"A plan that merely failed?"
"Doubt it. This looks more like a section, a part of a plan whose full nature we haven't seen yet. Why that distress call? Such an elaborate device with which to lure squadrons away. Why didn't they just pull a surprise ambush if they wanted to engage us in battle?"
"Might be that they didn't expect Apollo's squadron to return so soon, still . . . it does have an odd smell to it all right. Either way, the attack was destined to fail. What could they be planning?"
"I don't know but, until we do, everybody's going to draw double shifts. Athena, make up a duty roster. Increase the guard patrols around the fleet. Make it known that all support level ships are as much on alert as the military ones."
"Yes, sir."
After Athena had left him by the starfield, he continued to stare out. He oversaw the flight into landing bay of each of the returning ships. When there were no more he tried to discern Cylons lurking in the bleak darkness of space.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Broadside was not one of the ragtag fleet's busier ships. Its rusty airlock saw little traffic, and the captain had discovered long ago that there was no point in posting guards at the ship entryways. Therefore, there were no crew around to see the airlock's inner hatch spring suddenly open, with a resounding thwack, and Baltar come stumbling through the opening. He fell flat on his reconstituted face. Lucifer stepped slowly through the opening and stared down at Baltar with a look that managed somehow to combine the arrogance of a Borellian Noman with Lucifer's own brand of cold criticism. Embarrassed, Baltar quickly stood up and dusted himself off.
"What wonderful security aboard this scow!" he remarked. "Not even a welcoming committee."
"Perhaps," Lucifer said, "they have an open-door policy."
Baltar squinted curiously at Lucifer, trying to see signs of irony in the creature's impenetrable face. He wondered whether the "new" Lucifer was as capable of scathing insult as the old one had been. There was no way to tell. In that way, the new face was like the old one. Who could perceive what the old bag of bolts was up to?
"You better do something more to that voice to yours," Baltar said, his own new and different voice capturing some of the intonations of the former one. "You still sound like a machine."
Lucifer lowered his voice. "Is this better?"
"A little bit. But you're a Borellian Noman now. Could you get a more gravelly sound into it?"
Lucifer put an edge of roughness into the voice. "How about this?"
"Close enough. Remember to vary the patterns of your sentences. Sounds less mechanical that way."
"Do . . . you mean . . . I should talk . . . like this . . . with . . . little . . . pauses."
"Well, yes. But not so many, as you say, little pauses."
"I shall try . . . to follow your instructions . . . as best I can."
"I think you've got it. At any rate, better if you let me do most of the talking."
"All right. Someone is coming."
Strolling down the corridor toward them rather lethargically was a slump-shouldered, pot-bellied crewman. He narrowed his eyes at the two arrivals, but otherwise showed little interest in them.
"Name's Slug," he said.
"Seems appropriate," Baltar said.
Slug heard the sarcasm of the remark. He was just not interested enough to think about it. "Cap'n wondered what you two blokes want."
Baltar straightened his back to look more official. "Why, uh, why, we're emissaries from the Battlestar Galactica. On a special mission."
"What mission?"
"Well, we must inform only the captain of that."
Slug ignored Baltar's formality. "As you say. Follow me."
As they ambled along behind the slow-moving crewman, Baltar noticed how rundown the Broadside was. Perhaps he'd made the wrong choice when he'd guided their small scout-ship into the rear of the fleet. Perhaps he should have gone to one of the other ships. The appeal of the Broadside had been that it was so inconspicuous. Still, he might have to go elsewhere to find a base of operations for his real mission. He hoped it was possible to get somewhere else from the Broadside.
Lucifer whispered to Baltar. "What is our mission here, Baltar?"
"Quiet. I haven't thought of it yet."
Continuing on, they saw more crewmen and somewhat, but not much, more activity. However, the movements of the workers were nearly as laconic as Slug's. It looked to Baltar as if the Broadside's crew did only as much work as they were told, and no more.
When they arrived at the captain's quarters, Slug stood by the door gesturing the two arrivals in. His lazy hand gesture seemed the height of activity for the man. The captain's room was like the rest of the ship, desultory, cluttered, old-looking, badly lit.
Slug said, "Cap'n Ironhand?" and the captain glanced up from the logbook he was studying. He sat behind an ancient piece of furniture that might have been a desk before it died.
"These are the intruders, Slug?"
Baltar strove to look insulted by the captain's words. "Captain, we are emissaries from the Battlestar Galac—"
"Yes, yes. I don't need to hear your yam. I know what you are."
Baltar felt a pang of fright. "You do?"
"Of course. Slug?"
"Sir?"
"Dismissed."
Ironhand watched Slug walk lazily out of the room, taking forever to close the cabin door. He shook his head disgustedly.
"I hope you blokes are better hands than that one."
"Hands? But we're not—"
"Can the yam. Nobody from the Galactica comes here."
The captain held up his artificial hand. It looked so menacing that Baltar could barely get out his next words. "This is an envoy from the commander himself."
Ironhand laughed mockingly. "And why would the commander be caring about anything on Fleet Ship Broadside?"
"Adama is concerned about all the vessels under his command."
"Under his thumb, you mean."
"Commander Adama has asked me personally to sound you out on the possibility of your joining the command staff aboard the Galactica. "
It had been quite a shrewd improvisation, Baltar thought, and he was disappointed to see the captain break out in incredulous laughter. "Now I know you're lying. Nobody on the command staff would want me to join them. Come clean, buster. You've come here from elsewhere."
Baltar wondered if his game was blown, if the disguise procedures he had gone through so painfully had been for naught. "What do you mean, sir?"
"You've come here from where most of my crew come from. From trouble. They're all either ex-cons from the grid barge or fugitives from justice who've heard this is a safe ship for escapees from anything. We have a few who just want to hide from the fleet for their own private reasons. Which category are you two?"
Well, Baltar thought, if one cover story disintegrates, grab another one. "You're very perceptive, Captain. We, uh, we had a bit of a ruckus over at the Rising Star. Got in a bit over our heads, wound up owing the casino more cubits than our credit account showed. We had to skip out, well, rather quickly."
Ironhand's face broke out into a big grin. He appeared elated as he quickly stood up and strode around his big desk. He seemed to be ready to slap Baltar on the back. With his metal claw. Baltar inadvertently flinched.
"That's more like it," the captain bellowed.
"Then," Baltar said hesitantly, "then you're taking us on?"
"Of course. That's what you came here for, isn't it?"
Baltar seized the opportunity. "Of course."
"I've been a fugitive, too. A couple of times. And I did a couple of forced tours in twelve-world prisons. I think it was Gemon the first time, then Sagitara."
"You've been around."
"Had a long life, been in many scrapes. Your name, sir?"
"I am called Korriman. This is my friend and ally, Trogla."
Ironhand gazed steadily at the impassive Lucifer, now Trogla. "The silent type, huh
?"
"Trogla is a Noman of few words."
"Most of these Borellians are. What say, Trogla, you stingy with small talk?"
There was a distant sound in Lucifer's voice, but his duplication of the Noman sound had improved. "I need no small talk."
Ironhand laughed, startling both Baltar and Lucifer. "You're a Borellian Noman all right. Sound like every one of 'em I ever met. But I'm always glad to get a Borellian bozo for my crew. No nonsense from a Noman, I always say. They get the work done and don't complain about the quality of their rations. Unless they're on a blood trail. You're on no blood trail, are you, Trogla?"
"No."
"The two of you can go on cargo duty until we figure out what you're best at."
Baltar, who had no love for manual labor, swallowed hard. "Cargo duty?"
"Need some help there, matey. On the Broadside we go where we're needed. Any objections?"
"Oh. No, none."
The captain dismissed them, and they were led to their quarters by the almost ritualistically lethargic Slug. There was a large shard of mirror hanging on a rust-streaked wall in the room. Baltar, glancing into it, had the same shocked reaction he always felt when he glimpsed his new face on a reflecting surface. Since he still felt like himself inside, and always saw his old face in his mind, the new face seemed unreal, a mask delicately attached to his old face. So far he didn't feel safe with the new physiognomy. He was afraid someone would recognize him in spite of it, see through to his very soul and expose him. He would be torn apart if discovered.
Lucifer, on the other hand, had no problems with his new identity. He realized that his disguise was the reason people deferred to him with some respect and fright in their eyes. Evidently they feared Borellian Nomen. Being feared was a curious sensation for one who had been trained as a servant instead of warrior.
Baltar soon slipped off into an exhausted sleep. Since Lucifer did not require sleep, even though Baltar had instructed him to fake it, he wandered through the interconnected cubicles that were quarters for the Broadside's crew. In one of them he discovered a genuine Borellian Noman, a mirror-image, staring back at him. The real Borellian had a look of disgust in his eyes. Lucifer made a mental note to try to duplicate that look in further dealings.
There was suspicion in the Borellian's voice. "My name is Lingk. I don't believe we have met before. I thought I knew everyone from Borellia in this fleet. Your name, sir?"
"Trogla."
Lingk stared at Lucifer suspiciously. "Your name is Trogla, you said?"
"Yes."
There was an odd, choking sound in Lingk's throat. Lucifer had no idea how to interpret it. "I admire your courage," Lingk said, "in carrying a name that refers to the most common variety of ground-mole on Borellia."
Lucifer decided that ground-moles were apparently not looked upon with favor by Borellians. "It has been a burden," he said.
As Lucifer talked with Lingk, he filed away information on the Noman, how he spoke, how he positioned his body, his limbs, how his face changed to register expression. It was fortunate for him to be able to study a Borellian up close like this. He gradually made his voice deeper as he talked.
"It is odd to find a representative of the Drayliks with a name meaning ground-mole," Lingk observed.
Drayliks. Another challenge. What could a Draylik be? "It was not strange in my family."
"Doubtless not. Still, I do not understand why we do not know each other. There are so few of us Borellians in the fleet. My leader, Mega, was certain we had contacted them all."
Lucifer's skill at improvising was being severely tested by the actual Borellian Noman. "I have been on the prison barge for some time now. In isolation."
"Ah, that would explain all."
Lucifer deliberately took a chance. "How did you know I was a representative of the Drayliks?"
Lingk seemed puzzled. His thick eyebrows raised. "By your voice, of course."
Could he have made a mistake in his voice alteration, Lucifer wondered. "Ah, yes, my voice."
"You seem strange, Trogla."
"On the prison ship, there was a . . . a blow on my head. I have problems remembering."
Lucifer's ploy appeared to confuse Lingk. "I see. You don't remember that Borellian noble classes have altered voices. That they are surgically deepened to separate nobility from the masses, making their class instantly recognizable."
"Ah, I remember that of course. I thought you meant something else."
A cloud of doubt crossed Lingk's face. "If you say so. We will talk again."
"I look forward to it."
Lingk's parting look was filled with suspicion. Perhaps Lucifer had been too amiable. He must cultivate Lingk's coldness and aloofness. Returning to his assigned quarters, he analyzed the real Noman's voice and movements while feigning sleep on the cot next to Baltar's.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The air of the dark room was thick and unpleasant. Even when Boxey could breathe easily, it seemed as if a dozen different throat-choking smells were taken in with each breath. He could feel Peri shift around nervously next to him, while Muffit rubbed his lubricated nose up against him silently. The three had been thrown into the room by their captors some time ago.
"What do they want with us anyway?" he asked Peri.
"Who knows? These guys get their kicks from terrorizing others. That's how this stupid war got started, Box. Everything down in the Pit was peaceful. Somebody started a fight, some others got into it, and they all been tearin' around the Pit ever since. Nobody gets hurt much usually. Nobody down here's any good at war. Guess if they were, they'd be real warriors upstairs."
"Why do you say upstairs? Upstairs where?"
"The reg'lar part of the ship. You know, where you came from."
Muffit started to romp around the room, making little yelps in his throat. He stopped by the door and appeared to sniff at something on the other side of the thick metal. He emitted a low growl.
"Stop, Muffy," Boxey called.
"Yeah," Peri said, "keep the little monster quiet. His barking, it's giving me one big headache."
Muffit growled again and Peri's voice threatened. "Hey, ugly, stop that or I'll take a screwdriver to you. You'll be in pieces around this floor before you know it. If you can know it, stupid."
"Stop talking to Muffy like that. What'd he ever do to you?"
"Nobody has to do nothin' to me. Just existing, or whatever ugly there does, that's enough for me."
"You know, you got what Starbuck calls a bad attitude."
Peri was surprised by the irritation in Boxey's voice. "Who's this Starbuck?"
"He's a pilot. And he's my friend."
"Big deal. Pilot! What do pilots know? Bunch o' jerks, you ask me."
"My father's a fighter pilot."
"Your father?"
"Yes!"
" 'Nuff said."
Hearing the scorn in Peri's voice, Boxey fumed. He couldn't understand this odd girl. How come, since she seemed to be about his age, she acted so much older and superior? Perhaps it had something to do with the hard life she'd led. On her own so long, without parents or guardians, she had had to develop a tough front, hiding her true feelings. Unless it wasn't a front.
Peri spoke suddenly. "Hear that?"
"What?"
"That."
There was a commotion outside the door, a series of grunts followed by a loud thump against the outer wall.
"Sounds like fightin'," Peri said.
The noise subsided. The door rattled and came open. Framed by the hallway light, two of their captors peered in and shone a light upon the children.
"Hey look!" one of them said. "It's that kid again, the one I told you about."
"She's kinda cute, for a toddler."
"Shut up, you—" Peri shouted.
"Shut up yourself. This time you're my prize for sure. We like child-recruits in our—"
"You can't recruit me for nothin'."
"She's kind of
a feisty number, huh?"
"Feisty's the word for this one, all right."
They came toward the children. Boxey shouted suddenly: "Muffy! The rocket leap!"
Boxey's shout befuddled the two warriors, which gave Muffit the time to slide forward sideways, then jump off the floor like a rocket being launched, nipping at the face of one of the warriors. The man fell as the other yelled, "You little twerps, I'll—"
Peri rammed her head into his stomach. As he reeled backward, Muffit, again on the floor, managed to get tangled in the warrior's legs, tripping him up. The other man tried to rise, but Boxey pushed him backward, knocking his head against the wall, dazing him.
"Move your feet, Box," Peri called.
"What?"
"Run, stupid!"
Boxey and Peri, followed by Muffit, raced out of the room. Attempting to chase them, the two inept warriors wound up wedged momentarily in the doorway. When they had disentangled and reached the corridor they couldn't figure out which way the children had gone.
Boxey and Peri, after weaving their way through corridors and Devil's Pit machinery, came to a row of rooms, all with closed doors.
"Good," Peri said. "I know where we are. This way."
They proceeded onward with the caution necessary for the Devil's Pit—slowly, carefully, trying not to notice the spooky noises emerging from the darkness. Stepping down from a concealed ladder, a figure suddenly stood in front of them. They almost screamed with fright, then recognized the old man.
"Where you running, the pair of you? You been gone a long time."
Their words overlapping, Peri and Boxey described their adventures. The old man smiled. "Well, you had a high old time, didn't you? We better get you out of the way for a while."
They had only taken a few steps when they were abruptly surrounded by sounds of clamor, the beginning of another Devil's Pit battle. Caught in an open, dimly lit area, they had no place to retreat to. The battle suddenly surrounded them, and they were nearly trampled by a squad of the Warrior Elite. The soldiers, too intent on the fight, paid little attention to the old man and two children. The old man tried to push the children out of the battle, toward an open area beneath a walkway. "Just stay down, you two. This little donnybrook won't take long, then we can be on our way."
Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica! Page 11