Richard Hatch - Battlestar Galactica 02 - Warhawk
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2024-12-19
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Battlestar Galactica
Warhawk by Richard Hatch
Prologue
VALOR DELIGHTED IN THE STARSHINE and the silence of the
celestial sea. He was in stationary orbit around the third moon of the
planet Xerik-12, and had been there enjoying the tranquility for much
longer than he knew he should. He was overdue to return to the outpost on
that moon that had been established by his people, the Sky.
Valor had just begun his descent toward the lunar atmosphere when
the stellar serenity was shattered by a horrible psychic scream— a scream
that quickly became the agonizing wail of a pair of his Sky brothers in
their death throes.
Then there was silence once more.
The Sky were a gentle race. Peaceful and loving. To them, there were
few troubles that could not be solved by soaring through the air of their
home planet, or even the distant worlds and moons upon which they had
built their embassies. Still fewer existed that would not be cured by a brief
sail on the astral winds.
A gentle race.
But not a foolish one. The Sky knew that their benevolence was not
shared by all of their galactic neighbors. And knowing this, they had
become a race of warriors.
The instant Valor heard the first psychic cries, pseudopods extended
from the front tip of his body to alter his course. What surrounded him
was part starship, part armor. It followed quite closely the contours of his
body, and served as a protective covering as well. Even without their
armored shells, the Sky could propel themselves through the air, and
space; but the armor had its own engines, which made long-distance
space travel less dangerous and, of course, faster.
Even the strongest Sky could not fly without rest indefinitely.
Valor could feel the power in his armor, the way its plating conformed
to the wide, flat, muscular "wings" that made up the halves of his body—a
slightly swollen crescent moon, tips forward. At the convex curve of the
crescent shape—Valor's backside—was the green fire of his armor's
internal engine. And at the midpoint of the inner curve, between the tips,
sat the hard-light plasma cannon that was his only weapon. The Sky were
one with their armor.
As his pseudopods slid over the interior controls, Valor spread his
consciousness out into space. He reached across the void, searching the
area from which those screams had come. He found nothing there but
cold space.
Nothing.
And then…something.
What Valor found was pure, unadulterated hate. It radiated across
space over the third moon of Xerik-12, and Valor understood immediately
what it meant. He sensed the intent of those hate-filled minds, and he
knew that he had to act right away.
With the force of his mind, he added to the power of his engine, and
propelled himself even more rapidly, closing the space between his own
armored form and the craft—more than a dozen—that even now swept
down upon the Sky embassy on that third moon.
He traversed the distance as quickly as he could. As he grew nearer,
starlight glittering off his armor, the cold vacuum of space sliding past
him, he began to get a better sense of what he was dealing with.
As if he hadn't known all along.
The Chitain.
They were a lethal race, savage warriors with naturally armored bodies
and poisonous bone-tipped tails. Their vessels were equally lethal: tapered
cylinders which housed a three-member flight crew and another trio on
board wearing atmosphere suits who would act as infantry if the ship
landed. But these three had another function as well. If a Chitain craft
managed to damage an enemy vessel, they would synch up to that ship
and leave their own to attack it.
The Chitain were scavengers. Nothing was wasted. Ships were taken
and captives eaten or enslaved, depending upon the palatability of their
race.
These were the thoughts most prominent in Valor's mind as he dipped
his left wing and began moving on a path to try to intercept the Chitain
attack on the embassy below. But one thought stood out among them all.
Betrayers!
His mind screamed it at them, and a pair of Chitain vessels broke off
from the attack to turn and face him. They were not a psi-sensitive race,
but any sentient being would have felt the brunt of Valor's telepathic fury
in that moment. They knew he was there. They were coming 'round to face
him.
Betrayers! he psi-shouted again, and ignored the two that had broken
off to meet him. Instead, he headed after the main body of the attackers.
The other two would lose precious time in altering their course. By then,
he might have had an impact on the attack force.
Valor's fury was genuine. The Chitain were native to Xerik-7. Were, in
fact, the only sentient race native to the Xerik system, and it was an
embassy to them that the Sky had built on the third moon of Xerik-12. It
had been a peaceful and mutually beneficial relationship. Until now.
What disturbed him most was the utter unexpectedness of this attack.
Certainly the Chitain were a vicious race, but there had been nothing to
indicate they would make war. No slight nor insult to begin it. Only
duplicity.
Fury drove Valor on as the combination of engine and telekinesis
powered him forward. There were ten Chitain ships ahead of him,
dropping down toward the moonbase, which had already become visible.
The thin atmosphere began to drag on the ships, and a bright flame
burned briefly around each of them, and around Valor as well.
The Chitain craft were unlike any other space-faring vessels Valor had
ever encountered. Though the warrior race had shared some of its
technology and culture with the Sky, they had never allowed their ships to
be inspected up close. As such, it had been impossible to determine if the
many tendrils snaking from the nose of a Chitain ship were actually
bio-mechanoid, or merely appeared that way. Certainly, it would take
particularly advanced technology to cause mere machines to move the way
those tendrils did.
They were, based on outward appearances, the chief mode of
navigation and propulsion for Chitain craft. Each ship had a complement
of at least twelve such tendrils, protruding from the nose and curling out
and back, from which a small jet of crimson energy burned. The rear of
each Chitain craft was equally curious, for it was equipped with a tail that
mimicked those of the Chitain themselves. The wide metallic stinger
generally curled under and forward, and fired upon enemies from that
position, but it could be moved to fire in other directions as well.
Odd craft they were, reminiscent in a way of lifeforms the Sky had
studied from the oceans of various worlds in their quadrant of the galaxy.
But devastating. Just as their builders were.
With the pressure of the moon's atmosphere on him now, Valor gave up
any pretense of flight. Instead, he threw himself toward the lunar surface
and the Sky embassy there with the ardor of a lover, using his ship, his
mind, and gravity.
Below him, the Chitain craft fell into pattern to begin a strafing run on
the embassy. Ahead, Valor saw several Sky approaching from the distant
embassy—that was not yet in sight—but only two of them were armored.
The others were flying unprotected, apparently hoping to draw fire away
from the embassy by sacrificing themselves—which was what they must
do, for the sake of the Sky. And, indeed, several of the Chitain set off after
these new arrivals. But the others continued on.
Inside the shell of his armor, Valor's pseudopods flowed over the
navigational controls. But when the moment came, and he leveled out
behind the Chitain attackers, he gave the command telepathically.
Fire! he thought. The ship that enshrouded him responded to his
command. Green fire sprang from the crux of his metal shell, where
outthrust wings met in devastating weaponry. As if it were the hand of an
angry deity, the green flame snaked out and touched the rearmost Chitain
craft.
The vessel exploded.
Valor's blood raced and in his mind, he cried out in triumph. The cry
was meant for his people, to reassure and encourage them. But he did not
balk at the idea that it would also be felt by the Chitain. He wanted them
to know he was there, that he had just taken the lives of six of their race.
With a brief moment of focus, Valor sent a mental image to all of the
Chitain who were attacking the embassy.
An image of their ships aflame, exploding. Then another image, of
thousands of Sky warriors sweeping down over the surface of Xerik-7
destroying Chitain cities.
So intent was Valor upon his attack, upon projecting his ferocity, that
he nearly did not sense the hatred and arrogance that at that moment fell
in behind him. The pair of Chitain craft had come in on a dangerous
vector, dropped almost too close to the lunar surface, and were even now
gaining on Valor.
The engine tendrils that spread out and back from the face of each craft
pulled tightly to the sides of the ships, cutting down on atmospheric
resistance. Stingers slung beneath the Chitain attackers began to glow
crimson.
They fired in unison. Red plasma blasts burned across the distance
between predator and prey, on a direct line for Valor's armored shell. But
in the instant they would have destroyed his ship, and taken his life, Valor
was no longer there.
He had manipulated the minds of the Chitain pilots. They had seen him
where he was not, and reacted as such. It was a trick he could use again if
necessary, but with each change of focus, he lost speed. And if he hoped to
stop the attack on the embassy…
The embassy.
They were nearly upon it. Valor put all of his energy into speed, drove
his ship's engine without a care for caution or consequence. The Chitain
behind him kept up, their weapons trained on him again.
Valor fired. Two more of the Chitain ships ahead of him were destroyed
by his assault.
The pair on his tail fired as well, and he had no chance to use his
telepathy to distract them. The crimson flames burned toward Valor, an
easy target in his shining shell.
And passed by him on either side.
His spirit soared as Valor realized what had happened—they had
thought to be clever, firing on either side in the belief that one of them
was certain to hit the Sky warrior. Lucky again. But his luck was sure to
run out quickly.
They rose above a small craggy peak on the lunar surface, and then the
embassy lay before them. The enemies in pursuit of Valor's ship might fire
again at any time. He knew he had only one more chance, and then he
would have to pull away and come 'round again.
Valor fired and destroyed a fourth Chitain craft.
Then he urged his ship up, up through the lunar atmosphere and out
into the vacuum of space once more. He could sense the brightness of
stars; in his mind he could see their brilliance.
The two ships that had been pursuing him had not turned to follow.
Instead, they had continued on with their fellow warriors to begin their
attack on the embassy.
No! Valor thought.
As quickly as he was able, he began to turn, planning to knife down
toward the embassy and attack the Chitain from above.
But even as he turned, Valor could sense them.
The main body of the Chitain fleet—six troop carriers and nearly one
hundred fighters—forged through space toward him… to ward the Sky
embassy on the moon below.
Valor fired.
In return, dozens of Chitain stingers fired crimson death.
Chapter One
APOLLO COULDN'T BREATHE.
He stared into the burning, feral eyes of Gar'Tokk, leader of the
Borellian Nomen, and saw death. Gar'Tokk's thick arms were wrapped
around Commander Apollo's chest, squeezing.
With a grunt, Apollo felt a rib give way.
Around them, in an arena on the starship Ligeia, a crowd of hundreds
roared with bloodlust. Apollo was too busy to glance around, and he was
glad. He wouldn't want to see the fear for his life that was no doubt etched
on the faces of his family and friends. They ought to know he wouldn't die
on them—Apollo didn't like to let people down.
Now, if he could just figure out how to survive the next few seconds,
maybe he wouldn't mind so much when Starbuck told him what a
mindwipe he'd been to get himself into this situation in the first place.
Gar'Tokk roared in fury and triumph, squeezed tighter, and snapped
another rib.
Twenty centari earlier, Apollo had boarded the Ligeia with Captain
Starbuck and Lieutenant Troy. The three men had walked in relative
silence toward the massive forum at the center of the ship. While most
sporting events were held on board the Rising Star—including all Triad
tournaments—the large open area of the Ligeia was used for theatrical
productions and musical performances.
The event planned for this evening was a bit different, however.
It was a death match.
"You can't do this, Father!" Troy snapped angrily.
Apollo shook his head. "We've been over this, Troy. If you objected, you
ought to have stayed behind."
"Stayed…" Troy paused, mouth open slightly, then grabbed Apollo by
the arm and stopped him short, turned him so that they were face to face.
Apollo stared into his son's blue eyes, unwilling to look away, to
acknowledge the logic Troy employed. It wouldn't do any good. Logic had
nothing to do with the proceedings of that night.
"What I should have done is told Sheba and Athena about this
insanity!" Troy said, and searched his father's eyes for some capitulation.
"You've got to be sniffing vapors, or something. What if he kills you?"
"Then he kills me," Apollo replied. "Athena is fully capable of
commanding this fleet. We all know that."
"That's hardly the point!" Troy shouted.
Apollo sighed and stepped around his son, continued walking toward
the amphitheater with Star buck just behind him.
"Starbuck!" Troy snapped. "You talk to him. You're his best friend,
you've got to tell him how crazy this is."
With a small chuckle, Starbuck stopped in his tracks. Apollo kept
walking. It was too late for him to change his mind. The repercussions
would be swift and debilitating. Word of the death match had yet to reach
the rest of the fleet, but if he backed out, word of his cowardice most
certainly would. While most would think him a fool for agreeing to it in
the first place, those very same people would be the first to condemn him
should he withdraw.
Troy kept pace with Apollo, glancing over his shoulder at Starbuck.
Finally, curiosity won out and Apollo turned to see what had caused
Starbuck to pause.
Starbuck stood a few metrons back in the corridor, leaning against the
saligium wall with a fumarello clenched firmly between his teeth. He lit a
match and ignited the end of the smoke. Apollo raised an eyebrow.
"What are you waiting for, Captain?" he asked.
"The kid's right, Commander," Starbuck replied.
Any shadow of amusement disappeared from Starbuck's face at that
moment. The maverick, the joker, the charmer, the gambler—he was all of
those things, but he was also the best pilot in the fleet and the best friend
of its commander. And he looked every centimetron the part. Until half a
yahren earlier, when what remained of the human race—in the form of the
Colonial fleet—had come into contact with Cylons once more after a six
yahren break, Starbuck had grown a little soft around the middle.
There was nothing soft about him anymore. Except, Apollo thought, for
the way he remained unable to decide between two women who loved him,
in spite of the tension it often created. Starbuck was lean and fit, an
exemplary Warrior, with only the barest hint of white beginning to show
in his light brown hair. The old charm was still there, but the twinkle in
his eye was informed by a new wisdom that had come to him with the
passing yahren.
Apollo had always respected him, but not always taken what Starbuck
said seriously. That had changed.
"I'm sorry," Apollo said, frowning. "What do you mean, he's right? You
know how important this is."
Starbuck nodded, exhaling a stream of fumarello smoke. "I know how
important you think it is. And I agreed with you that it was important,
until I found out it was a death match."
Apollo walked back toward Starbuck, getting angry himself now. Troy
followed a few steps behind, and even without using the telepathic
abilities that his Kobollian heritage gave him, Apollo could sense the
energy that traveled between his son and Starbuck. They conspired to save
his life. But Apollo didn't believe that his life needed saving.
"You don't think I can win?" Apollo asked.
"Not the point, Commander," Starbuck replied.
"Stop calling me that!" Apollo snapped.
"Sorry," Starbuck shrugged. "Commander." He smiled. "The Borellian
Nomen, what few of them are left on the Icarus now—and what are there,
ten?"
"Nine," Troy volunteered.
"Ah," Starbuck said, nodding again. "So these nine citizens of the
fleet—all of whom, I don't have to remind you, were imprisoned on the
Icarus even before they rebelled against the Quorum, killed a bunch of
wardens and commandeered the ship—you want to show respect for their
culture by agreeing to fight their leader to the death?"
"I accepted his challenge," Apollo replied. "Granted, I didn't know it
was for a death match, but if this is what is necessary to show the Nomen
that there is some honor in their human cousins, what else can I do? If
Gar'Tokk had not turned against Count Iblis when he did, the fleet would
have been destroyed."
Apollo recalled again his meeting with Gar'Tokk several weeks earlier.
Though it had been clear that despite their actions, the Nomen had to be
returned to the prison ship Icarus, the Nomen themselves wanted to be
delivered to the first habitable planet the fleet passed, and allowed to fend
for themselves, just as their ancestors had under the leadership of
Borellus.
"I'm afraid I can't allow that," Apollo had said.
Which was when Gar'Tokk had spoken the words that had disturbed
Apollo.
"What gives you the right to make that decision?" Gar'Tokk had asked.
"We were not subject to Colonial rule while our tribes remained on
Caprica."
"Yet you are here by choice, to escape the Cylons…" Apollo had
countered.
"That was nearly twenty yahren ago," Gar'Tokk growled. "We were
offered an escape and we took it. Now we wish to determine our own
future. And we will. Humans are lesser creatures. You have no right to
hold us."
Of course, in Apollo's mind was the knowledge that the Nomen could be
vicious killers when they set their mind to it. At best, they were
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