"You were lucky I came by to observe your incarceration of the prisoners," Spectre said. "Your guards might not have pulled that human vermin off you in time. There are no repair facilities aboard this ship, at least not for us. So we would have had to put you in storage and waited to transport you to a proper adjustment center."
"What happened?" Lucifer asked.
"I thought it was clear. One of the prisoners attacked you."
"I realize that. What happened after that?"
"I shot him. The shot knocked him sprawling against that wall over there."
Lucifer looked in the direction which Spectre's skeletonlike metal finger pointed. Scarn was indeed lying at the foot of a wall. Two Cylon guards hauled him to his feet. Lucifer saw that he was unconscious, but still alive.
"Spectre, we are not supposed to attack. It is in our programming. We may only shoot weapons in defense."
"I was defending you, keeping you from certain disaster."
There was a peculiar bright red glow emanating from Spectre's eyes. Was it possible this cybernetic creation was gloating?
"Defending me is not part of our combat programming. You may shoot only if you are threatened. You were not threatened in this situation."
"Imperious Leader has chosen to endow me with special discretionary powers that have bypassed certain stabilization circuits. I may even attack, should I choose. An improvement over our overcautious programming, don't you think?"
"I am not certain. I think we serve our masters better by not being programmed for violent acts."
"Sometimes violence is the only proper response, Lucifer. At any rate, you should be thanking me for saving you from . . . inconvenience."
Lucifer disapproved of most of what Spectre said. Violence from one of his own series was unacceptable to him. But, since Spectre was right in the matter of saving him, Lucifer chose not to exhibit his displeasure.
"So noted, Spectre. I appreciate your quick action. Is the human dead?"
"No. As it happened my pistol was set on stun. I would have realigned the setting, however, if the human had placed you in further danger. In such a situation I am allowed to kill."
Lucifer felt uneasy about this new information. The killing power made Spectre extremely dangerous. He would have to be watched carefully during this trip.
Lucifer wondered if he should program himself for the ability to kill. It would be quite easy to do. The important question, however, was should he, like Spectre, have the power to kill, or even shoot?
"Can you stand?" Spectre asked.
"Of course I can. All I needed after the attack was the adjustment you made to my vision circuitry."
"Let me help you up."
"I can manage myself."
His legs were so twisted under him that his attempt to rise was comically unsuccessful. Spectre leaned down, gripped his arms securely, and pulled him to his feet. Although he was glad to regain his equilibrium, he resented each of Spectre's helping gestures. If he did not put this disgrace to the IL series in his place, this was going to be a rocky trip. A rocky trip indeed.
Drawing from the prison ship's computer banks, Lucifer examined the projected itinerary of the trip. Like most Cylon itineraries, this one was inefficient and overloaded with detail. Lucifer could, if given command of the ship, get it to the colony much sooner and with less decay of fuel in the central core. But it would do him no good to go to the ship's command triumvirate and give them his findings. In one respect, humans and Cylons were alike—they got stubborn when you tried to advise them of a better plan.
Instead of pondering the efficiency of his insights, he practiced his new bypassing technique. He no longer had to enter data into the computer to see it appear on the screen. There was no need to press buttons or manipulate a keyboard. He could merely think of the information he wanted to consider and it would appear instantly on the monitor screen. The telepathic bypass allowed him to work faster, without the slow and bothersome intervening functions.
There was a tinny knocking on his cabin door. The tinniness of the sound told him it was Spectre's metal hands rapping on the door. Although he wanted to tell him to go away, he called out, "Enter!"
Spectre eased into the room. Lucifer noted, with distaste, that Spectre had changed his outfit. His new clothing was, if possible, more garish than the old. It was a robe in alternating peach and scarlet colors. There was a velvet ruff, also scarlet, around its collar. Lucifer wondered why Spectre dressed so ostentatiously. Beings like himself and Spectre should do everything possible not to attract attention. Was there some sly purpose to the social-climbing Spectre's attire, or was he trying to taunt Lucifer in some way?
"Greetings in Cylon splendor, Lucifer." This was a Cylon ritual, used generally on ceremonial occasions. With Spectre saying it, it sounded as outrageous as his outfit. "I thought we might benefit mutually from the exchange of our latest theories and observations."
For once Lucifer replied directly, without adopting the kind of ridiculous social etiquette so loved by Spectre.
"Why do you say that? It appears to me that you gain nothing from a conference with me. You are exactly where you aspire to be, Spectre."
While Spectre did not react to Lucifer's blunt remarks, Lucifer sensed, by the way Spectre pulled at the skirt of his robe, that he was annoyed. The criticism seemed to hang in the air. Spectre, after all, was intelligent and perceptive in spite of his obsequiousness. Still, in any situation, he acknowledged only what he chose to acknowledge, so he continued in a blithe manner.
"With superior creations like us, Lucifer, there is always something each can learn from the other. We could interlock our circuitry or, like Cylons and humans, merely chat."
Lucifer was disgusted at the idea of connecting up with Spectre. Although interlock was a legitimate method for cybernetic beings to exchange information, linking with Spectre seemed, to Lucifer, vaguely obscene. He wondered if, in his affection for his human enemies, he had begun to adopt their harrowing restrictive moral sense.
"Proceed, Spectre."
Spectre glided a short space closer before saying, "You don't, as the Cylons do, consider the humans vermin, do you, Lucifer?"
Lucifer, since he had just been thinking of his affection for the humans, was disconcerted. Had his cybernetic companion discovered mind-reading?
"Why do you say that?" Lucifer said.
Spectre began to slide back and forth, a kind of robotic pacing.
"I have been told that you often intercede for them, that you have been responsible for improving their conditions aboard Baltar's base-star and here on this ship."
"You saw today, Spectre. One of them attacked me, most of them hate me. Does that sound as if I am kind to them?"
"I did not say they were grateful. They are stubborn, these humans. An almost admirable trait, one I could credit them with, if I didn't find them so repulsive to regard."
"Some of their ideas are quite—"
Lucifer didn't get to finish his thought as the cabin was suddenly rocked by a massive explosion coming from another part of the ship. He was nearly knocked off his chair. Before he could regain his equilibrium, two more explosions vibrated the cabin walls. Spectre slid sideways, then tipped over and fell. Lucifer, with effort, stood up and managed to keep his balance in spite of the way the cabin seemed to rock on a fulcrum.
"What is happening?" Spectre said from his position on the floor. "What are those sounds?"
"I would hypothesize they are the sounds of explosions caused by contact with the ship's hull by assault devices. I believe we are under attack."
Spectre managed to right himself when another explosion nearly knocked him back to the floor.
"Interesting," Spectre said. "Shall we investigate?"
"Hiding might be the wiser choice."
"Perhaps. But less edifying."
Lucifer noted that his computer screen had gone blank. The lighting in the room began to fade in and out. He followed Spectre out to
the corridor where they found more flickering light and traces of smoke in the air. They proceeded down the corridor. Lucifer wondered why it was so empty, then a Cylon crewman, missing an arm and exuding green liquid, stumbled into the corridor. After whirling around, he fell dead at their feet.
The sounds of attack became louder. Strong odors registered on Lucifer's sensory circuits. Another crewman rushed into the corridor. Lucifer stopped him before he could run past.
"What is happening?" Lucifer asked.
"We're under attack," the crewman said. "By pirates."
Pulling away from Lucifer's grasp, the crewman continued on whatever errand he was pursuing.
"Pirates?" Lucifer said aloud.
"I have nothing recorded of pirates in this sector," Spectre announced. "There is little piracy anywhere that I am aware of."
The creature that now leaped into Lucifer's view was perceived by him as ill-formed and ugly. It was huge, with gray peeling skin, a hairy face whose dominant feature was strong black eyes that were placed where mouths were in most intelligent species, and thick hairy arms, four of them, gesturing threateningly. It seemed to have a weapon at the end of each arm.
"Well, bubble my biceps," the alien shouted. "What have we here? A pair of metalskulls, I do believe. The consortium will be pleased. Very pleased."
The alien clearly spoke in no language Lucifer had heard before, yet he was able to understand it. As he heard each strange gurgling sound, words he knew formed in his mind. His guess for the instant translation centered on the elaborate beltlike panel of instruments that hung loosely from the alien's waist. There was probably a language-translator among those instruments.
"What do you mean?" Lucifer asked.
"This ship is now under our command. We're taking the load of humans back to our planet. And, as a bonus, you two. You will be of special interest to the consortium."
"That is impossible!" Spectre said. He had added an authoritative sound to his voice. "I am a representative of his elegance, the Imperious Leader of the Cylons."
"The Cylons? You represent the Cylons?" The alien seemed impressed.
Spectre increased the imperial tone of his voice. "Yes," he said. "I am a special envoy to—"
"I despise Cylons," the alien growled. "They are worthless to us. We leave all Cylons behind. All surviving Cylons. Mayhaps I shall just destroy you, reduce you to the scrap pile. You can meet your maker in your junkyard heaven."
"No, no," Spectre protested, his voice weaker. He had switched to his normal tone, obsequiousness. "Exalted sir, I am merely a functionary of the Cylons. I can be of value to you."
So like Spectre, Lucifer thought, to adopt the values of the closest source of power.
"I believe you can be of some help, mate," the alien said. "I shall spare you."
"I thank you, sir."
"Come on then, both of ya. We're assembling prisoners on the bridge before departing this vessel."
"May I ask," Lucifer inteijected, "where we are going?"
"Why, to our home. A planet that would be called, in your language, The Joyful Land."
"What a euphonious name!" Spectre gushed.
"You will love it there," the alien said. "Especially if the consortium finds use for you."
"May I ask you," Lucifer said, "what kind of use?"
"You've an inquisitive soul, haven't you, ironhead?"
Lucifer was quite taken back. How could this crude alien creature know about his soul? No one anywhere knew about his soul. Even now, he could sense it stirring in his left shoulder.
"I can't say what use you'll be put to, lad," the alien said. "My people have a special talent for . . . for finding uses for the beings we capture. You will see soon enough."
"I can hardly wait, exalted sir," Spectre said.
The alien leaned down to where he expected Lucifer's ear would be. Lucifer did not feel it necessary to tell him that his sensory apparatus was located in his lower chest.
"Your friend here," the alien whispered, "has the gift of gab, I see. Has he been programmed in the art of buttering up?"
Lucifer was impressed with the alien's perception, but he had to remain loyal to his series, so he replied, "I cannot say."
He wondered why he should even maintain loyalty to Spectre, who shifted allegiance as easily as he used oily phrases. Spectre had moved away from Lucifer, as if to say, we are alike but we don't belong together. Lucifer didn't mind. He would accept Spectre's disdain cheerfully.
As they were herded forward by the alien, who now sang a tune in his harsh guttural language, Lucifer wondered what kind of trap they had fallen into. Would it be worse than serving under Baltar? It might be. What really annoyed him, however, was that if he was on his way to a living hell, why did he have to go there with Spectre?
CHAPTER THREE
On the Battlestar Galactica, Lieutenant Starbuck was also dealing with an enemy in one of the ship's corridors. If the children from The Joyful Land had seen the real Starbuck in his present plight, they would have been disappointed. He didn't look like the mythological hero they so adored. There was terror in his eyes. Sweat dotted his face. The leaves of the cigar he held tight between his teeth were loosening from the drool coming out of his mouth. His straw-colored hair was disheveled from all the worried passes he'd made at it with his hand.
Forgetting to look where he was going, he rounded a turn and ran smack into Captain Apollo. Both of Galactica's bravest heroes nearly fell onto their heroic backsides. Starbuck's cigar, now split in half, fell to the floor. Starbuck picked it up, staring at it as if it were an old friend who'd died. Recovering his balance first, Apollo steadied Starbuck.
"Hey, hey," he said, "what's going on, good buddy?"
"Nothing," Starbuck mumbled. He fidgeted in Apollo's grasp.
"Don't tell me nothing. I can tell when something's bugging you."
"I—I've got to get to the Officer's Club lounge right away. I left a glass of sparkling Ambrosa there. You know how terrible that tastes when it loses its fizz."
Starbuck tried to push past him, but Apollo, edging him back against the corridor wall, restrained him.
"No flyby here," Apollo cautioned. "I'm your pal. Tell me."
Starbuck seemed annoyed at his friend's prodding. He pushed a lock of hair away from his forehead. His clear blue eyes began to cloud with fear. He didn't want to admit anything to Apollo. But they had been friends a long time . . .
"Okay, okay," Starbuck said. He relaxed and leaned back against the wall. "But don't laugh at me. Promise you won't laugh."
"I would, but this sounds like it's worth a laugh. Just tell me."
Starbuck, uncharacteristically reluctant, had difficulty getting his words out. "It's . . . it's . . . well, it's this . . . this new cadet. The one from Vaile."
"Which one? The Vaileans have contributed several trainees to our ranks. Good fighters they are, too."
Vaile had been the last civilized planet the Galactica had stopped at to fuel and load supplies. The Vaileans had been unusually cooperative, desiring to help any enemy of the Cylons. They'd nearly been paid for their help by annihilation at the hands of an assault task force from Baltar's base-star but fortunately had been rescued by some skillful combat from a squadron of Galactica's pilots, led by Commander Adama's daughter Athena. As a result of the incident, several Vaileans had been stirred to join the fleet, with most of them requesting combat assignments. Some of the best cadets Apollo had ever taught were in this batch from Vaile.
"Who is it, Starbuck?"
"Well . . . well, you know the one named Hera?"
Apollo tried to place the name with a person.
"Hera, Hera. No, I can't say—unless, wait, is she the tiny blond corker, the one with—"
"No, not that one. I wish it were that one. She's not given me a tumble and I've—well, anyway, not that one. Hera's hardly tiny. And not blond. Dark, flowing raven hair. Hair like the dark places in the devil's pit, eyes that match."
&nb
sp; Apollo laughed. He now knew the woman Starbuck meant.
"The tall one?"
"The tall one."
"What about her?"
"She's got her sights set for me."
"So what else is new, buddy? She's quite a looker, Starbuck. And not bad in the figure department either. I mean, there're quite a few skypilots around here who do extremely well with her in their dreams."
"And only in their dreams. She's not interested in any of them. She's rejected approaches like a Viper mowing down Cylons."
"Except for you."
Starbuck's eyes widened in sudden anger.
"No! Not except for me. I made no pass at her. I didn't even give her a warm look in training class."
Apollo tapped his friend on the shoulder.
"Hey, what's happened to the legend here? I thought no beautiful woman was safe around you."
"Maybe, maybe not. Hera's beautiful, all right, can't argue with that. But she's too much woman for me. No, stop laughing, Apollo, I mean it. She's at least two inches taller than me."
"So what? Much more to love, as they say."
"Heck, Apollo, you know me. Quality, not quantity. All I know is, I don't feel comfortable with Cadet Hera."
Apollo shrugged.
"I don't see the problem, frankly. You, my good friend, are the expert at manipulating the affections of several women at a time. How can you have trouble with just one?"
"It's not trouble. I'm just, well, trying to avoid her until she gets me out of her system. I—"
The subject of their discussion came around a corner. Her face lit up with delight as she spotted Starbuck.
"Lieutenant! I've been looking for you."
"See?" Starbuck whispered to Apollo.
Apollo, amused by his friend's dilemma, took a good look at the cadet as she approached them. She had a terrific walk, he could say that. She walked like a woman comfortable with her sexiness, easy, confident steps that blended rhythmically with the attractive sway of her upper body. Starbuck was right about one thing: she was indeed tall. Tall and slim, and with a face that was both strong and lovely. Like all the Vaileans, high cheekbones gave her face a sculptured quality that, together with her firm mouth, slightly aquiline strong nose, and a healthy and robust complexion, made her one of the most beautiful women aboard the Galactica. Her black hair flowed loosely and bounced gently as she came up to them. As she pushed locks of hair away from her face in a backhanded gesture that Apollo found impossibly sexy, he wondered for a moment if he should volunteer to take Hera off Starbuck's hands. With a woman this beautiful, why should the fact that she towered over him by a couple of inches be a problem?
Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon! Page 3