Tigh studied the formation as the five Vipers homed in on the two Galactica landing bays. Adama, Apollo, and Starbuck flew in a tight V pattern, with the commander at its tip. Croft and Sheba flew a short distance from, and beside, each wing of the V. Tigh sensed the commander's daughter, Athena, standing next to him, and he turned to her. "Your father's giving all of us an impressive flying lesson."
"That's good, considering all the talk he does about precision flying."
"He sounded fine. New energy in his voice, you notice?"
"Yes. He sounded happy."
Athena brushed back some strands of her black hair. In the unreal bright light of the bridge, her soft blue eyes seemed to fade, an effect heightened by the paleness of her complexion. Since this voyage had started, Athena had come a long way from the uncertain young woman who had been embarrassed by her responsibilities as a bridge officer of the Galactica. Now she not only commanded respect, she had acquired a fine record as a fighter pilot.
After they'd watched the incoming Vipers for a long while in silence, Tigh finally spoke. "Are you going to tell them, or shall I?"
Athena's reply had an edge of regret in it. "I should, I think. It's my duty."
Tigh nodded. The five ships were now linking with the Galactica's landing beams.
"A pity Apollo should return to this," Tigh said. "He's been away so long."
"I don't know how he'll take it."
Tigh suggested that they greet the returning pilots in the landing bay. They arrived there just in time to see Adama's Viper glide to an easy stop. The commander's leap from his cockpit was as energetic as Starbuck's and Apollo's, both of whom had landed just behind him. Adama strode forward smiling, his hand held out to Tigh.
"Good to see you again, old friend," he said, shaking Tigh's hand vigorously. "Wish you could have been with us. I can't wait to tell you about it. It was like the old days, it was—"
Adama, seeing the grim smiles on the faces of his aide and his daughter, stopped speaking abruptly. Apollo, coming up behind his father, stared into his sister's eyes. Athena was certain he could perceive her distress.
"Okay," Adama said, his voice sliding into command register. "What is it, Tigh?"
Athena stepped forward and, looking first at her father, then at her brother, said, "It's Boxey."
"Boxey?" Apollo said nervously. "What's happened? Is he all right? Tell me!"
Athena struggled to keep her voice steady. "He's okay. As far as we know."
"As far as you know? What—"
Adama placed his hand on his son's arm and spoke cautiously: "Take it easy, Apollo. Let her speak."
Athena searched their eyes, took a deep breath, and made the report she had dreaded. "Boxey's run away. As soon as he knew you were coming back, that you were all right, he—well—he just took off. Nobody noticed at first."
"Nobody noticed!" Apollo shouted. "What—"
"Wait, Apollo," said Adama softly.
"I thought he was just off on one of his usual explorations," Athena said. "But, when he didn't return to eat, I scouted around his room and found—found this."
She held out a piece of wrinkled paper. Apollo took it from her, noting that somehow any paper that Boxey handled wound up wrinkled like this. As he read the note, he saw Boxey's face and heard the boy's voice in his mind. The note said: "Dear Dad, I'm glad you're still alive. I was real worried. I had bad dreams and you always died. I'm afraid. I don't want to wait here and think about you getting killed. I'm going away. Then you don't have to worry about me again. I hope you never get killed. I'm taking Muffy with me. Your son, Boxey."
Apollo fought back tears. Adama, reading the note over Apollo's shoulders, put his arms around his son. It was a strange moment for the commander. His own son, troubled, was in his grip while his grandson was in jeopardy, lost somewhere in the vast confines of the Galactica. He didn't know whom to be more concerned for.
Apollo pulled away from his father's grasp, shouting, "I'm going after him."
He ran off, Adama calling after him, "Apollo! We'll organize search parties—"
But Apollo was quickly gone. Adama, without missing a beat, turned to Tigh. "Tigh, mobilize everyone not on duty. We'll scour the ship."
"Yes, sir."
As Tigh went off to implement the command, Starbuck, who'd been listening silently, his face worried, stepped forward, followed quickly by Croft and Sheba.
"Sir," he said, "I'd like to volunteer for search party duty."
Croft and Sheba echoed his offer. Adama sighed and said, "You're all just back from a trying experience. You must be tired out."
"Not that tired, sir," Croft said.
"All of us get busy," Sheba commented, "we'll find Boxey in no time."
"It's a big ship," Adama said. "Lots of places to hide."
"Then the sooner we get to it, the better," Croft said.
"I'll endorse that," Starbuck said.
Adama slowly nodded. "All right. Starbuck, you're in charge of putting your search party together."
"Aye-aye, sir. C'mon, Croft, Sheba, let's get to it. I'm sure we'll have no trouble getting volunteers for this mission."
They rushed off. Adama stared after them. He was proud that his warriors always seemed ready to volunteer in a crisis. Turning to Athena, he said, "Boxey's all right."
"I'm sure he is."
"Well, I've been away too long. Time to get back into harness. Athena, I'm sure you have some briefings ready for me."
"A ton of them."
"Start talking."
As they walked toward the landing bay elevators, Athena began to speak in a crisp professional voice. "Well, first there's this problem with overall engine maintenance . . ."
CHAPTER FIVE
Anyone unfamiliar with the behavior of a boy and his daggit might have found their movements through Galactica rooms and corridors unusual. The daggit, actually a daggit-droid manufactured by scientists to resemble the actual pet the boy had loved on his home planet of Caprica, ambled along at Boxey's heels, its leg movements jerky, its furry head swinging from side to side with a curiosity that had never been programmed into it.
The boy's movements were less natural than the daggit-droid's. Boxey moved stealthily, rushing across open spaces, stopping at doors or corners, peering around its borders, then beckoning Muffit on, like a scout for a battle team.
Boxey had never before been in this part of the Galactica. He could make little sense out of the odd configurations of dim, slightly dingy corridors and the glassed-in areas through which one could inspect the ship's machinery.
Muffit, as it always did when it hadn't been talked to for a long while, made a small bark.
"Ssshhh! Be quiet, Muffy. We don't want anyone paying attention to us. They'll just find us out and take us back."
He shook his finger at the droid, which seemed to acknowledge his statement with a small stiff nod.
They came to a junction of corridors. Boxey examined these routes, then spoke softly to Muffit, "Should we go this way, Muffy? Or that?"
The droid methodically went a little ways down one corridor, sensors inside his head checking to see if anyone was ahead of them. There seemed to be a group of people around the next bend, so it barked quietly and led Boxey down the other corridor. They proceeded slowly and carefully.
"Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Muffy. I mean, how can you ran away when there's no place to go?"
The way the daggit-droid looked back over its shoulder suggested that Boxey just might have a point there.
"There must be someplace a guy can run away to. I mean, I can't even get off this ship. I wish Starbuck was here. I could ask him. He always knows how—"
He stopped talking because he saw one of the ship's officers coming toward him. The woman was no one he recognized. She wore an engineering crew armpatch. Boxey muttered to Muffit, "Act like we belong here. That's what Starbuck'd do."
The officer paid them little attention as she passed. Her friendl
y smile was quick, her hello a soft formality. Boxey returned the greeting, trying to sound like a proper member of the ship's crew. He walked on with added confidence. "Say Muffy," he said, "this might be easier'n I thought. We can just—oh-oh."
Lieutenant Boomer and Ensign Giles stood just ahead of them, near a bank of elevators. They were chatting casually and hadn't noticed Boxey and his mechanical pet. Boxey wondered if they should turn and run, but he felt that would only draw attention and curiosity.
"Gotta bluff this one out, Muffy."
He hoped he could pass by them unnoticed.
"Be good to see the old bucko again," Giles was saying. "And Apollo and Sheba."
"And Croft, even," Boomer said drily.
"Don't know as I'd go that far."
"You don't like Croft?"
"I don't find him the hero of the day, if that's what you mean. He's not exactly the most cheerful sport I've ever come across."
"You put too much emphasis on good times and the old camaraderie. Croft's just not that type, that's all."
"Guess you're right. Hey, hi, Boxey!"
Boxey couldn't quite keep the gulp out of his voice. "Hi, fellas."
Giles ruffled Boxey's hair. "A bit off your normal course, ain't ya? I mean, never saw you in this part of the ship before."
Frightened by Giles's curiosity, Boxey decided to pretend to be playing one of his games. "On a mission," he said mysteriously.
"What?" Giles asked, then smiled in that condescending knowing way adults reserve for children. "Oh . . . oh, sure."
Giles winked at Boomer, as if to say, play along with the kid. Boomer nodded agreement.
"You're after the Cylons of the afterdeck, are you?" Boomer asked Boxey.
The idea of Cylons anywhere on the Galactica scared Boxey.
"The . . . the Cylons of the after . . . the after . . . The after-what?"
Boomer smiled.
"The afterdeck." Boomer's voice dropped to a whisper. "There's an old story: Cylons snuck aboard the ship, then forgot what their mission was. Since then, they've been hiding down here, attacking anyone they can find alone."
"Alone?"
"Yeah, you'd better stick with us."
An elevator arrived, and the going-up light came on. Boomer took a step into the elevator, saying, "We're on our way to the bridge. Going to greet your father and Starbuck. You're coming with us, aren't you?"
Boxey, more frightened than ever, felt trapped. He didn't want to see his father and have to explain the note he'd left behind. Yet, these two would expect him to be eager to go with them to the bridge. Deep down, he felt he never wanted to see Apollo again.
"No," he said quickly. "No, I saw my father already. When he first landed. Just awhile ago."
Boomer's look was quite suspicious. He wondered how, if Boxey had greeted his father as he said, he'd managed to travel this far into the depths of the ship in such a short time. Still, he had never known Boxey to lie.
"You guys go on," Boxey said. "I'll catch up later."
Giles joined Boomer in the elevator. Looking back at Boxey, he said, "Aww, come with us, Boxey."
"No!" Boxey shouted, and realized his voice was too loud. He added more normally, "No, I'll come later. Please."
"Well okay, son," Boomer said, his voice concerned. "Take care."
"I'll watch out for the Cylons of the . . . the whatever," Boxey said."
"I was just kidding," Boomer said. "There's no—"
The elevator doors closed in front of his face. Boxey leaned down and whispered to Muffit, "Whew! That was a close one. Boomer suspects somethin', I can tell. We got to get as far away from here as we can, Muffy."
Muffy's bark, keyed to the tone of Boxey's voice, seemed to agree. Boxey's face suddenly became very sad.
"I want to see Dad, I really do, Muffy. But next thing I know, he'll be going away again and we just wait around and maybe he'll come back dead. I'm tired of every time I get a parent, they die. It's best if I never see Dad again. He'll get over me and stop missing me, as much as I . . . much as I'll stop missing him. I really will. I promise, Muffy."
Muffit's next sound had a critical edge to it, as if it did not agree.
"No, really, Muffy, I will."
Down the row, another elevator arrived at the level. Nobody was inside.
"We better take this one, 'fore Boomer comes back. Looks like it's going down. C'mon, Muffy, let's go down, see what's at the bottom of the ship."
They entered the elevator and its doors closed with an ominous thud. A moment later, the doors of the other elevator opened. Boomer stepped out first, followed by a clearly irritated Giles. Boomer looked up and down the corridor. Giles said, "I don't know what you're so worried about. Just a kid playing a game."
"Maybe. I just got this gut feeling something was wrong with Boxey. Something in his eyes. You check down that way, I'll try this direction."
"Okay."
Giles performed his part of the search reluctantly, seeing little more than dusty floors and dirty glass partitions in front of oddly iridescent machinery. He was not interested in machinery. He connected machinery with engineers and, like many warriors, he distrusted engineers. When he'd rendezvoused with Boomer back at the elevator bank, he commented, "The kid sure got away from here fast."
"Like he had to."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Not sure. I think he didn't want to see us, and he was afraid we'd come back like this."
"Boomer, your scanner console's tracking at half-speed,"
Boomer shrugged. "Yeah, it probably is. Let's go up to the bridge."
Neither man spoke during the long elevator trip up, past the hundred or so levels between the engineering afterdeck and the bridge. When they arrived at the bridge, they found an obviously agitated Apollo standing outside the elevator.
"Apollo!" Boomer said. "What's wrong?"
"It's Boxey! He's run away."
Boomer pounded his left fist into his right palm. "Damn! Apollo, we just saw Boxey."
Apollo grabbed Boomer's shoulders. "Where? Where was he? Tell me, Boomer!"
"Better than that. We'll take you there. C'mon, Giles."
As they descended, Apollo stayed in a corner of the elevator, his right hand tapping furiously against the wall. Boomer had never seen Apollo so nervous before.
On the engineering afterdeck, Apollo raced through corridors, with Boomer and Giles struggling to keep pace with him. When they found nobody but a trio of disgruntled engineers sneaking ambrosa on duty (for which Apollo chewed them out royally), Apollo insisted on searching the entire area again.
CHAPTER SIX
Spectre swung around on the command pedestal's ornate chair, not because he had any special desire to conduct himself frivolously (IL Series of Cylon ambulatory sentient computers were not programmed to be frivolous), but because he had often seen Baltar swing in the chair while considering his next command decision. Swinging around in the chair did not, he found, add anything to his awareness of command. He had not been in command of the base-star, once Baltar's, for a long while and was not yet accustomed to exalted position.
After the incident in which a machine of Baltar's designed to magnify emotions had backfired by sending the Imperious Leader into an amazing fit, Spectre had embarked on a series of maneuvers designed to get himself appointed commander of the base-star. Baltar had never suspected Spectre's insidious, carefully orchestrated treachery. Spectre had no doubt that Imperial Leader, who was about as omniscient as a creature could be, perceived Spectre's ambitions and approved.
After the shift in command, Baltar had surprised Spectre by electing to remain shipboard as second-in-command and adjutant. Humans tended to be unpredictable, at least by Cylon standards. No doubt, Spectre thought, Baltar had some devious plan of his own, one which was doomed to failure since the man was simply not clever enough to outsmart an IL series robot.
Spectre's musings were interrupted by a signal from the tiny message console
attached to the chair's curving arm. Reacting rapidly, he donned his communications helmet and signaled back. Immediately, the figure of the Imperious Leader appeared to materialize right next to Spectre in a chair even more ornate than Spectre's. The figure was, of course, a holographic representation of the Leader. Spectre was, as always, impressed by the physical immensity of this many-eyed, knobby-skinned creature whose skin seemed to display every possible shade of gray. The Leader's head nodded approvingly at Spectre, and he spoke in a deep booming voice that seemed to surround and envelope his minion. "I am pleased with you, Spectre. You have potential beyond my expectations."
Spectre wondered if the Leader's comment was praise or a disguised insult about cybernetic status deriving from the relatively inferior IL-2 series. The entire series had been originally devised as an honor guard which would be at the disposal of the Imperious Leader, Spectre had been assigned to a remote planet, where he had managed to ingratiate himself with the Cylon hierarchy through a series of false reports which portrayed himself as a hero in a situation where, in fact, he had been rendered helpless by troops of children led by the legendary Lieutenant Starbuck of the Battlestar Galactica. Spectre had, however, a special ability to turn defeat into victory, a technique which considerably helped his rise through Cylon ranks.
"I will serve you however I can, oh mightiest of warriors," Spectre said. He was always obsequious, a trait which the Leader favored. He rather enjoyed Spectre's little ploys.
"You may serve me, Spectre, by capturing the Galactica and its fleet once and for all. I am weary of watching the humans continue to slip out of our grasp. I want them in chains. I want to parade them through the capital and humiliate them. I want to see Adama tremble in fear before he is executed. Can you do that for me, Spectre?"
The Leader's voice was so reasonable that a moment passed before Spectre realized the immensity of the task the Leader had offered him. Still, as a Cylon he had to answer in formula: "I will try, exalted sir."
The Leader's voice became gruff: "Only try? Spectre, I am disappointed in you."
Oops, wrong formula, Spectre thought. A positive enthusiasm is required.
Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica! Page 3