She smiled quite theatrically. "Foolish? You? Never."
Recognizing her mockery, he smiled, too. "I suppose I am. See, I'd like the company to have a permanent home, a place that'd keep us from trudging from barge to barge on the fleet, working our tails off for audiences that are so often rude or indifferent. I'm tired of playing for the few who really appreciate it. I'd like time to develop plays and train actors, in a permanent theater. Hell, what I think I really want is some rest. I've been at this life too long."
Shalheya put her costume aside, walked to Dwybolt, and put her head on his shoulder. She was used to these moments of self-doubt from him. The mood usually fell upon him just before they arrived at a new place and often lasted until the curtain rose on their first performance.
Aboard the Galactica, in the landing bay, the troupe worked busily, unloading equipment, carrying sets to freight elevators, delicately handling stage machinery, holding racks of costumes high so that they wouldn't touch the bay's floor (which was, according to Adama's orders, kept pristinely clean anyway). Actors scurried about, making sure that the items important to their roles were being handled properly. Ironhand, eager to give his favorite theater troupe a hand, found his metal claw was useful. He could grip many coat-hangers, lug heavy cartons. Dwybolt seemed to be everywhere, supervising and checking.
Envious of the ease with which others labored, Baltar struggled with his own trunk. He had to be particularly careful with it because, concealed in a secret compartment of his own devising, was a load of solenite, the volatile explosive substance that he was smuggling aboard the command ship. He could not ask Ironhand for help, for the captain might heave the trunk too roughly and blow up everyone in the landing bay.
Baltar stopped suddenly, his gaze fixed ahead, fear in his eyes. Lucifer saw Baltar's strange behavior and asked, "What is it, Korriman?"
Baltar whispered, "Over there. There he is. Adama, looking like God's own representative to the fleet."
Adama strode across the landing bay, intent on some goal. Lucifer watched his intended target carefully. He had a sudden urge to kill the man now but knew he must wait for a better opportunity. There was, after all, more to this mission than just the murder of the commander.
Adama passed by them closely. He flashed Baltar a quick friendly smile. The act almost gave Baltar a heart attack. Could the commander have recognized him? No, impossible. If he'd recognized him, he would not have smiled. Baltar's new face had protected him. But would it continue to do so?
The commander's purpose became clear when he walked up to Dwybolt, saying, "We've been looking forward to your arrival, sir. It's been a long time since we've had any formal entertainment on the Galactica. And our people need it. We have been on alert for some time and could use the relaxation."
Dwybolt replied smoothly, "Commander, we will martial our energies and parade for the Galactica the finest performances of which we are capable."
Adama's eyebrows raised at the Impresario's elevated language. Dwybolt noted the mannerism and realized he could use it when he portrayed the evil king Braskill in the Sagitaran trilogy, The War of the Laserfish.
"Everything has been made ready," Adama said. "When you're ready to announce your schedule, I'll personally see that it's published throughout the ship."
"Our most sincere thanks, Commander."
"Yes. Good luck." Adama was taken aback by the instant worry in Dwybolt's face. "Of course. I am sorry. Never wish good luck to an actor. It's bad luck."
Dwybolt nodded. "It's like touching a mirror with your fingertips before you go on. Just a superstition, but a powerful one among theater folk."
"I'll remember to keep my hands off a mirror before I have to do a presentation to the Council of Twelve. Well, Dwybolt, my sincere wishes for a genuine disaster then."
Dwybolt smiled broadly. "Thank you very much, Commander."
Adama left the landing bay. Shalheya, who had been awaiting the commander's departure, came to Dwybolt. "See? You have the commander's full support."
"That doesn't make me any less apprehensive."
"Where's the old egocentric Dwybolt we all know and love?"
For once the mockery didn't draw a smile from Dwybolt. "I'm scared, Shalheya."
"Well, don't be. This is the big time, remember? Your chance. You deserve it."
Her words energized Dwybolt. "We've got to rehearse right away. These have to be our greatest performances."
"Dwybolt! You want this too much."
"Yes. I do."
He rushed off, shouting orders energetically to the company, most of whom reacted with secret "here-he-goes-again" glances at each other.
Cassiopeia and Hera had never seen such chaos on the Galactica before. The acting company had taken over the landing bay and strewn their equipment across its floor. People hastened about with no perceivable scheme to their movements.
She heard a voice she recognized and turned toward it. Dwybolt was urging one of his people to move faster. She ran to him, Hera trailing just behind. "Dwybolt! I knew it was you!"
Dwybolt whirled around. Cassiopeia's scream of joy also alerted Shalheya, who stopped carrying a set of costumes to look. Dwybolt was flabbergasted; he could barely speak. "Cassiopeia!" Shaiheya winced at the sound of the name. "What? How? Is it really you?"
"If it isn't, I've been forging a lot of pay chits. How are you, old bear?"
Shalheya didn't like the friendly way Dwybolt took Cassiopeia by her arm and led her to a quieter spot. A tall woman with stunning black hair followed them. What was this all about?
Dwybolt had definitely lost his equilibrium with the appearance of his old flame. He couldn't contain his joy. Shalheya frowned more deeply and kept watching them.
"I had no idea you were here on the Galactica, Cass. I didn't even know whether you were alive!"
"Or me, you." Cassiopeia couldn't stop smiling, she was so glad to see Dwybolt again. "Not until I saw your handbill, anyway. God, I hoped there weren't two Dwybolts in this universe who were impresarios of their own theater companies."
"But a socialator? On a fleet command ship?"
His comment, with its age-old Gemonese prejudice lurking just beneath the words, startled Cassiopeia, and she stopped smiling. "Well, I don't know why there couldn't be socialators here. This crew could use a bunch. But, no, I'm not here as a socialator. I'm a med-tech now. Treating physical wounds instead of emotional ones."
Dwybolt apologized for his tactlessness and then they eagerly exchanged their stories. Shalheya felt sad. She knew she didn't want to observe this reunion, but she couldn't keep her eyes off it.
Hera, impatient, tapped her fingers against her thigh and shifted her body around.
"Cass," Dwybolt said after their stories were done and they'd stared at each other for a long moment, "you've left me at a loss for words."
"You, Dwybolt? At a loss for words? Don't be absurd. You—"
Hera couldn't take all the gushing any longer. She pushed forward to interrupt. "Ask him about the play, Cass."
For a moment Cassiopeia was disconcerted. The joy of seeing Dwybolt again had made her forget about Hera and their mission. She hadn't expected to feel so immediately comfortable with Dwybolt. Old memories stirred up in her, memories she had wanted to ignore. Galactica's journey had been a long one, and being with Dwybolt again made her long for the old times, experiences which, thanks to the Cylons, could never be repeated.
Dwybolt squinted up at Hera. Cassiopeia saw the puzzlement in his face. "This is my friend, Hera," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."
"I don't care about rude," Hera said. "I want to know about the play."
"I don't understand," Dwybolt said.
"I must confess," Cassiopeia said, "we had a particular motive in coming here. We—"
"Don't beat around the bush," Hera said. She leaned down toward Dwybolt, who was about five inches shorter than she. The way she stood intrigued him, and he would have to suggest to Shalheya t
o copy the stance.
"See," Hera continued, "we've put together this little play. It's no masterpiece and, in fact, it wasn't coming together until this old guy gave us some help. He has a flair, the guy, and—"
"Your little play," Dwybolt interrupted, speaking quietly so that Hera would calm down. "You're saying you want us to perform it?"
Hera grinned broadly. "That's it exactly! Put it in somewhere during your performance, but only when a certain arrogant lieutenant is in the audience."
"Well, I don't know. I'm not in the practice of inserting other writer's plays into my own."
"But could you?" Cassiopeia urged. "This time?"
"It's not my—"
Cassiopeia decided to wheedle a bit. "As a favor? For an old friend?"
Shalheya, moving closer to listen, was irritated by the coaxing sound in Cassiopeia's voice. It seemed to her to be a deliberate attempt to call up her past with Dwybolt. Old friend, indeed!
The warmth in Cassiopeia's voice weakened Dwybolt's resistance to the plan. "Well," he said, "maybe as an icebreaker or curtain-raiser, but not in a play."
"That's wonderful, Dwybolt," Cassiopeia said and hugged him. Seeing Dwybolt's face redden, Shalheya's jealousy doubled. What power did this infernal woman have over Dwybolt?
Dwybolt, after a brief moment of clear pleasure, squirmed out of Cassiopeia's hold. "But I have to read the play first. If it's not good enough, we don't do it."
"Fair enough," Cassiopeia said, smiling at the happy Hera.
"Here!" Hera thrust the play manuscript at Dwybolt.
He looked at the first few pages. "Well, it's short. That's a plus."
"You're busy," Cassiopeia said, nodding to Hera to retreat now. "We'll get out of your way. Check with you later."
They left and Dwybolt started to skim through the play. His eyebrows raised in surprise as he saw that it wasn't bad. He could see it as a useful warm-up for an audience. Suddenly he became aware that Shalheya was reading the manuscript over his shoulder.
"You're going to do this stupid piece, aren't you?"
"Matter of fact, it's not stupid at all. Has something to say about the role of women in confined society."
Shalheya sighed. "Sounds dreary to me. You sure you're not doing it because the great love of your life has suddenly reappeared and you want to please her?"
"Would I perform a play for such a base reason?"
Shalheya lowered her voice for dramatic effect. "Yes. You would."
Dwybolt sulked. It was an overdramatic sulk. "You don't have much faith in me."
Shalheya's eyes widened, and she looked like she did in the last act of the Scorpion Watchtower trilogy. "No, I suppose I don't. I know you too well." Her pause was measured. It was the one she used in more villainous roles. "What power does this lady have over you, Dwybolt?"
"There are some . . . some memories."
Shalheya's face softened as she abandoned the theatrical approach. "I give up. You're a fool, you know that, don't you?"
"Always. It keeps me going. Keeps my art going."
Shalheya, her shoulders slumping, started to walk away. Dwybolt called after her. "Shalheya?"
She turned. Dwybolt assumed his impresario voice. "There's a good part in this for you."
Shalheya's interest was definitely piqued. "Oh? Let me see."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Peri led Boxey and Muffit on a merry chase through Galactica's darkest and spookiest passageways. To Boxey it was like a nightmare, the kind where he ran from a dark menace into more danger. Finally, Peri gestured them forward onto a high walkway that looked down on the ship's auditorium, an area normally used for conferences and meetings of the Council of Twelve. The large hall below them was in chaos. People carried equipment, clothes, odd-shaped flat pieces. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing.
"What is all that?" Peri said.
"Those look like stage sets to me. And, look on the side of that carton there, it says theater company. They're gonna do some plays, I'll bet,"
"Plays? You mean like a recreational area?"
"No. Drama." Peri looked puzzled. "They do pretend-stories on a stage. Act 'em out."
"Really, Box? I heard o' that but never seen one. I'd like to see one."
"Let's take a closer look."
"I know a way down. C'mon."
Soon they were on a lower walkway, looking down on the backstage area. Two technicians, who were positioning lights, ignored the strange trio, as if they were accustomed to having a pair of scruffy kids and a mechanized daggit sharing a walkway with them. Below, stagehands worked furiously at hammering set braces into the flooring. Dust stirred up by their labor drifted up to the walkway, and Peri sneezed.
"This ain't healthy, this theater stuff," Peri said.
"Maybe we should get out of here, go to some other—"
He stopped talking as a shadow fell over them. Turning slowly, he looked up at a man and woman just behind them.
"See, Shalheya," Dwybolt said, "I thought I spotted some intruders up here. What're you kids up to?"
Boxey, feeling trapped, could think of nothing to say, but Peri spoke right up. "Please, sir, don't tell on us. Anybody finds us, they'll put us right back into the orphanage."
Dwybolt scowled and turned to Shalheya. "They have an orphanage here? On board the Galactica?!"
Shalheya shrugged. "Don't think so. I heard there was an orphan ship in the fleet, though."
"That's it," Peri said. "We come from that orphan ship. We stowed away on a shuttle and got here. Now you turn us in, they'll just take us back. You'll let us go again, won't you, mister, please?"
This could be a scam, Dwybolt thought.
"They look terribly hungry, Dwybolt," Shalheya said.
Boxey did his best to look starved.
"Well, okay," Dwybolt said after a moment. "Let's feed 'em first, then see."
As they led the children away, Dwybolt noticed Muffit for the first time. "Hey, what's this?"
"My daggit, sir. Well, not a daggit really. He's a droid version of my old daggit."
Dwybolt, his eyes coveting Muffit, talked to Shalheya out of the side of his mouth. "We could really use something like this droid in the new work."
After seeing to it that the children were served large plates of food in a backstage corner, Dwybolt sat down beside Peri. "I have an idea."
"Yes, sir?"
"I need child actors. Kids I got now, they're too old for their parts, they'd make better spear-carriers. How'd you two like to try out for the troupe?"
Peri, who had been watching stage crews set up an illusory forest, was now stagestruck. "We accept," she announced enthusiastically.
"Peri—," Boxey said cautiously.
"Shush, Box."
"Okay, then," Dwybolt said, "when you two are through eating, we'll set up an audition for you."
After Dwybolt had left, Peri couldn't contain her happiness. "Oh boy, Box, we can be real actors."
"Peri, I don't think I can."
"Sure you can. You're a natural, I'm sure."
"No, I mean somebody might recognize me."
"No problem. We'll convince Dwybolt to put you in wigs and things. Don't worry so much."
"Gosh, I don't know."
At an angry look from her, he stopped talking. Peri rushed the both of them through their meals, then went front-stage, where they stood at the tip of the apron and read scenes from scripts which Dwybolt gave them. They read well. Dwybolt, impressed, congratulated himself on finding a pair of naturals. Even better than the kids, though, was this mechanical daggit. He could work wonders with that contraption.
Shalheya took charge of the children and took them to sleeping quarters. After settling them, she gave them tips on how to act.
"Are you sure you kids want to do this?" she said later. "I'll help you escape if you want."
"Heck," Peri said jauntily, "I can escape any time I want to. Wouldn't Mr. Dwybolt be mad if you helped us?"
"Furious. But he'd get over it. He can talk himself into or out of anything."
Peri lowered her voice. "You love him, don't you?"
"Hey, do I sound like I love that old ham?"
"Yeah, you do."
Shalheya laughed. It was a hearty and theatrical guffaw. "Yes, I suppose I do. Well, any help you kids need, just let me know."
"Okay. Us, too. Just ask me and Box anything."
"That's your name, young man? Box?"
Boxey reddened. He was getting deeper into trouble each time Peri opened her mouth.
"I call him Box," Peri said. "Really, you'll never believe this but his name is . . ." Boxey shot her an angry glance. ". . . his name, it's Boxton. He's called Boxton."
Shalheya approved of the name. "Has a certain theatrical ring to it. Should look good in the playbill."
After Shalheya had gone, Peri saw that Boxey was quite fidgety. "Don't worry, Box. Things go wrong, I can get us out of here pronto."
"It's not that. I . . . I was just wondering if I should go find my dad. I keep hearing his voice, you know, like when we were listening at the wall?"
Peri shrugged. "You want to go, go." Warming to the sadness in Boxey's face, she leaned toward him and whispered, "But why don't you stay here a while longer? This should be real fun."
Besides, she said to herself, if the Box takes off, he'll take the ugly daggit with him. And that Dwybolt wants the daggit real bad. So the Box has got to stick around.
Boxey, who'd joined Peri in helping stagehands lay out some props, backed into the legs of Baltar, who was pacing around in a frustrating attempt to learn his lines. "Clumsy," he said irritably. "Watch where you're going, kid."
Baltar detested children. Always had. Muffit caught the disdain in his voice and growled at him. Lucifer, who had been practicing swordplay nearby, heard the sound and stopped to watch.
"And keep your mutt out of the way," Baltar said. "I'll disconnect him."
Peri strode defiantly to Baltar and jabbed her long index finger into his stomach. "Watch who you're talking to, muddlehead."
Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica! Page 14