It was the usual scene when Dayton and Porter entered the science lab; Ryan and Baker were both leaning over Malus, who was placed on a workstation with his chest plate removed. Circuit panels and spare parts were strewn all around them. Two cadets and a technician seemed to be working on the data crystals and reader off to the side, with Dr. Mufti looking on in fascination, while Dietra, Lia and Jolly split their attention between both stations.
"Yeah, I was in love once," Baker was saying.
"Really?" asked Dietra, eyebrows raised.
"Sure. Oh man, she was something. You should have seen her. Purred like a kitten. Trusted her with my life. Man oh man, those curves . . . Made me feel more alive than I ever had before." The Earthman sighed wistfully. "Those were some of the best years of my life."
"So what happened?" Lia asked.
"I traded her in on a Harley when the exhaust manifold blew."
Ryan chuckled while the others stared at Baker quizzically.
"Harley?" asked Jolly.
"Not sure I want to know," Lia replied. "But it didn't sound nice."
"Making any progress, Easy Rider?" Dayton asked.
"You're right on time, Captain America," replied Ryan. "We're just getting ready to boot him up again, Mark. We're going to input some holoptics of Starbuck directly into Mal's central processors, hopefully stimulating his fairy godmother, Prince Charming and at least six of the seven dwarves to engage his core programming without it dying again. So far, zilch."
"Is that the technical explanation?" Porter asked, plunking himself down at a workstation and picking up some random circuit board. "I think I'm worried."
"Don't worry, Jim. Be happy," Ryan said.
"Okay, Bob," Ryan said decisively. "I'm uploading sweet memories of our fearless strike captain. Gimme the juice."
"Roger. These are the shirtless and sexy ones, right? Just him wearing his Triad shorts?"
"Nothing but the shorts and a smile. Malus especially liked those ones," Ryan replied.
"So did half of the Fleet," Lia inserted wryly.
"Do you mind?" Jolly asked her with a frown.
"Oh, Jolly! Starbuck's like a brother to me!" Lia laughed, defending herself.
"Yeah, me too. The better-looking more athletic brother that has his own personal goddess assigned to making his life more fun than mine could ever be," Jolly inserted, a faint smile belying the fact that he was teasing before he laughed aloud about it.
"Okay," Baker said, "here goes! I feel like Dr. Frankenstein."
"Well, you look more like his monster," Porter returned.
"Yes, Master!" replied Baker, in a passable Karloff impersonation.
Beep.
The lights in Malus' head flickered to life, strobing erratically for a few moments before finally staying lit. Then, gradually, his eyes began to glow and then oscillate. The IL sat up on the workstation, turning his head slowly from side to side as he analysed all around him.
"Mal?" Ryan asked, leaning towards him. "How are you doing there?"
The IL's head slowly turned to face the astronaut, his lights speeding up. Eerily, he said nothing.
"Cat got your tongue, Abacus Breath?" Dayton asked. "C'mon, Mal. Say something."
The IL moved quicker than any of them knew he could. Suddenly, he was on his feet, shoving Jolly aside as easily as if the big man was a child, while grabbing the warrior's weapon.
"Jolly!" Lia screamed as the lieutenant scrambled beneath a worktable, upsetting it for cover.
Laser fire erupted from the stolen Colonial pistol, as mechanized digits never meant to wield human technology rapidly fired wild bursts of energy while everyone present dived for cover, pulling their own lasers.
"Exterminate all humans! Carry out the Imperious Leader's Edict Of Termination! Obey the Imperious Leader!" Malus said dispassionately, drawing a bead on Ryan who was unarmed.
"Oh sh. . ." Paddy said, nowhere to go.
"Danger, danger, Will Robinson!" yelled Baker, reaching behind him.
Then the IL slumped forward, his lights abruptly dying.
Dayton let out a short breath, holstering his undischarged weapon and picking himself up off the floor from where he had found shelter behind a desk. Thankfully, everybody was moving and appeared unharmed. He noticed that Baker had disconnected some kind of auxiliary power source they were using to activate the Cylon. He nodded at him in approval and relief, realizing his men had put a safety measure in place, even if they hadn't deigned to mention it to their commander. "That sure went well, didn't it? Everybody okay?"
"Commander?" Technician Arcadius said a little tentatively from the other station.
Dayton turned, wincing when he saw the scorched remains of the data crystal reader as well as other debris on the workstation in front of the young man. "What about the crystals?"
"The box is destroyed, sir, but I'm not sure about the crystals. In theory, they should be more resistant to laser fire, but there's also a chance that their memory storage could be damaged. We won't know until we build an entirely new reader."
"Then get started, Arcadius."
"Yes, sir."
A moment too late a team of warriors burst into the science lab, stumbling to a confused halt as they took in the scorched surroundings and the deactivated Cylon. Apparently, the laser fire had been detected elsewhere, which was marginally comforting.
"We're okay," Dayton told them. "Go about your duties."
"Sir!" replied one of the security team. They withdrew.
"Frack," Lia said, holstering her unfired weapon and moving closer to Malus. "What was that?"
"Malus' evil twin? Malus the Menace," Ryan replied, in the progress of crossing to a desk drawer and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. He guzzled it greedily directly out of the half-full bottle. "Anyone?" he asked as an afterthought, wiping some remnants from his chin. "No? Then come to Daddy." He took another long drink.
"Cylon psychosis?" Porter said. "Like on Planet 'P'?"
"Remember Iblis said that Malus had some kind of buried programming when we were in the crypt?" Baker replied. "Just before Malus shut down."
"Yes," said Jolly. "He said . . . uh, 'nested memory file six, instruction sixty-six. Execute.'"
"You think this was Iblis' doing?" Dietra asked, nodding at the IL, while taking the empty whiskey bottle from Ryan's hand. "That's enough, Paddy."
"Just steadying my nerves, me darlin'," Ryan told her with a wan smile as she tossed his empty bottle into the recycler chute. "After Morlais, I'm a little gun shy."
"Six, six, six?" said Dayton. "It couldn't be a more obvious reference if he hit us over the head with a cloven hoof. Either that or Iblis was making a joke."
"He needs to work on his stand-up routine," said Baker. "I'm not laughing."
Dayton nodded. "Me neither."
"Six, six, six?" Jolly asked, shaking his head as Arcadius put the IL back onto the table.
"Sorry," Dayton said. "It's a Biblical reference on Earth. Uh, Biblical, from Bible, that's like your Book of the Word, sort of. From the Book of Revelations: Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six."
"Pretty damned cryptic. Threescore, huh? Sounds like the beast scored a hat trick," Ryan said, still looking shaken. He opened a drawer, scowling when he didn't find what he was looking for.
"Well, if it was the holoptic of Starbuck that activated Mal into termination mode, I'm guessing this was supposed to be our boy's swan song. That smarmy bastard!" Dayton spat. When was Iblis planning on dropping this one on them? When they thought they had Starbuck back safely in their fold?
"Well, what do we do now?" Dietra turned to their commander. "We're running out of time, sir."
As it turned out, he was all out of ideas. Luckily, Technician Arcadius wasn't quite ready to call it quits just yet. Moments later, the young man had Malus' head panel open and within another thirty centons, they were ready for a last ditch effort.
"Stand back," Paddy warned them, "phasers on stun."
Arcadius smiled as the onlookers stared at them sceptically. "This time, we're trying a different command pathway, which should just access his data banks. Maybe if I can download his last moments, after what Iblis said, I can, hopefully, extract the failure mode and correct the problem. I have also . . ." click ". . . disconnected the links from his motor centres to his EMA and servos, which will leave him immobile, Commander. He won't actually be reactivated."
"Good call, Arcadius," Dayton said, taking a deep breath and holding it as he waited.
"Alright, here we . . . yeah!"
". . .ompositional patterns preserved in garnets have been shown to be a reflection of compositional zoning in the original precursor minerals and sediments. Compositional variations, here on Planet P, between and within garnet grains in schists that are virtually identical to the typical metapelites at Arooka-Shan, on the Northern Continent of Cylon, support this viewpoint. Both homogeneous and compositionally zoned garnets, even together in the same specimen, display a range of compositions that would normally reflect widely different metamorphic grade and temperature conditions during their supposed growth. Thus . . ."
Click.
"Fascinating," drawled Dayton. "The geology of Cylon, 101."
"Must be one of the reports he prepared for the folks back on Cylon for when they were picked up," said Jolly. "Only he never got to send it."
"Makes sense to me," said Dayton.
"Whatever Iblis did," said Ryan, looking down at the insensate IL, chest plate and head panels open, wires strung from his circuits to equipment on the workbench, "it's got us locked out of Mal's CPU and higher centres tighter than three virgins in a bank vault."
"Except for that once, Commander," said Arcadius, "we keep ending up inside his main data banks, instead of the central personality matrix. Something we haven't been able to localize keeps redirecting every attempt at a reboot."
"So, unless rocks are your thing, we're screwed?"
"Basically, Mark," said Ryan. "I'm beginning to think there's no way to unscrew whatever it was Iblis screwed up."
"A screwdriver?" Baker asked.
"Alas, I'm all out of OJ," replied Ryan with a sniff. "Although, it's a helluva good idea . . ."
"We'll keep trying, Commander," said Technician Arcadius. "For right now, it's all we can do."
"What about spare circuits and stuff from the ship's original stores?" asked Dayton. "Like replacing your computer's hard drive when it goes Tango Uniform? Even Command Grade Cylons must need some maintenance and stuff, now and then."
"Uh, hard drive?" asked the tech. Dayton shook his head. "Oh, yeah. Right. Well, we have spares we might use, sir, but we know so little about how these Cylons are constructed. If we fully disconnect his har . . . central processor from his brain matrix, without knowing the exact procedure, it could lead to a total cascade failure. Every bit of data in his files could be lost."
"Including everything he's learned about the Clavis, right?" put in Baker.
"Almost certainly. And Malus has acquired more data on the device than all of us put together, sir."
"Shit!" snarled Dayton. As if there weren't enough problems. "Okay, assemble whatever replacement parts he might need." He gestured towards Mal. "Looks like we have no choice."
"Right away, sir," said Arcadius.
Click.
"This is unbelievable," Dayton said, looking at Ryan. "Unbe . . ."
". . . n the interim, the pole of rotation has processed . . ."Mal began again, and then his voice went into a fast screech, running through whatever it was in microns. Then . . . de . . .de . . . de . . . determination of the moment of inertia we now know that this planet must have a central metallic core of between 1,900 and 3,400 kilometrons in radius. With assumptions about the mantle composition . . . n . . . n . . . nnnnn . . .n . . ."
"Sorry, sir."
"It's okay, technician." Dayton turned as Malus clicked, and in a voice worthy of Carnegie Hall . . .
"Be My Love, for no one else can end this yearning! This need that you and you alone create! Come fill my arms, the way you fill my dreams, there'll . . .th-th-th-th-th. . . Hand in hand, we'll find love's promised land, there will be no one but you-u-u-u, for me! E-ter-r-r-r-r-nally! If you . . ."
"Unbelievable," said Dayton again, shaking his head. Someone had obviously let Mal too close to the music files! They seemed to be getting nowhere fast.
"Control Centre to Commander Dayton."
Dayton crossed to the comm unit and punched the flashing indicator. The tiny screen lit up showing Apollo with Dorado behind him.
"Dayton here. Everything's under control, Colonel."
"Glad to hear it, Commander. What's happening with Malus?"
Dayton frowned, looking back at the homicidal IL, now inert. "He went psychotic on us, Apollo. At this point it looks like there's no salvaging him. Whatever Iblis did, we can't undo it."
Apollo nodded regrettably before replying. Like many, he'd come to rather like the peripatetic IL. "About the power situation with the engines, sir. We think we may have a solution."
"I'll be right there. Dayton out."
xxxxx
Lauren knew she shouldn't be anywhere near it, but it was like the proverbial moth to the flame, as she stood down the street from the Manhattan apartment building watching New York's finest trying to put out the raging inferno that had consumed her home. Flames were wildly shooting out of the blown out windows in her corner apartment. Obviously, an accelerant had been used. She only hoped that her neighbours, young urban professionals with a taste for New York's nightlife, weren't home.
As usual, a crowd had gathered to hold vigil on the disaster. What was it about human nature that drew them to the gruesome harshness time and time again? People were making the appropriate horrified noises while almost everything she owned, much of it sentimental treasures accumulated from years in the field, was burnt to a crisp. She had to be tired, because all she felt was an aching hollowness, instead of any sense of loss. When this mess was finally over, she couldn't go home . . . but at least she'd have her father back.
She let out a long breath, straightening her back, then disappeared once again into the night.
xxxxx
Cassie didn't quite know what to make of it.
Johnson had been sitting in the far corner of the waiting room of the Life Station, which he, or at least the languatron, kept referring to as "ill harbour",deferring his turn for treatment each time that someone else entered the room. He was agitated, restless, but exceedingly polite each time he was approached by either her or Rhiamon. Whatever the man needed, he obviously wanted to discuss it in private; that much was clear. However, her office and her isolation rooms were being exclusively used for treatment of those with the worst cases of radion sickness.
She climbed to her feet from behind her workstation where she'd been updating the charts on the patients that she'd seen that day. Many she had discharged, but several would be returning for outpatient therapy the next day. Of course, those in need of continuous anti-radion medication, regeneration therapy for their burns, routine haematopoietic stem cell transplantation and monitoring, basic rehydration—and the one still loudly vomiting in cubicle three—were with them still. It was going to be another long shift. She'd really have to recruit some more staff. She'd even be happy to have Hinnus back!
Johnson looked up at her as she approached. He had been sitting hunched over, his elbows on his knees, and one hand either tracing his features or stroking the new growth of whiskers on his jaw. His gaze flickered over her briefly before he returned his attention to the wall in front of him. He cleared his throat, but said nothing.
"What can I do for you?" Cassie asked him softly. Although she'd seen the man attack Mark at the Mars Base, upon further reflection he'd been clearly traumatized by what had happened. In fact, most of the survivors had already evinced signs of mental or emotional trauma of some sort, not unlike warriors returning from a long, hard battle.
"I'm . . . not sure," Johnson replied, sniffing humourlessly. He raked his hand through his dark, wavy hair the way that Starbuck used to do when he was upset. "I just can't stop thinking about what happened down there . . . it just keeps tearing 'round my brain, Miss, uh . . ." He shook his head before she could speak it. "God . . . it won't stop . . ." He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and rubbing them with his thumb and index finger. "Isn't it supposed to be dark when you close your eyes? Why won't it go away?" He rocked himself slowly forward and back.
"What's your first name, Johnson?" Her voice was quiet, her best bedside manner voice.
He hesitated, as though he had to think about it. "Bruce. My name's Bruce."
"May I call you Bruce?"
"Yes . . ." he whispered.
"You've been through a very traumatic event, Bruce. Those symptoms you describe are a normal reaction to what you've experienced. Believe me, I've seen it more times than I can count. Warriors. Civilians caught in the crossfire."
"Then how come I'm the only one feeling this way?" He looked up at her, and she decided he looked like a lost little boy.
"You really think you're the only one that's reliving what you went through?"
He shrugged. "The others were laughing, talking about going home, talking about the food . . . I just want to . . . to hurt somebody . . ."
"Yourself?"
Johnson swallowed audibly, before ducking his head and whispering something so quietly that Cassie had to lean forward, straining to hear it.
"I'm sorry, Bruce, I can't hear you," she admitted. She had to turn up the mic on her languatron. "Please . . ."
"I know who sabotaged the base," he said, raising his head, tears in his eyes. "I know who tried to kill us all." He wiped his face, sniffing loudly before bowing his head and rubbing his eyes once again. "I'm sorry. I think what I need right now is a priest, not a nurse."
"Are you saying that you did it?" Cassie asked, a dread chill falling over her.
He looked up at her absolutely horrified. "Wh . . .oh, hell no, miss. NO!" he shook his head for emphasis. "It was Commander Chung! Then I saw him blow his brains afterwards!"
xxxxx
Like Caprica City, the American metropolis of New York City stretched on for seemingly endless kilometrons. Located on a large natural harbour, it was a mixture of wide rivers, green space, steel, glass, and concrete, some of the buildings being architecturally stunning. Starbuck could feel a strange tightness in his chest as he amplified his Wraith's night vision enhanced digital display below, getting a bird's eye view of the goings on of eleven million people jammed into this densely populated urban centre. A virtual hubbub of global commerce, finance, media, culture, art, fashion, research, education and entertainment, he could tell this was his kind of city. Even though he had never before been there, he was still affected by an inexplicable nostalgia, transporting him back across the galaxy to the Colonies he had been forced to flee with the remainder of their civilization.
There had to be some really good gaming chanceries down there. He just knew it!
After the assassination attempt on President Gibson, Roach had changed his mind. He still wanted Starbuck to take his Wraith to New York as indisputable evidence he was from another star system, but the general had chosen to come along with the others in an aircraft that Dickins had snorted something about being the grandson of the V-22 Osprey. Starbuck had been left to wonder once again when the languaphone came back with something about twenty-two birds in a V formation. It turned out that Roach suspected that the Colonial Warrior's life was in as much jeopardy as his president's. Characteristically, Starbuck had been inclined to brush aside the concern, at least until he recalled Borodin's plan to execute him in Kazakhstan. Annihilating meddlesome foreigners with diabolical Cylon tales to tell was a tried and true method of maintaining the status quo on the bureaucratic situation. And everybody on either side of the debate knew that Starbuck's testimony in front of the United Nations Security Council would be crucial to sway international opinion over to the USA and Russia's perspective.
"Captain Starbuck, this is General Roach."
Prior to now, Starbuck had been picking up a wide array of communication and satellite signals and had been weeding his way through them while trying to take in as much of the concentrated digital view as he could from 15,000 metrons. He'd even discovered something that Baker had referred to as the Worldwide Web, finding a wealth of information, although his grasp of written Earth speak didn't seem to be as fluent as the oral form. He'd have to mention it to Ryan when he made it back home. Before he could respond to the general, Roach continued.
"I know we've been having . . ." the general cleared his throat noisily, "difficulty maintaining communications, Captain, so I must allow that you may not even be receiving this message. However, both Security at the United Nations Headquarters and New York City Air Traffic Control has just redirected us to land at the East 34th Street Heliport, instead of their main helipad. Do you read me, Captain?"
Well, considering they had priority clearance to get their astrums over to the U.N. building on the double, it didn't make a lot of sense, even to a diabolical foreigner. Internal klaxons were screaming at him as he tried to read between the lines . . .
"It doesn't make sense to me either, Starbuck," Baltar said, his resplendent image suddenly appearing in top corner of his helmet's heads-up display.
Starbuck just about jumped out of his skin, grabbing for his helmet with an involuntary desire to rip it off his head. "Would you stop doing that!" he snapped, adroitly putting his hand back on the stick and correcting his course variation. "Trying to give me a heart attack? You're worse than C.O.R.A."
"I think General Roach is trying to send you a coded message, Starbuck," Baltar continued, ignoring the barb. "He doesn't want you going to that alternate heliport."
"Really?" Starbuck sighed. "Never would have figured that out on my own. I guess that's why you're the Being of Light."
"I sense a little sarcasm."
"Just a little?" The warrior paused, changing tack. "Baltar, John could tell what was happening on Terra. Do you know what's going on down there? Is somebody trying to terminate me? Is Roach right?"
"This is General Roach to Captain Starbuck. Are you receiving? We're changing course as directed. Do you read?"
"Don't answer and don't change course, Starbuck. Currently, there's a rising sense of unease and panic worldwide," Baltar continued, hesitating as though he was going to add more and then thought better of it. A strange look passed over his features before he finally continued in that patented Ship of Lights way. "In a city the size of New York, that could soon lead to anarchy."
"A simple 'yes' or 'no', Baltar. Am I targeted for termination?"
"There is a termination squad waiting at the 34th Street Heliport, yes. You, Captain Dickins, Technician Hummer, Graeme Ryan and General Roach are all targets." For a moment, the image changed, showing a close-up on the 34th Street location. Inside, behind steel doors, several men in dark clothes waited with commsets on their heads, each heavily armed with automatic weapons. "These men are professional assassins, Starbuck. Experts in this sort of thing." The image reverted to Baltar. "So, yes. You are."
"Ah, that's more like it. Who ordered the terminations? Is it that guy, Mason?"
"I'm afraid that's all I'm at . . . at liberty to say for now, Starbuck."
"If we buzz the Statue of, will that loosen your tongue?"
"There's a code of conduct among my kind, Starbuck."
"And I haven't cracked it yet."
Baltar smiled patiently. "You're doing well, my young friend. Stay the course."
"I always do, Baltar. Now . . . can I have my scanner back?"
The Being of Light chuckled in amusement before fading from sight. Starbuck checked the position of Roach's bird, seeing it had changed course, but was now correcting as they realized he hadn't.
"U.N. Security, this is General Roach. We have a situation. We have lost communications with Captain Starbuck. He is maintaining his initial course for the United Nations Headquarters helipad."
"Air traffic is too congested here, General, and security is already stretched to its limit. There is a security team awaiting you at the East 34th Street Helipad to escort you safely to the U.N.. I presume if you change course, he will follow you."
"He's really not the following kind," Roach replied. "But we'll do our best."
"So, the East 34th Street Heliport . . . where exactly is that?" Starbuck mused aloud, tapping into the Worldwide Web once again to play with that satellite imagery-mapping program he had found. Even with his atrocious spelling of the alien language, the program did its best to auto correct his attempt. Before he knew it he had road directions from his current position to where the termination squad was waiting. Now . . . if he could only read them . . . but then again, maybe it didn't matter. There was an audio function.
He laughed aloud in the cockpit as a sultry female voice told him where to go . . . no, it wasn't the first time that had happened. He shook his head, once more thinking of C.O.R.A. Lords, it was so tempting to buzz the termination team, and then take off for the U.N. He felt a subtle weight on his shoulders, like his conscience—Apollo— was back to tell him it was immature for the strike captain of the Endeavour to be even thinking that way. He'd obviously been hanging out with his friend too long. He sighed, seeing the logic, even as his reckless nature pleaded with him to ignore it. Sagan's sake, Bucko, aren't you overdue for a little fun?
He considered it a long moment, deciding compromise could be a viable alternative.
"Colonial aircraft, this is Air Traffic Control. Due to air traffic congestion, you are instructed to change course . . ."
He ignored them. It was a good thing he had some experience as a rebel.
Following the East River, he took off ahead of Roach toward his fateful late night meeting with the Security Council. A glance at his scanner showed the other military craft turning to pursue him as Roach once again came on the air to notify U.N. Security and Air Traffic Control of the "situation". At this altitude, things seemed deceptively calm and quiet. It was just the way a Viper pilot liked it before he went into battle. It was only a couple centons later that he reached the coordinates Roach had originally given him. The U.N. building, although it was tall and thin rather than pyramidal, nonetheless impressed him, reminding him of some of the major public buildings back home. It was obviously built to impress, and despite the late hour, so said the scanner, it was full of people right now. From his display, he guessed that the "helipad" was out front at the main entrance. There was also a large green space adjacent to the U.N. properties that he briefly considered and dismissed. It wouldn't do to put anyone at risk from a Wraith dropping out of the sky. And although from 10,000 metrons and closing, it looked nearby, distances could be deceiving at that height. Contrary to security reports, air traffic didn't seem all that congested to him. Then again, maybe it was relative. He was accustomed to air combat, after all.
"Ready or not, here I come," Starbuck murmured, checking his scanner once again before beginning his vertical descent.
"Captain, you don't have clearance to land!" Roach half-heartedly reprimanded him. Then, "Better follow him down. I don't want someone to shoot him by mistake."
Well, the military transport, also with vertical landing capabilities, would take up significantly more space than his Wraith. He could see a crowd gathering below, perhaps some kind of bureaucratic welcoming party. Picking the edge of the helipad closest to what he imagined must be the front entrance, he finally set her down. He cut the engines, leaving his ship's systems on standby, pulled off his helmet and opened his canopy.
It was a vastly different air here in New York City, smelling more like Tauran smog with a hint of salt from the ocean. He stood up, glorifying in stretching out his muscles as he took a cursory look around in the well-lit area. Above him, the military transport was beginning its descent; below him five men in uniform were waiting for him, looking none too happy about his appearance. His hand instinctively reached for the holster that was conspicuous in its absence, after a career of wearing a weapon during every moment of duty. As naked as he felt without his laser, Roach had been adamant that wearing it in the United States while in public was strictly forbidden.
"Give it a good wash for me," Starbuck called down to the men with a grin as they gawked at his bird. "I'll be back for it later."
Then something slammed into him, stealing his breath as he flew backwards from the impact.
"Sniper!"