After Baltar had left, Lucifer walked toward the main stage. Suddenly he became aware of a figure standing in the shadows behind some curtain ropes. Pushing two of the ropes aside, the figure stepped into the light. It was the real Borellian Noman, Lingk. He stared at Lucifer with such a heated intensity that Lucifer felt uneasy. The Noman made a sound in the back of his throat. "I knew there was something odd about you, Trogla, if Trogla indeed is your name. You don't act like a Borellian Noman. Borellian Nomen are not able to deceive others on a stage. Playing roles the way you do is unknown in our culture."
Lingk tilted his head back and stared at Lucifer, awaiting a response. Lucifer chose to remain silent.
"I don't know what you are, deceiver," Lingk finally said. "But I overheard enough of your conversation with your friend to know you are planning something against the fleet. A mission, your friend said. And that's not all I have heard. I heard you say you would kill Adama. A difficult mission indeed. Will you do that, Trogla?" Again Lingk looked for a response without receiving one. "All right, you won't say. We Borellian Nomen are often good operatives. I've eavesdropped often. I've heard your talkative companion mention sabotage. You two are indeed planning something major."
Lingk walked to Lucifer and stood directly in front of him. Lucifer was slightly taller, but the real Borellian seemed larger overall.
"You know how I concluded you were a fake, Trogla? All these times I eavesdropped on you, you never sensed my presence. A Noman can always sense another Noman's presence. I don't know what you are but you are not a Noman."
Lingk took hold of the collar of Lucifer's tunic. He grabbed it lightly, fingered its rim. "What should I do with you, Trogla? Turn you in? Join you? I will not—"
Lingk's sentence was interrupted as Lucifer's arms rose. Casting Lingk's hands away, he went for the Noman's throat. Lingk's eyes bulged out beneath his thick eyebrows as he struggled. He made gasping, choking sounds. He put his arms around Lucifer and began to squeeze, trying to crush him. He was surprised by the lack of resilience in Lucifer's body. It was a moment before he realized he was trying to crush metal and that probably, whatever this creature was, it did not rely on breathing for existence.
Lucifer, perceiving he was about to kill someone for the first time in his existence, suddenly released Lingk's neck. Lingk squirmed away, choking. Yelling angrily, he rushed at Lucifer and shoved him against the wall. Holding him there, he said, "What kind of creature are you? Must I kill you to find out?"
Lucifer realized he would have to fight back. It was a strange, silent battle fought in shadows. The two large beings struggled slowly against each other, like two primeval monsters fighting for control of the swamp. Gradually Lucifer got the advantage. He slammed Lingk against the stage's back wall. With his forearm he cut off the air in Lingk's windpipe. As he pressed his body against Lingk's, he felt ribs crack in Lingk's chest.
With a strange bubbling sound in his throat, Lingk lost consciousness. Lucifer could still sense life in the Borellian, and he pressed harder against Lingk's throat.
Lingk's body went limp. He died.
Letting go, Lucifer watched the large body of the Noman slide down the wall and wind up in a heap on the floor. Lucifer looked around, saw no one in the vicinity. Nobody had seen the battle.
He dragged Lingk's body to a waste chute in the corridor just outside the backstage area. With an almost delicate concern, he placed Lingk's body into it. He stared at the body for a long moment, then pressed the button and the corpse was pushed out into space.
Lucifer continued to stand by the chute, looking into it as if the corpse were still there. He was surprised that he had been able to kill so easily when he had never killed before. Was it possible that he had once been programmed not to take another's life? He checked all his circuitry, surveyed his storage and retrieval banks, studied his own sense of awareness, weighed his knowledge about killing. As far as he could tell, the dispatching of Lingk had made no difference to him. None that he could find by scientific examination, anyway. He wondered if all murderers had an empty feeling after the deed. He would probably never know. His programming, which had once included a set of emotions and (did he really remember this?) a soul of his own creation, did not allow him to feel any passion or even a slight emotion as the result of his murder.
Perhaps he could have recruited Lingk, avoided killing him, but the Borellian would have been no help. There was no reason to carry extra baggage on a mission so important.
As he walked away from the waste chute, he realized that the indifference he now felt about his killing of Lingk would make him a prime assassin. The murder of Adama would be easy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Elevators going to the Devil's Pit made extra noise, unnerving creaks that were perhaps their complaints at being forced to go there at all. Certainly the Devil's Pit elevator banks, whose rust-spotted doors could just barely open, because it was so rare for anyone to come to the dreaded place, had lately been busier than usual. The doors added their own complaints to the general rumbling as they opened slowly and Apollo, Athena, Starbuck, and others forced their way through the thin opening the doors provided. The search party had come to the Devil's Pit because Athena's research had shown that many of the ship's tunnels began at that level.
"What a spooky place!" she said as she gazed at the ominous dark corridors that led away from the elevator bank. "You think Boxey's here somewhere?"
"That's my hunch," said Apollo grimly.
"Poor child."
"I don't know," Starbuck mused. "I'd've liked a place like this to explore when I was a kid."
"You must've been a strange child," Athena commented.
"No stranger than I am now."
"Well, that only proves my point."
"What it does is define the difference between us. I, on the one hand: devil-may-care, daring, adventurous. You: well-controlled, patient, smart but cautious. That's why you're command personnel and I'm on the front lines."
"Starbuck, you moron, I've held my own in front-line duty."
Athena was wondering if she should, after all, have joined Hera and Cassiopeia in writing their play attacking Starbuck.
"I know you've fought, and fought well," Starbuck said. "You've even been—"
"Will you two stop bickering?" Apollo interrupted, in the irked and irritable fashion he'd been displaying lately. "We've got a job to do."
Apollo deployed the troops, sending each group down a different corridor. Starbuck and Athena came with him down a particularly dank, dusty, and gloomy passageway. After a few steps, Athena sneezed.
"Bless you," Starbuck said, then sneezed himself.
"Bless you back."
"This place'll be great for my allergies."
"You have allergies?"
"I had a lot of 'em as a child. Now, I don't know, dust sometimes, certain plants, hot-tempered women, that sort of thing."
"Yes, I see. Especially the last."
"Concentrate, you two," Apollo admonished.
"Touchy," Starbuck whispered to Athena.
"Yes."
They proceeded onward, sensing many eyes observing them and quick movements of the observers to get out of sight.
Apollo held up his hand and pointed ahead. "Looks like some kind of fight up that way. Let's check it out. If Boxey's here someplace . . ."
He left the sentence unfinished as he rushed forward. The others, following, understood clearly. Apollo was in desperate straits, ready to try anything if it meant there was a chance to find Boxey. As they neared the fracas, they saw it wasn't a battle at all. A desultory group of rags whose shreds seemed to have once been uniforms had surrounded an old man and were pushing him around, prodding him with wooden staffs that vaguely resembled combat swords. Apollo addressed his companions over his shoulder. "Looks like an unfair fight to me. Let's stop it."
He didn't leave Athena and Starbuck a chance to confer, but instead surged forward into the fray. His reluctant compa
nions came after him. Starbuck, staring at the victim of the attack, commented to Athena, "That old geezer looks familiar."
He didn't have much time to think about the old man's visage as he fought off two shoddy attackers. Apollo was dispatching others magnificently, decking them with single punches or flinging them against walls and stanchions. The leader of the attackers, recognizing the uniforms of genuine colonial warriors, yelled, "Hey, these guys are from up top. Let's get the hell out of here!"
The attackers vanished in the eager manner of all cowards. Apollo helped the old man to his feet.
"Much obliged," the old man said, his voice weak. "I thought I was headed for waste-chute city there for a while." Staring at his rescuers, his eyes brightened and his voice became stronger. "It's Captain Apollo, isn't it? What a coincidence!"
Starbuck snapped his fingers. "I knew I'd seen you before. You're the old geezer who helped Greenbean when I was out of my head chasing him. You floored me with a good right to my jaw."
"Oh, yes, Starbuck, isn't it? I heard you were going around calling me an old geezer."
"How would you know that?"
"I'll tell you in good time. And this extraordinarily lovely young lady is . . ."
In spite of her usual indifference to the flattery of the men she knew, Athena couldn't keep from blushing at this unexpected praise from a stranger. "I'm Athena, sir."
"I should've known. You do fit your description."
Athena smiled. "And who described you to me?"
"Someone you'd all like to hear about, I'm sure."
Apollo leaned toward the old man and spoke impatiently. "We haven't got time to work through your hints, old man. This is something to do with Boxey, isn't it?"
The old man looked at Apollo with respect. "You really do get to the point, don't you? Knew you were a no-nonsense type first time I saw you. Brave. I told Boxey how brave you were."
Apollo seized the old man's shoulders and nearly raised him off the ground with a sudden surge of angry strength. His eyes fierce and glowing, he shook the old man. "Where is Boxey? What'd you do to him?"
"He was here for a while, there was a fight, he ran off. I've been looking for him myself, ever since."
Apollo, his anger diminishing, released the old man. "Tell us about it."
The old man, in rapidly spoken but well-enunciated words, related the story of how he had found Boxey, of the boy's further escapades and captures, and his disappearance with Peri after the last fracas.
"I've scoured the Devil's Pit for the both of 'em. I don't think they're here anymore."
"Where are they then?" Apollo said desperately.
"Somewhere else in the ship, I expect. If he's still with Peri, he's in good hands. That kiddo knows the secret hideouts of the ship better'n anybody."
Crestfallen, Apollo slumped against the wall.
"What do we do now, Apollo?" Athena asked, compassion in her voice.
"I don't know. You heard. Boxey could be anywhere on the ship. This ship is a maze. He can stay hidden as long as he wants to. And he wants to." Athena put her arm around her brother's shoulders, hoping to comfort him just a little. She could feel him stiffen with the touch. He straightened and said, "Better go back. See if anybody else has spotted him. We can't stay away anyway, not with the ship on alert."
"Are you on alert?" the old man asked. "We never know such things down here." He saw Starbuck's puzzled look. "It's true, young man. We've cut ourselves off. All that filters down here is the occasional bit of information gleaned by the tunnel travelers. Sometimes they lean against the other side of your walls and listen to your conversations." Starbuck frowned and shuddered. "What's the matter, young fella?"
"Just thinking of some of the things they might've overheard. I don't like having my privacy invaded."
The old man shrugged off Starbuck's concern. "Don't worry about it. They're like insects in a wall. They can't harm you."
"Let's go," Apollo said abruptly, then turned toward the old man. "Nice to see you again, sir."
"Wait," the old man said as Apollo started to walk off. "Maybe I can help you."
Apollo whirled around, "How?"
"Let me go with you. Up top. I'd like to help, make sure Boxey is okay. I've . . . well, I've taken a kind of fancy to the kiddo."
The old man looked at each colonial warrior in turn. Finally, Starbuck, after glancing at Apollo and Athena, spoke for them all, "Well, no offense, old-timer, but we'd have to . . . well, clean you up a little."
"That's all right. I'd like some new duds, too."
"And, uh, well, I'd suggest you lay off the rotgut ambrosa for a while. The odor of it's, well, rather strong on you."
"It's my aura. I know. Okay, I agree to your conditions. Anything to get away from the Pit for a white. It's turned bad down here ever since this little war started."
"Is it okay, Apollo?" Starbuck asked. "Take him along?"
"Sure, we'll talk a bit, maybe get a clue to Boxey's whereabouts. Come with us, sir. Do you have a name?"
"I do. But I keep it to myself."
"Suit yourself."
At the elevator bank, the old man had a moment of doubt while standing before the opening doors. He drew back from them, then forced himself to be confident as he took the first step out of Devil's Pit. He had been there a long time. They were tentative steps, but they got him inside the elevator car. As the doors closed, he had further doubts. He wondered whether he would take the first elevator back to the Pit. As the car rose through Galactica's levels, however, his confidence rose with it.
Cadet Hera led the old man to his quarters, which were part of the Support Personnel barracks. Pointing toward the end of the chamber, she said, "There's an empty place down there."
At the entrance to his cubicle, he stopped suddenly. A poster on the wall had caught his attention, a handbill announcing the imminent arrival of a theater troupe aboard the Galactica.
"Interested in theater, are you?" Hera asked.
"A little. Reminds me of . . ."
"Of what, sir?"
The old man appeared to ignore her question. There was a long pause before he finally responded, "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all."
"I don't believe you."
The old man smiled affably. "You're an impertinent wench, aren't you?"
"You bet. I'm a Vailean. We tend to be a bit on the direct side. And I can see that you're not telling me something. Why?"
"It doesn't matter. I've been away for a long while. Suddenly I feel a need for simpler pleasures. I'd like to see a good play."
Hera's eyes widened in interest. "You know something about plays? Reason I ask, I have this play my friend and I are trying to write for this troupe. We want them to do it while they're here, but it's beginning to look like we can't finish. You think you could help us?"
"I don't think so."
Hera nodded and started to lead him into his new cubicle. The disappointment on her face troubled him, so he added, "But I'd be glad to try."
Hera beamed with happiness. "All right. Let me tell you about it. I got the idea when I was talking to this louse named Starbuck. You seem surprised, sir. Why?"
"It's Starbuck. His name seems to be coming up often in my life."
"Unlucky you. Anyway, let me tell you about the play."
Her voice became quite animated as she settled the old man in his cubicle while chattering about the play. She was so rapt in her story, she didn't notice the old man's odd, avuncular smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The half-dozen ships transporting the theater troupe and its equipment maintained a shaky formation in their trip from the Broadside to the Galactica. The Broadside had been positioned near the rear of the massive fleet, and so the trip to the command ship was a long one.
Dwybolt, delighted at finding out that Baltar had his own ship, convinced Baltar to volunteer it as a cargo carrier for some of the company's stage sets and costumes. Baltar had, on his part, been delighted by the proposal,
since a ship carrying troupe paraphernalia was the perfect cover for getting aboard the Galactica without a thorough search from its security forces. He still feared, however, that aboard the Galactica where he was, after all, known to many who considered him the most evil person in the universe, his disguise would be seen through.
Now he sat at the ship's controls and tensely maneuvered his ship through the surprisingly busy interfleet traffic. He had never known there was so much commercial and private flight among the many ships of the ragtag fleet.
With the cargo, Baltar had been assigned a passenger, Captain Ironhand. The Broadside's captain made him nervous. The man kept tapping his metal claw against the metal arms of his chair. The result was a horrendous clanging which the captain didn't seem aware of. It echoed throughout the little ship.
Next to Baltar, Lucifer sat, looking at a script in the form of sides, pages that held only the lines for the part Lucifer was memorizing, together with their cue lines. Lucifer turned pages rapidly.
"I never thought I'd get the chance to get inside the Galactica," Ironhand said suddenly in a childlike voice.
Baltar regarded him strangely. Did the Galactica, he wondered, always have this effect on people? Few of them had probably ever traveled to it. The actors, too, had seemed excited about the prospect of seeing the Galactica up close. The big ship was their chance for success, to reach what they called, in their profession, the big time.
He turned to Lucifer, who had put his script aside. "What play are we doing next, Trogla?"
"The End of Time."
An apt title, Baltar thought. It'll be the end of time, all right, when I get through with the Galactica.
"We've never done that one, Trogla. You'll have to drill me on my lines."
Lucifer, always surprised that Baltar had such difficulty with an easy task like memorizing a few words, said nothing.
In another ship, Dwybolt looked over the shoulder of its pilot and saw the Galactica ahead. "Look, Shalheya. There it is."
Shalheya, who'd been making adjustments to one of her costumes, gave the Galactica a bored look. Dwybolt interpreted the look easily and said, "You think I'm foolish, don't you?"
Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica! Page 13