space, I’d like to see. Haals looks big enough and tough enough to give Wolfe a good ride, though usually nobody beats Wolfe. I beat him once. That was in about five fights.
“How is he?” Apollo asks Leda, who’s now stroking Vickers’ throat with her strong but thin-fingered hands, helping him to breathe while Thane’s chemical dosage is still in effect.
“He’s all right. It’s a short-span paralysis.”
She’s talking gently to Apollo. Why? Because she’s attracted to him? Or because she wants him lulled so that she can put her escape plan into operation? Boomer gently removes a small electronic pack out of Thane’s other jacket pocket. Delicately he holds it up for Apollo to see.
“Look at this.”
Thane makes no move toward Boomer, but instead states calmly:
“Don’t touch the switch. It’s a hand mine.”
You can see on Boomer’s face he has no intention of touching the switch.
“You don’t use the stuff on your own troops,” Apollo says angrily.
Wolfe moves to Thane’s side. They make a formidable pair: a thick-chested roughneck who’d be a giant if not for his height and the cool lean specter with death traps concealed all over his body.
“We’re not barge-lice,” Wolfe growls.
“Or grid-rats,” Thane says softly, but with menace.
“Oh yes we are,” I say, stepping between them and Apollo. “Lice and rats. Better yet, just bodies. We were picked for this drop because we’re expendable.”
02 - The Cylon Death Machine Page 8
