CHAPTER THREE

If the tension on the command bridge had been flammable, one spark could have destroyed the entire Galactica. Athena, in an instinctive affectionate move, edged closer to her father, just out of range of his peripheral vision, simply to be there in case he needed her for anything.

Starbuck’s hands had nervously fumbled with his flight helmet as he and Boomer reported in to the commander. Their words, although properly formal and military in phrasing, came out in angry bursts. At one point, Tigh put a calming hand on Starbuck’s arm to steady him. Apollo could not stand still and he paced a small area of the bridge, sliding one hand along a railing as he walked. At the end of Starbuck and Boomer’s report, Adama broke the shocked silence by saying to Athena:

“Show the tape of what Starbuck picked up from Cree’s scanner.”

Everyone on the bridge cringed visibly when the pictures of Shields’ viper being blown up were shown. Then, as Cree faced his ship toward the summit of the mountain and the awesome laser cannon was revealed, everyone inhaled sharply or swallowed hard or simply gaped in wonder.

“Good Lord!” Adama cried. “Athena, freeze on that weapon.”

Quickly Athena stopped the tape and reversed it a few frames, then adjusted the resolution of the picture. Knowing her father would want figures about the weapon, she worked out the calculations immediately.

“Sir, I have a fix on the scale. The ramparts are fourteen metrons high. Destructive power nearly infinite within two hectares.”

“We’re just out of its range right now,” Tigh whispered, examining Athena’s figures. “It can’t zero in on us accurately, although a random shot could still hit us.”

“It could destroy the Galactica in a single pulse!” Adama said softly.

Apollo hit the railing beside him with a hard ham-fisted slap that rattled it on its moorings.

“It’s fantastic!” he said. “The Cylons are a highly advanced, mechanized culture, yes, but their technology can’t have reached those proportions. Their weaponry tends to be less—”

Starbuck interrupted angrily:

“Can’t say it matters much to me who built it. It’s there, and it took two of my pilots!”

Apollo and Starbuck glared at each other, each spoiling for a fight in their frustration over the deaths of Shields, Bow, and probably Cree. Breaking the line of sight between them, Adama stepped in front of Starbuck and said calmly:

“Combat losses are my responsibility. You took the only course of action you could by returning to the Galactica with these scans.”

“Tell that to Cadet Cree!” he shouted furiously. Then, catching the disapproval in his commander’s eyes, he added: “Sir.”

Adama, his eyes saddened, nodded. Athena knew her father could always sympathize with insubordination that originated from anger over combat deaths. He turned to Colonel Tigh and said:

“That’s it then—this is why the Cylons squeezed us into this course.”

Apollo, leaning on the railing, said:

“How long until their pursuit force catches up to us?”

“Depends on where their base-ships are,” Adama said. “We have too much fire power for their attack squadrons. They’ll hang back, make their occasional sneak attacks. But you can wager it won’t be long until they bring up base-ships.”

The officers of the bridge fell silent, until Starbuck finally spoke up:

“Commander, Blue Squadron can take out that gun.”

That’s Starbuck, Athena thought. Although he advises all cadets never to volunteer, he’s always the first to step forward when the Galactica is threatened.

“To send in a squadron of fighters would be mass suicide,” Adama said. “You’ve seen what that weapon can do.”

“Still,” Tigh said, pointing at the star map to the last known location of the Cylon pursuit force, “we cannot turn back.”

“No,” Adama said.

“What’s left?” said Boomer.

Adama turned to Athena and ordered:

“Put up the geologic scan of the asteroid’s surface.”

“Yes, sir.”

Adama examined the subsequent picture for a long moment, then pointed toward it, saying:

“We could land a small, highly specialized task force down on the surface. Find some weakness in their defense. Destroy the weapon.”

Tigh, studying the geologic scan, said:

“We can’t be sure there is a weakness…”

Adama nodded, raised his eyebrows querulously.

“Risk is high,” he said. “As always, it seems.”

“But… but that’s suicide,” Starbuck muttered.

Adama glanced at Starbuck, no anger for the young man’s outspokenness visible in his eyes.

“I cannot see any alternative,” Adama said. “I am open to other suggestions.”

All anyone on the bridge could offer were a few coughs and a couple of murmurs.

“Program a search for qualified personnel,” Adama said to a communications officer. “Anyone experienced in ice-planet survival. Experts in mountaineering. Specialists in heavy demolitions. Once the readout is assimilated, we will convene in the Briefing Room. Until then, everyone not on duty right now return to your cabins and get in as much sack-time as you can. Once the mission is initiated, there might not be time for any of us to rest.”

Athena exchanged a worried glance with Apollo, each of them sending to the other the message that the one person who should rest, their father, would be the only one to disobey that particular general order.

Light… red light… moving slowly from side to side against an icy metallic background… blurs… cold… intense cold freezing blood, stopping the flow of blood… the red light coming closer… Shields’ scream as the beam hit his ship… all the pieces of his ship… how many pieces… uncountable… could they be put back together like in a puzzle… Shields dead, Bow dead, no that can’t be… the red light up against my eyes, trying to draw me into it… red light, Cylons, the stupid red light on their helmets… cold… red light… cold everywhere… cold…

Cree came awake suddenly. The red light interfering with his dream was on the helmet of a Cylon staring down at his prone body. Everything came back to him in a rush of memory. The beam of light, the destruction of his buddies’ ships, his own viper being forced down. The swirl of large-flaked snow as he climbed out of his ship and faced the four Cylons who surrounded him, their quartet of moving red lights alarmingly eerie in the cold gloom. One centurion had ordered him disarmed, and two others had performed the deed before Cree’s seemingly frozen arms had been able to resist. What was it the centurion in command had said before the others dragged him away and he had lost consciousness? “Take him to Vulpa,” the alien had said. He had definitely wanted Cree to understand, for he had spoken it in the language of humans and not of Cylons.

The Cylon now examining him was different from the ones that had captured him. There were more wide black strips across the metallic portions of his uniform. The black lines indicated rank in a Cylon officer, Cree had been instructed back at the academy. Then this one was a leader of the Cylons on this icy world. A much-decorated Warrior of the Elite Class, if his instructors had been correct in their interpretations of alien heraldry. What was a Warrior of the Elite Class doing on a distant barren icy outpost like this one? And where was the fleet? And did they know Cree came from the fleet? Maybe not. A cadet’s uniform differed from a warrior’s, and there was no Galactica insignia on it.

Quickly Cree reviewed in his mind the lessons he’d been taught about proper behavior in the event of capture by the enemy. Never give more than your name, rank, and classification numbers. Never succumb to the transparent attempt of an enemy to engage you in casual conversation. Always remember that you are a colonial fighting man and every kind of dealing you have with the enemy must be regarded as combat. Never speak at all unless there is no other choice.

Cree remembered his instructor pausing at this point in the lecture. “However,” he had said, “in the event of torture, the fleet does not require your compliance with any of these injunctions. We would prefer you to withhold information, but you will not be condemned if torture extracts it from you.” Another cadet had raised his hand and asked if perhaps suicide might be better than succumbing to torture. The instructor had replied, “It might, but choices like that cannot be dictated. The fleet recommends survival over suicide.” Cree vowed now to let the Cylons kill him before revealing anything to them—nevertheless, a voice deep within his brain seemed to whisper, don’t be so hasty.

The Cylon commander identified himself as First Centurion Vulpa, then in a guttural brusque voice said:

“You’re a colonial warrior?”

Cree almost answered yes, and proud to be one—but that would be a response, a break in the armor of silence. Even though he greatly desired to stand up to this arrogant Cylon officer, he kept his teeth clenched and gave a hate-filled glare as his only answer.

Vulpa didn’t seem at all disturbed by the cadet’s obstinacy. He rose calmly from his command chair and approached Cree, speaking briskly:

“Only one vestige of your race remains, the battlestar Galactica and her fleet. Your insignificant, weak-willed, stupid, lice-ridden group of—”

“Go rust yourself,” Cree interrupted, then cursed himself for breaking his vow of silence so soon. Such a childishly impulsive reaction did no honor to the cause of the captured colonial warrior.

Keeping in his emotions had always been difficult for him. Back at the academy Shields was always dropping by his cubicle and giving him gentle lectures about caution, about not questioning the lecturers so much. But what did Shields know, he had always thought. Shields didn’t long to be a command officer. Like he said, he just wanted to fly the nuts and bolts off his viper.

The smiling, chubby-cheeked face of Shields seemed to materialize in front of Cree now, as if replacing his own reflection in the shiny metal of the Cylon’s silvery uniform. Then he saw Shields in his cockpit, then he saw Shields’ ship exploding into a million disintegrating fragments, and his eyes filled with tears. He blinked quickly twice, hoping that the Cylon hadn’t noticed. Who could tell what Cylons noticed? What did they see with even? Was that red light drifting so lazily from side to side in his helmet an aid to Cylon eyes, perhaps a focusing mechanism that, in its scanning, brought a single vivid picture to the monster’s organs of sight?

If Vulpa perceived Cree’s tears, there was no way of telling. The Cylon merely continued to circle him and ask his infernal questions.

“How many viper fighters left in the fleet?”

Wouldn’t you like to know, Cree thought. And wouldn’t the information that we have discovered methods to manufacture new vipers in our foundry ships be of use to you? Cree tried to push such thoughts out of his mind. Formulating the answers the monster was trying to get out of him was a short step from actually articulating them.

Vulpa stared directly at Cree, his red light now gliding faster from side to side along the dark line at the top of his helmet.

“You are made of flesh and blood, human. You have a nervous system which carries impulses, the sensation of pain. Intense pain. Agony.” He leaned his head closer to Cree, nearly formed the Cylon version of a whisper: “How many combat ships in the fleet?”

Cree, struggling to suppress his curses, kept silent. Vulpa leaned back, motioned to the two guards and another pair of the aliens who stood by a nearby entranceway.

“Do not let him lose consciousness,” Vulpa said, then turned around, returned to his command chair, and sat down in the awkward cumbersome way of the Cylon. The other Cylons, arms raised, with many distorted reflections of Cree flashing off their outer armor, closed in on the young cadet.

Starbuck stood to the side as the others, huddled together, nervously awaited the results of the computer search. He could not stop thinking of the three lost cadets, especially Cree. He remembered each of Cree’s naive and, at the time, annoying questions, and now wished he’d been less blunt, more avuncular with the curious trainee. Cree was probably dead, and whatever Adama said about command responsibility, the fault was Starbuck’s. He didn’t like drawing to a losing hand time and again, didn’t want to chance losing another cadet.

Rapidly the computer sorted out the names of people whose qualifications fit the assignment as entered in the program. Athena ripped out the readout copy and said:

“Five specialists. Three support.”

Adama nodded.

“Lock it in,” he said.

“Here’s the roster,” Athena said, handing her father the paper. He examined it briefly, then thrust it at Starbuck.

“This is the team, Starbuck. You and Boomer go get them. They might be a trifle recalcitrant. Give them a good pep talk, okay?”

As Starbuck started to leave the bridge, he glanced at the list. He stopped abruptly and whirled on Adama.

“Commander, there must be some mistake.”

Adama raised his eyebrows, looking as if he had no suspicion of what the lieutenant meant. Starbuck moved closer to him and whispered:

“These are—they’re criminals. They’re aboard the grid barge.”

A hint of a smile from the commander before he whispered back:

“You have the authority to collect them, Lieutenant.”

“Yes sir, I know, but—”

“You have your orders, Lieutenant.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

A worried look on his face, Starbuck gestured to Boomer to follow him. Prisoners? he thought. Why in the twelve worlds of blessed memory would the computer come up with a list of prisoners? Grid-rats. Barge-lice. Is this the tribute we’re giving to those three doomed cadets, sending a bunch of criminal misfits on a mission of grave importance? Starbuck shook his head from side to side, wondering if the computer was suddenly under enemy control, and if this was a part of the trap that the commander had earlier spoken of.

“What’s the matter?” Boomer muttered as they strode down the corridor. “Something serious?”

“No, we’re just handing the safety of the fleet over to a bunch of murderers and cutthroats.”

Boomer scowled.

“Well,” he said, “as long as it isn’t serious.”