CHAPTER NINE
FROM MIRI'S BOOK:
Getting to Megan proved more difficult than I'd anticipated. When I left Starbuck, I found Kyle at the mouth of the cave, standing stiffly in one of his proud-leader poses, no doubt conscious of the impressive figure he cut in the varying light filtering through the waterfall. He was discussing strategy with his two chief aides (the oldest of the children), Herbert the Singer and Jergin. Herbert the Singer, although blessed with a sweet tenor voice and a knowledge of—it seems—every song ever composed, is otherwise not one of my favorite people. Every time I glance at him he seems to be indulging in another of his odd habits—picking tiny insects out of his hair or scratching his ankles to the bone. Jergin, on the other hand, is quite possibly the loveliest girl in the entire outlaw band, and her cheerfulness often builds up our spirits.
A report had come in from observers sent to the settlement area that the tincans were busily moving materials from the fuel dump to piles inside the garrison. Kyle ordered that we send in the smallest children to the remaining section of the dump and plant some timed explosive charges there, right under the tincans' noses. I protested, said he couldn't risk their lives that way. It was too callous. He glanced at me oddly, a bit smugly I thought, and said I had never objected before when he sent out any of the children on any mission. Then he ignored me pointedly and, in that deep growl of leadership voice he used around his aides, he gave the rest of the orders. I volunteered to accompany the mission team, hoping that I could slip away from it and into the secret passage, whose entrance was beneath a false bush not far from the fuel dump area.
But I wasn't able to reach the passageway entrance.
I watched the group of our four smallest children, including my brothers Nilz and Robus, slither their way through the platoon of tincans working around the fuel dump, then plant the explosives (explosives, incidentally, which we had stolen from the tincans' supplies on earlier raids). After they had slithered their way back to us, Kyle whispered the countdown for the timed charges, which went off right on schedule. The explosion itself was spectacular. Licks of fire topped the tall trees. Flames slithered along the ground in a way that reminded me of the children's earlier movements. After making sure that the explosion had destroyed an impressive amount of material, Kyle called for retreat. I split away from the group and made for the secret entrance. Unfortunately, the explosion had thrown some debris too near the entrance and there were tincans already engaged in clearing the area. I knew there was no sense in trying the passageway right then and, if I waited too long for the tincans to leave, Kyle would notice my absence and get in a snit about it, so I returned to camp with the mission squad.
Starbuck had been moved from the cave to the camp at Kyle's orders. He was walking almost normally, with only a slight limp.
"Well," Kyle said, "you look fit, lieutenant."
"Whatever Miri put on my leg, it's working. I picked up a leg wound in a fracas on a planet called Kobol not long ago, and, even with the help of the Galactica medical team, I didn't improve this fast." He turned toward me, smiled. "Thank you, Miri."
And, damn it, I blushed again.
"We have been busy," Kyle said.
"Yes," said Starbuck, "I heard the big explosion. Ratzi told me what you guys were up to. You accomplished your objective?"
"Yes, lieutenant."
"Well, congratulations. I guess."
I would have thought that Kyle would puff up with pride at a genuine colonial starfleet warrior's approval, but his sidelong look at Starbuck was guarded, and he muttered sullenly:
"Thanks, lieutenant."
At that time I should have sensed that Kyle was planning something underhanded, but I was so intent on my own obsessions, my odd feelings for Starbuck and my need to consult Megan, that I missed the signs that he was hiding something.
"Feel up to riding, lieutenant?" Kyle asked, his voice close to friendly. "There might be another mission soon, and you might be useful to it."
"Well, I don't know about missions, but I can ride."
Kyle seemed a bit miffed that Starbuck displayed some reluctance to his offer, but he remained polite to him. I should have seen that as an omen, too. Kyle's almost never polite.
"Do you have a mount for me?" Starbuck asked.
"We have only one steed available at the moment. His name is Magician."
I'm sure my mouth dropped open a foot.
"Magician?!" I shouted. "But Kyle—"
"Miri," Kyle said harshly. "This isn't your affair. You mustn't spook the lieutenant. I'm sure he and Magician will get along together fine."
"Kyle!"
I made his name into two syllables, as I always do when I'm maddeningly angry at him. Starbuck started to laugh.
"Let's not have any sibling rivalry here. I gather from Miri's response that this Magician isn't exactly the gentlest creature around here."
Kyle, taken aback some by the lieutenant's accurate perception, waited a couple of beats before answering:
"Magician is, well, just a tad temperamental. He is all we have for you to ride. However, if you can't handle him, then I'll lend you my steed, Demon, and ride Magician myself."
What a boastful bluff! Kyle had often tried to ride Magician in the past and, each time, the unicorn gently but firmly threw him off his back. I could see Kyle's game. He wanted to humiliate Starbuck, so that the combat-experienced warrior wouldn't be tempted to take over leadership. I could have told Kyle that Starbuck was not such a threat, any fool could see that.
"Where is this Magician?" Starbuck asked.
Kyle pointed. Magician stood near the command tent, one of his hooves jerkily pawing at the ground, making a series of uneven ovals in the dirt. He didn't look friendly.
Starbuck went up to him, slowly walked around him, touched him on the nose.
"Magician, hey? Not long ago, in a dream, I rode a black, sleek, and beautiful horse like Magician."
"This isn't a dream, lieutenant," Kyle said sneeringly.
"Well, Magician, are you going to allow me to ride you?" Starbuck whispered, his mouth close to Magician's ear.
Kyle made a scoffing sound in his throat; he obviously felt his ploy would work. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. Magician's head nodded ever so slightly. Starbuck laughed and turned toward us, looking quite pleased.
"I could swear I just heard this animal say it'd be all right with him. It'd be all right with him for me to ride him."
"But Magician's never allowed any—"
Before Kyle could complete his protest, Starbuck had smoothly swung himself onto the black unicorn's back. There was a long nervous pause as Kyle and I and the children stared at Starbuck, who sat quite relaxed atop Magician. I expected Magician to rear up and cast Starbuck away at any second. Instead, he glanced toward Kyle and trotted a few steps with Starbuck firmly remaining on his back.
"This is weird," Starbuck remarked, "but I do believe he sort of welcomed me aboard."
Kyle looked ready to drop his pants and kiss his ankles. I laughed. I had heard the same message from Magician in my own head. Kyle, as untelepathic as ever, had of course heard nothing.
"He likes you, Starbuck," I hollered. "Magician's telepathic, you're the first one to ride him, and he likes you."
Then, pleased by Kyle's embarrassment, I laughed all the harder. Starbuck whispered to Magician, who seemed to nod, then took his rider on a fast gallop around the periphery of the camp. Magician's head was held high, and Starbuck rode him as if, simply, he'd always rode him. When he told me later that he'd hardly ever ridden any kind of animal, I couldn't believe him. No tenderfoot could have ridden Magician.
Kyle disguised his jealousy well. He watched impassively as his little band became more and more infatuated with our pilot from a distant battlestar. When Starbuck had finished his ride on Magician, the Genie performed the best of her magic tricks with more flourishes than usual. He said her sleight-of-hand was masterful, and he himself was a
master so he should know. The Genie, usually magical and mysterious herself, positively glowed with pleasure. Melysa and Chubby Marta did one of their quaint folkdances which they claim they reconstructed from ballet archives kept by the adults in the hills. Herbert the Singer gave Starbuck a rendition of a mournful dirge recounting the slaughter of our colonists by the tincans. As usual, the song brought a tear or two even to Kyle's eyes. Goodchild and Arno Armwaver fought each other over who could be Starbuck's servant and valet. Starbuck settled the dispute by giving both of them the job, then said there were no duties attached. At first they were puzzled, then he told them such a position was generally considered honorary. They became puffed with pride. Even Ratzi reduced her attention toward Kyle to find ways to push more food on Starbuck than he actually required. Kyle observed all this without a hint of jealousy crossing his face. I should have realized that he had something up his sleeve, but I merely thought he had adjusted to the pilot's presence and popularity. I even believed he thought he could learn something useful from Starbuck's vast experience with warfare. God, I should have known better. Kyle passive is Kyle devious.
My need to see and talk with Megan kept me edgy. I knew if I sneaked away now, while the camp was in such an uproar of excitement over Starbuck, Kyle might suspect I was up to something, and send someone to follow me. I needed an excuse, so I asked Laughing Jake to accompany me on a foraging patrol, to look for curative herbs. Laughing Jake has an instinct for locating hard-to-find plants, and so the expedition had the appearance of being businesslike and logical. Jake was also loyal to me, and I could trust him to cover for me after we cleared camp and I went off on my own.
As soon as we were far enough away, I asked Jake to go searching for the herbs and to take a good long time in doing it. He nodded at me in his usual dolorous way. We call him Laughing Jake because he never does laugh, never even cracks a smile, and in fact his long narrow face makes him look ever more mournful than he is.
I left Rogue in a clump of trees at the edge of the clearing. He'd keep himself concealed, come at my call when I reemerged from the passage. This time there were no tin cans around the passage's entrance. They had cleared away the debris from the fuel dump explosion. The area did not even show that a fuel dump had once been there.
Checking to see that I was unobserved, I lifted the bush that covered the entrance and speedily slipped into the narrow hole that led to a small downward tunnel which in turn opened out into the main passage. I had left an electronic torch concealed in a chink behind a rock at the entranceway. After listening carefully to be sure nothing disturbed the quiet of the passage, I lit the torch and proceeded onward. The tunnel was as eerie as ever. Its rocky walls were so jagged that one could see any form one wished among its thousands of shadows. I could have sworn I saw an army of the enemy pressed against the wall and waiting to spring at me.
I passed the alcove where the art works are stored, each one in its heavy cloth wrappings to protect it as well as possible from the cloying underground dampness. This time I was so in haste I did not even stop to take the woman-unicorn painting of the original Megan's out of its wrappings for my regular viewing. I also passed chambers in which our library, records, and documents were kept. There was also an alcove containing medical supplies but, except for bandaging material and other small items, I never pilfered it for anything because I simply didn't have the proper medical knowledge. It's a pity there is not even a medic among the prisoners.
The passage's exit was through the back of a fireplace in a room which the tincan commander had turned into a warehouse of diverse supplies. This commander was a hoarder, no doubt about that. He had collected such surprising supplies as powdered food (which the tincans don't seem to require), epidermal massage creams (also unused), soap (unused), plant seeds (unused), metal polish (used, but enough boxes of it to make ten tincan armies dazzlingly shine), and who knows what other ridiculous items. I slid back the fireplace panel carefully. Occasionally one of the tincans was in the room, but so far none had ever spotted me emerging from the fireplace. This time the room was empty, and I crept around cartons and metal boxes to the warehouse doorway.
Opening the door a crack, I could see only a few tincans in the yard. One group was engaged in one of their silly jerky marches, others were cleaning guns, still others were doing things that apparently made sense only if you were a tincan.
This was the hard part of my journey. The courtyard which I had to cross to get to the prison tower was often heavily populated with tincans, sometimes too many of them for me to even make a try. I always had to take a roundabout route, clinging to walls, crouching behind the few low objects that afforded me some cover.
This time the crossing was easy. Never before have I seen so many of the tincans so intent on their duty. None of them even so much as looked up. Must be some kind of shakeup going on, I thought. When I reached the tower, I nudged its main door open a little ways to make sure none of the guards was near the door. Again, my luck held. The usual guards were in other parts of the prison. Carefully but hastily, I made my way up the narrow iron flight of stairs that led to the block of cells where my mother, along with several other survivors of the tincan invasion, was imprisoned. Fortunately, Megan was in the last cell of the row or I might have never been able to get to her. There was a little depression in the wall next to her cell where I could secrete myself from any passing guards.
Megan was standing at the rear of the cell, which she shared with three other prisoners. Two of them were asleep, the other looked dazed with insanity.
"Mother," I whispered.
She turned slowly and nodded. I was about to say something more, but suddenly I heard the clanking sounds on the iron stairway. Quickly I retreated into my tiny alcove, trying to make myself as small as possible.
I did take a peek out to see what was happening. Approaching Megan's cell was the odd-looking commander of the tincans, a blue-robed figure with a metallic face who seemed to glide rather than walk. His name, I knew, was Spectre.
I huddled into the alcove as I heard Spectre call Megan's name. The lice-ridden rust-streaked lump of metal, what did he want with my mother?
CHAPTER TEN
Some time during the last couple of days focussing her eyes had become extremely difficult and painful. For Megan, that was something new. Her eyesight had always been good. Even though she had always been a voracious reader, she had never needed corrective lenses. She wondered now, however, if seeing everything blurrily really made any difference. What was there to look at? The only breaks in the monotony of the gray cell were the dirty yellow of the straw she and the other prisoners used for bedding, the blackness of the iron bars, and the occasional burst of light when one of the Cylons opened the entrance door two levels down.
Certain prisoners had tried to remove the boarding over their narrow silo windows. For a while it had least given them a cause but, of course, once the boarding had been pushed away (the prisoners cheered as they squeezed their heads through the small aperture and watched boards fall to the ground below), the Cylons came and replaced it. After two or three such attempts, the project had collapsed of its own futility.
There had once been a blue and yellow pattern in jagged stripes on Megan's tunic, but the filthiness of the cell had turned her clothing to gray also. Perhaps the present problem with her eyesight was a blessing. Blindness might just be preferable to this overwhelming grayness.
She ran her right hand through her thinning hair. A few gray strands stuck to her fingers. She had lost a lot of hair during her confinement, and she had no idea how she might now look. Marcsen, who had admired her hair and loved to touch it, would probably cry if he were alive to see her. On one of Miri's visits, Megan had asked her whether her balding was obvious, did the scalp show through, but Miri had dodged the question with one of her clever urgent changes of subject.
As usual her head throbbed with that vague center-of-the-forehead headache that had plagued her even before he
r confinement. She missed Miri's soothing touch. A few strokes of her daughter's thin dainty fingers, up and down the brow, rubbing steadily but gently, had nearly always cured Megan's headaches. Miri had occasionally reached through the bars and stroked her mother's forehead, but the remedy had never worked well in this damnable damp cell, which created its own pains. Now her stomach was unsettled by a dull pain, too. That was at least explainable. Not only did the Cylons serve the prisoners meager food portions, they had not the slightest interest in how to prepare human food. Some prisoners had volunteered for kitchen duty, but Spectre said he saw no utility to that. Prisoners were not supposed to eat well, he said, with that odd sneer he could delicately infuse into his otherwise nasally metallic voice. To complete her catalog of pain, her legs were steadily weakening from an apparently arthritic condition. She forced herself to walk around the perimeter of the cell several times a day. The exercise was helping the ailment during the day, but the steady ache during the nighttime hours disturbed her sleep.
She had just completed one of her regular walks when she heard Miri's whisper. As she turned to walk to the iron bars, on the other side of which her daughter stood, a flash of light appeared behind Miri, followed by the sounds of Cylons coming up the stairs. Miri scampered to her alcove hiding place. Just in time, as it turned out, for Spectre appeared on the cell block level, flanked by two of his warriors.
"You've been neglecting me, Spectre," Megan said. "I was beginning to feel rejected."
The commander, who—surprisingly enough—appreciated human irony, emitted a gurgling sound that Megan presumed indicated pleasure.
"I have had no use for you lately, Megan. Now I do."
"Oh? Why do you bother with me at all? I'll die long before you get anything useful out of me."
"I have realized that. So, I have decided to end my efforts with you."
Battlestar Galactica 4 - The Young Warriors Page 8