CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“I have reports now that your puny mission on the surface of the ice planet Tairac is failing,” Imperious Leader said to the Starbuck, who seemed to be half-sitting and half-lying on his simulated chair.

“That right? You capture everybody?”

“Well, not everybody yet, but soon.”

“How about me, am I on the mission? You capture me?”

“I do not know of your presence on the mission.”

“I probably am. I manage to get myself in trouble in spite of myself. If you haven’t captured me, the mission isn’t failing.”

“Do you think you make a significant difference?”

“Any one of us makes a significant difference as long as we’re alive. But I’ve always got a little edge. Luck, we call it. You guys don’t know how to utilize luck.”

“If it is not a tangible factor, we will not apply it to our strategy.”

“Your mistake. It’s tangible but you’ll never see it.”

Imperious Leader chose not to pursue that line of thought.

“One of your people is to be executed, another will be eventually.”

“Oh? What’re their names?”

“Thane and Cree.”

“I don’t know them.”

“But they are a part of the information we—”

“Recall that, when I was programmed, it was based on the most recent information. This reproduction of me doesn’t know of Thane or Cree yet, because they were not part of your latest information from captured prisoners. Your data banks can’t get milk from a daggit, after all.”

Imperious Leader wondered if the simulator, perhaps forced into overload in maintaining the Starbuck figure, was now itself actually talking back to him.

First Centurion Vulpa hoped that news of the explosion had not somehow reached Imperious Leader. It had seemed uncanny to him how Imperious Leader sometimes knew what had happened even though no one had transmitted him information concerning the subject. Perhaps, Vulpa thought, that also was a function of the third brain that he so desired. The prisoner’s suicide made no sense to him, and frightened him a bit. He could counter human acts that conformed with the knowledge Cylons had of the species, but an act like the prisoner’s, suicidal sabotage, was beyond his ken. Vulpa also did not want Imperious Leader to know the extent of casualties, the depletion of his already understaffed garrison.

“Stand by for a message from the High Command,” the communications officer announced.

Vulpa turned to his telecom screen. All the other Cylons stood in a rigid silence. As the contact was made, the image on the screen was first a scramble of dots and lines, and then it slowly resolved into the awesome many-eyed face of Imperious Leader. The face was not clear, because the Leader sat in shadow.

“First Centurion Vulpa!” Imperious Leader barked.

“By your command,” Vulpa answered, according to the honored ritual.

“The time for our final attack is nearing. Our base-ships are approaching the Galactica and its fleet. The major assault on them is imminent. They will be in full range of the pulsar cannon soon. What is the status of the installation on Mount Hekla?”

“Fully operative.”

“Good. Initiate random firing. Sweep the entire corridor. You may be able to catch the Galactica when it first enters your sector. Begin at once.”

“By your command.”

“I expect no less than the annihilation of that battlestar and the entire fleet. The way will then be clear for your return to the executive-officer staff on the command base-ship, Vulpa.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Imperious Leader’s image disintegrated into an array of swarming and swimming bits, Vulpa considered the meaning of the Leader’s last statement. With the success of the operation Vulpa’s days of exile on this dreadful ice planet were nearly over. He swung around in his command chair and ordered the officers still standing at attention:

“Transmit those orders to Summit Station. Program for automatic fire. Random sweeps covering the corridor. Tell the gunnery squad I will be joining them to guide the entire operation. I will take the supply ship up to the station. Alert the control tower there to prepare for my arrival.”

“What about the human invasion force?” an officer asked.

“I doubt they’re much danger anymore. But double the guard at all strategic points, at the garrison here and the command post, and send a whole platoon to guard the elevator accessway, should they get foolish and think they can use it.”

Vulpa noticed Cree still lying unconscious in his corner.

“We have no further need of that one. Take him to a cold cell. I will examine his cortex later. Is the supply ship ready?”

“Yes, First Centurion.”

Vulpa swaggered out of the room. Two of the remaining Cylons picked up Cree, his body still limp, and dragged him out of the command-post headquarters.