Battlestar Galactica 02 - The Cylon Death Machine

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BATTLESTAR GALACTICA-02

THE CYLON DEATH MACHINE

By Glen A. Larson & Robert Thurston

Inc.

Published by arrangement with MCA PUBLISHING,a Division of MCA Inc.

whatsoever. For information address

MCA PUBLISHING, a Division of MCA Inc.

100 Universal City PlazaUniversal City, California 91608

SEN 425-04080-1

BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOKS are published by

Berkley Publishing Corporation

200 Madison Avenue

New York, N. Y. 10016

BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOK ® TM 757,375

Printed in the United States of America

Berkley Edition, JANUARY, 1979

FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:

Croft.

Who is he? Where did he come from? Am I really a partof his memories, or just a substitute for

authority figuresin general? Even when he described the incident where wecrossed paths, and I

pretended to remember it because he needed for me to remember it and I needed him for themission, I

could not recall a single aspect of the brief adventure.

Later, when I had some time, I went to my quarters andrequested fromGalactica's computer a printout

of myjournals covering that time period, the time when heclaimed I'd supervised the capture of his gang

and the shipcontaining their booty while they were fleeing from theirraid on the Cylon platinum mines.

Studying the pages, theonly reference I could find to the incident, or an episodewhich could have been

the incident, was this:

Routine was interrupted today by an apparentpirate ship that stumbled into our sector, seeminglythe

result of a miscalculation in course. Ship tried toescape, but when they had our pursuers in theirsights,

their commander refused to fire on us, andship and crew were easily netted. Tigh says theirholds were

quite rich in plundered cargo. I told himto take care of the matter fairly and to send theprisoners to the

proper judges.

Could that commander have been Croft, could that cargo have been the platinum? Why didn't I record

the name of a man who allowed himself and his gang to be captured rather than firing on his own kind?

Wouldn't the fact thatthe cargo had been Cylon platinum be worth noting?

The note seems to indicate I didn't even see theseparticular brigands, yet Croft insists we had a

face-to-faceconfrontation. I should recall such a meeting vividly. After all, wouldn't I have been

impressed that the leaderof a pirate group had once been a full-fledged commanderof a garrison, and

wouldn't I have recorded my bewilderment that such a vital and intelligent man had corrupted his worth in

a petty crime? The escapades ofsuch a daring renegade commander deserve more thanjust a passing

mention in my journal, I think.

There is nothing in the surrounding entries to indicatethat I was busy with some more important matters

thatmight have prevented my entering a full report of theincident. Further, the journal note that remains is

soroutinely worded, so militarily matter-of-fact, that I can't believe that I wouldn't have let at least a hint

of Croft'spersonality or the uniqueness of his exploit enter my journal. What could have been going in my

head at the time that caused me to miss the essential point of theepisode? I can only believe that internal

evidence suggeststhat the entry is about a different group of crooks and thatCroft has mistaken me for

somebody else, some othercommander performing his normal duty.

Still, if it was Croft and his gang, I am sorry'I do notremember him or the details of his capture that have

beenso large an obsession for him during his confinementaboard the prison grid barge. To Croft that

episode seemsto have been the major event of his life. It's too bad that, while he dwelt on his hopes for

revenge so fiercely, our confrontation was only a forgettable moment for me, anentry in my journal that

calls forth no pictures of the eventit describes.

CHAPTER ONE

This time the trap must work.

It must, the Imperious Leader of the Cylons hadcommanded, snare the human fleet completely. The

humans should not be able to execute one of their sneaky last-minute escapes. There could be no

overlooked malfunction in the trap's mechanisms. For too long nowthe Cylon forces had chased after

Adama's assemblage ofmismatched ships (a captured prisoner had referred tothem as a ragtag fleet, a

meaningless term since it couldnot be translated into the Cylon language).

His executive officers, tired of battling the human pest,had acceded readily to the Leader's plan to force

thehuman ships, especially theGalactica, into the range ofthe awesomely efficient laser cannon on the ice

planet Tairac.

Imperious Leader was particularly pleased that thefinal destructive assault should originate on Tairac

because the garrison there was commanded by the exiledfirst centurion, Vulpa. It was fitting that the

outspokenVulpa should deliver the final blow. He would learnobedience and regain status at the same

time.The Leader recalled vividly the day he had beenobligated to send Vulpa, one of his most valued

officers,into exile.

"Perhaps we should abandon pursuit of the humans,"Vulpa had suggested in the middle of a briefing. The

executive officers closest to Vulpa had immediatelymoved away from him, knowing that the oddly

ambitious first centurion had finally overstepped the proper bounds.

"Abandon pursuit?" the Leader had said. Vulpa took the question as an invitation to pursue the subject.

TheLeader knew he was drawing Vulpa into inevitable errorsof Cylon decorum, and he was sorry to

have to do so, butthere was no other choiqp when a Cylon acted in an un-Cylon-like manner.

"I suggest," Vulpa had said, the arrogance in his voicequite above his station, "that we allow the humans

tocontinue their foolish quest toward the far reaches of known space. As long as they do not contaminate

anypart of our own dominions, they do not pose a threatsignificant enough for the continued waste of

Cylon timeand personnel. We have, after all, achieved our goal.Except for that small band of fleeing

survivors and theregaining enslaved humans on some outworlds we control, the human racehas been

exterminated. The warhas been won."

"You wish to criticize my decision?" Imperious Leaderhad said politely, giving Vulpa a final chance to

backdown from his unsuitable position.

"Leader," Vulpa had replied, "your wisdom andjudgment are vitally needed back on our home worlds.

You would even be cheered for abandoning the—"

"Silence, First Centurion Vulpa! You assume my rightof omniscient judgment. As long as a free human is

left alive, the chance they could return in large numbers at alater time is a threat that cannot be abided.

Humans breedfaster than Cylons, even though their lifespan is shorter.Do you not remember how their

resourcefulness made the war against them last too long, longer than it should have?Even now the human

insects are winning battles andskirmishes against us. Remember how a small squadronof human

viperships wrecked our attacking wall offighters at the Battle of Carillon. I cannot rest until wehave

achieved the goal of human extermination. A period of exile, First Centurion Vulpa, should aid you to

realizethe importance of my objectives—and, perhaps, lessenyour unfortunate impulses toward

ambition."

As Vulpa had slunk off the command deck, ImperiousLeader had almost felt sorry for the punished

centurion.However, he had known for some time that Vulpa woulddraw such punishment eventually.

Vulpa's excessivedisplays of ambition had to be countered. He clearlyhoped to be the next Imperious

Leader, and he did notlack qualifications for the position, if only he would stopexhibiting his ambition for

it so openly.

Ambition was rarely observed among Cylons. Imperi-ous Leader had not had an inkling of what the

wordmeant until he had been awarded third-brain andabsolute power over the Cylon Alliance.

Vulpa, however, had always been something of arenegade Cylon. As a fighter pilot, while still at

first-brainstatus, he had been more aggressive than his peers, sosuicidally aggressive that it seemed

surprising that he hadsurvived to second-brain and then executive-officerstatus. Normally Cylons at

Vulpa's level knew how to maintain a showing of absolute obedience whether theyfelt it or not. Imperious

Leader hoped that the exile would force some sense into him, since he so obviously did have the potential

to become the next Imperious Leader, plusabilities that would make him exceptional at the job.

Now it seemed that Vulpa's exile would work out to theCylons' advantage. He was the best possible

officer tohave on the ice planet Tairac. An officer with Vulpa'sabilities was, after all, required at the

mainspring of the trap.

As always, Imperious Leader enjoyed working out thedetails of his plan. Details were comforting. If his

head,now covered by a massive communications helmet, couldhave been seen by the intricate network of

officers arrayedaround his pedestal, they would have observed a glowingaura shining from each eye. The

few humans who hadever seen the impressive alien leader had felt both awe andrevulsion toward him,

partially because of the creature'smany eyes, partially because of his uneven and out-of-balance body

(which, in its bulk, resembled a pile ofjagged and lumpy stones), and partially because of thelarge-pored

aspect of its swamp-gray skin. As his abilitiesto mimic human thinking processes increased, hediscovered

just how repulsive he looked through theireyes. Their perception of him as an ugly beast made himhate

the human pest even more. Especially since, to him, ahuman was the ugliest sight imaginable in a universe

thatcontained a diversity of ugliness.

As he awaited the first reports of the beginning of hispresent strategy, a sneak attack on the fringe of the

ragtagfleet, the Leader reviewed his overall plan. He could findno flaws, but there were gaps. He needed

to acquire the kind of information that would prevent such gaps frombecoming another of the humans'

lucky escape routes. Another session with the simulator might provide him with data about human

behavior that could lead to keyinsights about their seemingly erratic patterns ofmotivation and action. He

had already learned severalodd lessons about them from conferring with various simulacra. He ordered

an executive officer to have thesimulator transmitted to the command chamber. It wasthere before him,

on his pedestal, exactly at the end of hisrequest.

Nodding toward the telepathy-template at the centerof the simulator console, he requested mentally the

simulation of Commander Adama, head of the humanfleet. As usual, Adama proved too difficult a task

for the simulator. The edges of his simulacrum were fuzzy. Toolittle was known about the

commander—there was notenough information about him stored in the simulatordata banks, and so it

could not provide a successfulduplicate. Whatever the Leader asked of it, the indistinctform of Adama

supplied insufficient data. Frequently itwas not able to answer at all and just stared at the Leader

indifferently. No insights or revealing associations ofthought could be gleaned from the Adama

simulacrum.Brusquely the Leader ordered it away, called instead forAdama's son, Captain Apollo. The

resolution of theApollo simulacrum was sharper. Humans regarded theyoung man as handsome.

Knowing that made the Apollosimulacrum more repellent to Imperious Leader. Fortu-nately, he could

disengage synapses within his third-brainto cut off physiological reactions to the simulation. Heasked the

Apollo a few questions, but could discover littlemore than he had learned from the simulacrum of

Commander Adama. Apparently the simulator's infor-mation concerning the son was nearly as scant as

that concerning the father.

Imperious Leader called for a scan of information thatmight suggest names about which the simulator had

accumulated more data. Since most of the Cylons'information about humans was extracted from

prisoners,the simulator often contained better information aboutkey officers in lower positions of

command, those who had more direct dealings with combat warriors. On thescanner's list, he recognized

the name of Starbuck, anheroic sort of human (or at least they thought so), mention of whom seemed to

occur often in Cyloninterrogations. He ordered the template to provide asimulation of this Lieutenant

Starbuck.

Suddenly seated in front of Imperious Leader was a human with eyes so bright and searching they

remindedhim of the rays of light that emanated from Cylon warriorhelmets. The Starbuck figure

immediately broke into abroad smile. Humans seemed to derive some odd sort of pleasure out of smiling.

The Leader was glad he had cut off physiological reaction to the sight of humans, or else he might not

have been able to endure the sight of thissmiling bright-eyed human.

"Hi, chum," the Starbuck simulacrum said. Thegreeting surprised Imperious Leader, since simulacra—

programmed, after all, from simulator data banks—rarely initiated conversation.

"I am addressing Lieutenant Starbuck of the BattlestarGalactica,am I not?"

"Knock it off and tear it up, Cylon. You know I'm no more Starbuck than you're a blooming lily of the

valley.I'm a reproduction and I'd strangle you if my hands hadany substance."

The Leader glanced briefly toward the simulatortemplate, wondering if something was wrong with the

device. It was highly unorthodox for it to program suchindependence into a simulacrum—unless, of

course, that independence was so much a part of the man's characterthat it could not be removed from

the mental, emotional,and physiological profile that had been extracted by thesimulator. It was possible,

Imperious Leader thought,that this Starbuck might be extremely useful, if only as astudy of independence

of thought in humans. Much could be learned from the brashness and insulting demeanor of this young

officer replication. Connections might be established that could fill just those gaps in Imperious Leader's

strategy.

"How many ships remain in your fleet, Lieutenant?"

The Starbuck laughed.

"As many as the specks of dirt between your toes,Cylon."

"Cylons do not have toes."

The Starbuck seemed genuinely surprised.

"Then maybe we don't have any ships," it said.

"Come now, Lieutenant, we know that there are stillmany ships in your—

"Then you'd better inspect the dirt between your toes more closely, Cylon."

"But I told you Cylons don't—

Imperious Leader stopped talking. Not only did theStarbuck simulacrum initiate conversation, it also

interrupted.This interrogation was going to be difficult,and perhaps extremely unpleasant.

When the Cylons' sneak attack came, Commander Adama was in a classroom aboard the research-ship

Infinity,lecturing to the greenest-looking bunch of flightcadets he'd ever seen. They looked to him like

grade-school children who should be learning the history of thetwelve worlds rather than the intricacies of

viperaerodynamics and warfare maneuvers. One of theyoungsters in the first row appeared to be not

much olderthan Adama's adopted grandson, Boxey. From the glazedlook in the cadet's eyes, the

commander wondered if he might even trust six-year-old Boxey at the controls of aviper more than this

dazed young man. He had beenassured that the new crop of cadets were all of proper legal age, but the

dangers they'd have to face after graduationfrom their abbreviated course of training were so

considerable, so awesome, that he wished they did nothave to be quite this young. Still, they were all

volunteers.When the call went out to the hundreds of ships in the fleet, the command staff had received

enough applica-tions to man the ships and flight crews of at least a hundred squadrons. If only they had

enough ships toform a hundred squadrons.

The desperate plight of the fleet was not made anybrighter by the inadequate and makeshift conditions in

which the new warriors were trained. A research ship didn't substitute for a fully equipped and staffed

spaceacademy, even though the faculty had been able toconvert enormous labs into gymnasiums,

mock-flight areas, and simulated battle-condition testing chambers.Adama recalled the space academy

he'd attended on hisnative planet, the destroyed Caprica. The CapricanAcademy had been manned by

the most brilliant militarystrategists in all the twelve worlds; the classes aboard theInfinitywere conducted

mostly by officers too disabled tomaintain their posts and pilots who'd been severelywounded in combat.

The Caprican Academy had boasted the finest technology available. Any flight, combat, orsupport

situation could be reproduced within its walls orat its many stadiums for war maneuvers. The facilities on

theInfinity were acceptable so long as you didn't inspect them twice.

However, such improvisation was the key to the fleet'scontinued success in evading the main force of

their Cylonpursuers. Every person on every ship was putting indouble time to improve the efficiency and

speed of the overall fleet. Half a dozen freighters had been convertedto flying foundries, which in turn

converted scrap metaland other materials into vipers for theGalacticrfs crew offighter pilots. Everyone in

the fleet had become ascavenger, searching for metal and electronic supplieswithin their ships and on the

few planets they encounteredwith obtainable material. Considering the sources fortheir construction, the

viperships now leaving the foundrywere remarkably well-manufactured vehicles. It was true, of course,

that they were more often subject to technicaland mechanical failures than those vipers from theoriginal

squadrons. That was only natural, consideringthe haste of construction, the substitutions, the strain on

already overused metals, all of the compromises thatmade the newer vipers a bit less maneuverable, a bit

moresubject to the kind of malfunctions that often accompa-nied improvisation.

Still, Adama was continually amazed at whatexperienced pilots could do, even with substandard

equipment. A pilot like Starbuck, Boomer, or Apollocould do wonders with any flying crate put under his

control. But space-academy cadets didn't have theinstinctive abilities to correct course, or whirl out of a

spin, or work a smooth landing when all the equipment around you was sending out sparks. At that, their

record under fire was not bad so far—a tribute to the commandabilities and protective instincts of the

experienced pilotsand flight officers. Starbuck, for example, inspired somuch confidence in his squadron

that a cadet on his firstlaunch out of theGalactica tubes frequently accom-plished miraculous

aerodynamic feats. Even Apollo,more militaristic than other young officers, more distantfrom the crews

under his command, had performedwonders in helping the new cadets. It was just too bad thatthey were

unable to train them better, unable to give themmore flights just for practice. Fuel conservation and the

constant danger of Cylon attack made flights that weren'tconcerned with battle, scouting, or planetary

explorationimpossible. Too many cadets were being lost inskirmishes that experienced warriors would

have sur-vived.

The main theme of Adama's speech was the need forcaution, a message that he had to reiterate often

even with his experienced officers. It was not cowardly, he insisted,to draw back from a planetary or

intraspace phenomenon when your instruments recorded even the slightest threatof danger. It was not

cowardly to retreat from a battlewith Cylons when the alien forces outnumbered you byfantastic odds. It

was not cowardly to carry back animportant message to the fleet even when it meant leavingsome of

your fellow pilots behind to fight an apparently hopeless battle.

Looking down at the cadets' faces, Adama could seethat although they strived to look respectful to an

officer whose name was legendary among them, they still werenot ready to accept his message. Adama

wasn't even surehe offered it with complete sincerity. He recalled Apollo'smisery when the young man

had been forced to leave hisbrother Zac under intense Cylon fire in order to return totheGalactica and

warn the fleet of the impending Cylonambush. Zac had been killed, and a long time passedbefore Apollo

stopped feeling guilty over his brother'sdeath. Even now, Adama wasn't entirely sure his son had

surmounted his guilt feelings. But Apollohad actedcorrectly and his alerting of the fleet had led directly to

thefew human survivors' eventual escape from the massiveCylon war-thrust.

It seemed tragic, to Adama, that Apollo, perhaps themost heroic of allGalactica's combat officers,

never had amoment when his emotions allowed him to actually feellike a hero. It was just an epithet

awarded him, like amedal he never took out of its storage box to wearproudly.

"I'm glad Apollo is so reticent about his heroism,"Adama's daughter, Athena, had said when her father

hadbroached the subject to her. "Never trust a hero whoboasts about his heroism."

"Yourfriend Lieutenant Starbuck isn't reluctant toboast a bit about his exploits."

"Well, he's an exception to a lot of rules. And don'tthink I didn't take note of your sarcasm."

Adama knew his daughter felt something like love forStarbuck, so he didn't pursue the subject. She

alwayspretended her feelings for the bold and immodest youngofficer were not as deep as Adama knew

they were.

The alarm warning of the Cylon attack blared out inthe middle of Adama's lecture. To their credit, the

cadetswere on their feet and on the move immediately. Adama dropped his notes to the floor and rushed

to the launchingbay where his shuttle, piloted by Athena, awaited him. Assoon as he was secure in his

seat, he felt the welcome lurchas the shuttle hurtled forward through the launching tubes and out of

Infinity.

"What is it this time?" he asked his daughter, who waslistening to the garbled series of messages coming

over theshuttle's commlines.

"Nothing too frightening," she responded, "A bunch ofCylon fighters broke through a flaw in the

camouflageforce field. We might as well drop the force field for all thegood it's doing us. Save the energy.

The Cylons seem todetect us often enough."

"I'm beginning to wonder if they know where we are atalltimes."

"Think you might be right there."Athena's agreement added to Adama's suspicions. Shehad

command-level abilities and, in fact, had turneddown important posts in order to remain aboard

Galactica.He had always found her opinions valuable, even when they disagreed with his own instincts.

"What's the report on the ambush?" he asked her."Only one of our ships hit. The foundry ship

Hephaestus.Some highside damage, nothing serious,nothing they can't handle."

"Cylon casualties?"

"Not specified. Boomer's message was, quote, weannihilated a majority of the creepy red-lights before

theyturned tail, unquote."

"We lucked out again then."

"Starbuck says he's donating a large bequest of luck tobe spread over the entire fighting crew."

Adama's laugh was too short an outburst, and Athenalooked over him, worried.

"Something's troubling you," she said."Luck's troubling me. We've had too much of it. We'vestayed

ahead of the Cylons for a longtime. Some of that'sskill, some of it's luck."

"Well, it's natural I suppose to worry about luckturning, but—

"No, that's not even bothering me. Anyway, I thinkluck's just an instinctive control of our natural human

resources. What's bothering me is that our luck seems abit too pat, a bit too calculated."

"I'm afraid I don't—"Sometimes I get the definite feeling that the Cylonshave some strings attached to us

and are just pulling atthem like puppetmasters. As if their sneak attacks are not meant to succeed, as if

they're just proddings to force usinto certain course patterns, as if—

"Mmmm, that's pretty fanciful. If I didn't know youbetter, I might say paranoid.And if I didn't know..."

She lapsed into a concerned silence, pretended tocheck gauges she had just checked a moment ago.

"Well, out with it," Adama said. "What were you goingto say?"

She took a deep breath before answering.

"I reviewed a report on the last Cylon ambush, the one where our guys wiped out nearly the whole

contingent oftheir fighters. Tigh underlined a part of it for me, put a question mark in the margin. Our

scanners seemed toindicate—I emphasizeseemed —that there had been no life form of any kind within a

couple of the destroyed ships. Of course the scans were random, and they mightbe incorrect, especially

since collected under battleconditions in which not all Cylon ships were scannedefficiently. Still..."

"Still, it's an interesting bit of data, and that's why Tighwanted us to take note of it."

"Exactly."

"What do you think it means, Athena?"

"Not sure. What's the possibility that the fighters wereremote-controlled, operated at a distance by

Cylonsinside the ships that escaped?"

"It's worth considering."

"Fits your puppetmaster theory rather neatly, don'tyou think?"

"As I say, it's worth considering."

Athena laughed.

"I detect a touch of mockery in your laughing, young lady."

"It's just that, even if your boots had wings on them,you'd resist jumping to conclusions, Dad."

"You're not supposed to call me Dad during dutyhours."

"What do I get, company punishment for insubordi-nate affection?"

"A couple weeks pulling prison barge duty might doyou a world of good."

"You've convinced me. Sir."

TheGalactica now hovered before them, remindingAdama of some kind of brilliant gem (a steely,

brightly glowing jewel set against black velvet in the UniversalMuseum on Caprica). Next to the

Galactica, the rest ofthe fleet looked pretty much like paste items on acostume-jewelry necklace. These

vehicles carried the onlysurvivors of the vicious Cylon ambush that had destroyedtwelve worlds and most

of their people.

Adama felt a twinge of pain in his chest as he recalled the day when, helpless on theGalactica bridge, he

hadwatched the twelve worlds go up in flames, had listened tothe transmissions of human suffering, had

observed theplanets fall to the enslaving Cylon forces one by one, hadsent out the clarion call to assemble

those humans who could escape Cylon capture and bring ships to the fleet.The ships' continued survival

in the face of Cylon assaultstestified to the courage of the remainder of the humanrace, the inherent

courage within all humans. Vesselsdesigned for commercial, transportation, or supplypurposes had

managed to perform like fighting ships. OnemarkedColonial Movers, We Move Anywhere had, with

makeshift armament, turned back a squadron of Cylon fighters single-handedly. Its achievement was

alreadybeing transformed into song and legend among the peoplein the ships of the fleet.

Adama felt proud of the way his ragtag fleet hadperformed so far. However, the fear that one day there

would be an attack in which human ingenuity andfortitude could not overcome the overwhelming Cylon

odds haunted the dreams of theGalacticds commander.

Every time Starbuck settled his neck back into theneckbrace and watched Jenny, his flight-crew leader,

close the canopy around him, he wished the same wish. Ifonly he could have a cigar right now...

Hundreds of times he'd asked Boomer, who was anexpert on the botanical aspects of smoking devices,

todevelop a cigar that wouldn't be crushed against the frontof the canopy or fill the small enclosed area

with densesmoke, and could additionally be fitted through breath-ing and communication gear. Boomer

had laughedheartily and said that while he thought it was possible tocontain the smoke within a

proper-sized burning cylinder, and even possible to find a way to adapt it to the breathinggear, he

doubted whether Core Command would approve such a revolutionary device. Core Commands were

always aeons behind in accepting the really innovativecombat notions, Boomer had commented dryly.

"Lieutenant Starbuck, sir?"

The high voice, distorted perhaps by the static in thetransmission, sounded adolescent, a bit whiny.

"What is it, Cadet Cree?"

Starbuck saw the boyish cadet's face in his mind.Childlike eyes, eager mouth, tousled hair—did he

imagine it, or did Cree have a number of freckles across the bridgeof his nose? No, there were definitely

no freckles. Cree wasjust the sort of wide-eyed kid who looked like he shouldhave freckles, that was all.

"Lieutenant, sir, what you said at the briefing—aboutexercising all caution and not firing until—

"Yeah, yeah, kid. What is it, did I use too many two-syllable words or what?"

"No, not that. I understood. It's just that we weretaught that there were times when aggressive initiative

was—

"Stow it, Cadet. That's academy lecture and it's all justso much felgercarb when you're in the cockpit of

acolonial viper, get it?"

"Well, yes sir, but—"

Starbuck sighed. It seemed that every third or fourth cadet was like Cree—still not ready to join a

squadron,too eager to spout ill-digested textbook lessons, and yetso unwilling to even consider death and

pain.

"Look, Cadet Cree. When you've been on a fewcombat missions, you'll know all there is to know about

aggressive initiative,okay? Until then, you obey Star-buck's Golden Rule."

"Golden Rule?"

"Keep your trap shut when somebody wants something from you, plan on how you're gonna get them

later,and never volunteer even when the mission looks like theboondoggle of all time."

"That doesn't sound very—

"Kid, now's one of those times when you keep yourtrap shut."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant."

A soft chuckle on the line. Starbuck's wingmate,Boomer.

"I think the young warrior's learned a lesson," Boomersaid.

"What's that?" Starbuck asked.

"Now he knows what it's like to be starbucked."

Starbuck smiled. In flight-squadron slang, to bestarbucked meant to be maneuvered into a losing

situation, whether in a gambling game, a battle, or anargument.

A blue light began beeping on the viper's controlpanel—the command bridge's warning that all ships

wereready for launch. The deep mellow voice of Colonel Tigh,the commander's aide, came over the line:

"Deepspace advance probe. Blue Squadron up."Starbuck tensed his body, knowing he was to launch

first."Launch one!"

Starbuck was slammed back against the cockpit seatand neckbrace as his viper began its long

acceleratingthrust out of the launch tubes of BattlestarGalactica. Onthe line, Tigh's voice bellowed:

"Launch two!"

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BATTLESTARGALACTICA-02THECYLONDEATHMACHINEByGlenA.Larson&RobertThurstonCopyright©1979,byMCAPUBLISHING,aDivisionofMCAInc.AllrightsreservedPublishedbyarrangementwithMCAPUBLISHING,aDivisionofMCAInc.Allrightsreservedwhichincludestherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyformwhatsoever.Forinform...

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Battlestar Galactica 02 - The Cylon Death Machine

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