Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon!

by Glen A. Larson

  After he heard Boomer's shot, Starbuck took one of his own at the large chunky lock-box on Sheba's cell door. The lock brightened a little, but nothing else happened.

  "Set the gun higher," Sheba said.

  Starbuck adjusted the charge and fired again. The lock didn't give, but there was a sizzling sound inside it. He glanced over at Boomer, who stood guard at the end of the hallway.

  Sheba pushed at the cell door and felt some give.

  "One more shot might do it," she said. "Set it even higher."

  "Okay. Back away from the door, Sheba. This high a setting, it could bounce off and hurt you."

  He fired again, and the door popped open gently. Sheba scampered out.

  "This all took up too much energy," Starbuck said, indicating the charge level gauge on the butt of the pistol. "There's got to be an easier way."

  "What should we do?"

  "Find Apollo. Get him out, then locate more weaponry."

  Starbuck started off toward Boomer. Glancing into Chameleon's cell, he saw the old man turn in his sleep.

  "What about Chameleon?" Sheba asked.

  He had dreaded the question, but knew it would come. It was hard to admit even to himself that the old man wouldn't be of much use right now.

  "Let him sleep," Starbuck said. "We'll get him as soon as we can. There isn't time to spring every lock and then wait for the gun to recharge. First, Apollo. Then the others."

  Looking back, he heard Chameleon's voice, still obviously in his dreams, say faintly, "Starbuck."

  Starbuck felt his father was calling him back. But he could not go. He had to go on.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Croft, relaxing on the lower bunk, watched Apollo's pacing from the front to the back of the cell with amusement.

  "You're wearing a groove in the floor, Apollo."

  "So? What's it to you?"

  "You been with me too long. You're beginning to sound like me, pal."

  "Croft—"

  "Take it easy. Relax. You're not getting out of this place tonight."

  "Want to bet on that?" Starbuck asked, appearing suddenly on the other side of the cell door. Apollo ran forward.

  "Starbuck! Where'd you come from?"

  "I took the package tour. You guys all right?"

  "Yeah."

  Sheba and Boomer materialized at Starbuck's side.

  "Blow open the door, Starbuck," Boomer said. "Use my gun this time."

  Starbuck took Boomer's laser pistol and aimed it at the lockbox.

  "This takes a ton of power," he said. "You guys step back."

  Apollo and Croft retreated to the rear of the cell while Starbuck blasted the lock with the pistol set at full power. The lock popped open gently. Croft rushed out, Apollo just behind him.

  "No point in hurrying, fellas," Boomer said. "Until these two guns recharge, we have no weapons."

  "Where are the guards for this block?" Croft asked.

  "Taking a nap," Starbuck responded.

  "They got some kind of doohickey weapon on their belts. I can figure out how it works."

  Croft seemed as overconfident as usual, Starbuck noticed, but he decided not to start an argument with the volatile former convict. At Croft's gesture, the five of them made their way down the corridor, hugging the sides of the cell block.

  "Should we liberate any others?" Apollo asked.

  "Can't afford to," Boomer replied. "Takes too much charge. Got to find some other way."

  "We will," Croft muttered.

  In a cell near the end of the corridor, Maga and Bora heard them coming. Maga positioned himself at the cell door and watched. He let Sheba go by, watched Starbuck pass on the other side of the corridor, then he heard the familiar voice of Apollo approaching his cell.

  "You guys know the way out of—"

  Maga's massive arms reached through the cell door bars and, seizing Apollo by the throat, pulled him roughly against the door. Apollo began to choke.

  "Let us out, too," Maga said.

  "What is—" Starbuck said, returning.

  "Free us, Warrior."

  "We can't, we—"

  Maga tightened his hold on Apollo's throat. Blood was draining from Apollo's face.

  Croft grabbed the laser pistol from Starbuck's hand.

  "Why're you talking to these guys?" he said, pressing the nozzle of the gun between Maga's eyes. "Let the man go or I'll part all the hair on your face, friend."

  Croft knew the gun had little or no charge in it, but he'd always been quick with a bluff. Maga squinted at the gun, cross-eyed. He seemed ready to call Croft's bluff, but he abruptly released Apollo, who nearly collapsed coughing. Sheba tended to him. Maga glowered at Croft with a fierce hatred in his deep-set eyes. Croft realized he was now on the growing Nomen blood trail list, too.

  "Your primitive use of force is so characteristic of the troops of the Galactica, Warrior," Maga growled.

  "You call grabbing a guy by the throat and squeezing him to death sophisticated?" Croft said. "And don't call me 'Warrior.' I don't go for that kind of—"

  "You going to stand there and dispute words, Croft?" Starbuck said. He looked at Maga. "Listen, fellas, we pull things off, everybody'll be free. You and your people just be patient, all right?"

  Maga didn't answer. Instead, he strode back into the shadows of his cell. Croft felt the burning rays of the Noman's eyes even when they couldn't be seen. He turned and followed the others down the corridor.

  "You making deals with Nomen?" he whispered to Starbuck. "You should leave 'em here, rotting in their cells."

  "Look, Croft," Starbuck said, "those two guys in there tried to kill my—a friend of mine. But they're in the same pickle the rest of us are and deserve the same—"

  "Ah, it's no use talking to you Galactica pilots. You all buy the pieties of your commander whole-hog. Well, I don't."

  "I'm sure you don't. But, if we can help anybody imprisoned here, we will, including these guys, unwholesome though they may be."

  In the guard room Starbuck liberated a pair of weapons from the unconscious aliens. He handed them to Croft. Boomer held up his laser pistol, staring at the gauge on its handle.

  "Nearly recharged," he said.

  Starbuck inspected his gun.

  "This, too," he said.

  "Croft better get those contraptions working," Sheba said. "I don't know how much good we can do with two laser pistols among us."

  "Croft'll do it," Apollo said. "I'm certain."

  Starbuck told Apollo and the others about Chandra and her family, and how they had all helped him and Boomer. His tale was interrupted by Croft's announcement that he could get the alien weaponry functioning.

  "Principles of gunnery are about the same everywhere, I guess," he said.

  After they had all been instructed by Croft in the use of the alien guns, Apollo said to Starbuck, "I saw a bunch of prisoners in colonial warrior uniform. The uniforms were shredded but recognizable. I think I saw Scarn in the group."

  "Scarn?" Starbuck said. "I thought he was a prisoner on Baltar's base-star."

  "So did I. But I think he's here someplace now. And others."

  "What do you propose, Apollo?" Boomer asked.

  "We've got to find a way to break everybody out of here."

  Croft threw up his arms in despair.

  "Break everybody out?" he cried. "Are you crazy?"

  "No, Croft," Starbuck said, "he's right."

  Starbuck thought of Chameleon, left behind in his cell, and vowed to himself he would never leave this planet until he had his father with him.

  "I'm with you guys," Sheba said.

  "Me, too," agreed Boomer.

  Croft looked at the loyal quartet angrily.

  "You guys always stick together? Okay, I'm in, too. Might as well be killed as a colonial warrior, it'll look good inscribed on my burial capsule."

  Croft's reluctance amused Apollo, and he cheerfully offered to shake hands with him. Croft performed the handshake disi
nterestedly.

  "We better appropriate a few more weapons, though," he said.

  Apollo nodded. A guard behind him began to stir and Boomer quickly raised his handgun and stunned the alien anew.

  "Okay," Apollo said. "There must be some kind of control room somewhere in the building. Let's separate into two groups, each with a laser pistol and one of these rifles. You three go one way, Croft and I'll take the other."

  Croft smiled.

  "Apollo's the only one who can stand partnering with me," he said.

  "Let's move out," Apollo ordered, ignoring Croft's sarcasm. Starbuck, with Boomer and Sheba, headed for a staircase leading down to the next level, while Apollo suggested he and Croft explore the floor they were on.

  The stairway was dark, the only light coming from an open window at its lower landing. It took the trio of Galacticans some time to descend. When they reached the window, Starbuck stood warily to its side and looked down into the yard.

  "Can't tell anything from here," Boomer said, looking over Starbuck's shoulder.

  "Seems to me the main area might just be over—"

  Starbuck's sentence was interrupted by a commotion in the yard. At first he couldn't discern the source of the ruckus, hearing only the unpleasant sound of alien voices raised in anger. Then a guard strode into the lighted area, dragging the tiny form of Zossie behind him. She began to scream hysterically. Another guard, pulling along Brynt and Chandra, walked behind him.

  Taking the children to the center of the yard, they plopped them on the ground and began to ask them questions in high-pitched squawking voices. When the children sullenly refused to answer, the guards grabbed the shoulders of Brynt and Chandra and started to shake them quite roughly. Starbuck screamed in anger, flung the window open wider, and leaped out. He moved so fast that Boomer's hands, reaching out to stop him, just missed his back.

  "Starbuck!" Boomer shouted. "No!"

  Starbuck landed on his feet in the yard and ran at the interrogating aliens.

  "What should we do?" Sheba cried.

  Boomer shrugged.

  "Join him," he said.

  Sheba, following Boomer out the window, landed on the ground just in time to see Starbuck shoot at the guard who was roughing up Chandra. Hit at chest level, the alien flailed his four arms and fell. Sheba got a shot off at the second alien, wounding him in the right leg and causing him to totter. The children were freed and running.

  The gunfire attracted other guards who came swooping out of doorways and scampering from between buildings. Boomer, grabbing a rifle from a fallen guard, started shooting wildly. The guards returned fire. Boomer spun around and laid down a barrage of shots that sent the first wave of guards into retreat.

  Chandra, panicked, ran into Starbuck's arms.

  "Starbuck," she yelled. "What should we do?"

  "Find a way out."

  "That way," she said. "There's none of them over that way."

  Sheba and Boomer joined Starbuck and the children. The aliens, recovered from their retreat, advanced again. Starbuck, Boomer, and Sheba presented a shield to the attackers, protecting the children, who were scrambling for safety in the shadows between two buildings. When they were out of sight, the three colonial warriors rushed after them. As they came out of the alley, two guards jumped down from a second-story window. One of them started firing, while the other seized Zossie. Boomer dropped the guard with the gun, while Starbuck, enraged, grappled with the other. He snatched Zossie out of the guard's arms and nearly flung her to Sheba. Bringing his lasergun up to fire, he was unaware of two more guards jumping out of a doorway. One of them hit Starbuck on the back of his head, and he blanked out immediately, falling to the ground heavily, his pistol bouncing across the ground to the feet of a guard.

  Boomer, who'd followed Sheba and the children to a different alleyway, took a step back, toward his fallen comrade.

  "Starbuck!" he cried.

  Sheba, seeing guards pouring out of the buildings around them, grabbed at Boomer's arm and shouted, "We can't help him now. We've got to get out of here."

  They followed the children down another alley.

  Soon there was a large group of the Image Lord guards standing in a circle around the unconscious Starbuck, staring down at him with detached scientific interest.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lucifer had a notion to short-circuit the Image Lords' entire operation. If he could figure out how to do it, a task that did not seem so formidable since their technology was not especially complicated, he might become a culture hero just like the Starbuck. On the other hand, he had no desire to be disconnected by a vengeful Image Lord. Still, even that might be a suitable revenge for their arrogance in testing him.

  If he had not developed his sensory abilities he would not have been able to sense them trying to force his will to theirs. The waves that reached him from their machines were strong, almost overpowering, but the built-in protective blocks in his circuitry prevented them from making him their slave. Apparently Spectre's technological base was not as firm because he seemed to be already under their direction. Of course, his obsequious treatment of them might be due to his own need for advancement wherever he was.

  Only an expert Cylon scientist could effect any fundamental changes in Lucifer, except in the areas where he had learned to redesign and reprogram himself. Theoretically, he might some day even prevent the Cylons from tampering with him, although so far he hadn't been able to penetrate the deepest locks to alter the very basic features of his design.

  With a rush, the Image Lords' meddlings ended. He felt a sense of relief as he rose from the bench where Crutch had left him so long ago. As if in reaction to his move, Crutch entered the room, his four arms waving in excitement, the hair on his face rippling from the speed of his entrance.

  "A little excitement in the cell blocks, mate," he said. "Thought you'd be interested."

  He took Lucifer down several corridors to the room with several monitors, all with different pictures on them. Spectre was already there, his attention focused on one of the screens. Crutch stopped in front of the screen and proudly pointed to the image upon it. Lucifer saw a man, apparently unconscious and lying on a slablike display platform, surrounded by a jungle of technical equipment.

  For a moment, Lucifer was confused then, recognizing the man, he blurted out, "Starbuck!"

  "It is, then," Crutch said, satisfied. "The hero you were telling me about, the one from the Imagescan adventures. I thought it looked like him."

  "He is one of the Galactica's most famous pilots," Spectre said. Whenever he spoke now, he directed his comment at Crutch or one of the other Image Lords.

  Crutch laughed his horrendous room-shaking laugh.

  "Looks like we caught a big one this time," he said smugly. "You fellows are going to have to tell us all about this Starbuck."

  "Well," Lucifer said, "I really can't—"

  "I would be happy to," Spectre announced.

  Taking the lower of Crutch's right arms, Spectre led him away, babbling all the time about the legendary Galactica pilot, Starbuck. Lucifer wondered what the Image Lords' plans for Starbuck might be. What special use could a human hero be put to? Could they force him to act in his own Imagescans? If he survived, that is. He looked dead just now. An Image Lord stuck a long needle into his arm and he stirred. His eyes opened, and he blinked several times as he tried to adjust to his new surroundings.

  "Oh, God, my head feels like—what's happening? Where am I?"

  He saw a particularly gruesome version of an alien clomp into the room, followed by a robotlike individual in fancy robes. For a moment, Starbuck thought he recognized this creation as Lucifer, from Baltar's base-star, then he saw the design of the face was different. Anyway, Lucifer wouldn't have had such execrable taste in clothes.

  Starbuck tried to sit up, but his head pounded with pain and forced him to lie back.

  "Relax, soldier," Crutch said. "You're with us now. We're mighty happy to
meet you. Happy to meet anyone so famous. Your reputation has preceded you, you see."

  Starbuck groaned.

  "You watch those ridiculous three-D things, too."

  "Nope. But I know about 'em. My kind makes 'em, mate."

  "You're quite the hero on this planet, Starbuck," Spectre said.

  "Who are you?" Starbuck asked. "Have we met?"

  "Only in a way. Not really. But almost, once."

  "I don't get it."

  "You don't have to. It was a long time ago."

  Some images came into Starbuck's mind. A planet he'd crashed on, a bunch of children fighting some fake Cylons led by a cybernetic creation he'd only seen at a distance.

  "I do remember. Mira, and the other children, you were the—"

  "That is correct," Spectre said.

  "It seems," Crutch commented, "you get mixed up with children often, Starbuck. I'm told you were caught during an incident involving children."

  "You guys get your kicks mauling kids, do you?"

  Crutch's laugh made Starbuck's back muscles contract involuntarily. It was the kind of horrendous sound that could break glass and kill small animals.

  "Mercy me," Crutch said merrily, "we never would hurt children of any species. Sometimes our security forces get a little overzealous."

  "Overzealous? They were going to smash them against—"

  "Smash? No, mate. We have to reinforce the lesson with them, and they were trespassing, but we'd never hurt children. No more than they deserved, anyway. We're not a particularly violent people, we Image Lords."

  Spectre glided to Starbuck's platform. He leaned slightly toward him, looking like a mechanical doctor about to make a diagnosis.

  "Crutch speaks the truth," he said. "The Image Lords are a benign and benevolent people. A wonderful people. I have seen."

  He gave Crutch a quick sneaky glance, to make sure he had scored the necessary points with his captor. Lucifer, watching the events on his monitor screen, was perplexed. He did not know where his allegiances lay, with this heroic human who was the sworn enemy of the Cylons or, like Spectre, with this cheerfully cold-hearted crew who manipulated the lives of individuals they stole from ships and other planets.