02 - The Cylon Death Machine

by Glen A. Larson; Robert Thurston - (ebook by Undead)

  I return to my work, feeling an odd glow of satisfaction from the professional way I lay down the wire. Everything’s working out well. At least on our part. I haven’t time to check out how Apollo’s attack is working out. There are sufficient notches and outjuttings to wrap the wire around, enough concave area in which to plant the explosive charges. The wire adheres easily to the flat surfaces of the pump.

  Crawling underneath the pump through an arched tunnel that leads to an energy feeder, I begin to attach the timer there. Leda crawls into the tunnel from her side and methodically leads her wire toward the timer. While I manipulate the switches of the timer, she attaches the ends of her wires to it.

  “How’s it going on your side?” I ask her.

  “Good. Apollo and Wolfe’re dropping the creatures left and right. A couple of them seemed to see what we were up to, but they were dropped before they got near to me.”

  “Okay. Everything’s set. Look out and see if Apollo’s got the elevator ready.”

  She crawls out and is back right away.

  “He’s doing something with the controls beside the doorway. But it’s not open yet.”

  “Then we wait.”

  I glance over at her. Her face is now tense.

  “You and Wolfe’ll be in the air in a couple of microns. Maybe we’ll all meet again sometime, in some exotic out-planet bar or—”

  “I’ll look again.”

  She comes back and says the way to the elevator is clear. Nodding, I flick the switch that irrevocably sets the timer. Now the Cylons can tear at the solenite all they wish. There’s nothing they can do. The gun’s going to go.

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:

  Ila and I used to enjoy going to the theater at least once or twice during each of my rare furloughs. She recognized my need for escape and usually selected comedies or musical entertainments. But once in a while, to satisfy Ila, we went to a tragedy.

  Caprican tragedy contained one significant variation over the tragedies created in the rest of the twelve worlds—the added feature of the alternative ending. The alternative ending was intended as a kind of release following the emotional drain of the sad or awesome events of the play proper. Some audience members didn’t stay around for it, claiming that the proper reaction to the fate of the tragic hero or heroine was to purge ourselves by participating emotionally in the tragedy. But I always enjoyed the alternative endings, bizarre as some of them were. Generally, they showed what the lives of their hero or heroine would have been like if they had surmounted or survived the dramatic events that had propelled them toward their disaster. Often their lives were shown as serene, their experiences having brought them emotional and intellectual growth as human beings. Because of what seemed to me a forced optimism in such an ending, I much preferred the other traditional alternative, in which the playwright generally showed that the complications of life (and, by implication, drama) continued to affect or plague the characters, although usually in not as nobly tragic a way as the main drama. I liked that. I liked the idea that we were all expected to continue the drama of our own lives past major crisis points, and had to renew our hopes, fears, and mysterious expectations on a regular basis.

  Ila said such a reaction suited me, since after the pleasant intervals of furlough I always had to return to my own continuing tragedy, the war with the Cylons. She preferred the meaningful single crisis, the test of nobility or even merely of the dimensions of character, over the uncertain extensions of the alternative ending. She may have had something there. Whatever, she’s dead now, away from suffering—while I have to confront one major crisis after another. I sometimes consider alternative endings—ones where the Cylons give up, or we finally destroy them, or a mysterious third force interferes and decides the outcome for us. Even more, I would rather not consider tragedy at all. Ila, I needed you here now, I needed that particular alternative ending.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When he was informed that contact with the command post in the Hekla foothills had been lost, Vulpa was disturbed but not worried. Abrupt storms on the mountainside frequently interfered with communication between headquarters and summit station. Nevertheless, the interference was inconvenient at this moment. Just before communications were interrupted, Vulpa had been informed that objects appearing to be a battlestar and a number of smaller ships had entered the quadrant. A preliminary fix had been established, and Vulpa had directed that the weapon be set to send pulses toward that fix. There was a good chance the Galactica had already been destroyed. He ordered the emplacement communications officer to continue attempts to contact headquarters, and asked the gunnery master for more power and a faster pulse rate from the gun itself.

  As he listened to the satisfying thunder of the laser-gun-pulse releases, Vulpa considered how he would return in triumph to Imperious Leader’s base-ship. He would have to be decorated, another thin-lined black band around the shoulder, or perhaps the more prestigious award of a thicker band at waist level….

  He very nearly missed the beginning of the humans’ attack. There was a brief flash of movement near an intake tube, and Vulpa turned to see a human leaping from behind an energy pillar, his laser pistol drawn and already firing. A Cylon gunner fell. Another human jumped out of the intake tube and fired. A trio of Cylon officers, Vulpa’s bodyguard, gathered around him and almost blocked his line of sight toward the attackers. Two more figures jumped out of the grid opening. Vulpa could not believe what he saw. Unless they were humans in disguise, these were two of Ravashol’s clones. And they were helping the human attackers!

  The chamber was quickly filled with the blazing light and floating steam of the attack. Fire and crossfire obscured any sensible view of the action for Vulpa. To his left, one of his guards fell, his uniform on fire. For a moment Vulpa was fascinated with the corpse, clearly dead but with the red light in his helmet still actively piercing the layers of smoke. The humans, always more agile than Cylons, seemed to be leaping everywhere, taking up new positions behind new pillars. Gunners and warriors were falling at a rate near that of the now accelerated pulse rate of the laser cannon. The reserve squad of warriors from the garrison rooms joined the battle.

  Vulpa’s center bodyguard fell. The remaining guard pushed his commander back against the wall and started firing at anything that moved toward him, as if he did not care whether his target was human or Cylon as long as they did not endanger the commander. But a line of laser fire hit the last bodyguard at neck level. Sparks shot out from the wiring leading to his helmet and he tried to get off one more shot before dropping heavily to the floor. Vulpa, clinging to the wall, started easing his way along it, toward the elevator.

  The smoke cleared momentarily and he saw that three of the humans were now gathered around the elevator, fending off attackers. Vulpa, drawing his pistol, tried to take aim on the tall young man who was the apparent leader, but one of his own warriors got in the way. Vulpa had to retreat. This was no time to get into the battle. His ship, he must get to his ship, alert the rest of the garrison at the command post, bring them back here to repel this strange quartet of human attackers. What were they doing here anyway? he thought as he ran toward the tube leading to his aircraft. Why did they want to destroy the small number of Cylons at the gun? The gun! Were they going to try to do something to the gun? They could not stop it so long as it was set on automatic. Only Vulpa or the gunnery master could do that. And the gun could not be destroyed—Ravashol had stated firmly that the material composing the gun was indestructible. The mechanism was too complex for them to tamper with in any way. Ravashol had provided the factor that allowed only specially imprinted gloved Cylon hands to operate the shut-off plate which would stop the gun’s automatic steady firing. Ravashol had vowed that—but Ravashol was also responsible for the clones. He had been their protector, in fact, when the Cylons had wanted all batches destroyed. And now two of Ravashol’s clones were involved in this sneak attack! If he had lied about the clones, then perhaps he
had lied about the gun.

  Vulpa felt an impulse to protect the gun, but the battle raging behind him was too fierce. He risked too much—his squadrons of warriors, the gun emplacement, himself, his ambition—to chance getting killed checking out such a suspicion. The important goal was to board his ship and gather troops to return here and vanquish the humans.

  He looked back. How could only four attackers do so much damage? Cylons had fallen everywhere, it seemed. Smoke and fluttering sparks flew up from their bodies. Their red lights dimmed and went out. But this was no time to mourn the fallen. The official mourning would come later, in proper organized ceremonies. Vulpa turned to run through the gangway tunnel to his ship.

  And found a short stocky human blocking his way and aiming a laser pistol at him. Vulpa threw himself against the wall as the human fired.

  * * *

  The light-spears were now coming toward the fleet with shorter time intervals between them. A supply ship had been hit and apparently swallowed up by the powerful beam. By quick alterations of course, the Galactica had missed being hit twice.

  Athena studied her father’s grim face. He stood at his post, gripping the railing that ran in front of him, and seemed stymied by the laser cannon’s fierce attacks.

  “Is there anything we can do to counter the force of the pulses?” he asked Tigh. The aide shook his head no.

  “We’ve analyzed them from every angle, looked for some way to anticipate them, but we simply don’t have sufficient data. If only the expedition had been able to—”

  “Don’t give up hope yet. The expedition may still be functioning.”

  Tigh seemed about to protest, but instead returned to duty. Athena knew that the colonel, knowing the efficiency with which Apollo worked, did not expect her brother to stretch out the mission time to the last possible micron. She hoped Tigh was wrong. But she could not help but feel despair over the mission. If they were going to destroy the cannon, they should have done it by now, they should—

  Her thoughts on the subject were rudely interrupted by a light-spear that passed so near the Galactica that Athena was certain that, if she had time go out and check the superstructure surface, she’d discover singe marks there.

  Imperious Leader was pleased with the progress of the attack. The trap was just about sprung. The Galactica had been forced into the quadrant where the pulses from the laser weapon would be most effective. He had ordered that the coordinates of the Galactica be transmitted regularly to Vulpa on the ice planet, then had continued the pursuit of his own fleet after the human ships.

  Just after the coordinates had been transmitted, the Cylon fleet had lost contact with the garrison on Tairac. That was an annoyance, but a slight one. The Galactica was definitely trapped between the pursuit force and the ultimate weapon. There was no way it could escape.

  Why was the Starbuck simulacrum, who had been informed of each phase of the action, and had to know that annihilation was imminent, grinning and keeping so quiet?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Croft:

  I don’t expect what I see when I crawl out of the tunnel under the gun. Dead Cylons are lying all over the place. Apollo is gesturing toward the elevator. I start running toward it. Leda splits off away from me, toward the tunnel to the Cylon ship. I try not to look at her go. Then she stops running and yells:

  “Croft!”

  By the entrance to the tunnel, Wolfe is struggling with a Cylon. It’s the officer, the chief honcho with all the decorations on his uniform. A section of his black-banded sleeve is sizzling—Wolfe’s obviously fired at him, but missed. Now the Cylon creep’s all over him. Wolfe still has his pistol, but it’s pointing futilely upward toward the ceiling. He fires it once, and I hear the crackling of a destroyed light source above me. The Cylon picks Wolfe up, holds him with his feet dangling above the floor. My God! I never knew a Cylon could be that strong. He’s Wolfe’s match all the way. Leda tries to leap at the Cylon, but the louse seems to anticipate her move and slides out of her way while still clutching Wolfe. I start running toward them, laser drawn and pointed in the Cylon’s direction, waiting for a clear shot at him. The Cylon’s holding Wolfe in front of him now. If I shoot I’m more likely to get Wolfe. Leda, in better position, grips the handle of her pistol to get a steady aim, but the Cylon moves Wolfe’s body a bit to the right toward her, blocking her line of shot. He’s using Wolfe as a shield.

  Backing into a tunnel, he keeps his attention on both Leda and me. Picking up Wolfe even higher, he squeezes him in a fierce one-armed embrace. I can hear bones crack inside Wolfe’s body. The Cylon forces his other gloved hand between himself and Wolfe’s head. He pushes Wolfe’s head backward, breaking his neck. Then he tosses Wolfe toward Leda, as if the body were a light bundle. For a moment, my reflexes go bad on me; I can’t really comprehend what the Cylon officer has done. I never could beat Wolfe in a fight, except for that once. This Cylon creep has disposed of him in an instant. I start chasing after the Cylon finally, firing wildly. Ahead in the tunnel, the Cylon doesn’t even look back. He’s in his ship and the tunnel’s closed off before I can squeeze off a shot at the ship’s fueling area. The tunnel rumbles and detaches from the ship. I feel the floor slipping out from under me. I scramble backward, reach the main chamber just in time. I would’ve slid downward through the gangway tunnel and found myself back on the mountain with nothing to do but kill time and wait for the explosion to kill me.

  Leda is kneeling beside Wolfe, trying to find some miracle in her medical training she can use to restore him. I grab her arm, try to pull her away. She resists, and I can’t budge her.

  “He’s dead, Leda.”

  “I know.”

  “Let’s go.”

  She stands up, looks down at the corpse briefly, sadly.

  “He was a killer, Leda, just a—”

  “I know, and he was such a rotten bilge-rat I don’t know why I’m sad, why—let’s get out of here.”

  We run to the elevator. Apollo pushes us inside, then he and Ser 5-9 back in, firing furiously at the few remaining Cylons. Tenna, firing off a few shots to the side, runs in just after them, and the doors close behind her. All of the technology on the elevator is of Cylon manufacture, but Apollo apparently knows something about it, because he pushes the right plates and we begin descending.

  “How are we for time?” I ask Apollo.

  “I’m not sure. Lost a little there at the last moment.”

  “Won’t the blast cut the cable if we don’t reach the lower level in time?”

  “It might. We’ll find out.”

  I’ll say one thing for the Cylons, they sure know how to build elevators. This one moves downward so smoothly, it’s impossible to tell what our descent speed is. I hope it’s fast, I surely do. Leda has folded her tall broad body into a back corner of the elevator car. Her eyes are vacant, her mouth slack. Tenna whispers to her, evidently trying to say something comforting, but Leda isn’t having any, and she regally gestures Tenna away. Taking off her gloves, she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, dabs at her cheeks. Sweat is running off her. Running off all of us, in fact.

  Apollo keeps his gaze fixed on the old chronometer. I try to interpret the strange flashes of light on the hexagons of the elevator control board. There’s no way of telling whether or not we’ll make it to the bottom in time.

  “How much time?” I ask Apollo.

  Without taking his eyes off his timepiece, he says:

  “Ten microns.”

  “You have any idea whether this elevator’s out of range of the blast?”

  “Can’t say. Maybe.”

  “Hopeful, anyway.”

  “Eight microns.”

  Copying Apollo, I set my jaw at grim. The only sound in the elevator car is Apollo’s whispering countdown. He reaches one, and we all tense. There is a long silence.

  “Maybe I did something wrong with the—” I say.

  But I am interrupted by the explosion. It’s a deep ru
mbling blast followed by a series of increasingly louder ones. The chain-reaction effect of the solenite is proceeding according to plan. I can interpret the sounds of solenite as precisely as an average person can detect changes in a melody.

  At the loudest explosion, the elevator stops abruptly. My legs feel like they’re being pushed through the floor. Ser 5-9 does fall, knocking against Apollo and Tenna. Apollo grabs at the control panel and steadies himself.