Battlestar Galactica 4 - The Young Warriors

by Glen A. Larson

  "I didn't know that. I wondered, when I saw how far I had to go to get to the therapy rooms."

  "Therapy rooms? What're them?"

  "These rooms along this corridor."

  "Don't know what you're talking about. They're the forbidden chambers. Spooky. Even I never go in 'em, and I go all over this godforsaken ship, usually without being seen. But these rooms—scared of 'em, like all the rest of the engine room crews, though I don't usually cotton to engineer superstitions. Engineers are a superstitious lot, did you know that?"

  "No, I—"

  "Yeah, we never really believe, no matter how much education we get, that all this here theoretical stuff really explains how things work—physics and that stuff. Lot of us greasemonkeys believe that demons activate fuel. Ogres turn the wheels and gears. Phantoms breathe life into the engines. Silly, maybe, but that's why engineers are most often chosen priests in the many cults of the twelve worlds. I mean, we know better, but we feel comfortable with the legends and mysteries. You get it?"

  "Not really."

  "Maybe not. Anyway, I'd stay out of those rooms, I were you. Ghosts in them. They'll get you."

  "You know, you may be right. After what I just experienced in there, I'm inclined to agree with—"

  Starbuck abruptly stopped speaking as the old man, with a wicked laugh, stepped back into the shadows. Taking a very tentative step forward, he looked for the old man. However, the corridor was empty. A shudder traveled quickly through his body. Maybe there was something to the old man's talk about demons and phantoms. Maybe he was one himself. He'd heard talk about ghosts roaming the Galactica, former crewmen so attached to duty that they could not abandon the ship even after they had died. It was easy enough to believe such stories in these dismal deeply-shadowed hallways. He started walking quickly, prodded in part by the renewed urgency of the humming in his sigmawave bridge signaller, but even more so by his desire to get the hell out of the devil's pit.

  The cockpit of his viper, for all its claustrophobic tightness, felt expansive in comparison to the therapy room's generous area and limitless fantasy vistas. And being on patrol, even a routine patrol like the present one, was infinitely preferable to contrived fantasies on horseback or astride a unicorn. It was ironic that such pretty illusions could not improve on flying a complicated construction of metal through a vivid, if presently a bit monotonous, section of space.

  Back on Galactica's bridge, Apollo had been somewhat curt with Starbuck, ragging him about not responding to signal fast enough. No wonder really. The captain was still reeling emotionally from the death of his wife Serina in a tragic combat with Cylons back on Kobol. Apollo's command duties had also been doubled recently because his father, Commander Adama, was in his quarters, laid up with Sagitaran flu. If all that weren't trouble enough, Apollo was struggling to be a proper normal father to his adopted son Boxey.

  Poor Boxey, Starbuck thought, that kid's problems remind me of mine when I was young. His real parents killed in a Cylon attack and all. Added to that, the loss of his foster mother not long after he'd announced so proudly that Serina and Apollo were to be his new parents. But Boxey's a tough kid, resilient like me, he'll make it.

  Apollo's orders to Starbuck to take over a routine patrol for Ensign Greenbean, who was also laid up with Sagitaran flu, were given in a clipped, tense, even testy voice. The general atmosphere on the bridge was so tense, with everyone uneasy at Apollo's persistent insistence on perfection, that it seemed another good reason to be out on patrol, away from Galactica.

  Two further reasons for being away from the command ship were Athena and Cassiopeia. Athena had pointedly turned her back on him when he flashed his famous smile at her, snubbing him by pretending to be totally engrossed in her work at the bridge communications console. Cassiopeia, whom he'd bumped into in the corridor leading away from the bridge, congratulated him on successfully mastering the magical art of vanishing while still in front of the audience, and then she pretended that he had just that moment vanished and strode haughtily past him onto the bridge. Perhaps he had played them off one another once too often. Sure looked like it. On the other hand, maybe he'd paid too much attention to them. Maybe he should start looking in new directions, searching new horizons, finding new—God on Kobol, now he was beginning to think like one of those fantasy-interplay devices. He might as well throw a unicorn into one of those new horizons. Agreeable fantasies, that's all the therapies were. For all the interpretational gobbledygook, he hadn't learned a thing.

  "Nothing doing out this way," said Boomer, his well-articulated speech coming clearly over the commline. "What do you think, Starbuck? Starbuck? I see your viper down there, you still in it, buddy?"

  "Sorry, Boomer. Mind's just drifting off."

  "Well, let's head back. This should be a sufficiently deep recon probe, enough to satisfy even Captain Apollo."

  Starbuck edged his viper closer to his wingmate's craft and together they executed a precise looping turn. However, when they eased out of the loop, Starbuck's ship started drifting away from Boomer's.

  "Hey, bucko, stay on course. Don't want you to get lost now."

  "Sorry, I was executing mechanically. Can't seem to keep my mind on things."

  "Oh great! Remind me to requisition another wing-mate, case any real battle develops."

  "Aw, who'd save your tail if I wasn't around?"

  "About a dozen other pilots, including a couple of cadets who're gonna be giving you competition any day now, especially if you let your mind keep wandering like that."

  Starbuck checked his instrument panel and realigned his viper to link up with Boomer's fast steady course.

  "You know, Boomer, I think I've just come to an important decision. Like you to be the first to know." The sound coming loud and clear over the commline was unmistakably Boomer yawning.

  "I can pass on it," he said. "Your big decisions usually have all the emotional weight of a hot air balloon. And I don't choose that comparison lightly."

  "You're feeling nasty today. Which is to say, your normal self."

  "So okay, tell me your big decision."

  "I was thinking of what my old flight instructor once said. His words just came back to me. I could almost hear him whispering over my shoulder."

  "You sure you haven't got a stowaway in your cockpit?"

  "No, Boomer, I'm serious. I'm tired of bantering, I want to talk straight."

  Boomer, always sensitive to a buddy's mood, responded in a friendly and quite gentle voice:

  "Yeah, know what you mean. I'm tired of bantering, too. Lately, case you hadn't noticed, our bantering is getting a bit tired as it is. Tell me what the ol' flight instructor said."

  "Well, he used to have this big bass voice, and he said to me one day when we were both getting smashed on ambrosa and wellwater: 'Starbuck, a viper pilot only flies three vipers. The one he trains in, the one he escapes from, and the one he dies in.' "

  Boomer paused a moment before commenting: "Yeah, I see. A little pompous, but not inappropriate. Look, Starbuck, it's been a long flight, a long war. You're exhausted and it's your exhaustion that's doing most of the talking."

  "Maybe. Anyway, I decided. Gambling and socializing, that's what's doing me in. In between alerts it's all gambling and socializing. I haven't even read a book in—in I don't know how long. So I'm giving up gambling and socializing. As of now."

  "Look, Starbuck, in that narrow cockpit you can't even hustle a good game—and, unless you do have a pretty stowaway on board, the socializing gets pretty difficult—as of now."

  "I'm serious, Boomer."

  "So am I. And I seriously don't believe you. The gambling, maybe you can swear off that. A tiny maybe. But the socializing? Not a chance, Lance. Uh, uh. Not a chance."

  "You wanna bet?"

  Boomer laughed and seemed about to throw a smart remark back along the commline when alarm came suddenly into his voice:

  "Starbuck! The scanner!"

  Starbuck glanc
ed down at his scanner and saw a thick patch of blips that unmistakably indicated Cylon raiders bearing down on them. He tensed his body and saw one of them appear near him as if by magic. The attacker was swooping down at him, highside.

  "Look out, Starbuck!" Boomer shouted, just before a massive flowering of laser bursts filled the space around him. Miraculously, not a single shot hit the mark. Starbuck maneuvered his viper out of range, then whipped it around and went after his attackers. The Cylons in the raider could not react in time and Starbuck's shots hit their ship, first in the tail, then amidships, then in the nose. A brilliant flash and the Cylon ship had become miniscule pieces of space garbage.

  "Starbuck! I'm in trouble!" shouted Boomer.

  "You're in trouble? Well, I got appointments elsewhere but I guess I'll have to break them."

  Starbuck made quick destructive work of the pair of Cylon ships that were trying to trap Boomer, but suddenly the space around him seemed crowded with Cylon spacecraft. For a moment the battle seemed to Starbuck like one of the simulation games on the Galactica rec level, where a series of optional kills materialized on a trio of screens and the game-player had to choose which one to dispose of in an instant or be zapped by all the attackers. Split second timing won the game. In this very real battle, Starbuck's split second timing obtained a pair of kills, but he was a shade too slow with the third marauder. As he went after it in a high-G turn, it got off a number of shots at him and suddenly his viper was rocking with the impact of a resounding lowside hit. The gauges and scanners on his control panel started throbbing, needles racking across all the numbers, flashing erratic rows of information. Red danger lights pulsed rhythmically, indicating that the main damage was in the viper's underbelly. Frantically, Starbuck's fingers hit switches and punched buttons, trying to engage systems that would bypass the ruined area. But the damage was too extensive, the bypass network could not function.

  "Boomer! I'm—"

  "I can see. But I got some problems of my own, old buddy. Momentarily. And here they come now. Okay fellows, line up. Oh, fine. You're fulfilling your secret fantasy of becoming sitting targets, right? There's one . . . two . . . three . . . ah, a good maneuver for a Cylon. My congratulations. The smart Cylon's the one that flees. Good-bye, red-light."

  Starbuck had no time to observe any of Boomer's victories, but—knowing his wingmate's considerable flying skills intimately—he easily envisioned the lightning quick and delicately accurate maneuvers that had brought about the triple kill.

  "Okay, Starbuck, pressure's off . . . for the moment. Now what's bothering your head, huh? Oh, my my. You okay?"

  The concern and caution in Boomer's voice frightened Starbuck more than the impact of the hit had.

  "I'll answer that after you tell me how bad it is. No little white lies, Boomer."

  Boomer let out a low whistle, then said:

  "Tell the truth, Starbuck, I've seen crashed vipers that looked in better shape than yours does now. The undercarriage is, well, completely gone, and you've got stuff—wires, cables, panels—sticking out a hole. All hanging out to dry, so to speak."

  "None of my emergency systems are operating."

  "Not surprised. It's a mystery to me how you can still transmit. Look, it's just a hop, skip, and jump to the A4477 star system, according to my scanner. We passed it on the way out. Think you can make it? I can stick by you till you find a place to land."

  "Well, since my joystick feels disconnected, about all I can do is fly straight ahead."

  "I'll be wetnurse. We'll get you there, bucko."

  "Maybe you better head back. My old instructor used to say, 'Get going before you run out of fuel.' No sense both of us going down, with no word back to the fleet."

  "Starbuck . . ."

  "Sticking with me is a bad bet."

  "But you gave up gambling, remember? Anyway, I've seen you grab a pile with some of the worst bets in the history of casinos. I'll take care of myself. Always do. Okay, I've got it all licked. Straight ahead course, to A4477, you can reach a small delta-class planet named Antila. And you lucked out again, don't know how you do it. Stats on my charts indicate Antila's a veritable garden spot. Breathable air, tropical splendor, everything. I don't hear you thanking me."

  "Wait'll I land."

  It seemed only moments before the small planet came into physical view. Starbuck's eyelids were drooping. It was possible, he realized, that his air units were malfunctioning as part of the damage and that he'd blacked out a few times during the trip. He certainly felt woozy.

  "Found something interesting, Starbuck. Interesting and odd."

  "What is it?"

  "My info about Antila. It shows there was once a human colony there, but data about it is classified. Antila was declared off limits some time ago. Survey report indicates danger but the reason for that is withheld."

  "Well, Boomer, I'll let you know what I find out. Maybe there'll be another great gambling casino like the one on Carillon. You remember, where the winners were liable to become quick Ovion dinners."

  "Don't remind me."

  From above, Antila was an impressive sight, its land areas looking something like a patchwork quilt in pastel colors.

  "Okay Boomer, take off. Report back."

  "Not until I know you're down."

  "Down? Where else I got to go? If I don't make it, I promise you'll be the first to know."

  "I'll be back with a clean uniform and some get well quick cards before you know it."

  "On the uniform—make sure it's the one with the blue piping. You know, just in case I meet a lady."

  "Thought you gave up socializing along with gambling . . ."

  Boomer started to laugh, then stopped abruptly.

  "What'm I laughing about? With your luck, you're probably going to fall into a harem down there. Second thought, I think my best shot is to come down with you. I'm tired of being the messenger, while you drop into the good life and—"

  "Boomer!"

  "Okay, okay. I'm going."

  "Be seeing you. I hope."

  "No doubt about it."

  Starbuck did not even look up to see Boomer peel off and head into the distance. He was getting woozier. The ship seemed to bounce roughly as it passed into Antila's atmosphere. With half its systems out of whack, it was lucky for Starbuck that his viper didn't simply burn out when it encountered atmosphere. He tried the joystick again. It slid around aimlessly in its square slot. He found if he pressed it forward he could make the nose of his ship dip slightly, a maneuver he performed as he slipped by a thin cloud layer. Below him the patchwork quilt seemed to fade a bit and change into greenery, water, jungle. Looked like he was headed for the jungle part. He pulled the joystick back, hoping against hope that he could level the viper off and choose his own landing spot. There was no response from it. If he pulled at it, he felt it would slide upwards right out of its slot. The nose of the ship seemed pointed downwards, at too precarious an angle. This wasn't going to be a crash landing, it'd be a full-fledged crash. Good thing Boomer's not here to see me buy the agricultural complex, Starbuck thought, goodbye old buddy, good—

  Starbuck blacked out just as his ship seemed to reach the luminescently green tops of the trees in this bizarre Antilean jungle forest.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For the third time this work period, Spectre's chief aide broke down. First its red light slid to a gradual stop and blinked out. Then its arms and legs stopped functioning, leaving it in a grotesque pose that might have been amusing had it not been so inconvenient and irritating. One of its arms pointed forward, the other flung back; one leg was raised to take a step, the other was flat to the ground. Spectre watched it teeter for a moment, then slowly, agonizingly fall forward, landing on the ground with a loud thump and a series of small pings. Spectre had a momentary urge to kick the out-of-commission centurion in the chest with his heavy metal foot, but then he might do something damaging to his own circuits. The warriors of his garrison would be working c
orrectly if it were not for the excruciating humidity of Antila. Spectre did not mind that his aide had malfunctioned, malfunctioning was a fact of life here, but the series of small pings annoyed him greatly. They meant that this Cylon construct would have to go into the shop to be worked on. It would probably be out of service for at least another work period. Spectre's garrison was already understaffed. Almost half his warriors were down, all at various stages of being fixed in the shop. Most of the repair technicians, whom Spectre had taken care to keep in a controlled-atmosphere environment, were fortunately in good working order, although occasionally subject to leaks from the outside air.

  Spectre beeped his thumb and a nearby pair of centurions came running.

  "Torso malfunction, I believe," he said to the medical team. "Take him to a pulmonary circuit specialist."

  Obeying instantly, the centurion medical team lifted the body of their fallen comrade and, at a lumbering walk, carried him away. Raising and beeping his thumb again, Spectre signalled for another aide, and one joined him quickly.

  "Your name?" Spectre asked the new arrival.

  He usually forgot the names he had given his creations. How could he remember? They were all assemblages of machinery decked out in identical Cylon uniforms. He had tried name tags for a while, but the printing tended to be quickly obscured by mudstains and rust. This planet was against him, clearly. Days of rain, continual mud; muddy, rusting warriors; an army of muddy children making their loathsome sneak attacks on the fuel dumps and artillery depots. Those children—they'd even taken to ambushing patrols. Spectre had to cut down on the number of patrols, since he could not afford to lose personnel that way. The children dragged their victims into the bushes and undergrowth, threw them into the murky waters of the swamps, sometimes even dismantled them—all of which made repairs impossible and further depleted Spectre's depopulated garrison.