Chapter Six
It was a sudden impulse and maybe something that Starbuck would eventually regret, but the truth of the matter was that the Wraith—equipped with VTOL capabilities—didn't need a runway that was four thousand, five hundred metrons long like the one at Baikonur. Even more poignantly, he was almost out of support vapours. So, instead of bringing his recon ship up close to the outlying buildings on the edge of the airfield where a veritable force of people were gathering, he landed her on the opposite end, ignoring the runway lights. The area bordered the dry, grassy steppes that eventually lead to a sizeable city about five kilometrons away, which likely supported this base. In the same direction a sizeable river stretched out west to east.
The base was huge and sprawling, with various areas for launching man and unmanned missions, as well as tracking and communicating with what was already in orbit or space. It briefly reminded him of the first base he'd been sent to for training, way back when. He'd noticed on his scanner on the way in that some kind of track system connected the areas, probably for transport means. Downrange from one launch site there were hundreds of kilometrons of grasslands that had been turned into a graveyard for old-fashioned rocket stages which had smashed into the ground after separating from their propulsion rockets. Fleetingly, he thought of Apollo. His friend would get a real kick out of seeing the archaic site.
"Strike Captain Starbucks! You were instructed to follow your escort in! Are you stupid like cork?" a voice demanded over his comm.
"I'll let you know after I meet him," Starbuck breathed heavily, powering down his systems and raising his canopy. There was an audible hiss as the local air flooded his cockpit. He gulped in a huge lungful of it, even as an abrupt blast of dry, hot air pummelled him. Lords, it was as though it was trying to suck every bit of moisture from his already weary body. He'd been counting on settling into sleep mode over Earth at some point, but that sure wasn't going to happen now. He pulled his helmet off, raking a hand through his damp hair and enjoying the warm breeze on his face for a moment. He glanced at the starry sky over the desolate desert steppes, seeing the lights of the city in the distance. It was a stark contrast to the busy base, as a fighter taxied to a stop about three hundred and fifty metrons away, another following suit. In the distance, several vehicles were speeding towards him.
A glance at his chrono told him that twenty-four centars had passed since the Endeavour had arrived in this star system. He fervently hoped that somehow Malus had been able to repair the Clavis, as the time seemed to be passing waytoo quickly. What would Dayton do if they couldn't fix the Clavis? Actually . . . now that he thought about it . . . maybe the Ship of Lights beings had orchestrated this latest problem. It certainly had their imprint all over it. Give them the technical ability to make it to Earth for one specific purpose, only to take it away again. Make sure that they could destroy the advancing Cylon Base Ship, but not allow the Colonials to seriously impact whatever grand scheme the advanced beings had devised.
Omnipotence . . . with some kind of weird astrum celestial guide book.
"Frack . . ." he muttered, not for the first time feeling like he was being manipulated. Slowly, he rose up in the cockpit, his legs feeling wooden and stiff. He dropped his helmet on the seat, climbing down over the side and hitting the control to seal the Wraith up again. She hissed thankfully in reply as the canopy closed. Only his access code would open her up again. He'd learned that lesson on Paradeen. As he hit the ground, his legs almost buckled and he grasped the side of his ship for support. He continued to breath deeply, replenishing his oxygen-deprived body.
Angry, sharp voices shouted at him. He turned to see the two pilots approaching him cautiously. The man's hair was cut ridiculously short, barely a centimetron in length. The woman—once he realized that she was one—wore hers short as well, framing a face that was easy on the eyes. Both pilots wore dark one-piece flight suits with some kind of insignia he couldn't make out at that distance. Starbuck shook his head, unable to understand what they were saying. It wasn't the Earthspeak that Jess and her people, or even the Baikonur Control were using. It suddenly occurred to Starbuck that he was the only one armed of the three and a glimmer of a grin spread across his face. Abruptly, they realized it too, eying his sidearm wearily. With another deep breath, he straightened up, feeling better now as he focused on them.
"I'm Captain Starbuck of the Covert Operations Ship Endeavour, representing the Colonial Nation." Briefly, he was reminded of the first time he had introduced himself to Ama on the planet Empyrean. She'd love his lofty title now. "I come in peace, I mean you no harm," he repeated Ryan's Earth greeting, hoping it meant something universally. Remembering another Earth custom, he stepped forward and held out a hand in friendly greeting . . . although the pilots came to an abrupt halt at his action, actually taking a step back. They shouted at him angrily again. That, and the sight of the vehicles racing towards him, made him drop his hand innocuously. Instinctively, his hand caressed the butt of his weapon as he considered his stun setting. But even if he managed to knock this bunch out, his ship had exhausted its life support and would take a while to recharge. Where would he go? He eyed the PAK FA fighters, intuitively looking for escape. Now, thatcould be fun . . . But he was supposed to be convincing these people of the Cylon risk to their planet, not causing mayhem as he went on a joyride across the countryside. The rigours of command, Bucko, remember you signed yourself up for this. With all other courses of action eliminated, by and large, it looked like he'd have to use his irrepressible charm on them. Hopefully, the cute PAK FA pilot wasn't the only female in this outfit.
His mouth began to feel dry as Earth vehicles screeched to a halt. Over a dozen figures dressed from head to toe in protective suits—reminding him of the gear that the Galactica's crews fought fires in—began to cautiously approach him. At least half of them—probably soldiers—were armed with some kind of assault rifle. Apparently, these people had no concept of overkill. In the dark and at a distance, they looked menacingly similar to Cylons as their boots clapped insistently on the tarmac, drawing nearer. "I'm Captain Starbuck of the Covert Operations Ship Endeavour . . ." he again attempted.
"You will cease talking unless directed otherwise! Disarm yourself!" a voice shouted. At least this time he could understand it.
Granted, they didn't know him from Sagan. He nodded as a dozen rifles sighted him. Slowly, he lifted his laser from his holster and bent down to place it on the ground. Using the toe of his boot, he propelled it away, listening to it skitter across the tarmac. He raised his hands high in the air in surrender, while watching one man approach the weapon tentatively, treating it like a sleeping serpens about to strike.
"Place your hands on your head!"
Again, he slowly complied. It suddenly occurred to him that he still had a blade sheathed in his right boot, Empyrean style. He doubted it would do him any good and would probably only get him in more trouble when they found it. He pasted on a friendly smile, his glance naturally swinging towards another attractive female . . . there seemed to be an abundance of them on Earth. He'd be sure to mention it in his report. "Uh, listen . . ."
"Silence! Now, kneel!"
A moment later, he was down on his knees as they closed in around him. He held his breath as the muzzle of a rifle touched his temple. One arm and then the other were grasped firmly and twisted behind his back in a steady controlled manner. He heard a click as the unseen restraints were secured on his wrists. Then a body was standing right in front of him. He looked up through the protective face shield into the cold, calculating eyes of the man who had been shouting orders at the others.
"I am Director Borodin of the Main Directorate of Russian Intelligence. I'm going to ask you once, and if you do not answer truthfully the first time, I promise you that the next few hours will be passed very unpleasantly, before I deign to ask you again." He paused to let his words sink in, his soulless eyes boring into Starbuck's. It transported the Colonial Warrior back a few sectons to Iblis' domain, as a chill ran down his spine, making him shiver involuntarily. "Who are you really and what is your connection to WASA?" He waved a hand in the direction of the Venture.
Starbuck drew a steadying breath through his teeth, meeting the cold, hard stare unflinchingly. "I'm Captain Starbuck of the Covert Operations ShipEndeavour, representing the Colonial Nation. Your planet is in danger . . ."
He only had time to briefly close his eyes as his peripheral vision caught sight of the open gloved hand that a milli-centon later impacted with his face. His head snapped to the side. Only the two heavy hands on his shoulders prevented the rest of his body from rocking with the blow. Even with the gloved interface, the right side of his face stung from the impact. He blinked through blurry vision as his face burned from the impact and a rising anger. Don't give them any excuses to get rough, Starbuck—Jess' warning echoed through his brain. He'd only told them his name, rank and tried to warn them . . .
The director barked something at the soldiers that Starbuck couldn't understand. He was seized under the uppers arms, hauled upwards, then they began to drag him away, the toes of his boots scuffing against the tarmac.
"Hey, take it easy, will ya . . .!" he muttered reflexively, before inspirationally adding, "Take me to your leader!" It was another Earthism that Ryan had taught him which he hoped would score him some points.
"Silence!"
He was beginning to get the idea that Director Borodin was immune to his usual charm.
xxxxx
The question was burning in everyone's mind: Why would there be an airlock on a subterranean level for the Mars base? What was down there? Resources? Emergency exit? Some kind of "back door" to the surface?
"Well, some of them never got to use it," remarked Ryan over the commlink. He, Cassiopeia and Jolly had reached the infirmary. Like the rest of the Mars base, it was empty . . .
Save for the corpses. Two still on examining tables, two more in horizontal storage lockers, like a city morgue.
"What do they look like?" asked Dayton from his end.
"They're dead, Jim," Ryan returned, his shaky voice betraying his true feelings on the matter. He panned the biobeds, drawing back the sheets. One corpse looked fairly intact. A man, perhaps thirty years old. The body next to him was a different matter. Horribly burned, part of his suit and skin were peeled away, an arm missing, his remaining flesh pulpy.
"Sagan's sake," breathed Jolly, turning away.
"These poor slobs never had a chance, Mark," said Ryan, clearing his throat before he could continue. "This one guy looks like he was playing Russian Roulette with a flame thrower, for God's sake. He must have been near the explosion." Cassie handed him a chart that she found on a desk. The contents would be meaningless to her, after all. He flipped it open. "Sanchez, Guillermo. Electrical engineer, power section. Cause of death: massive burns and blast trauma. No bloody kidding. The other . . ." he picked up a second chart, and read it. "Gerard, Gaston. Recycling tech, according to this. Cause of death: radiation poisoning. Looks like onset of symptoms were within thirty minutes of exposure . . ."
"Didn't you say that people take a while to die from radiation poisoning, Cassiopeia?" Dayton asked.
"That's what I said, but I'm only familiar with Colonial data," she replied. "With severe exposure, it should take days."
Ryan nodded, still looking over the chart. "Depends on the sieverts. Jaysus Murphy on a pogo stick! This guy was exposed to eighty sieverts according to this. That's huge! Now just maybe . . ." He flipped through the chart, checking the medications given.
"Maybe, what? Spit it out, Ryan!"
"Looks like they filled the poor bugger up with morphine and ended it."
"That's mur. . ."
"Euthanasia. Takes a lot of guts and compassion . . . "
"Bullshit!"came the indignant reply.
"Tell him, Cassie," Ryan looked at the med tech. Even with her experience, he could tell she was trying hard to maintain a professional front in the face of this grizzly discovery. "If anyone here would understand, it would be a medic . . ."
"Paddy's right, Mark . . ." Her voice was subdued.
"Paddy usually is." Ryan reminded anyone in earshot, trying to lighten the mood.
"Best case scenario, he vomits, lingers for a few days until tissue death sets in." Cassie took a deep breath to steady herself before continuing. "Then he gets acute diarrhea, followed by gastrointestinal bleeding, leading to delirium and finally death. Worst case scenario gives him immediate disorientation and coma. Then a total collapse of the nervous system, causing death."
"So," continued Ryan, "if you take him with you, he's going to suffer horribly while sealed in a space suit and eventually die; if you leave him here, he's going to suffer horribly and die alone; if you stay . . . well . . . obviously they didn't chose that option."
Jolly frowned distastefully.
"He was toast, Jolly. Either way."
"That's cold, Ryan," the Colonial lieutenant replied, looking at the Earthman as though he was seeing him for the first time.
The Earthman shrugged. "Death usually is."
"Anything else in there?" Dayton interrupted.
"Not unless we stay and go through the place room by room, Commander," said Jolly. "I don't see a notebook or such. The log may be in the computer."
"Mal?"
"Yes, Doctor Ryan?"
"Can you plug in to the main computer and see if you can access the medical department logs?"
"Of course."
"Good. Download 'em. We can check 'em out later."
"Accessing."
Not long after, Dayton, Apollo, Dietra and Malus rendezvoused with Ryan, Cassie and Jolly in a huge room, designated as a machine shop. Not surprisingly, they found no survivors on their way. Inside, a veritable factory was laid out. Stacks of mining machinery and other equipment lay piled on pallets or strewn about. As with other areas so far checked, space suits were missing from their lockers. As identified in the Control Centre, they did locate the collapsed tunnel to the Shelter. Once again, they could scan no life signs.
"Commander, Giles here. We're in . . . Compartment . . . uh, Baker, help me out here."
"Compartment three hundred and twenty-two, Sub-Level Three,"Baker came through, sounding excited."You have got to see this!"