Battlestar Galactica 1

by Glen A. Larson

  "It's a circus," Serina said, "a wonderland."

  "That it is," Apollo said, "But at least it's giving a lot of people the kind of relief break they needed so desperately."

  "I'm glad that you've found time to take a break for yourself. I've never seen anybody push himself as much as you have."

  "All in the line of duty, ma'am."

  "I'm happy to see you cheerful, and I'm so glad to see them all happy. That woman there at the table—"

  She pointed to a middle-aged matronly woman who was so involved in dice play that her blond wig was on the verge of falling off her head.

  "What about her?"

  "I watched her husband die in her arms only a few days ago. Don't look at me so strangely. I'll try to have fun. It's not easy making the transfer. I'm exhausted. So much has happened, I think it's all catching up with me."

  "I could take you to the guest quarters the Ovions've assigned us."

  Was the young captain finally making his move? Serina wondered. She didn't know whether she hoped so or not. Not long ago she had believed that she could not accept an emotional relationship with a man, at least not until the human suffering had stopped. She looked around her. Nobody seemed to be suffering. She was not sure what was holding her back. Some little detail out of place, some color that was wrong in the room, something. She told herself to relax, she wasn't even officially a newswoman anymore and did not have to act like one.

  "Let's stay here for a while," she said to Apollo, who nodded without any apparent disappointment. "I'm going to have fun, too. I want to sit right here at one of the tables."

  Apollo smiled.

  "Why don't we win a fortune?"

  "Why don't we, my captain?"

  They took a seat at a roulette table and bought some chips from the green-skinned, scaly humanoid who was the croupier.

  In a far corner of the casino, near an entertainment lounge, Starbuck was riding a winning streak that was like nothing he had experienced since the day his gambling dad had flipped his first pack of cards into his eager, waiting fingers. A tall pile of golden cubits stood in front of him as he tossed another winning hand back onto the center of the table. Touching the cubit pile, he hollered ecstatically, "Let 'em ride again."

  He won another pot and leaned back in his chair. The chatter of the throng watching his streak nearly drowned out the raucous music coming from the lounge. He glanced up at the gallery and directly into the staring eyes of Athena, who stood by the empty chair next to him.

  "This seat taken?" she asked.

  "Uhhh, well . . ." he said, squirming in his own chair. Cassiopeia had been sitting beside him until just a few moments ago and had abruptly gone off, saying she'd just gotten a good idea. Since he had no idea what constituted a good idea for the Gemonese socialator, he had no idea when, or even whether, she would be returning.

  Athena slid into the chair and leaned toward him, saying, "I think I owe you an apology."

  "You do?"

  "I haven't had the nerve to tell you until now. You know how I've always told you it was wrong for a commander's daughter to get involved with a combat warrior."

  "I vaguely recall you saying that."

  "Come on, this paradise is the perfect opportunity for us all to be honest with each other. Let loose even the psychological inhibitions. I hurt you, admit it."

  Starbuck, feeling it would be better to go along with her until he could figure out what she was getting at, nodded and tried to work some pain into his face. Athena went on eagerly.

  "Didn't you say that I was the only woman you'd ever really cared about?"

  So that was it! Jealousy. She knew about Cassiopeia then. But what exactly did she know?

  Athena's look hardened as she said, "Well, did you say that?"

  "Oh. Oh, sure. It's just that, with all the misery and everything, I've shut all those feelings out. To avoid the pain, you see."

  Her eyes narrowed.

  "I don't believe you. Look, I'll forget your little peccadillo with the socialator."

  Starbuck's eyes widened in surprise.

  "It was you. You turned on the bloody steam! I should—"

  "Should what? Didn't you deserve it?"

  "No, of course I didn't deserve it."

  "Oh, you can hop into a launching tube with any socialator that comes along."

  "That's pretty bigoted. You know better. A socialator's not a common—"

  "I don't care if she's an uncommon anything. All right, I'm not the—not the warmest person around, especially when there's work to be done. For that matter, I practically forced you into that socialator's arms."

  "She had interesting arms."

  "Starbuck!"

  He cursed himself for letting that remark slip. He didn't really want to hurt Athena, but that socialator comment had been unthinking and a bit callous. He was not used to callousness from Athena.

  "All right, I'm sorry, but we're not going to work this out with a simple—"

  "I believe you're occupying my seat," said Cassiopeia, who now stood behind the chair Athena had co-opted.

  No! Starbuck thought, what miserable timing. He could feel the sweat begin to pour out of his skin. This was worse than angling toward a tilted deck for a crash landing! He hardly noticed that he had just won another pot. Perhaps if he crawled under the table . . .

  Athena turned slowly, with a studied deliberation, toward Cassiopeia.

  "Your chair?" she said elegantly.

  "Maturity doesn't become you, child," Cassiopeia said, then turned toward the red-faced Starbuck. She held up her hand. In her long thin fingers dangled a glistening golden key.

  "Good news, flyboy! I got us the Royal Suite!"

  In space-fleet parlance, such a turn of events was known politely as the moment that the Cylon hit the fan. Athena appeared livid with rage. She looked from the victoriously grinning Cassiopeia to the pained face of Starbuck. The lieutenant decided he should look pious, but he had no idea how even to feign that, it was so far from his normal behavior. He swallowed hard and figured his best maneuver was to say nothing. Athena and Cassiopeia were both fighters, let them work out a solution. He sat back in the chair, taking a brief moment to signal the dealer to let his current bet ride.

  Athena, with a sly smile, reached up and snatched the key from Cassiopeia's fingers.

  "Thank you!" Athena said. "We do appreciate it!"

  She looked toward Starbuck and took his arm, trying to nudge him from his chair.

  "Let's get out of here," Athena said. "To the Royal Suite, Starbuck!"

  He looked up at Cassiopeia, then back at Athena. A weak grin broke up the panic in his face.

  "Uh," he said, "look, I'm right in the middle of a hot streak here."

  "Honey," Cassiopeia said, "your streak isn't that godforsaken gold-dust pile on the table. Your streak is here, with me, and you've just gone cold."

  "That's right, you tell him!" Athena said.

  "Hey!" Starbuck said.

  "Forget it, Lieutenant," Cassiopeia said, "even an ex-socialator has a notion of when to bow out."

  "Smart lady," Athena said.

  "Don't get overconfident, child," Cassiopeia said. "I didn't say I'd quit for good."

  "You little—"

  "Don't say it. I've heard it somewhere anyway."

  Cassiopeia angrily pushed her way through the crowd.

  "About the Royal Suite," Athena said.

  "Yeah," Starbuck said.

  "Forget it!"

  She threw the key down on the card table, pushed the chair over, and followed in Cassiopeia's wake. Starbuck let out a long-held breath and started collecting his cubits, while the dealer pushed his newest winnings toward him. Boomer tapped him on the shoulder, and said:

  "We'd better talk."

  There was an urgency in Boomer's voice that Starbuck could not ignore.

  Boomer led Starbuck away from the gambling tables and into the casino's entertainment lounge. As they swivelled and sideste
pped their way through the crowded room, Starbuck's attention was gradually drawn to the stage, where a trio of humanoid female singers was currently performing a song that bore no relation to any kind of music he'd ever heard. They sang in a high-pitched and raucous fashion, but not without a certain sweetness in a deeper timbre undercutting the melody. Starbuck was quite charmed by their act and could not take his eyes off them even when he and Boomer had been seated at a table along a side wall.

  "What do you know about the entertainment?" Starbuck asked.

  Boomer glanced toward the stage, said in a bored voice, "Tucanas."

  "That the name of the group or their species?"

  "They come from the planet Tucan."

  "Never heard of it. Interesting sound, though, and sort of attractive in an odd way."

  "Very odd."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Look closely."

  Starbuck looked closely. He saw suddenly what Boomer meant. Each of the Tucan women had two mouths, and all of the mouths were engaged in the song. No wonder they were capable of such a bizarre sound!

  "Hard for any of those damn Ovions to overhear us or read lips in here," Boomer said.

  "Lips?" Starbuck said. "Oh, you mean, our lips. Look, are you sure you aren't jamming your scanner, imagining things? Why would anybody wanta read our lips?"

  "I'm not sure, but somebody's up to something around this place."

  Starbuck dumped a lot of cubits onto the table, inserted one in a small pedestal at the center. A cup materialized full of brownish liquid.

  "Where'd you get all those cubits?" Boomer asked.

  "Gambling! You can't lose. The cards are falling my way."

  "That's what I'm talking about. Everybody's winning."

  "Boomer, one thing this place isn't, is crooked."

  "You ever been in a place where you can't lose your money?"

  "No, but then I've never been here either. Say, will you listen to those singers?"

  "Starbuck, nobody else I know of's ever been here before either. I know this place is a little out of the way, but—"

  "A little out of the way? We almost starved to death getting here!"

  "Yeah, because of fuel problems, because we spent a lot of time under light-speed. Look, half the people here are from our home planets—Caprica, Tauron, Sagitaria. They were transported here before the Cylon invasion even. They don't even know about it. No communication's been going in or out. I tried to tell one of these clowns what'd happened. He thought I was joking."

  "Understandable. Not a very credible story when you're sitting in a joint like this."

  "And another thing. We've never heard of this so-called resort, never even encountered Ovions before, right? I took a quick poll. Nobody got a word of publicity about the most efficient gambling den in this space."

  "Maybe it's like a secret club."

  "Nothing's that secret. How is it they all come here but never came back home and told everybody about it?"

  "Would you tell everybody you found a gold mine? I mean, who knows how long they're gonna keep this up? It may be some kind of introductory offer. Hey, those girls are great!"

  "Forget the girls. Talk to me. What information've you picked up around here?"

  Starbuck continued to stare at the singers in spite of Boomer's protests.

  "Like what?" Starbuck said.

  "Like why everyone eats so much in this place maybe?"

  "Why not? The food's practically free, and sensational, like—hey, would you listen to that! They're incredible!"

  One of the singers had moved downstage for what sounded like a riff solo, while the others provided a complex harmony. Starbuck was beginning to be surprised that it took only six months to perform such musical wonders. Then he noticed that the soloist was only using her upper mouth at that moment in order to carry the viciously sweet melody.

  "We could make a fortune if we could put those girls on the star circuit," Starbuck yelled. "I mean big money, Boomer."

  Boomer raised frustrated eyebrows.

  "I really don't believe you. Every creature in the universe may be out to exterminate us and you want to hire a vocal group!"

  "Have a little vision, will ya? Who knows how much longer this stupid war's gonna last—I mean, the way things are, it might be over now and we just don't know about it. Whatever, eventually we're no longer of any use to anybody and get mustered out and dumped. Then what'll we be? Antiquated, burned-out star fighters."

  "Seems to be optimistic to plan on being burned out. Stop counting your pension money, bucko! We maybe lucky if we last till tomorrow morning."

  "Now what're you talking about?"

  "People disappearing."

  "Who?"

  "I'm not sure, but I've picked up some talk, some strange stuff about guests who just drop out of sight."

  "The tour you mean? Boomer, it's a big place and they have some kind of tour a lot of people go on before leaving for home?"

  "Home? What home? I just told you, nobody ever heard of anybody going home! And what home're they gonna go to now? What—"

  "You ask too many questions."

  "And you're not acting yourself. Something's gotten to you, Starbuck. I'm telling you. Something's not right around here."

  "Well, they are. Listen to them."

  The trio was building to their big finish. The two Tucanas singing harmony hit a sustained chord, while the soloist's voice rose and rose and rose. Then, just at the final beat, the singer's lower mouth came open and emitted a low resounding note that not only put a sensational capper on the piece of music but smashed the glass in Starbuck's hand to pieces. The audience broke into tumultuous applause. Flabbergasted, Starbuck rose from his seat, shouting:

  "I gotta talk to 'em."

  Boomer started pounding the surface of the table, hollering:

  "I don't believe it! I don't believe it!"

  Starbuck rushed toward the stage, trying to catch the attention of the Tucana singers.

  The unpleasant sweetness of the air, the slightly repulsive richness of the food, and the raucous noise of the casino all affected Apollo, while Serina seemed to revel in it.

  "I've spent too much of my life on my career," she said. "Fought too may petty battles with too many venal people just to get a picture centered right, a news item reported correctly. I don't know how to relax. I'm trying to learn. Will you help me?"

  "I've got some ideas," Apollo said. "Let's try the garden."

  "You're on, Captain."

  The centerpiece of the casino garden was a fountain from which purple wine seemed to emerge as tiny waterfalls from between foliage. People scooped out portions of the liquid into golden goblets with broad handles. Then they held the goblets over the tiny fires that encircled the fountain. The result, as Apollo and Serina soon found out, was a tantalizing concoction which seemed to mix hot and cold in delicious bursts of taste. The Galactica's crew, who had been among the first to sample the mixture, had nicknamed it "grog". It was not only delicious, it seemed to have some aphrodisiac effect, as the couples who sneaked off into the surrounding foliage indicated.

  After taking a sip, Apollo found it difficult not to suggest a little trip into the trees to Serina. He was jarred out of his romantic mood, by the ugly voice of Sire Uri who, a few feet away, was talking with one of the other council members, Lobe, the representative from Piscera.

  "I had a long talk with their queen, what's her name. Lorry or something," Uri was saying. "Long talk. She's very kind, generous, even attractive if you can adjust your thinking to one of these insect creatures being at all attractive. She said she was happy we seemed to like it here so."

  "I'll say," Lobe said. "Uri, have you seen the guest accommodations? They're as opulent as a king's palace and endless. Endless. If this planet could fly, it could see us to our destination in true style."

  "And why need it fly?"

  Uri kissed a pretty young woman at his side. Apollo thought it was a different
pretty young woman than the one who had clung to him at the time of the arrest. A shudder ran up Apollo's spine as he listened to the two councillors and their drunken rhetoric. Uri continued.

  "Precisely my point, Lobe. Precisely what I talked to the queen about. My God, look, if a man were to fantasize an environment for his complete fulfillment, he could not have done better. There's the food, all the necessities to feed our people, and the Ovions can produce it in mass quantities. And, with the Ovions, we have the support of a culture quite content to be subservient to our needs. When I asked the queen if we could stay here, she said they would be happy to welcome us, except for one thing."

  "What, Sire Uri?"

  "She said they are a peaceable race, and they fear our weaponry. Justifiably so, it appears to me. Justifiably so. What would you think if a superior race came down out of the skies and threatened us with superior weaponry? I mean, you can see their point. And, anyway, here we are so far away from the Cylons as not to pose a threat to them. At least we ought not to pose a threat, and would not, if we calmed the Ovions' fears by giving up our weaponry, our awesome war machines."

  It was not that Uri had spoken so preposterously that surprised Apollo, it was that people all around him were nodding assent to the idea.

  "Do you realize what you're saying, Sire Uri?" Apollo said, stepping forward into the center of the councilor's group. Serina stayed at the edge of the group, sipping at her grog and trying to focus her eyes on the scene before her.

  "Ahhh," Uri said, "our young warrior-hero, or should I say savior? The son of our godlike commander. Captain, I was just pointing out that this planet offers us a marvelous opportunity."

  "Sounds to me like an opportunity to be murdered for good and all by the Cylons."

  "If they even bothered with us, which they would not."

  "Sire Uri, they destroyed our worlds!"

  "They attacked us, I would remind you, because we were a threat to their order. Here, isolated from them, we pose no threat. Especially if we disposed of our ships and weapons. What do you think of my proposal, young warrior?"

  "I'd hope it's the grog."