"I didn't even know you could see him in person," said a wide-eyed matron.
"A button from your clothing," the middle-aged man begged. "C'mon."
"Yeah," said the chubby man. "Me, too."
The crowd surged forward. Starbuck backed off, the cigar dropping from his fingers. He didn't notice Chandra sweeping in to snatch it from the ground. After slipping the cigar into the holster, she and Zossie grabbed Starbuck's arm, while Brynt did the same for Boomer.
"Come with us," Chandra said quietly.
"Why should—" Starbuck said.
"We know the way out." She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, then addressed the crowd, "The Starbuck can't do anything for you folks right now. But he'll be at the Friendship Emporium later this evening, signing Imagescan packets."
The children began to lead Starbuck and Boomer away. They had put some space between them and the crowd, when a man toward the rear of the group shouted, "Hey, that's just a kid. She's not important. Why should we listen to her?"
"C'mon," said someone else, "let's get the Starbuck!"
The woman Starbuck had originally stopped to get information from screamed in a bone-chilling voice: "Yeah. He's ours! Let's get him!"
The crowd started moving forward like a wall of Cylon raiders, with the same kind of murderous instincts. At the children's promptings, Starbuck and Boomer started to run. Chandra pointed to an alley between two of the stores, and the five of them ran into it. Zossie tripped and fell, and Boomer, seeing her fall, scampered back to pick her up and carry her through the alley.
People from the crowd bunched up within the alley and slowed their own progress. Only a few broke through to pursue the Starbuck and his entourage down a brightly lit suburban street. They screamed to attract the attention of the few pedestrians on the sidewalks.
If they hadn't had the children with them, Starbuck and Boomer would certainly have been caught by the mob. But Chandra and Brynt, enterprising children who had roamed all the neighborhoods, knew where to turn sharply to find side-streets nobody else would have expected and had a sense of what lawns they could traverse without encountering obstacles.
It wasn't long before the sound of pursuit had faded, but—at the children's insistence—they kept running. Finally Chandra led them down a path next to a house, and into a neatly landscaped back yard. At her signal, they all fell exhausted next to a colorful flower-crowded garden.
When he had caught his breath, Starbuck said in a cramped voice, "I don't know who you kids are, but thanks. Those monsters out there might've . . . I don't know what they'd do."
"Always pleased to help the Starbuck," Chandra announced proudly.
His name again. Why did everybody on this backwater planet seem to know who he was?
"How do you know me? And why do you call me the Starbuck?"
"That's who you are, silly," Zossie said, giggling. "The Starbuck!"
"This is weird," Boomer muttered. "Really weird."
"Why am I the Starbuck?"
"You don't know?" Brynt asked, bothered by Starbuck's ignorance about himself.
"I don't know what all this felgercarb is all about."
Chandra, tapping her fingers on the ground nervously, studied Starbuck's face. She noticed that he seemed more harried, more uncertain than the Starbuck had ever been. The handsomeness of his face wasn't as neatly structured, either.
"Maybe you're under control like the rest of us," she said.
"Under control?" Boomer asked.
"Ah, that's just a ridiculous idea of Chandra's," Brynt said cruelly. "She thinks somebody's in our minds controlling us, running us."
"It's true!" Chandra protested.
"Will somebody explain something quick?" Starbuck asked.
Chandra stood up, smoothed out the wrinkles of her multilayered skirt.
"We'll show you," she said. "Come in the house."
"We go in?" Starbuck asked. "Just like that? We enter somebody's house?"
"It's our home," Chandra said. "We live here."
Starbuck and Boomer looked at each other, both wondering if they should now make their escape from this odd trio of children.
Chandra, going to the back door of the house, called out, "Mommy! Daddy! Look what we brought home!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Apollo woke up with tiny pains behind his eyes, like miniature laser beams slowly breaking up his eyeballs from behind. Glancing up, he saw Croft standing beside his bunk, smiling sardonically down at him.
"Good fight," Croft remarked. "Who won?"
"I passed out. Where's Chameleon?"
"Couldn't possibly tell you. I just woke up, too. He's probably in some other cell like this. If he's lucky, they didn't give him a Borellian Noman for a roommate."
Apollo stood up, went to the cell door, tested the strength of its thick iron bars. He couldn't budge them.
"We've got to get to Chameleon," he said, "and Sheba."
Croft sat on the bunk, put his feet up, and shrugged.
"Your move. I tested the door, too. Lock structure like nothing I ever seen before. I got no clue how to break it."
Apollo looked downcast.
"Chameleon could be killed."
"Probably. Us, too. After what we did, I think we might have moved up a few notches on the Nomen's blood trail list."
Croft was touched by Apollo's gloom.
"Don't worry, kid," he said. "The more problems you got, the meaner you get. That'll get us out of this. Eventually."
"Eventually?"
"You need a different attitude toward time when you're a convict, Apollo. We got plenty of time for me to teach it to you."
"There is much time," Bora said. Maga stood at the door, staring out, his eyes wrathful. "There is no time limit for a blood hunt."
"I know that, Bora. I should have killed him before. I should have killed all of them."
"We will, Maga, we will."
Chameleon, asleep on the bunk of his cell, squirmed from bad dreams. Several times he shouted out Starbuck's name. In his dreams, he seemed to just miss out meeting with Starbuck, sometimes watching his son be killed, or fall into bottomless depths.
In another cell, across the way, Sheba heard Chameleon's cries and her eyes saddened as she felt the futility of their present situation. Each step they took seemed to be taking them farther away from the Galactica. They might be stranded in The Joyful Land forever. Chameleon shouted Starbuck's name again. Sheba rushed to her cell door, trying to reach out to him.
Crutch had finally left Lucifer alone for a while. He now stood in the alien control room, staring at rows of display screens. On some of them, he saw prisoners in their cells, including those dressed in the outfits of the Galactica.
He wondered what he could possibly become in The Joyful Land. The Image Lords had made some tests on him, tried to see if they could control him the way they did other beings. The tests appeared to have been unsuccessful. Or were they? Were he and Spectre under the aliens' control, after all? So long as he felt he was acting of his own free will, he would not know if he was being manipulated or not. Perhaps he had been better off on Baltar's base-star. Being Baltar's underling again was infinitely preferable to remaining in this off-the-trade-routes world. The Image Lords had no real use for him, and he had no wish to become an orchestra conductor of the Image Lord style of fantasy. He would rather find some lake somewhere, walk to its deepest spot, shut himself off, and rust.
We are in a real mess, he thought. But perhaps not we. Spectre, after all, appeared to be enjoying himself on The Joyful Land.
Starbuck usually liked being the center of attention, but not here, not in this plain living room, not with this average-looking family, all of whom smiled at him so admiringly.
Brynt had brought out the Imagescan. He set up the treated cloth sheet which, when spread flat on the floor, would be the field on which the images, translated from emissions emanating from the Imagescan control box, would appear in such stark detail.
Brynt himself sat at the box, ready to operate it once Chandra's explanation of the Imagescan to Starbuck and Boomer was completed.
"Imagescan, therefore, is a fantasy field in which great adventures take place," she concluded. Then she turned to Brynt, gestured with a delicate hand-flourish, and said, "Turn it on, Brynt."
With a similiar flourish Brynt worked several controls on the box. Immediately an adventure field materialized on the sheet. Buildings appeared to spring out of the floor. Little people materialized out of nowhere and started walking the miniature city's streets. Aircrafts were formed out of dust motes in the air and flew over the buildings.
Starbuck was impressed.
"Will you look at that, Boomer?"
"Cute."
"Maybe we can take a couple sets back to the Galactica. For Boxey and the other kids."
"Don't get overenthusiastic, buddy."
Starbuck rolled his eyes, and said scornfully, "You must make a great tourist. You've always got reservations."
Brynt was dealing energetically with the controls. The size of the aircraft in the living room skies enlargened. Starbuck and Boomer could almost see the faces of the pilots in the cockpits.
A battle began suddenly. Enemy planes appeared out of nowhere and swooped down on the peaceful aircraft, shooting away.
"Wow!" Starbuck exclaimed. "What effects! And look at those things. They're like Vipers, Boomer. Almost. Not quite the same, but—"
One of the Viperlike planes exploded so graphically, its pieces flying outward, that both Starbuck and Boomer flinched and stepped backward. The children, watching their hero closely, were amused by his surprised reactions.
After several impressive explosions and some skillful piloting, the battle was over and the ambushers had been soundly defeated. The surviving planes landed on a field just outside the miniature city. Brynt manipulated the scene so that the city disappeared and only the airfield was at the center of the living room floor. Gradually one particular mini-Viper, gliding to a stop, took up most of the space.
Starbuck's jaw dropped nearly to the floor as he watched a quarter-sized version of himself emerge from the cockpit jauntily, step on the wing, and jounce down to the ground.
"Starbuck," Boomer cried, astonished. "It's you!" He looked closer at the small figure. "Well, almost."
"I know," muttered Starbuck, too flabbergasted to say more.
A tall beautiful woman with long flowing blond hair seemed to form out of the mist at the edge of the adventure-field. She ran to the Starbuck, threw her arms around him, and kissed him with so much passion that the miniature Starbuck's head was jerked back roughly.
"Oh, God," Boomer said, "it is you."
"Boomer!" Starbuck said threateningly.
"The truth hurts?" Boomer said, grinning.
"There are children present," Starbuck mumbled. Boomer laughed. Chandra concentrated her attention onto Starbuck, since she knew that the Starbuck on the floor was about to speak.
"Darling," the figure said, after smoothly disengaging himself from the woman, "how nice to see you again."
It was a voice quite like Starbuck's, but it was deeper and more booming. It also seemed a bit more sophisticated and confident. Boomer now laughed hysterically.
"I don't sound like that," Starbuck asked Boomer. "Do I?"
"Yes," the Starbuck said, "that was a tough one up there. A real fracas. But they're all tough."
"You were magnificent," the woman-figure said. "I saw you shoot down at least twenty of their planes."
"All in a day's work, I guess," the Starbuck said casually.
Starbuck groaned.
"Hey," he said, "that's not me. I mean, really, Boomer."
Boomer, still laughing, coughed out his words, "No. Not in a way, I guess."
"What do you mean, not in a way?"
"Every time I go up there," the Starbuck said, his voice sounding eerie, too loud for the quarter-sized figure, "not knowing if I'll come back, I know I must do my best. Too many people depend on me, after all."
"We love you," the woman said, kissing him again. "At least, I do, my darling."
"And I take heart, knowing that."
Boomer whooped scornfully.
"He hasn't got your style, Starbuck," he said, "but it's your message."
Chandra touched Brynt's shoulder, saying, "Cut the sound off, Brynt."
The quarter-sized Starbuck's voice spoke with a teary-eyed romanticism as Brynt lowered the sound.
"There are few moments as thrilling as when my sights center on a—"
After the sound was off, the figures' lips continued to move, and the woman kissed the Starbuck several more times. Whatever the Starbuck said, it seemed to impress the woman.
For a moment, none of the real people in the room said anything. Diova and Trinzot appeared to be unsettled. The children focused their attention on Starbuck, waiting for him to say something.
Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, Chandra spoke, "That . . ." She pointed to the Starbuck, who now had his arm around the woman-figure's shoulders. ". . . is you, am I correct?"
Starbuck's hands clenched and unclenched helplessly. He couldn't speak for a moment. When he did, it was in a weak, confused voice.
"Well, sort of. I mean . . . I mean, it looks something like . . . like me, but the sound . . ."
"I thought that was acting."
Starbuck stared at his near-duplicate. The figure's eyebrows were dramatically raised, and his hands gestured theatrically.
"That may be acting to you," Starbuck said, "but it's pure ham to me. I'd never act like that, even if I were acting."
"I don't understand," Chandra said.
"What I'm saying is, there are certain resemblances, but I have nothing to do with what that figure does in your . . . in your illusions or whatever you call them."
"Imagescans," Brynt said.
"Imagescans," Starbuck said. "See, kids, that isn't me. What he's doing isn't anything I've ever done, what—"
"At least not with that particular woman," Boomer said, as he watched the Starbuck romance the female figure, who was clearly responding warmly.
"Don't confuse the issue, Boomer," Starbuck said. "Like he says, I do have a sort of, well, reputation for my . . . experiences with the opposite sex, but my style's a bit, well, different."
"He's never that smooth," commented Boomer.
"What do you mean, smooth? Call that smooth? That was as phony as a seven-sided cubit. I—"
"What I want to know," Chandra said, her voice uncharacteristically emotional, "are you a hero or aren't you?"
"Well," Starbuck said, "I have to admit that once in a while I've done something that others have considered as, well, on the heroic side, but—"
"Your honesty's getting a little sickening, buddy," Boomer said.
"Well, damn, I've never had to explain something like . . ." He pointed to his other self, who had turned to confront some evil-looking individuals . . . something like that before. See, Chandra, that figure there, even though he has my name and looks like me and is a pilot and had adventures of a sort and is popular with women, they aren't my looks, my adventures, my piloting skills, even my women. I don't even want to be like him. He looks like a bozo to me. I don't know where they got all this or how they know anything about me, but this is just a fake, a—"
Starbuck stopped speaking abruptly when he saw the tears spilling out of Chandra's eyes. He glanced at Brynt, who was wiping away some spots of excess moisture from his cheeks. Zossie had buried her face in her mother's skirt. Diova hugged her tightly.
Starbuck was mystified. He looked toward Boomer for an answer, but Boomer was clearly bewildered, too. Helpless, Starbuck knelt beside Chandra. Boomer was moved by the sight of his buddy in a tender pose with the child. Behind them the illusionary Starbuck was flailing his fists about at a bushwhacking bunch of villains. He was knocking them every whichway. Boomer found the conjunction of the compassionate Starbuck with the fake braw
ling one somewhat disconcerting.
"What's wrong, kids?" Starbuck asked, putting his arms around Chandra. All three children were crying too hard to answer.
Trinzot leaned down toward Starbuck, and said, "I think they're in mourning."
"Mourning?"
"For the Starbuck, the lost Starbuck."
"I'm not sure I understand."
Diova, caressing the side of Zossie's head affectionately, smiled sadly and said, "Much of their imaginative lives is connected to that figure. Their ideas about life, nobility, ethics come from their regular Imagescan entertainment. The Starbuck has been their favorite hero, or Imagescan character, if you will. He is idealistic, uplifting, a noble character they can look up to."
"They want you to be the Starbuck," Trinzot added. "They're disappointed."
"Hey, kids," Starbuck said, "what's wrong with me? I mean, I'm a Viper pilot, I fight Cylons, I—"
Catching her breath, Zossie asked, "What're Cylons?"
"They're the enemies I battle against." He noticed that the fake Starbuck was now being attacked by a trio of aliens who balanced unevenly on long legs. He pointed to these figures and said, "Like that Starbuck is fighting those blobs on pipestem legs there."
"Do Cylons look like that?" Zossie asked, wide-eyed.
"Well, no, I'm afraid not. But, in their own way, they're just as ugly."
Brynt knelt beside Starbuck and touched his arm shyly.
"And you fight 'em?" he asked, excited.
"I blow 'em out of the skies, disintegrate them on the ground, eat 'em instead of primaries for breakfast."
"Are they eatable?" Zossie asked.
"Well, no, I—"
"Can you tell us about Cylons?" Brynt asked. "Please?"
"Okay, one story, then I'm going to ask you folks to help me. Deal?"
"Help you?" Zossie asked.
"Tell us now what you want," Chandra demanded.
"Well, all right. I have some friends. They were brought here today in a ship, unloaded somewhere near here. I need to know where they are."
"That's easy," Chandra said, her voice cool but involved. "We know where."
Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon! Page 14