Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon!

by Glen A. Larson

  "What's going on here?" Apollo asked.

  "Simple, mate," Crutch replied. "You're our prisoners. You folk, and everybody else on that ship. And a good bunch of prizes, believe me. I hear you're from the Galactica."

  Apollo, clearly astonished by the unexpected question, glanced quizzically toward his companions.

  "You know about the Galactica?" he said.

  "Never heard of ya before, sonny," Crutch bellowed. "Not until my oil-lubricated buddy over there informed me of your reputation." He gestured his two right arms in Lucifer's direction. "Seems you rate pretty high in his book."

  Apollo had never seen Lucifer before and wondered what the bizarre standing construct of metal and cloth was.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't understand."

  Lucifer glided forward, bowing his head slightly.

  "Sir," he said, "I am acquainted with one of your pilots. Lieutenant Starbuck. My name is Lucifer."

  Apollo, recognizing the name, could not contain his amusement.

  "Lucifer! Yes, Starbuck's mentioned your name. You're the robot he met on Baltar's base-star."

  "Please, sir, I am not a robot. I am an ambulatory sentient computer."

  Apollo grinned. His grin, Lucifer noticed, was nearly as attractive as Starbuck's.

  "As you wish," he said. "What are you doing here, Lucifer?"

  "My plight is the same as yours, alas. I am a prisoner here."

  "And Baltar. Is he—"

  "No. I was on a different ship. Might I have the pleasure of knowing your identity, sir?"

  "This's Captain Apollo," Croft said.

  Lucifer couldn't have been more pleased.

  "Apollo! Why, Starbuck mentioned your name often to me. Is he with you?"

  "No, he isn't. I excused him from this mission, and his usual luck prevailed."

  Lucifer did not indicate his disappointment that Starbuck wasn't among the prisoners as he and Apollo exchanged the stories of their capture. While Apollo had already had a good idea of what Lucifer would look like, from Starbuck's description, he found himself fascinated by the disconcertingly asynchronous eyes that sent out intense red light. There was also a velvety smoothness in Lucifer's voice that he hadn't been prepared for.

  On his part, Lucifer was impressed with Apollo. The human seemed reasonable and friendly. Lucifer suddenly felt a desire to meet the rest of the Battlestar Galactica gang—Boomer, Jolly, and the others whom Starbuck had mentioned in their conversations together. There had been many times in the past when Lucifer had realized that he admired humans, in spite of the Cylon-programmed antihuman attitudes. Except for the devious Baltar, Lucifer was comfortable with humans. As he had wondered often before, he speculated on whether he could be a turncoat, leave the Cylons and ally himself with the human cause. He could do it, he knew. He could reprogram himself for anything. As he considered joining the humans, he thought he felt a stirring in the area of his shoulder where his soul was housed.

  "I enjoy old home week as much as the next homesick buccaneer," Crutch said, "but you fellows are supposed to be detained in the holding cells with the rest of the prisoners."

  "Just what do you plan to do with us?" Apollo asked.

  "Why, we're taking you home with us, of course."

  "Home?" Sheba said.

  "Yes, my lass. To our home. To The Joyful Land. You won't regret this trip, I can promise you."

  "The Joyful Land?" Croft said. "Never heard of it."

  Crutch's response was replete with good cheer and amiability.

  "Very few have. Ours is the unknown paradise of the universe. That's the way we like it. We pick and choose our own inhabitants, after all. Those of you who don't fit in will not stay. We're not a resort."

  "Pick and choose?" Chameleon asked.

  "The Joyful Land is populated by the beings we abduct from the starlanes and other planets. We are especially fond of humanoids."

  "How charming," Chameleon muttered.

  "Who are you people?" Sheba asked.

  "We call ourselves the Image Lords. That is a rough translation into your language, of course. We provide living dreams. You will see. Now, off with you."

  Crutch gestured toward the whip-wielding guards who then began herding the human visitors off the bridge.

  Lucifer watched them go, then said quietly to himself, "Perhaps Captain Apollo plays cards, like Starbuck. Oh, I hope so."

  Spectre, who heard the remark, was puzzled. He placed it in his memory file, with the highest call-up priority.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The odor of the Borellian Nomen's anger, the odor of the blood hunt, was heavy in the air. To a Noman it was an exciting smell, to others it was simply musky, even slightly sweet.

  Within the small confines of their cell Maga and Bora couldn't pace too rapidly, but they'd worked out a pattern where they never collided with each other. Across the way, in another cell, the Nomen named Brega and Lingk also displayed an edginess uncharacteristic of the lumbering slow-moving Nomen. The cells, unlike the ones aboard the Eureka, were traditional, secured by doors with thick iron bars.

  "Is it true, Maga?" Brega called across the corridor.

  "Is what true, Brega?"

  "That you have reinstated the blood hunt against this Chameleon?"

  Maga stopped by his cell door and fiercely grabbed two iron bars.

  "It is true."

  The Nomen, disoriented to be so far away from their home colonies, felt inspired by the new blood trail. It made them feel good again, made them feel like Nomen. Maga resumed his pacing.

  "How are we going to corner this Chameleon?" Bora asked. The ritual of the blood hunt required that the victim be isolated, at the hands of the Nomen, for a substantial period of time before he could be disposed of. Crowds tended to interfere, and Bora knew that Chameleon's friends would definitely not sit by and allow the Nomen to claim Chameleon. "Chameleon has friends from the Galactica to hide him."

  "Yes," Maga said ominously, "the Galactica. I do not fear them, even this rude Captain Apollo. We have reason for vengeance against that man, too, Bora."

  Apollo had been the arresting officer who'd negotiated the release of their blood trail as a condition of their freedom.

  "I agree," Bora said. He didn't like anybody from the Galactica. "Should I get the chance, I will see that he dies."

  "But first, Chameleon. It is the code."

  Together they crossed their arms across their chests, the vow of the blood hunt.

  "It is the code," Bora said.

  Each then ritually touched the laser boles which were attached to the crossed belts on their chests. The Nomen were the only prisoners who had retained their weapons, simply because the aliens did not recognize the boles as weapons, thinking they were some sort of gaudy decoration.

  In another cell, Apollo, Croft, and Chameleon displayed more calm than the Nomen. Apollo sat on the bunk, while Croft leaned casually against the cell door and Chameleon stood with his right leg resting on the seat of a chair.

  "Somehow I always seem to wind up in a cell," Croft commented bitterly. "My destiny."

  "Professor Branch says we're only centons away from arrival on the home planet of these aliens," Chameleon said.

  Both Croft and Apollo stared quizzically at the handsome elderly man.

  "Chameleon," Apollo said, "you've been with us in this cell all the time. We haven't seen Branch since the alien attack. How can you know anything he says?"

  "He's been sending messages. Tapping against the bars of cells. Others have relayed them. You mean you haven't noticed?"

  "I heard the taps," Croft said, "thought everybody was edgy, never picked out a code of any kind."

  "It's an old code, used in prisons back in the twelve worlds. On Caprica, at least. Prisoners developed it as a way of communicating without their captors knowing."

  "In all my prison time, never heard of it. Hey, you've been in the jug, too. Done a little time, have you, old man?"

  Chameleon
took his leg off the chair and, obviously disturbed by Croft's rude question, looked off to the side.

  "I've . . . been incarcerated," he said, "once or twice. Unjustly, of course."

  "Oh, of course. Me, too. I don't know who planted that loot on me."

  Croft's laugh was sarcastic. Chameleon seemed about to reply, then he clearly thought better of bantering with a man whose prison experience with banter was extensive.

  After a few microns, Chameleon said in a quiet voice, "No, I was guilty, too. I have some . . . some skill as a con man."

  "Some skill?" Apollo remarked. "A lot of skill, if you ask me."

  "Well," Croft said, turning away and looking out through the bars, "con us off this ship, old man."

  The next moments were uneasy, each of the men a little nervous at the resentment that Croft had suddenly brought into the cell. Finally, Chameleon said to Apollo, "How is Star—Lieutenant Starbuck these days?"

  "Last I saw him," Apollo said, smiling, "he was having romantic problems."

  Chameleon returned Apollo's smile.

  "What else is new?"

  "Right. Otherwise, he's still the same feisty, slippery, charming son of a sea-skunk he's always been. And a great hero, incidentally."

  Croft, his anger dissipated, turned around and addressed Chameleon, "You know Starbuck, too, old man?"

  "He's my—yes, I know the young man well enough."

  Apollo's brow furrowed as he noted Chameleon's hesitancy.

  "Starbuck told me he hasn't visited you recently," Apollo said. "I thought the two of you were getting together regularly."

  "We were. When I was on the senior ship he shuttled over often, between missions. But I grew tired of being on the senior ship and Siress Blassie was, well . . ."

  Apollo nodded. "Yes," he said, "I've heard a little about the siress. Not the woman to control a restless wanderer, I'd say."

  Chameleon's grin had several secrets in it.

  "You do know her. And me, for that matter." His gestures as he spoke were smooth and elegant. "It was a luxurious life there, with a lot of old people making the best of a controlled existence. Contributing to the fleet with their sewing, freeze-food preparation, bandage rolling, and other useful activities. And Siress Blassie's lot was better than the average on that ship. But I found myself dozing off in the middle of a utility period, feeling enervated when I exerted myself just a little bit. In short, feeling old. Last thing I wanted to do was feel old."

  "I think I noticed that in you, Chameleon," Apollo said. Chameleon noticed the warmth in the young man's voice, and wished he could hear Starbuck talk to him that way again.

  "So one day," Chameleon continued, "I got fed up with the senior ship and stowed away in a supply shuttle. I managed to finagle positions aboard a couple of fleet ships before I found my way to the Eureka—with forged scientific credentials. I had to assume a role because the siress had arranged for agents to come looking for me. I had a couple of close calls. Under the circumstances, it was unwise of me to attempt communication with my—with Starbuck."

  Again Apollo noticed Chameleon's stuttering when he referred to Starbuck.

  "I can see," Apollo said.

  "I'm sorry about it," Chameleon said. "I would have liked to talk with Starbuck one more time. I'm sorry I didn't. There's something I wanted to tell Starbuck. I wish I had."

  Starbuck's leg muscles had stiffened from the long centons in the cockpit of his Viper. Fuel was getting low, too. The squadron couldn't afford to fly around this star system idly for much longer. He tried to do isometric exercises as he waited for Colonel Tigh to come on line. When Tigh's cool voice asked for Starbuck's report, the young lieutenant replied just as coolly.

  "The pirate ship has docked above the fifth planet of the star system, Colonel. Other ships have left the surface to rendezvous with it. A lot of activity, sir."

  "Any sign of Apollo, Sheba . . .?"

  "No way to tell. If they're shuttling prisoners to the surface, there must be a multitude of them, judging by the number of small craft going to and fro. But they're there somewhere, and I'm going in to find out."

  "Going in?"

  "Yes, it's the best way. What else can we do? We can always fly rings around any detection devices they may have. Then we'll be on the ground to take a look-see. There appears to be a large city near the spaceport the small craft originates from. We're going to be tourists, if necessary."

  "Is that advisable, Starbuck?"

  "Well, we can do that. Or we can fly orbits around this miserable planet waiting for something to happen. Or we can return to the Galactica and continue our journey without Apollo."

  "I get your drift, Lieutenant. Good luck."

  After the line to the Galactica went dead, Starbuck muttered, "Luck's what it's all about, Colonel."

  After a few moments of crackling sounds in his ears, Hera's voice spoke suddenly.

  "Starbuck?"

  Hera's was not the voice he wanted to hear just then.

  "Yes?"

  "I want to be on the mission to the planet's surface."

  "Hera! What do you know about that? First time I mentioned it was to Colonel Tigh, and that was just now on the private command frequency."

  There was no response.

  "Cadet Hera?"

  "Well . . . I just patched in and listened."

  "What? You patched in?"

  "Well, yes."

  "You can't patch into a coded channel. That's what the coding is for, to prevent eavesdropping. How in the holy pyramids of Kobol did you do it?"

  "First I triangulated on the transmission code, then I worked through several combinations, then I—"

  "Okay, okay, never mind. Maybe I don't want to know. Keep your ears away from private channels, Cadet."

  Hera sounded abashed, properly disciplined.

  "Yes, sir . . . Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Am I going?"

  Starbuck sighed.

  "I don't know how I could do it without you."

  Hera whooped with glee.

  "Good!"

  "Who else can keep you out of trouble?"

  "I didn't quite get that, Starbuck."

  "Well, you'll just have to patch in better, won't you? Keep your eye on the scanner and your ear off my voice, hear?"

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  It had been easy to grant her permission to join the landing mission. He was going to order the whole squadron to the surface, anyway. They couldn't afford to waste any more fuel, and it was a reasonable alternative to sending most of the squadron back to the Galactica.

  He inspected the ranks of the squadron to the left and right of him. We're an awesome sight, he thought, I know that. And we are awesome fighters. But can we pull this one off? Can we get Apollo and the others back? Can I get my father back? It's us against a planetful of whoever we're up against.

  His stiff legs started to throb with pain and he had to shift to a more comfortable position. There were few comfortable positions within a Viper cockpit.

  You can bet on us. A sure thing.

  Easy, when you got luck.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In The Joyful Land there were no beings more constantly joyful than the Image Lords themselves, especially during work hours. They worked in several control rooms scattered throughout the city, the prison compound, and the secret grimy underground areas where they spent their off-duty time. In each control room a different sector of the city was supervised, with its citizens securely under the blunt yellow padded thumbs of the Image Lords. The city they controlled was the only settlement on the surface of the planet.

  The city was called Euphoria, and its inhabitants were mostly humanoid. The Image Lords had an especial fondness for humanoids, which was why pirate crews were always delighted when they came upon a lone human ship. Other races, such as the dreaded Cylons were bad subjects.

  An Image Lord working his controls was, in spite of a certain warty ugliness, positively radiant wit
h happiness and enthusiasm as his several hands flew over the controls of his machine. As he worked, he chattered effervescently with equally delighted co-workers. Image Lords excitedly informed each other of newly discovered manipulations. An important part of their tasks was the planning out of schemes in which they could combine their trapped subjects to work out elaborate and even choreographic machinations. While chattering, an Image Lord rarely looked at his co-workers, preferring to keep his attention on individual monitors, with occasional glances at the monitors of other Image Lords when something new and unusual was happening.

  In one room, located in the multidomed building where the citizens came every evening for the Summoning, the Image Lords had lost some of their energy. It had been a routine day so far, and there was nothing Image Lords hated more than routine. They liked to create routine, toy with it, change it around, but they despised the day-to-day stuff that they were required to maintain in order to lend a semblance of normality to their subjects' lives. In this control room, however, there'd been enough of that kind of routine for one work period. An Image Lord started chortling and outlining his plot to his colleagues, who gleefully concurred. He returned to his console and poised his four arms above the controls.

  On the screen in front of him a man sat at a desk, writing. As with all else in the work lives of the citizens of Euphoria, the man was writing worthless nonsense. But, since he didn't know it was nonsense, and since it was his job, he kept at it with a studied concentration. Like the aliens, the humans of the city performed their work with vigor.

  In the control room, the Image Lord's fingers started to work controls rapidly, flipping toggles, pressing buttons, turning dials, patting coded touchplates, sliding levers—in short, performing his tasks with the kind of charged efficiency that was characteristic of an Image Lord initiating a variant. His co-workers, at his signal, would join him and add their own orchestrations to his grand design.

  The man at the desk was a handsome dark-skinned man with pale brown eyes that, in spite of the energy he was devoting to his writing, seemed a bit vacant. Most humans who had been in Euphoria for a long time tended to develop vacant expressions. While he wrote, buzzers rang and whistles whistled. The sounds were dispatched by the Image Lords. Each noise changed his activity in some way. A buzzer, and he switched pens. A whistle, and he opened his shirt. Another buzzer, and he mussed up his hair. Another whistle, and he put his leg up on the desk.