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ISLANDS IN THE SKY

  A Battlestar Galactica/Lost in Space/Salem's Lot Crossover fanfic by Paul

  Robison

  Battlestar Galactica is the property of Universal Studios & Glen A.

  Larson Productions, (c) 1979.

  Lost in Space is the property of Irwin Allen, Space Productions and 20th

  Century Fox Studios (c) 1965. Salem's Lot is the property of Stephen

  King, (c) 1975.

  All are used without permission but with no intent or anticipation of

  monetary gain. This is solely for my amusement as well as the amusement

  of whoever else may read it.

  SPOILER:

  "Saga of a Star World" (Battlestar Galactica) (c) 1978 MCA Publishing,

  L.A. Cal.

  SPECIAL GUEST STARS:

  Susan Norton (Queen Nor)- 'Salem's Lot

  Kurt Barlow (Bar-Lo)-'Salem's Lot

  Zalto (Lost in Space, Season Two, "Rocket to Earth)

  Mr. Straker-Salem's Lot

  From the Adama Journals:

  More than a thousand yahrens ago, the war with the Cylons began

  suddenly---wihtout warning, without even a formal declaration that war

  was to be. Like pirates, shwooing no threats and cowering beneath false

  colors, the Cylons opened fire on our merchant ships without even an

  invocation to heave to, or a cautionary blast from a mega-pulsar cannon.

  They came to destroy, and they destroyed our ships by the thousands. A

  fleet of their warships, basestars as they are sometimes call, headed for

  the Twelve Colonies. Supercilious beings that they were, the Cylons did

  not anticipate that we would be ready for them. We were ready for them

  and for the next thousand yahrens we continued in battle readiness.

  But a thousand yahrens is a long time, even when the duration of

  some yahrens is compressed by the time twisting of space travel. We

  forgot the extent of Cylon treachery. Instead, we became slaves to our

  own myths. We could not be subjugated, we were resourceful people who

  loved freedom, we welcomed adventure. When the Cylons offered peace just

  as abruptly as they had initiated hostilities, we had forgotten that they

  wre not worth trusting. We embarked on the peace mission with hope, with

  the expectation that ten centuries of unceasing warfare would finally be

  ended. Peaceably we had explored myriad diverse worlds of the universe,

  peaceably we had established the republic of twelve planets that became

  our Colonies, peaceably we would live again. Joy grew in our hearts.

  Those of us whose lives had been totally committed to the war should have

  known better, should have perceived that the joy in our hearts had a

  strategic significance. The more we moved away from the facts that

  formed the structure of our design, the more we became like the

  buriticians who governed us, men and women who had so clouded their minds

  with the words of power that they misunderstood the words of the powerful

  when they smilingly offered peace.

  I keep saying that we should have known better. That is the fallacy

  of the democratic instinct. I should have known better. Coping with an

  alien mind that was not understandable had always been my special

  ability. For once it failed me. Afterwards, I vowed it should never

  fail me again.

  *****

  CHAPTER ONE: PATROL

  The contact sensor implanted in Zac's jumpsuit at mid-back sent

  waves of tingling impulses up and down his spine. The sensor system

  detected an anomaly in this sector of space; its mild, pulsing stings

  notified Zac to investigate it. Excited anticipation joined the induced

  impulses as he keyed in the automatic search and watched data, both in

  numbered and diagram form, accumulate on his scanner screen. When he had

  first returned to the battlestar Galactica as a green ensign grown

  overconfident with the informational input of Academy training, Zac had

  been counseled by his father, Commander Adama, not to become too excited

  about the war or anything connected with it. The war had been going on

  for a thousand yahrens, Adama had said, no need to welcome it as if it

  were your best friend. However, Zac had never been able to lose the

  thrill of zooming through spac ein his very own sleek-lined Viper and

  blasting Cylon Raiders into pieces of space dust. Now that he was a

  lieutenant, at 23 yahrens old way past his majority, he still felt the

  same eagerness for battle he had known on his first launch from the

  Galactica's launch bay.

  His scanner now displayed the flaw that the warning system had

  located. Two unidentified aerial devices hanging near an old moon,

  called Cimtar on the star map, that orbited around the decaying orbit of

  the single planet of this out-of-the-way, never inhabited solar system.

  A perfect spot from which to ambush the Colonial Fleet. As part of a

  vanguard patrol for the Fleet, it was Zac's duty to investigate this

  bizarre, lurking threat.

  "Somehting..."said the voice of Apollo. Apollo's whisper was so

  sibilant, his words were so precisely enunciated, that Zac could have

  sworn his brother was right there in the cockpit with him instead of

  scouting in another fighter some distance away.

  "Yeah," Zac said, "I see them. What do you think?"

  "We'll think about it after checking it out. It might be a Cylon

  patrol."

  "Maybe. It's an awful long way from home, though. Where's their

  base ship?"

  "Probably no base ship. Long-range reconnaissance craft, refueling

  vessels carrying extra Tylium. Strange..."

  "What, Apollo?"

  One thing Zac had learned as a warrior was to listen to any of his

  brother's suspicions.

  "I'm not picking up anything but static on the far side of these

  guys, Zac."

  Apollo was right. Zac glanced at his scanner, saw only the two

  mysterious blips and an odd, steady field of static interference beyond

  them. The static appeared to indicate a storm, but no storms had been

  charted earlier for this sector.

  "I see what you mean," Zac said. "I thought there was something off

  with my scanner."

  "It could be a storm, though that doesn't make..."

  Apollo's voice drifted off, leaving behind a note of puzzled concern

  in the staticky silence. After a micron, Apollo said, "If it is a storm,

  the Fleet'll be coming through it, and soon. We'd better go have a look.

  Kick in the turbos."

  "But Apollo, the standing orders on conserving fuel specifically

  forbid the use of turbos, except under combat conditions or making the

  jump back to base."

  Zac could've predicted his brother's irritated response.

  "Kid, don't let that peace conference back of us screw up your

  judgment. Until we get official notice of a singing, anything goes.

  These are still the front lines."

  On his ear-receptors, Zac could hear the t
hunderous acceleration of

  Apollo's Viper as final punctuation to his rebuke. Okay, he thought,

  let's get to work. Pre-battle tension enveloped his whole body. It felt

  good. Zac ferociously pushed the trio of turbo-engagement buttons and

  shoved his foot down on a pedal. The resulting thrust drove him back

  against his seat.

  *****

  As they hurtled toward the old moon, Apollo felt uneasy that there

  should be any kind of disturbance within the unpopulated Qinar Sector.

  It just didn't check out. The orders his father had sent out

  specifically commanded that all ships, whether war or merchant, should

  transmit their exact locations at all times. There was no reason that

  any of htem should have forgotten, no strategic or trade reason for them

  to take the dangerous chance of hding out. When you eliminated all the

  known Colonial ships, including outlaw craft, there was only one

  solution. Cylons. It wasn't a solution, Apollo particularly wanted to

  come to.

  Zac's voice came through the com.

  "Hey, brother?"

  "What is it, kid?"

  "I know why I drew this duty. Tigh's shifting me---no, mark that

  out---Tigh's teaching me a lesson for that little rest-and-recupeartaion

  escapade with Squires' chief nurse in Life Station. But how did you get

  stuck with this patrol?"

  Why did Zac always have to know everything? Sometimes his youthful

  curiousity annoyed the poggies out of Apollo.

  "Oh," Apollo said, "I was figuring that, once the armistice is

  signed, they'll be turning out all of us warriors, sending us to one of

  those planets where they force you into so much organized leisure you go

  out of your mind with boredom. So---I just wanted one last bite of a

  mission."

  "Uh huh," Zac said. "Say, it wouldn't be because you wanted to ride

  herd on your overeager young brother, would it? I mean, watchdogging me

  for the duration of this patrol?"

  "I resent that, Zac. I'm not watchdogging you. Not at all. Like I

  said, I..."

  "You sure, big brother?"

  Apollo hated the sarcastic emphasis on the word big. Sometimes his

  kid brother could be a royal pain in the astrum.

  "Don't be silly, Zac. You've got a fine battle record---not to

  mention the tiresome old datum that you came thorugh with the highest

  marks in the history of the Academy. I don't need to ride herd on you."

  "Aw, forget it, Apollo."

  The com crackled in silence for a moment, then Zac spoke again.

  "Say, what're you going to do when the armistice is signed? Really

  go to one of those boring leisure planets?"

  Apollo smiled. He wasn't sure that Zac, who always needed somebody

  to talk to, would understand what he was about to say.

  "When the war's officially over, I don't think I want to settle down

  on any planet. Just long enough to refuel and relaunch."

  "Well, what are you planning to do for the postwar time, Apollo?"

  "Not sure. But there's a lot of space still to expore. That's the

  real challenge, Zac---deep star exploration. Who knows what we'll find

  beyond the Colonies?"

  "As long as it's not more Cylons. They jar my chips. You looking

  forward to peace with them? I mean, really?"

  "If you mean, do I believe inpace with the Cylons, especially one

  that'll last until the ink d ries on the treaty, my only answer is----I

  don't know. But I don't think we'd better be discussing it over the com.

  If we're being monitored, it might be a little embarrassing back aboard

  the Galactica."

  "Yeah, how about that, Galactica? Your face red, Colonel Tigh,

  sir?"

  "Cut that out, Zac. Keep your mind on the patrol. Cimtar's just

  ahead. Let's roll over and have a good look. Whaddya say?"

  "Roger dodger, old codger."

  In an instant they were hovering over their objective, a spacecraft

  that was large and ponderous, wasted looking. It seemed to float

  aimlessly, bobbing like a baitless fishing lure in its own portion of the

  sea of space. Above it was the old moon, below it a purplish layer of

  clouds tha Apollo did not recall as bing a normal feature of the barren,

  uninhabited planet.

  "What is it?" Apollo whispered.

  "I'll tell ya in a flash," Zac replied.

  *****

  Zac punched out the combination that would identifiy the vehicle

  pictured on his scanner. The intensity of the scanner pictured changed

  as various profiles of existing aircraft were compared with the

  antiquated conveyance under study. A match was quickly made and the

  identification appeared in printed form below the picture.

  "Warbook says a Cylon tanker," Zac reported. "My scanner reads it

  empty."

  Apollo's voice became agitated.

  "An empty tanker? What in Kobol is an empty tanker doing way out

  here?"

  "And where's the other ship, the one that..."

  "Screened off by this one, apparently. Under cover, as far as I

  can make out. Funny---wonder what they're hiding."

  "I don't know, but it's awfully close to those clouds."

  Zac felt impatient, not ready to wait for his brother's orders.

  When he made captain like Apollo, he could give the commands. Of course,

  by then Apollo would be an admiral or something, and probably telling Zac

  what to do. Even though he had looked up to his gallant brother since

  childhood, even though his own prestige at the Academy had been enhanced

  by the tales of Apollo's heroism that he had recounted to his classmates,

  Zac was eager to get out more on his own, perform the kind of

  seat-of-the-pants flying exploits that had made Apollo so famous on all

  the battlestars.

  Why was he thinking like this now? Here his father and the other

  great leaders of the Colonies were on the Atlantia working out a peace

  arrangement, and Zac was still hooping to become a great war hero.

  Stomething askew in his thinking there. He would have to talk it all out

  with Apollo later, when they got back to the battlestar and had their

  regular post-mission talk.

  "Well, kid," Apollo's voice whispered softly in his ear. "We came

  to look. Let's get up closer."

  "Watch it, Apollo," Zac said, and was immediately astonished by his

  own uncharacteristic caution. "I've got a funny feeling about this."

  "Funny feeling, eh?" Apollo's voice was now warmer, touched by a

  note of brotherly affection. "I always told Father you behaved more like

  a Scorpian, that you weren't a true Caprican."

  "Still, I have this funny feeling..."

  "You're not old enough to have funny feelings, warrior!" Zac nodded

  even though Apollo couldn't see him. It wasn't unusual fo rhim to have

  such an immediate physical reaction to a rebuke from his brother.

  "Anway," Apollo continued, "while we're stuck out here on patrol,

  Starbuck's pulled a couple of those Gemonese into a hand of pyramid, and

  I want to get back before he
cleans out those suckers."

  Looking out his sideview, Zac watched Apollo's Viper peel off in

  order to sweep around the ancient freighter. Feeling very much like the

  younger brother he was, Zac set his flight pattern to follow, hitting at

  the course buttons angrily.

  *****

  Commander Adama's angular cheekbones seemed the work of a skilled

  diamond cutter. But his cold, penetrating eyes could have have been

  designed by even the finest of artisans. The members of his crew feared

  Adama as much as they loved him. There was a popular superstition aboard

  the Galactica that, when the commander became angry, those powerful eyes

  retreated into his skull and gave off rays that made him look so inhuman

  he might just have materialized as a god from some new alien mythology.

  Although tall and strong, he had none of the muscular man's typical

  clumsiness in normal movement. His gestures were smoothly graceful, and

  there was an ease in his bearing that made even his enemies comfortable

  with him---at least when he was comfortable with them.

  He stood away from the others, his fellow leaders from the Quorum of

  the Twelve. Their toasts to their new-found peace rang falsely in his

  ears. In front of him, as if arranged for his own personal viewing, the

  millions of stars visible through the Atlantia's starfield reminded him,

  as it reminded all contemplative men, of his own insignificance in this

  universe. And, even more, of the smallness of the historic event being

  enacted behind him. Men fought wars, cheered the coming of peace, then

  always seemed to locate another war to keep the peace from becoming too

  comforting.

  This peace, in particular, disturbed him. There was too much strain

  to the enthusiasm, too much simplicity in the negotiations. He didn't

  like the fact that the absent Cylons were controlling the event like

  distant puppet masters---sending a human go-between and arranging the

  ultimate rendezvous for treaty signing at their own chosen coordinates in

  space.

  President Arcon, looking very much like the wise man of tradition in

  his flowing toga, had called the settlement the most significant in human

  history. The array of candelight on the banquet table, catching the

  blood-red jewels on his silver chalice, had lent a religious aura to the

  official toast. And the subsequent unctuousness of Baltar's response to

  the toast left a bad taste in Adama's mouth. Why had the Cylons used

  Baltar as their human messenger for this conference? Although a

  self-proclaimed count, Baltar was little better than a trader, a dealer

  in tylium, lithon and turbonite. He was rich, yes, overwhelmingly so,