Battlestar Galactica 7 - War Of The Gods

by Glen A. Larson

  A new BATTLESTAR GALACTICA adventure!

  Cruising through a void of perilous cosmic

  forces and merciless marauders, the Galactica

  finds a miraculous superhuman to guide it through

  the endless night. His name is Count Iblis. His

  powers are more awesome than any that

  humankind has ever encountered before.

  The crew of the great Battlestar—especially

  the beautiful Sheba—lives in the thrall of Iblis

  until they discover that their godlike savior

  conceals a diabolical secret. Until they

  learn that the most devastating weapon in

  his arsenal is . . . themselves!

  STAR

  DEMON!

  "I am not finished with you mortals," Iblis said. "There will be another time, another place. We will meet again."

  He threw out his arms and the air around him crackled with energy, then the sky over the ridge became filled with light, a bright glowing light like that of a sun going nova. Starbuck and Sheba turned away, shielding their eyes. An explosion shook the air and ground, tumbling them to the earth.

  When they looked up, Iblis was gone . . .

  WAR OF THE GODS

  A new BATTLESTAR GALACTICA adventure!

  Berkley Battlestar Galactica Books

  BATTLESTAR GALACTICA

  by Glen A. Larson and Robert Thurston

  BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 2: THE CYLON DEATH MACHINE

  by Glen A. Larson and Robert Thurston

  BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 3: THE TOMBS OF KOBOL

  by Glen A. Larson and Robert Thurston

  BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 4: THE YOUNG WARRIORS

  by Glen A. Larson and Robert Thurston

  BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 5: GALACTICA DISCOVERS EARTH

  by Glen A. Larson and Michael Resnick

  BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 6: THE LIVING LEGEND

  by Glen A. Larson and Nicholas Yermakov

  BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 7: WAR OF THE GODS

  by Glen A. Larson and Nicholas Yermakov

  BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 7:

  WAR OF THE GODS

  A Berkley Book / published with

  MCA PUBLISHING, a Division of MCA Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / December 1982

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1982 by MCA PUBLISHING,

  a Division of MCA Inc.

  Cover illustration by Mark Bright.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

  by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For information addresss: MCA PUBLISHING,

  a Division of MCA Inc.,

  100 Universal City Plaza,

  Universal City, California 91608.

  ISBN: 0-425-05660-0

  A BERKELY BOOK ® TM 757,375

  Berkley Books are published by Berkley Publishing Corporation,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  CONTENTS

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS

  Chapter Three

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS

  Chapter Four

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS

  Chapter Nine

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS

  Chapter Ten

  FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:

  There was once a time when humanity looked forward with great anticipation to first contact with alien races. No one truly believed that we were all alone. Somewhere out among the stars were other intelligent beings, possibly like us, possibly very different. What could they teach us? How much could we share? When the Twelve Colonies were first established, the descendents of the Lords of Kobol were all alone. We did not remain alone for long. We found other races, other beings. Some more advanced than we were, some more primitive. We welcomed contact with them all, envisioning a great universal brotherhood of species, a coming together of all life forms. Perhaps we were naive. Perhaps we were simply unrealistic. The Cylons changed all that.

  It was almost a thousand yahrens before the date of my birth that the Twelve Colonies and the Cylon Empire first made contact, a day that will live in infamy so long as one human remains alive. We held out our hands in friendship and the Cylons attacked with a savage, unrelenting fury. It was a long time before we were even able to discern the reason for their actions. By that time, the Twelve Colonies and the Cylon Empire were already engaged in a brutal war, one that was to be the longest and bloodiest in our history and one that was to end, perhaps forever, the glory that had sprung from the seeds sown by the Lords of Kobol eons ago. I have vowed that it will not happen, but time alone will tell. After all, I am just one man and my enemies are legion.

  The reason for the war is so simple as to be incomprehensible. We were, according to the Cylons, unfit to engage in interstellar travel. Through some twisted sort of logic, they saw themselves as the guardians of the aesthetic order of the universe. It was their destiny to rule the stars, to regulate all inferior species—and, to Cylons, all species were inferior—and to eliminate any threat to what they perceived as the established order. The Colonies, of course, posed such a threat.

  By the time that I was born, the war was already many yahrens old. It had become a fact of life to each and every man, woman and child in the Colonies. It is to the credit of the human race that we did not become a completely xenophobic people, but the word "alien" had taken on a whole new connotation. It was inextricably linked with certain base emotions—suspicion and distrust were chief among them. We were never again to encounter a new form of life without being on our guard. Survival was our prime consideration. We did not shoot first and ask questions later, but we had our guns out.

  Sometimes, even that was not enough.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Four Viper fighters streaked across the void. The pilot of each ship was vibrantly alert. They kept in constant communication with each other to maintain their state of watchfulness. Their eyes seldom left their scanners as they scouted for any presence of the enemy. There was no room for error. Thousands upon thousands of lives depended on them. They each felt the keen responsibility that was theirs alone each time they went out on patrol. The welfare of the last surviving inhabitants of the twelve colony worlds was in their hands.

  "This is Flight Leader to Advance Probe," said Bojay, speaking into the helmet mike that he could turn on and off with a quick flick of his tongue. "I think everything looks okay for the fleet in this sector. Let's start thinking about a last wide sweep and then heading for home. Copy?"

  "Loud and clear," said Lieutenant Jolly. He was flying point in the Viper formation, taking an advance scouting position well ahead of the other streamlined craft. "Making one final scanner sweep of—"

  Without warning, the black void in front of Jolly's craft lit up with the radiance of several suns going nova. The pilot jerked back in his seat, involuntarily throwing his hands up in front of his face in an effort to shield himself from the searing glare.

  "Bojay!"

  The Flight Leader was receiving reports from every member of his patrol. They all spoke at once over the comcircuit.

  "I'm seeing spots in front of my eyes . . . can't even make out the scanner . . ."

  "Never seen anything as bright as—"

  "What in Kobol was—"

  "All right, all right, put
a lid on it," said Bojay, his own eyes smarting from the sting of the impossibly bright wash of light. "Take it easy, you guys. Whatever it was is gone now. Just hold steady on course till you can see straight again. Anybody injured?"

  Negative reports came back over his helmet comcircuit.

  "Okay. Let's check it out. We'll just ease over in that direction . . ."

  "Maybe we'd better alert the fleet first," Jolly said.

  "Let's just make certain what we're alerting them about," said Bojay. "There's plenty of time for—"

  Another flash of light washed out the stars around them. Bojay heard Jolly's exclamation of pain and shock.

  "Unnh! I not only saw that one, I felt it! What in the name of all that's holy could produce a flash like that?"

  "Actuating automatic fleet alert," said Bojay. He still had no idea what was ahead of them, but he decided that it would be prudent to send a signal back to the Galactica, just in case whatever it was they would encounter would result in their failure to return. "Switching to long range scanners."

  "Captain," said his wing man, "left center relative . . ."

  Bojay looked.

  A swarm of bright pinpoint lights was approaching from the distance, moving with incredible speed. It was impossible to even estimate their number. They seemed to expand before their eyes as they hurtled toward them.

  "I got 'em," Bojay said.

  "Whatever they are, they're coming right at us and fast, " said Jolly.

  "Actuate attack computers," Bojay said.

  The pilots switched in their attack and defense systems. The scanners automatically locked on their target . . . except there was no target, according to the scanners. The turrets swept the area ahead of them, seeking a target to lock onto. The pilots had visual contact with whatever it was, but the scanners did not seem to be able to pick them up.

  "Stand by to intercept," said Bojay.

  "Captain," Jolly's voice came back to him over the com-circuit speakers built into his helmet, "I'm not picking them up on my scanner! I'm not getting anything at all!"

  "Well, they're there, by God," said Bojay, setting his teeth. "And they're not slowing down."

  The swarm of white lights grew rapidly. Each pilot found himself squinting, despite the polarization in both the shields of their helmets and the canopies of their Viper fighters. The glare was blindingly bright.

  "Do we fire on them?" Jolly said.

  "Not until we know if they're hostile," Bojay said, his hands tightly gripping the controls of his ship.

  "By the time we find that out . . ." Jolly did not complete the thought. Bojay knew exactly what was on the point man's mind. With the speed of the lights approaching them, it was doubtful if they would be able to fire with any degree of accuracy. Without the benefit of their scanners computing the rate of speed at which the swarm of lights traveled, it was impossible to lead them with their lasers.

  Then there was no more time to think. The lights were upon them, streaking past the Vipers and crisscrossing, making a wide sweep around the fighter craft.

  "Good Lord, they're fast!" said Bojay. "Anybody get a look at them?"

  "No, sir," said Jolly. "It was all I could do to keep from closing my eyes. They're tearing up something fierce from all that glare. I'll tell you this, though, whatever they're flying, they can outrun us without even trying."

  One of the other pilots was on the edge of panic. Bojay heard it in his voice.

  "Let's get out of here! We've got to warn the fleet!"

  "Hold your position," Bojay said sternly, trying to keep his voice calm. He could not afford to have any of his men lose their nerve. "I sent out an automatic alert already. Besides, so far we don't know if there's anything to warn them about. I repeat, hold your positions and your fire until we can figure out a way to get a fix on whatever that was. Anybody see anything?"

  "No," said Jolly. "They just seem to have completely disappeared. I—no, wait. They're moving up behind us!"

  No sooner had he spoken then the lights streaked past the Viper formation once again with such speed as to make the fighters appear to be motionless in space.

  "Whatever the hell they are, they don't seem to be too interested in us," said Jolly. "Let's turn around and get out of here."

  Bojay thought about the suggestion for a moment, then nodded to himself.

  "Might as well," he said. "There doesn't seem to be anything more that we can do right now. Maybe the instruments on the Galactica can . . ."

  His voice trailed off.

  "Skipper?" Jolly said.

  Bojay was speechless. He stared up at the mammoth ship that had appeared out of nowhere, flying directly above the Viper fighters, pacing them. It was huge, incredibly huge. Its bulk would have dwarfed even the Galactica.

  "Skipper, my instruments are gone!" shouted the wing man. "I can't read a thing! What the hell is it?"

  "Mine are spinning," Jolly said. "I'm caught in some sort of field, I can't control my ship! It feels like my head is going to burst, I can't stand it, the pressure . . ."

  "What do we do?"

  "Run for it," said Bojay. "Peel off and—"

  "Bojay, I just lost power!" Jolly said, his voice filled with fear.

  "Me, too, Skipper. Ship won't respond. I can't do a thing!"

  Bojay heard one of the pilots screaming.

  "My head! God . . ."

  "Bojay!"

  "I think we've just run up against something worse than Cylons," Bojay said, gritting his teeth against the pain. "We've had it, Jolly."

  The pain became unbearable. Bojay stiffened in his seat, holding onto his head, fighting to maintain consciousness. He couldn't do it. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed.

  Starbuck and Apollo were both breathing heavily. They were in the final moment of a triad game. Above them, on all three sides of the triad court, the spectator stands were full of cheering onlookers.

  The triad games were always very well attended. The fleet had precious few creature comforts, but recreation was one thing that could not be sacrificed. In a stress survival situation as demanding as theirs, in which attack from Cylons could come at any moment, in which the dull routine of daily duty could be interrupted, perhaps forever, by a searing blast of laser fire, it was necessary for there to be some way for people to unwind. One such mechanism could be found aboard the Rising Star, once an intercolonial starliner, now a ship that did double duty as a home for several thousand refugees and a gaming center, complete with casinos, entertainment lounges and sporting arenas. Here, people could forget, at least for a time, the rigors of their existence and spend a few precious centons gambling, enjoying a show put on by their fellow fleet members or playing any one of several sports that did not require a large amount of room. The most popular of these was the game called triad.

  People had their favorite teams and their favorite players whom they supported with great enthusiasm. Those who did not or could not, for one reason or another, play themselves could easily experience the vicarious thrills of the sporting fan, cheering for their favorites and wagering on the outcome of the games. It was one of those activities in the fleet which had a great effect on the morale of the refugees.

  The game was played by two teams of two. At the start of each period, it was determined by a flip of a cubit which team would start off defending and which attacking. A member of each team stood face-to-face in the center of the court. Behind the defending team, against one of the walls, would be a ball approximately the size of a human head. It was made of a hard, polymesh nysteel compound, which gave it peculiar bouncing properties and at the same time added an element of danger to the game, since being hit by Ihe ball could easily result in serious injury. To minimize the chances of being hurt, the players all wore light nysteel helmets and polymesh gloves. Other protective gear, which was optional, consisted of a polymesh vest that covered the chest area and dropped down to protect the groin, leaving the hips exposed, and flexible boots that protected the shins a
nd knees. The soles of the boots were molded from impact resistant velotex, a material which had strong adhesive properties, enabling the players to "climb the walls" of the triad court, although they could not, in the strictest sense, cling to the smooth surfaces for more than a fraction of a micron.

  The two forward team members of each team who stood at center court at the start of each period had a line between them. When the claxon sounded to announce the start of the period, the offensive player had to physically move past the forward defender to get the ball. The defending player could not cross the line in front of him, nor could he move behind a line that was several feet behind him, between him and the ball. In effect, he had to prevent the offensive player from crossing a narrow corridor he was protecting. However, there were few rules specifying what the defending player could or could not do to prevent the offensive player from getting by him. This frequently gave the start of each period of play an aspect of the martial arts. In this sense, it was much more than a simple competitive sport. It gave the players, most of whom were warriors in the championship league, a way of keeping in top fighting trim. There was no limit of time to determine how long the offensive player had to get by the defender to put the ball in play, although there was a definite time limit to each period. Theoretically, it was possible for entire periods to be devoted entirely to sporting combat between two forwards only, since the two remaining players could not get into the game until the ball was put into play.

  Once the ball was put into play, however, the triad game began in earnest, and it was played at a fast and furious level. Once the offensive player picked up the ball, he could aim it at any of three lighted circles that appeared on any and all three walls. These circles flashed on and off at random, the sequence controlled by a computer, and a circle had to be struck while it was lighted to result in a score. The circles, when lighted, bore numbers which also were controlled in random sequence, each number carrying a point value from one to ten. The higher the number, the more difficult the target, since the higher numbered circles were illuminated for a shorter length of time than those which had lower point values.