Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon!

by Glen A. Larson

  Croft was knocked off his feet by Trinzot plunging against him. Apollo tripped over Zossie, who fell at his feet. Chandra's head bumped against Apollo's, and Croft suddenly found himself buried beneath the stomach of a rather large woman who had been standing behind him.

  As Apollo came out of his daze, he twisted around and saw the Image Lord's hairy face and body inside the bubble. He was fascinated anew by the repellent hanging strips all over the alien's body. It looked to Apollo as if the creature's skin was being peeled off.

  Croft managed to squeeze his head sideways so he could breathe. He whispered Apollo's name.

  "Here, Croft."

  "What's going on?"

  "You tell me."

  "I can't see anything, how can I—"

  "Today we will hop," said the alien in the bubble. "You all like to hop, I am sure. Stand up!"

  The people, Croft and Apollo with them, quickly got to their feet. They began to hop, actively, frenetically. Feeling quite ridiculous, Croft and Apollo tried to imitate their movements.

  "Haven't done anything like this since a mandatory aerobics class back on the grid barge," Croft said.

  "It's good for you. You look out of shape."

  "How'd you like your nose for dessert? In red sauce."

  Apollo tried not to smile at Croft's cheerfully spoken threat. However, since everyone else in the room performed their hopping with such intensely serious faces, he resisted his impulse. It was certainly a struggle to maintain the vacant appearance that was so natural to the others in the room.

  The hopping went on for a long time. Croft thought he would drop from it. He longed to fall down again, if only to get some rest. Then the Summoner ordered: "Stop hopping! Cry!"

  "Cry?" Croft muttered. "How'm I going to cry? I haven't cried since I was a kid."

  All around them the people were bawling. Apollo, his eyes already tearful, leaned toward Croft and said, "Cry, Croft."

  Croft did a creditable imitation of crying. The sound of his bawling, although a trifle overacted, was the loudest in the room.

  "That is all very good," the Summoner said. "Now is the time for dancing. Dance!"

  The dance, a kind of free-form set of movements with a certain elegance to its movements, generally allowed the participants to circle the room. Croft and Apollo joined easily and imitated the steps they saw. Apollo noted that Croft moved more gracefully than one might have expected from him. Cynics often danced well, Apollo thought.

  "Stop dancing!" the Summoner said. Everybody stopped immediately, resuming their zombielike stance. Croft, caught off guard, nearly stumbled and fell, but recovered well.

  "Now . . . kick," the Summoner said.

  Not expecting this order, Croft took a good kick in the leg from Chandra. It sent pain shooting up his leg. He had an urge to plant his foot in her stomach, and he reared his leg back, but found he couldn't follow through. Next to him, Apollo kicked an adult in the calf.

  "You have to kick," Apollo whispered to Croft.

  "I don't want to. I don't like kicking."

  "Kick."

  Croft kicked Apollo in the backside.

  "Good," Apollo said, wincing from the pain. He realized nobody else was reacting to pain, and he struggled to control his face when Croft then kicked him in the shin.

  "Stop!" the Summoner said. Again, the people went back to their blank-eyed position.

  "I don't think I can survive much more of this," Croft said out of the side of his mouth.

  "It's weird, all right. Seems these people are all under the control of these aliens."

  "But to what purpose?"

  "I don't know. It doesn't look like there's any purpose. It's just a game to them. A bunch of random orders, at the whims of that creep in the bubble."

  The Summoner seemed to lean out of the bubble and, for a moment, Apollo wondered if the being was about to expose him and Croft as intruders. Instead, the alien said softly, even kindly, "Everyone, clear your minds. The schedule for tomorrow. Everyone will awaken promptly at dawn. Your morning meal will be . . ."

  The Summoner detailed a rather complete day's schedule. While Apollo noticed that the schedule offered some opportunity for individual behavior, it was clear that the life of the city's citizens was strictly organized. The Summoner ordered several specific persons to participate in a riot at a food store, giving each individual a role to play in the violence. Then he told one man that he'd take a gun and stalk another. A woman was told to go into a rage, condemn her family, and break a whole lot of dishes while doing it. The Summoner reeled off a long list of names, enjoining these men and women to attend a sports event at the Northern Park, where they would, in reaction to a certain incident on field, all erupt in erratic protest. This protest would finally involve attacking officials and making it impossible for the players to continue the game.

  The Summoner's orders continued for a long while. Each new command seemed more absurd to Apollo than the last. Much of what he told the people to do involved physical or emotional pain, sometimes both—what was the point of it all?

  After a final cursory prayerlike invocation to eternal happiness and satisfaction, the Summoner's figure was replaced by new pastel abstractions, and the people began filing out of the room. Croft and Apollo took their place in line and stayed there until they were back on the streets, where it was clear that the people were returning to their homes. At a convenient shadowy spot, Apollo and Croft split from their group and found their way back to Boomer and Sheba.

  "What'd you see?" Boomer asked them eagerly.

  With footnotes from Croft, Apollo detailed their experience inside the multidomed building.

  "It's obvious the people are under the aliens' control," he said. "But it's curious."

  "Why?" Sheba asked.

  "I don't know. It's all so pointless. So trivial. A game without much meaning. All these aliens, these Image Lords, do is schedule their days, invent a few events for them, a few departures from the norm, and stage a few odd and cruel little comedies. There isn't any clear political or economic purpose in all of it. They're like children playing a game."

  "Yeah," Boomer said, "like Chandra and the others watching the Starbuck on an adventure."

  Apollo, puzzled, said, "You'll have to explain that one, Boomer."

  Boomer told Apollo about the Imagescan adventures that were at the heart of the children's lives. Apollo whistled, and then said, "It's like boxes within boxes. The aliens manipulate the people. The people manipulate imaginary people. Maybe the imaginary people have little creatures they manipulate, and so on."

  "Crazy," Boomer observed.

  "You're telling me," Croft said.

  "These people, Trinzot and Diova, and the children, can you find their home again, Boomer?"

  "I think so."

  "Lead on."

  As they went through the neighborhood, watching some of the people lounging on their porches or at rest and recreation in their homes, it seemed to them that the city itself seemed illusory, a meticulously-planned game where living games were being used as playing pieces, and moved along and across a complicated board.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Chameleon and Starbuck took a long time getting used to each other again. They'd start a conversation, then find themselves stuttering, then slipping into silence. On the other side of the room, Lucifer and Spectre watched them, along with the alien from the pirate ship.

  "How are you?" Starbuck asked. "They hurt you?"

  "Not really. Wasn't enough time."

  Starbuck peered into Chameleon's eyes, saw a sadness there that disturbed him.

  "You're well?" he asked.

  "Well as can be," Chameleon said. "Under the circumstances. You?"

  "Not bad. Got knocked around a little. A couple of drums going inside my head. You know."

  "Yes. I know."

  They both fidgeted, tried to dislodge the words caught in their throats.

  "Been a long time," Starbuck said.
r />   "Yes. I miss our visits."

  "Me, too. I—"

  For a while, Starbuck couldn't say it. The words would come to him, but he couldn't speak them. He said a lot more about not much at all. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, his voice higher than normal, "Cassie told me."

  Chameleon felt like leaving the room. He approached the subject cautiously, "Told you? What? Precisely what?"

  "Who you are. Who you really are."

  "I'm, well, afraid I—"

  "Don't dodge me, father. God, it sounds funny to say that word again. When I thought you were my father before, I used to love to have the word roll around my tongue. Now it feels strange."

  Chameleon wasn't yet ready to give in.

  "Maybe because it isn't true," he said.

  Starbuck smiled, and with the tips of his fingers touched Chameleon's sleeve.

  "Don't try to wiggle out of it, old man. Look, this time I'm not going to give up my warrior status, I promise. She told me that was why you made her lie about the test results."

  Chameleon looked left and right, as if searching for the words to say.

  "Well, yes," he said finally, "I, uh, I didn't want to have you do something foolish . . . for me . . . wreck your career . . ."

  "Are we going to play standoff, or will you come here and give your son a hug?"

  "Well, I'm not used—"

  Starbuck's voice dropped to a whisper.

  "It's not hard."

  Chameleon walked forward slowly, feeling weights dragging his feet. He and Starbuck embraced. Starbuck's grip was strong. Pressed together, neither saw the other's tears.

  Lucifer, who had been ignoring the urgent conversation between Spectre and Crutch, kept his attention on the two humans. He found their embrace curious. What did it mean? he wondered. Why do these two embrace? Where does Starbuck know this lithe and graceful old man from? Why had it been so important to him that the man be saved?

  "This Starbuck is quite the gambler," Spectre was saying. "Lucifer told me. Not only that, he taught Lucifer the human custom of card-playing. And beat him."

  Lucifer ordinarily would have been annoyed by Spectre's devious comments, but he had become used to Spectre and his sly ways.

  "You now can beat the human, can't you, Lucifer?" Spectre said.

  "Probability factors indicate such a result."

  "You can beat him."

  "Interesting," Crutch said. "We like games. Maybe we can arrange one between you, Lucifer, and this Starbuck."

  Lucifer did not want to admit that he would be thrilled to play Starbuck again. His memories of his card-playing sessions with Starbuck were pleasant. A rematch seemed desirable. It would give Lucifer an opportunity to test his new insights into the games. He had longed for that opportunity, but never expected it to come. Since Starbuck was here, and he was, and they were both detained as prisoners, why not a game indeed?

  "That would be . . . good," Lucifer said cautiously. "I would like a rematch with Starbuck."

  "Yes," Crutch said, "I'm beginning to get excited by the idea. But the stakes are important."

  "Stakes? They're not necessary. It is the playing of the game that counts, not its stakes."

  "Maybe for you, mate, but not anyone else in this wretched universe. If this Starbuck's the gambler you say he is, he'll want high stakes, too. No gambler plays for the fun of it. I'll have to consult with my own mates on this one. Back soon, chums."

  Crutch ambled off. He looked more ludicrous than ever to Lucifer, his whole body design so inefficient that it was remarkable that he, or any other Image Lord, could function. Perhaps that was why they played with the lives of others so enthusiastically—because they themselves were such maladroitly designed creatures, they were able to ignore their own physical drawbacks by manipulating other, better-designed beings.

  Spectre glided to Lucifer's side and spoke to him like a conspirator, "Do you also know how to cheat at the human's game, Lucifer?"

  "There will be no need to cheat."

  "We shall see about that, won't we?"

  Spectre left his side to see where he could next position himself to advantage. Lucifer wondered what Spectre had meant by his last observation. The depth of the creature's duplicity could simply not be measured.

  He looked back at Starbuck and Chameleon, who were now quite actively talking. They seemed to be enjoying each other's company. There was a curious warmth between them, the kind of human interchange that fascinated Lucifer. No, it was more than fascination, he realized. It attracted him, tempted him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Adama stood by the starfield, gazing at The Joyful Land's star system. He was worried, as was everyone else on the bridge. Turning away from the immense starfield, he called out loudly, "Tigh?" Colonel Tigh left his duties at the flight console and strode to the open center of the control room. "Any word from Apollo, Starbuck, any of them?"

  "Nothing. Last communication was the one from Bojay, saying Apollo had been freed but Starbuck captured."

  "So much time has gone by, they could all be . . ."

  Athena, who had silently gone to her father's side, startled him a bit when she whispered, "Don't say it. They're all right. I know it."

  Adama smiled sadly.

  "I wish I had your faith."

  "You must. I learned it from you."

  "Should we send someone else in?" Tigh asked.

  "No," Adama replied, "I think not. Bojay's message said specifically that Apollo required time, that they would contact us again when they needed us. They'll contact us soon."

  "And until then?" Athena asked.

  "Until then we wait."

  "See?" Athena observed. "I told you I learned faith from you."

  Apollo had made Trinzot's home his headquarters. Instead of hiding from the spy devices of the Image Lords, Apollo strived to act naturally in front of them. Wearing clothing Trinzot had given him, he appeared to be a normal citizen of the city, perhaps even a member of the family. Croft, Boomer, and Sheba, together with several of the pilots from Starbuck's squadron had been deployed into various households in Euphoria, all of them, like Apollo, striving to integrate themselves into the normal routines of the city. So far none of them had been detected.

  It had been difficult to win Trinzot and Diova over to Apollo's side. They at first didn't believe that they were manipulated by the Image Lords. Apollo had won his point by slugging Trinzot at the signal of the Summoning. When Trinzot came to, the others in his family had already responded to the Summoning. Apollo rushed him to the multidomed building, where the two watched Trinzot's family along with other citizens of the city, all zombies now, file into the building. Trinzot's absence at the Summoning Ceremony hadn't been noticed, since Bojay had worn the man's clothes and posed as him.

  Trinzot had managed to convince several of his trusted friends and neighbors that Euphoria was under Image Lord domination. Some of them had already realized that something about their lives was strange and out of their own control. These few citizens, along with the warriors from the Galactica, had become, Apollo realized, a rather formidable fighting group. And they would fight, soon. They couldn't continue the charade of obedience much longer.

  The children, early converts to the cause, performed spying missions for the newly formed rebel forces. Chandra, especially skilled at the art of moving around undetected, had already discovered that Starbuck and Chameleon were in privileged quarters. She'd also seen Lucifer and Spectre, without being able to even guess who or what they might be. Apollo recognized Lucifer from Chandra's description.

  She also reported that the Image Lords were planning something for Starbuck, but she couldn't, in her eavesdropping, discern what it was. She thought she heard the strange creature called Spectre mention a game. Apollo, to whom the entire Joyful Land seemed an elaborate game, was puzzled by the information.

  The Galacticans had now been integrated into the Euphorian society for several of the planet's days. Unused to the un
usual comfort and distractions they found in the lives of the city's citizens, many of them were enjoying themselves immensely. For them it was a vacation from the stresses of flying endless patrols for the Galactica.

  Well, Apollo thought, the vacation would soon be over. As if in response to that thought, Trinzot came into the living room, Chandra right behind him. He whispered, to avoid the eavesdropping devices of the Image Lords.

  "The word has gone out. Many more than I'd suspected are willing to help us."

  "I didn't expect such cooperation," Apollo said.

  "We all remember some parts of our past lives, though not clearly. We realize we haven't had lives of our own since we were abducted from our home planets. We want to regain our freedom, with all of its hardships."

  Apollo grinned.

  "A noble speech, Trinzot. I hope you all make it."

  "Chandra's picked up a rumor. It seems something may be planned for your Starbuck. A move to the main building."

  "That does it then. We move tonight. Are all your people ready?"

  "I think so."

  "Then tell them. Tonight."

  "All right. Come, Chandra."

  Chandra didn't follow her father out of the door. She obviously had something to say to the captain.

  "Yes, Chandra?"

  "The Starbuck. Nothing can happen to him, can it?"

  "I'm afraid it can, Chandra."

  "No, it's an adventure, isn't it? It'll be all right."

  "I hope so."

  Chandra still seemed to view events as fantasies, Apollo noticed. Well, what could be expected? The entire lives of these people were the fantasies of aliens.

  "Something bothering you, Apollo?"

  Boomer had entered the room quietly.

  "Just thinking about the people here. They could get hurt in a scrape like this. They don't deserve that—but they don't deserve to have their lives messed with either. They're so malleable."

  "I've noticed. In a way, we're just substituting for the Image Lords with them. We're just another bunch of aliens putting them under our sway. I'm not comfortable with that."

  "But we'll free them."

  "I hope so."