"I will do it, sir. I will turn the Galactica into a floating derelict and bring its commander to your pedestal personally . . . in chains."
The Leader leaned forward approvingly. His large knobby hand appeared to go through the arm of Spectre's chair.
"Much better, Spectre. I'll expect to hear of your victory soon."
The Leader's image faded out, leaving Spectre to ponder the hardship of the mission he had just accepted. He was not ready for it yet. He had hoped to work up to the defeat of the Galactica through smaller victories. Now his command was in jeopardy. He had to win the big victory right away or wind up on a Cylon scrap pile.
At least his scouts had detected traces of the Galactica's presence in a nearby sector. The discovery of the massive ship and its fleet was imminent, Spectre felt. But what then? Previous Cylon attacks had been thwarted by the resourceful humans and their awesome firepower. Baltar's strategies had failed. It seemed to Spectre that, to defeat the Galactica, a special, devious plan was required. And soon.
He was suddenly aware of someone's presence in the command room, at the foot of the pedestal. Spectre looked down and was surprised to see Baltar smiling superciliously up at him. What did this nettlesome meddlesome human want?
"Yes, Baltar?"
"I—uh—wondered if you had any orders for me."
The obsequious words did not come easy to Baltar, it was clear.
"Is the anomaly in the lower deck fuel unit repaired?" Spectre asked.
"Nearly, sir. The Centurion-Engineer reports that it will take one more duty-shift to bring the fuel system back to acceptable levels."
Spectre remembered how Baltar used to court him, to try to get him to use his influence with the Imperious Leader. Baltar was a very oily type, his chubby face always breaking into insincere smiles. Spectre had always seen right through him. He had used Baltar just as much as Baltar used him. Perhaps more. Now he found unexpected pleasure in being able to boss Baltar around instead of treating him as commander. He was not supposed to feel such delight, but it apparently bypassed any restricting circuitry.
"Inform me when the fuel levels are at optimum, Baltar."
"Yes, sir."
For his part, Baltar resented his new position with Spectre, although he did not mind being obsequious. Obsequiousness was, after all, a trait he had used successfully throughout his life. What galled him was that he had to kowtow to Spectre, of all beings.
Baltar wondered how a supposedly guileless manufactured entity like Spectre had acquired such overweening ambition and become so calculating a monster. Baltar's former aide, Lucifer, had also been an ambulatory computer, but he had been programmed to be trustworthy. Oh, he could be a pain in the exhaust chute sometimes, sometimes becoming so all-knowing and so often right that Baltar could have pulled out his sealing wires, but Lucifer at least carried out his orders. He had had no ambitions to overthrow his commander.
Baltar wanted Lucifer back. He wondered what actually had happened to the old bag of bolts. Spectre had returned from a backwater planet known as the Joyful Land with the upsetting news that Lucifer had been destroyed by warriors from the Galactica. Baltar, however, doubted Spectre's story. The Galacticans were, by and large, too smart to shoot down a walking computer. They would know better. Still, the "killing" could have been an accident. Perhaps Lucifer had ambled into the line of fire and been shorted out for good. Poor louse. Baltar really appreciated him now. As Baltar's second-in command, Lucifer had pulled many defeats out of the fire and somehow brought credit to the ship and Baltar's command while doing so. The only important defeat that Lucifer had been unable to salvage had occurred when the guilt machine (an invention of Lucifer's that Baltar had usurped credit for) had gone haywire and nearly driven the Imperious Leader mad. Nobody could have saved Baltar from the Leader's subsequent wrath after the guilt machine catastrophe.
Standing at attention, Baltar awaited Spectre's dismissal. Instead, Spectre descended from the pedestal, using the lift-chair which Baltar had installed along one side. As soon as his feet (if you could call those two knobby stocks on rollers under the hem of his robe "feet") hit the command room floor, Spectre began pacing. His pacing amused Baltar, who had always paced when making a difficult decision.
"Is there a problem, sir?" Baltar asked slyly.
Spectre's response was equally sly. "A problem? Why would there be a problem?"
Baltar's smile was enigmatic. "I'm sure I don't know."
"There are no problems . . ." Spectre paused. ". . . under my command."
Baltar, recognizing the insult, struggled to hide his resentment. Spectre suddenly stopped pacing and turned toward Baltar. "I wonder . . ." Spectre let the phrase hang in the air.
Baltar, improving at the rituals of being second-in-command, snapped back his reply. "Wonder what, sir?"
"I wonder if we could possibly place an agent aboard the Galactica?"
"What kind of agent would that be, Commander?"
Baltar was proud of the way he had placed the proper intonations on the question. He had never before realized how much a commander relied on his adjutant to be a sounding board as well as a whipping boy.
"A secret agent, I believe. Yes, a secret one. What if we sneaked an agent on board the Galactica? At the proper moment, he could plant a bomb."
"You mean, blow up the ship? That would be quite a sacrifice. For the agent, I mean."
"No, I do not wish to blow the ship up, merely disable it. Make a vital system unfunctional. I have other plans for the Galactica. Do you follow?"
"I think so."
"Well, what do you think? Is it a good plan?"
"Frankly, no."
Spectre spoke more abruptly as he began to circle Baltar, "No? No?"
"No."
"And why? Explain to me why."
Baltar made a half-circle around the circling Spectre and then both of them stopped pacing as Baltar explained. "Who among the Cylons, even in disguise, could understand how to conduct himself aboard a human ship? Can you imagine even the cleverest among our officers copying the easy walk of a human, settling into a lounge and chatting easily while sipping at a glass of ambrosa?"
"No, Baltar, I cannot say that I can imagine that. A Cylon trying to pass as a human would be like a daggit running around a house with glass furniture."
Spectre's labored attempt at folksiness amused Baltar. "You sounded almost like a human there. Perhaps you could be our spy, Spectre."
"It was just a saying I heard from some human prisoners when I was traveling on that prison ship. I heard it and remembered it."
"Well, almost."
"At any rate, I suppose we should scrap my secret agent idea altogether, devise a different strategy."
"Well, I didn't say that. The plan is feasible. Dangerous, perhaps, but feasible."
"What do you mean?"
Baltar now took the pacing initiative. He paced in the same corner where he had paced as a commander. It felt comfortable. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper. "I could go."
"What was that?" Spectre said. "You? I don't understand."
"I might be persuaded to accept such a mission. Under conditions, of course."
Baltar was never one to volunteer without conditions, Spectre realized. "Go on," he said.
Baltar ceased pacing and stared at Spectre. He said in a voice that very much resembled his command voice, "I am human. I know how humans act, behave, how they talk. I know something about how a battlestar works. I have the best chance of getting to the right place without being caught. Except for one drawback."
"Which is?"
"It should be obvious to you, Spectre. In their eyes I am a traitor."
"In anyone's eyes you are a traitor."
Spectre's remark jarred Baltar. It was so bizarre when a metal construct such as this achieved a human level of sarcasm. The remark was true enough, of course. Who could be a greater traitor than one who was responsible for the destruction of twelve worlds and so much
of their civilization? Baltar would normally have erupted in anger at such an insult but now, intent on his plans, he kept cool and said, "Nevertheless, I wouldn't be safe once I set foot among the Galacticans. Looking as I do now, of course."
"Of course."
"But, properly disguised, I could do it. In fact, who better among us to succeed in this mission?"
"Who better indeed?"
Spectre said nothing for a moment. Baltar felt uncomfortable. It was so disconcerting not to be able to read thoughts or see emotion on Spectre's rigid metal face. Finally, Spectre took a couple of rolling steps toward Baltar and said, "You know, Baltar, I think you are right. You could do it. But I do not understand. Why should you volunteer for such a dangerous mission?"
"Well, Spectre, I have some scores to settle. I've waited a long time for such a chance."
Not only could he achieve revenge on the Galactica, he could catch Imperious Leader's attention, even regain his proper position in Cylon ranks.
Spectre's voice went down in pitch, a clear sign that he had come to a decision. "Very well, Baltar. We will begin planning our strategy now. Logistics are my specialty."
"How about the logistics of my disguise?"
"Simple. I will send for a physical reformation specialist."
"Physical what?"
"Reformation specialist. A technician who can completely change your appearance. A specialist can transform you entirely, give you a completely new face, even add a little muscle to your undertoned body. You can look any way you want. How would you like to look? Handsome? Debonair?"
Baltar was severely tempted but he said, "No, I have been handsome."
Spectre did not believe Baltar but chose not to comment as Baltar went on, "For this mission it's better I shouldn't stand out. I must look average. Ordinary. But younger, I would like younger. I must be able to slip around the Galactica unnoticed."
"I am certain that will be possible. I will send for the specialist immediately." Baltar's face paled. "Is something wrong, Baltar?"
"It won't hurt, will it?"
Baltar's voice was the voice of a child facing the point of an injection device.
"I don't know," Spectre answered. "Naturally I have not experienced the process. I do not, after all, feel pain."
"Yes, of course you don't. I'll go now, start researching how we can disable the Galactica."
"Very good, Baltar. Dismissed."
Baltar hated Spectre's imperious and abrupt dismissal, but, as long as he had to practice subservience with this two-legged junkyard, he must rein in his temper. He made the Cylon ritualistic farewell and started to leave the command chamber. As he reached the sliding exit portals, Spectre called out to him, "I was thinking of the disguise techniques. I think . . . I think there is someone else I can send with you, someone who will be a definite asset on this mission."
"Oh? Who?"
"It is not necessary for you to know at this time. I will have to check the . . . the availability of this individual."
After Baltar left, Spectre muttered, "A very good plan. It might even be a master plan. And, when it's done, I will be rewarded by the Imperious Leader. For such a magnificent catch as the Galactica, the reward will be equally magnificent, I am certain."
He began to pace in a slow circle.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As he walked into the Officers' Lounge, Starbuck saw Apollo sitting in a corner, looking gloomier than a professional mourner who'd lost his paycheck. Apollo wasn't touching his drink or even looking at the glass. He merely stared at a wall.
Boomer, Giles, and Jolly, seeing Starbuck come in, went to him.
"He looks pretty sad," Starbuck said anxiously.
"He won't even talk to us," Jolly said.
"How long's he been like this?"
"Since the search parties for Boxey disbanded," Boomer said, "after Adama refused him permission to continue the search alone."
"Why'd the old man do that?" Giles said. "Why didn't he just let Apollo go off looking on his own?"
"The commander can be a real hard case sometimes," Jolly muttered, and Giles nodded agreement.
"I think Adama really just wants Apollo to rest," Boomer said. "I mean, everyone's got his eye out for Boxey. Apollo went through hell back there on Yevra, then, after flying back with the rest of you, he immediately started racing through the Galactica looking for his son. He must be exhausted."
"Doesn't look like he's getting much rest now," Starbuck said.
"No," Boomer said, "he refuses to go back to his quarters and bunk down for a while. Just one rest period, I told him, but he just grunted and told me to go away. I went away."
"Don't blame you there. I'll take a shot at him, see what I can do."
"Ah, you're wasting your time, Starbuck," Giles said.
"Yeah, well, it's one of the ways I like to waste my time."
As he started to move toward Apollo's table, Boomer touched his arm. "You want me to tag along, bucko?"
"Sure, wingmate, always glad to have you as backup."
To Starbuck, approaching Apollo's table felt like coming in to land on an unknown planet. He forced some joviality into his voice. "Hey, good buddy, we—"
"Go away, Starbuck," Apollo replied sullenly.
"Apollo—"
"Friend, I can read you like a book. You've got it in your head that you can cheer me up with your famous inimitable humor. Well, it's not going to work, so don't try. Just leave me alone. Okay?"
"No."
Starbuck pulled out the chair across from Apollo. The noise as Starbuck slammed it to the floor made everyone else in the lounge look up. As Starbuck sat down, Boomer took a seat beside him with less drama.
"I'm not playing a buddy-buddy game here," Starbuck said grimly. "I want to pick you up and whack you around a bit, get some sense into your ugly head."
"I won't fight you, Starbuck. Get that into your ugly head."
"Okay, okay, I was overdoing this a bit. All I really want to do is get you to relax, get—"
"Relax?" Apollo shouted angrily. "How can you expect me to relax when Boxey's out there, I don't know where, maybe in danger . . ."
"All right, poor choice of word."
"You can say that again," Boomer muttered.
"Boomer, you're supposed to help."
"Neither one of us's doin' his job right. I'll refrain from sarcasm, okay?"
"Good. Now, Apollo—no, no, wait, I'm not going to say anything more about how you've been pushing yourself too hard, how you need rest, all that. I just want to say if you keep this up, I'm going to have to put in the proper forms to disqualify you as my fellow test pilot on the SuperViper."
Starbuck's speech caught Apollo's attention. "What Super-Viper? What test?"
Starbuck looked somewhat smug as he rubbed his hands together vigorously and spoke rapidly. "That's what I really came down here to tell you about. I didn't know anything about you sulking in corners until a couple of the guys grabbed me outside the lounge. Anyway, I've just been talking to Tigh. He just got the message from Research and Development that they believe they've got a nifty new ship ready to be tried out. Something that's been in the works for many, many centons. You know how those R&D jokers are, how they like to spring their new inventions on you from out of the blue. The ship is being transferred here, Tigh told me, and the R&D folks claim—"
"Wait, wait," Apollo interrupted, "slow down. My mind can't assimilate all this when you talk so fast."
"And it's not going to, with you so tired your mind is working at one-quarter speed. You get rest and get yourself back into shape. Then we go to Adama and volunteer to test this SuperViper."
"Volunteer? They need volunteers, do they?"
"Heck, they don't even want to test it right now. But, you and me, the two hottest shots of the hotshots, we can convince them, I'm sure."
Apollo's smile was weak, but it was certainly a hopeful sign to his two companions.
"No doubt about it," Apollo said.
"Okay, bucko, I'll try your way. Maybe getting my mind off my troubles is the thing to do right now. And I want to see this new . . . new SuperViper. They really want to call it a SuperViper?"
"You know these R&D bozos. A little exaggeration helps their cause, justifies their jobs."
"Let's see about it."
Starbuck stood up, leaned across the table, and tapped Apollo's shoulder with the flat of his hand. "Terrific," he said. "We need a chance to show these goldbricks some expert flying. Let me know when you're ready, buddy."
"I'll do that."
After Starbuck had taken a couple of steps away from the table, Apollo called out to him, "Starbuck."
Starbuck turned and waited for the statement he knew was coming. "I'm still going to search for Boxey. Every available time I get."
"Didn't expect otherwise, Apollo. Hell, I'm going to help you look. But we need rest now, all of us. This crew is on the verge of exhaustion. Pilots and cadets are getting positively woozy. And we need you, buddy, for inspiration and—"
Apollo waved Starbuck away. "Get out of here, will you? There's only so much of that cheery hopeful felgercarb I can take."
"Righto."
When they were out of earshot of Apollo, Boomer spoke quietly to Starbuck. "Was all that straight stuff? About the SuperViper and all?"
"Would I lie about that?"
"You've been known to lie about a lot less."
Starbuck raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm hurt. Anyway, it is true. I haven't seen the ship yet, but I understand it's a magnificent vehicle."
Apollo considered finishing off the last of his drink, then he pushed it away disgustedly. No more panaceas, he thought, he'd do what Starbuck had advised. Walking away from the table, pictures of Boxey came into his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about Boxey, couldn't stop wondering if he'd always done the right thing with the kid. It might, after all, have been the wrong thing to adopt him in the first place.
He'd first seen Boxey when the child was a refugee from Caprica, stowed with other refugees aboard a dangerous, fuel-leaking ship. The child had been saved by Serina, a Caprican news woman with whom Apollo quickly fell in love. He also was smitten with Boxey, a plucky child eager to become a warrior like Apollo. It had just been natural for Serina and Apollo to keep the kid around after they were married. Nobody, after all, had figured on Serina being killed by Cylons on the planet Kobol.
Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica! Page 4