"What was the run-in about, Captain?" Adama was asking. Apollo didn't want to bring up the subject of command favoritism, not with the commander himself.
"You know Croft. He's always gassing off about something. It was nothing."
Adama's ice-blue eyes glared at Apollo, as if reading his son's thoughts.
"I see," Adama said. "You don't wish to talk about it. Your privilege."
Privilege, that word again. It rankled Apollo and he had to struggle not to show any reaction to it.
"Yes, commander."
Adama turned to his second-in-command.
"Tigh, instruct the launch bay crew to finish pre-launch procedures with the shuttle. Alert Croft and Sheba to the mission, and tell them to proceed to launch bay on the double." Leaving Tigh to his duties, Adama returned his attention to his son. "Well, Apollo, do you require anything else?"
"No, sir. I'll send a report from the Eureka as soon as possible."
Turning around in crisp military fashion, Apollo hurried off the bridge. Adama stared after him, unaware that Tigh had returned to his side.
"Sir? Are you sure Croft should be on this mission?"
Adama sighed.
"No, Colonel Tigh, I'm not. But Apollo requested him. I believe he knows what he's doing."
Apollo rushed into the launch bay, still zipping up his flight-suit. Jenny, launch crew CWO, smiled, thinking, these hotshot pilots, they can't wait to get inside anything that flies. Put 'em on the back of a butterfly, they'd probably have it in battle readiness in a few centons. Jenny saluted Apollo smartly.
"Captain, shuttle is fueled and ready," she barked. "Everything checks out shipshape."
"Good. We'll launch as soon as my crew arrives."
"I'm here," Sheba called from behind him. He turned to greet her. "What's the drill?" she asked.
Apollo told her about the mutiny and described their mission. She shook her head from side to side and commented, "It's always something, isn't it? Somebody always dissatisfied, always ready to take advantage. Why can't people hold a steady course? Why are they always causing trouble?"
"It's our nature, my dear," Croft, who had come up behind her, said. "The nature of the beast."
Sheba, startled, wheeled around and stared at Croft, wondering who this strange, tough-looking man was. On his part, Croft was struck by Sheba's darkly good looks, especially her large questioning eyes. It had been a long time since he'd looked at a woman with interest, not since his wife Leda had died tragically on the ice planet.
"Sheba," Apollo intervened, "do you know Commander Croft?"
"No, I don't," Sheba answered. "But I have heard of you, sir."
Croft smiled. Apollo noted a softening in the man's features, and didn't much care for it.
"That covers a lot of territory," Croft said. "Could be good, could be bad."
"Good, Commander Croft."
"I'm not really a commander. It's just an honorary title, awarded me by the real commander, Adama. Still, I'm happy to find that such a lovely woman knows anything about me."
Apollo was uncomfortable with Croft's new smoothness. It was a side of the man he'd never observed before. He did not like to see it applied to Sheba.
"We haven't got time to chat out here," Apollo said, irritably. "Let's board the shuttle."
"Yes, Captain," Sheba said.
"Aye, aye, sir," Croft said sardonically, and eased past Apollo to go up the shuttle gangway. Apollo had followed Croft by a few steps when Starbuck came running into launch bay.
"Apollo!" he called. "I just heard about the mutiny. I'm going with you."
He started up the gangway, but Apollo laid a restraining hand on his shoulder and said, "That won't be necessary. We—"
"Necessary or not, I need to get away from the Galactica right now."
Apollo saw Cadet Hera emerge from the launch bay elevator, apparently looking for Starbuck.
"You stay here and solve your romantic problem, Starbuck," he said, smiling.
"Hey, Apollo, you know when it comes to that sort of problem I'm the fleet's biggest coward. Apollo—"
"You're needed here, it's as simple as that. You know what we agreed. On most noncombat missions, it's better for one of us to remain aboard the Galactica. If anything goes wrong at the Eureka, I'll need good backup, and that's you."
"Apollo—"
"No argument, Starbuck. We have sufficient personnel for the mission at hand."
Starbuck, crestfallen, looked down at his feet and muttered, "Okay, buddy. I shouldn't try to snag your vapor trail anyway." They shook hands. "Take care, friend."
"I will." Apollo turned and started up the gangway, then called back to Starbuck, "And, oh, good luck with your amorous cadet there."
Starbuck glanced in Hera's direction.
"Thanks," he said, sullenly. "I'll need it."
Watching Apollo disappear into the interior darkness of the shuttle, Starbuck felt drained and empty inside. Just before Apollo was out of sight, Starbuck had felt a definite premonition of imminent danger. But that's ridiculous, he thought. Apollo could take care of himself; he doesn't need me. But why do I want to grab one of those rungs on the side of the shuttle and be dragged through the launch tube with him?
CHAPTER FOUR
Diving through an open hatchway, somersaulting, and landing on his feet with the ease of a cat, Chameleon continued his run without a stumble. He was agile beyond his years, lean and quick-moving in most situations. Because of his lifelong inclination toward sharp deals and gambling, he had had to develop the ability to make a fast exit. Now he was escaping from a shaggy pair of Eureka mutineers. They followed him through the hatchway moments later. In that time he had disappeared from view. The pursuers stopped and peered ahead, seeing only shadows and dim light. They held laserguns stiffly in front of them as they slowly stalked the corridor.
The two were Borellian Nomen, hairy humanoid creatures from a planet not known for hospitality. Clinging to old-fashioned codes and tribal customs, they were known for their blood hunts, a primitive rite of vengeance in which they were sworn to track down anyone who violated their customs or offended the pride of any individual Noman. The hide of their garments came from animals native to their home planet, Borellus. Since none of their animals had been preserved anywhere in the fleet after the final Cylon attack, their clothes were old and multipatched. They had taken on an odor that was painfully recognizable to anyone who was not a Borellian Noman.
"That fellow is slippery," one of them, a surly type named Brega, said.
"We must catch him," said his companion, Lingk. "He could spoil the whole operation."
"Could he?" Brega asked. "I must admit, I'd like to get my hands on him for all he's done to us. Resume the blood hunt that Maga called off. But I can't see him as a danger to our hijacking of the Eureka."
"I just don't trust him. He's always been trouble. While he's loose, he's still a threat to all of us."
"Then why are we ordered merely to capture him? We should kill him."
They came to a junction, where two corridors met. Brega nodded toward the left one.
"You go that way. I'll try this."
Brega went in one direction, while Lingk took the other. After a moment, Chameleon came out of a dark shadowy alcove they had not noticed, smiling. He looked down both ways after his pursuers. He put a long finger to his pointed chin as he considered what to do next.
Although age had done some minor damage to Chameleon's face, he was still a handsome man. Within his triangular face, a broad forehead and high cheekbones above the small pointed chin, were features whose delicacy together with his physical gracefulness made him appear as suave and youthful as most men several yahrens younger than he. The gentle azure eyes that peeked out from his strong brow were almost childlike.
He listened to the footsteps of his pursuers fade out in each of the directions they had taken, then he made his way back along the way he'd originally come, keeping his back close to the wall,
his eyes alert.
The mutineers gathered in a clump on the Eureka's bridge and watched the approach of Galactica's shuttle in the enormous view window. The leader of the mutiny, a Scorpian named Carome, stood back and considered his strategy. Carome had been a prisoner sent to the Eureka as part of a work-release detail. Earning the trust of the ship's commander—an old man named Brock, whom Carome had killed at the outset of the mutiny—Carome had gradually arranged for more prisoners from the grid barge to be reassigned to the Eureka, knowing they could be of use in the taking over of the ship. He was especially proud of the contingent of Borellian Nomen, a breed noted for their fierce independence, who had agreed to serve under him. Their presence tended to verify his qualifications for leadership. Anyone who could handle a Borellian Noman was command material, all right.
It had been Carome's goal for some time to get away from the control of the Galactica and its arrogant supercilious officers, especially the smug martinet, Adama. He had decided he'd rather try his luck with the Cylons than stay with the wretched Galacticans and sit in stir while they continued their stupid quest for the mythical planet Earth.
"Bloody meddlers," Carome muttered as he stared at the shuttle. "I sent my demands. All we need is the ship and nobody stopping our separation from the fleet."
"Perhaps those on the shuttle are sent to negotiate," said one of the Nomen, Maga. Maga had an ominously deep voice which commanded attention even when he was whispering.
"Sure," Carome replied, "and I got hair all over my face like one of you Nomen."
In normal circumstances, a remark like Carome's was justification, according to Borellian tradition, for Maga to draw a laser bole and fling it at the speaker. However, the Nomen had agreed among themselves to hold their tempers no matter what happened, at least until the Eureka was safely away from Galactican hegemony. Neither Maga nor his closest ally, Bora, really trusted Carome. Nomen, in fact, rarely trusted anybody who wasn't a Noman. But they had needed Carome to instigate the mutiny and organize beings who normally would not have trusted Nomen or wanted them in their midst. For the time being, Carome had to be allowed his whims, and even his stupidly sarcastic insults. There would be time for killing him later.
"Shall we allow them to land or send them back?" Bora asked Carome.
"Land. We might be able to turn this to our advantage."
"They fly under the flag of truce," Maga said.
"Bully for them. White flags are for cowards. Let's just see what they have to offer."
Maga and Bora exchanged apprehensive glances before following Carome and his angrily mumbling crew off the bridge. There was a limited amount of communication that Nomen could achieve simply through facial expressions. The look that Maga sent Bora showed doubt in Carome's leadership and fear that the man would force them into a position where they would have to go against their own Borellian codes. Bora's look said not to worry.
The shuttle slid to a smooth stop inside the Eureka landing bay. With Croft walking behind them, Apollo and Sheba disembarked to greet the Eureka's welcoming party. Apollo gave them no chance for diplomatic advantage. He spoke first.
"I demand to speak to the leader of this uprising."
"At your service, Captain Apollo," Carome said, separating himself from the mob.
"You know me then?"
"False modesty, Captain. Everybody in this godforsaken fleet knows you. And I also know the piece of barge peeling accompanying you and the lovely lady. Long time no see, Croft."
Croft stroked the handle of his laser pistol and smiled. Apollo touched his arm, moving his hand away from the pistol. Sheba took a couple of steps sideways, making sure she was in fighting position, should the need to fight arise.
"We served some time together back on the grid barge," Croft explained, his voice low and menacing. "And I had occasion to discipline him when I took over command. His name's Carome."
"Discipline?" Carome said, lingering over the syllables of the word. "Discipline? We've gotten pretty swell, haven't we, Croft? Too important to smell our own sweat. You didn't discipline me, you threw me into the sewer and let me float along with the garbage."
"I couldn't allow you to taunt me in front of the others."
"You think anything I said'd influence those grid rats? They knew you were a turncoat. Nothing I said would—"
"Hey," Apollo interrupted, "ease up, both of you. Carome, Commander Adama has given me full authorization to negotiate with you and your followers. If you turn over the helm to me immediately, no recriminative action will be taken. All of you—"
"You call that negotiation? You order, and we fold up?"
"The commander's word—"
"I'm supposed to believe the commander's word? No recriminative action? Felgercrab! I know how that kind of bilge works. A few centons after you take over, the transfers'll start coming through. We'll wind up swabbing toilets on some rust-heap dragging along at the rear of the fleet. Stow that, Captain."
Croft stepped forward.
"I'll vouch for the captain's word, Carome."
"You can't even vouch for slime rats, Croft," Carome sneered. "I don't even want to—"
"Hey, hey," Apollo intervened, "let's cool this off. We can go somewhere and discuss this—"
Carome turned and played to the mob.
"I'm not gonna continue this little stage show. We got no interest in your negotiations, Cap'n. But we got interest in you, as the commander's son. Grab him, men. And the others."
Apollo, Croft, and Sheba tried to reach for their guns, but they were surrounded too quickly by mutineers to act. The attackers quickly disarmed them.
"We're here under flag of truce," Apollo protested. "You can't—"
"Your white flag and two cubits'll get you admitted to the Rising Star," Carome said. "You're our hostage now, Captain Apollo. Best hostage the Galactica could have sent us. Let's see how your sainted father reacts when he hears. He won't think two microns before allowing us to leave the fleet."
As Apollo was being grabbed and shoved against the side of the shuttle, he hollered, "This isn't honorable!"
"You don't talk to scum like this about honor, Captain," Croft yelled, as he was pushed to Apollo's side.
"You can go suck a waste chute, Croft," Carome shouted. "Take 'em to the brig, men."
As Croft was hauled past him, Carome chuckled gleefully and said, "Well, Croft, you should find a cell homey, at least."
When the three Galactican envoys were pushed together at the end of the landing bay, Apollo muttered, "The commander won't give in to these thugs. He won't—"
"Won't he?" Croft asked sarcastically. "From what I've seen, with his precious boy in danger, he'll fold right up."
In back of them, Carome laughed in triumph and ordered his aides to get the commander on scan.
CHAPTER FIVE
Adama wondered if he should order Starbuck off the bridge. The intense young lieutenant was wearing a grooved path as he paced back and forth in a rear area. Boomer tried to say something to him, but Starbuck growled a rude response.
Other Viper pilots, all nearly as nervous as Starbuck, milled around, awaiting the order that Adama was certain he must soon give.
"No more word from the mutineers, sir," Tigh reported.
"Do we still have the ship's coordinates?" the commander asked.
"Yes, but even the long-range scan has its limitations. The signal will be getting weaker soon."
"You're sure there was no response to our transmission demanding immediate release of the hostages?"
"None."
Adama sighed. He removed a blue cloth from his tunic pocket and rubbed sweat away from his neck, then dried the palms of his hands nervously.
"It's what I've always said, Tigh. The actions of terrorists are as dangerous to fleet welfare as the attack of a Cylon task force. Is the patrol assembled?"
"Yes. Lieutenant Starbuck is merely awaiting your orders, Commander."
Adama wheeled around in crisp
military fashion and barked: "Starbuck! Front and center!"
Starbuck very nearly leaped onto the platform where Adama stood. His salute was the neatest Adama had ever seen from the brash young lieutenant. Generally, he saluted from the famous academy skypilot slouch.
"This eagerness for duty isn't like you, Lieutenant."
"For Apollo, sir."
Adama felt some tears come into his eyes.
"Thank you, Starbuck. Apollo is lucky to have so good a friend. You're aware this is a high-risk mission?"
"Yes, sir."
"I leave action to your discretion. However, you understand that I don't wish to endanger the lives of the hostages. For the present, your patrol is only to track the hijacked ship and watch for an opportunity. We'll have Blue and Silver Spar Squadrons at readiness, should they be needed. Don't attempt any assaultive actions unless you're sure they'll work."
"Understood, sir."
Adama put his hands on the lieutenant's shoulders.
"Our hearts are with you, Starbuck. To your Vipers, all of you."
The pilots, led by Starbuck, hastened off the bridge. Adama watched them go, his feelings the mixture of sadness and pride he usually felt whenever he sent pilots on dangerous missions. So much was at stake this time, not only the lives of these daring and courageous warriors but of Apollo's and the others with him on the truce mission, plus all the other innocent people aboard the Eureka. He touched his breastplate medallion which legend said had been forged on Kobol, as he often did when considering the burden of command.
"The Lords of Kobol be with you all," he whispered.
"And may luck continue to be Starbuck's ally," Tigh said. The comment made Adama smile. The brash young man was famous for his luck in most situations. It was said he could slide out from under a lump of antimatter.
Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon! Page 5