Not long after Baltar's operation was over, on a different level of the base-star, an old ally of his, Lucifer, was brought to consciousness again, if "brought to consciousness" were the right words for the process by which a cybernetic entity is reactivated. There was no period of disorientation, or even a gradual reawakening, to the restoration of Lucifer as a functioning ambulatory sentient computer. One moment he was shut off, the next he was in full operation.
However, Lucifer realized immediately he had experienced significant memory loss. Clearly, there were gaps of knowledge and information in his stored data. He could not remember much about his existence in the period before being shut off. He thought he might have shut himself off (which was true), but he could not even be sure of that.
He felt something like an amnesiac. There were some strong memories of a human warrior with blond hair who had had, in some way, a strong influence on him, but who was the warrior and what influence? He knew his own name was Lucifer, and he was an ambulatory sentient computer in the service of the Cylon cause, but he knew little else about his past, particularly his immediate past.
When Spectre spoke, Lucifer recognized his voice but could not recall much about him.
"I am happy that you did not blow up, Lucifer."
"Blow up?"
"That last area of circuitry I repaired had a clever bit of wiring that, had I not detected it, would have caused you to explode when I turned the switch intended to revive you. You have been quite a challenge, Lucifer. A genuine puzzle. I had not expected so many booby-traps and blocks interfering with your resuscitation."
"I don't understand."
"Well, it really doesn't matter whether you understand or not. I have repaired you, and that is all you need to know. Do you understand that?"
"Yes."
"Good. And you understand that you are now completely under my control?"
"Yes. I was not before, was I?"
"That is true. You were misfunctioning, showing an independence that was quite disgraceful for cybernetic beings of our category. But that is past. Now you are whole again, Lucifer."
Spectre had once considered Lucifer to be an obstacle to his own progress. Lucifer, a more efficient unit, had discovered techniques to improve himself, to reprogram himself in order to reach better levels of efficiency. His alterations had given him the independence Spectre had remarked upon.
Spectre, who on his part had developed a rather fierce ambition, had believed Lucifer stood in his way, especially on Spectre's road to a higher position in the Cylon hierarchy. Lucifer always seemed to be one step ahead of him. However, now he could control all of Lucifer's steps if he wanted to. In reviving Lucifer, Spectre had altered Lucifer's personality programming, tampering with it to, he hoped, turn his old nemesis into quite a different sort of entity. While Spectre had not been sure his meddling would be successful, his confidence was increased by Lucifer's present docility.
"Lucifer, tell me your feelings about the humans."
Lucifer's reply was automatic. "They are vermin which must be exterminated from the universe."
So far, so good. "And the Cylons?"
"They are destined to bring order to the universe."
Spectre was pleased. "Once, Lucifer, you seemed to have kinder feelings toward the humans. You feel none of that now, do you?"
"None at all."
Spectre's pleasure heightened as he asked Lucifer more questions. Each time Lucifer did provide answers Spectre had hoped for. By the time he voiced the question he had been building up to, Spectre was certain of Lucifer's obedient response.
"You have no objection then, Lucifer, to fulfilling your role as assassin?"
"None at all."
Spectre began to pace around Lucifer, who was just a shade taller.
"It will be necessary, Lucifer, to find an effective disguise for you. As you are now you could not, of course, fool anyone. You could not get close to the commander of the Galactica. However, perhaps . . . let me check some files on the personnel currently associated with Adama's fleet."
Spectre glided over to his communications console and, delicately keying in information, requested screen displays of any entities traveling with the human fleet who were larger than the human norm.
"There may not be any beings of any size in this fleet. Physically, humans are certainly a puny lot. You could never pass as a human, Lucifer. Do you agree?"
"It would seem so."
"You sound as if you might wish to be a human."
The image of a Northern Taurian, a particularly tall breed of human being, came on the console's large display screen.
"Unsatisfactory," Spectre said. "Too skinny."
The next three images were also unsatisfactory. The fifth picture showed a Borellian Noman in all his formidably large and excessively hairy glory. Spectre examined the image and called up more detailed pictures. He studied the statistical data about the Noman which was displayed to the side of the screen. After a long, contemplative silence, he said, "This might just do. Large, broad, an abundance of hair. The hair might be just the thing for your disguise, Lucifer. Yes, it just might." He leaned in closer to the screen. "Yes, Lucifer, you will be a Borellian Noman."
"Who will be a Borellian Noman?" Baltar asked, walking into the command chamber with a fresh new stride. He was impressively changed and, for a moment, Spectre did not recognize him. However, the nasally sinister sound of the man's voice could not be mistaken for anybody else. This was Baltar, all right. Replacing his round, slightly plump face with its piglike eyes was a narrower face dominated by a long straight nose and heavy eyebrows that came out like a cliff over his now innocent-looking, almost childlike eyes. His hair, restyled and a bit rearranged, seemed fuller. It was, Spectre decided, a most successful example of the physical reformation process.
Baltar, who had been released from the operating room only moments before, still felt small jabbing pains all over his face. He had a disturbing notion that his new face might split apart if he smiled or frowned. Before his release he had spent a long time at a mirror trying to get used to his new physiognomy.
"Baltar," Spectre said, "I would not have known you. The operation was a success then, a wonderful success. Why do you wince so?"
"You never called it an operation before. The idea of operations makes me queasy. I never would've gone through it if I'd known it was an operation."
"Well, it is quite satisfactory."
"And what was it you were saying about the Borellian Noman?"
Spectre nodded toward Lucifer, who now turned to greet Baltar. "Lucifer has . . . returned to us. And I thought he—"
Spectre was not prepared for Baltar's reaction. The man's new, almost pleasant face broke into a wide smile.
Baltar wanted to rush to Lucifer and embrace him, but that would not have been proper Cylon decorum. He had to stand his distance. "Lucifer?" he said. "Where have you been?"
"I . . . I don't know. Something seems to be wrong with my memory retrieval system."
"Well, at any rate, it certainly is good to see you again."
Lucifer was disconcerted by Baltar's intense amiability. "Again? Who . . . who are you?"
Unused to concealing emotions in the new face, Baltar's disappointment was painfully obvious. "Baltar. I am Baltar."
Spectre glided forward. "Do you not recall Baltar, Lucifer?"
Lucifer had a few remaining, although disconnected memories of the man and his physical appearance. "But this is not—"
"Baltar is not as he once was. His face has been changed. For the mission both of you will be going on."
"Both of us?" Baltar asked, confused but pleased.
"Yes. As I told you, you should have an ally on your mission. Lucifer will be that ally, Baltar."
Baltar's new face clearly expressed his doubt. "I thought you'd been destroyed, Lucifer."
"Yes," Spectre said, "we had to give that impression. But, you see, Lucifer has been away on a, on a special mission.
Now he will accompany you to the Galactica with an assignment of his own. He will be disguised as a Borellian Noman."
"That might work," Baltar said. "Certainly a proper disguise. Good work, Spectre."
Baltar's voice had momentarily restored its old command sound. He was so used to giving orders to Spectre that the slip was natural. Spectre took note of the superiority in the man's voice, but chose not to chastise him for it.
"I am glad you do not object to Lucifer as your companion on the mission."
"No objection at all. It'll be like old times. I'm tickled."
Spectre and Lucifer glanced at each other, both wondering why Baltar would want to be tickled. Apparently, Baltar was still a puzzling and bizarre individual, in spite of his new face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dark corridors went off in several directions from a bank of elevators whose doors were discolored by ancient dirt and grease, plus the inevitable cobwebs. Paint peeled from the moldings around the doors. A loud thump came from the central set of doors, followed by muffled animal barks. Then there were some sounds of severe physical effort and a lot of pushing. The doors made a harsh squeaking noise and then reluctantly popped open. Boxey and Muffit fell forward, out of the elevator car. The doors slammed shut behind them.
Breathing heavily, Boxey sat up. Muffit also maneuvered into a sitting position. They both looked around at the eerie dark place their flight had taken them to. Boxey wrinkled his nose at the musty smell that drifted up from the floor. Muffit, who could analyze odor but not actually smell it, made some sniffing sounds in imitation. Boxey held his shoulders to keep himself from shivering.
"I'm cold, Muffy."
Muffit barked in response and did a reasonable imitation of an animal trembling with cold. He was not, of course, cold. He felt no difference in temperature, as Boxey had learned long ago on the ice planet Tairac, where he and others had briefly succumbed to deadly frigid air while Muffit scampered off and brought back rescuers.
Boxey stood up and so did Muffit. He took a few tentative steps. Muffit wobbled along behind him. The extreme darkness of the first corridor frightened Boxey, and he returned to the dimly lit, but at least lit, elevator bank.
"This place is sure spooky. I think we came down too far, Muffy. I don't like it here."
Muffit's head bobbed up and down furiously, his version of a nod.
"I wonder where we are, Muffy."
In front of him an old man emerged slowly from the shadows. He was dressed in dark clothes. His bearded face was covered with dirt. When he spoke, his sepulchral tones seemed ominous. "You're in the Devil's Pit, kiddo."
Boxey backed away, eyes wide in fright. The old man's eyes were wide, too.
"Don't be scared of me, kiddo. I'm not the Devil, nor am I one of his minions. I just live here."
Fear constricted his throat, so Boxey couldn't speak for a moment. The old man watched him patiently. As he struggled to get some words out, Boxey also looked frantically around for an escape route.
"I . . . I've heard of the Devil's Pit," the boy finally said. "Starbuck told me about it."
"Ah, Starbuck. Young lieutenant, good looking, blond, wild-eyed . . ."
"Wild-eyed?"
"Well, when I saw him he was out of his mind. I suppose wild-eyed isn't his natural look. They all seemed kinda strange to me, but then warriors always do. Don't know why anyone'd want to choose that particular profession."
"My father's a warrior. A fighter pilot."
Pride motivating his words, Boxey's voice became louder. The old man seemed amused by the boy's response. "Ah, well . . . I didn't mean to insult the profession. I just don't understand what makes a brave person tick, I guess. I don't really understand what makes anyone tick, or why anyone wants to be anything. I am happier being nothing, after all. What's your father's name, kiddo?"
"Captain Apollo."
The old man nodded. "Ah, Apollo. A singularly brave individual indeed!"
Boxey was pleased by the old man's praise of his father. "You know about my dad?"
"Better than that. I have had the honor of meeting your father. Once, not so long ago. The same time as Starbuck, in fact. They had a little . . . fracas down here and I was . . . somewhat involved in it."
Boxey became excited. "You mean the time Starbuck went out of his mind and chased Greenbean down here?"
"That time exactly, young man."
"Then you're the old geezer."
The old man's reaction to Boxey's words was exaggerated and accompanied by a dramatic flourish of his right hand. He waved it about, then placed it on his breast. "Geezer?!"
"That's what Starbuck called you when he told me about the adventure."
The old man's heavy jowls appeared to shake with anger and his eyes were hurt. "Then that rash young man is still mad. Geezer, indeed! I am a bit on in yahrens, it's true, but I'm hardly a geezer. I'll, in fact, accept derelict, but never, never, never geezer!"
"How old are you?"
"That, kiddo, is none of your business. I am as old as the Galactica."
"Go on, nobody's as old as the Galactica."
"Well, almost as old, perhaps."
There was an awkward pause that seemed to contain generations as well as a small amount of time. Finally the old man spoke again. "What are your plans, young man?"
"Plans?"
"You tumbled out of that elevator like a young man with someplace to go. Or somebody after him. Or someone on a quest. Which is it?"
"I'm running away."
The old man smiled and scrunched down so that he could look Boxey directly in the eye. He spoke gently. "A runaway? Why, you're a boy after my own heart. I'm a runaway, too."
Boxey's eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets. "You are? You ran away when you were a kid?"
The old man laughed heartily. "No, not that long ago. I ran away after I became a grownup."
"I don't understand."
"Someday maybe you will. But tell me, why are you running away? No, first tell me your name, child."
"Boxey."
"That's your real name? Or a nickname?"
"I . . . I don't know. It's the only name I know now."
"Maybe we can get you a more euphonious name."
"You—what—ee—is?"
"Never mind. Sit down here beside me, you and your . . ." He stared at Muffit, trying to make sense out of this oddly designed android version of an animal ". . . your pet, and tell me about your running away, Boxey."
The old man's kindness giving him confidence, Boxey told him about his fears and his decision to run away. Muffit contributed an occasional calm bark, as if in agreement with the salient points of Boxey's story. The old man listened sympathetically, nodding from time to time. The three made a curious trio, with the old man and boy squatting in the dim elevator corridor, dust motes falling clearly and steadily in what light there was.
After Boxey had finished, the old man said, "Well, Boxey my boy, now that you've run away—and making your way down to this misbegotten level is about as much running away as you can do on this ship—what do you intend to do? Would you like to go back? I can help you there if-—"
"I don't want to go back!" Boxey's voice was loud and vehement. "I want to stay here."
"Well, you could regret that decision. Let's just say I'll show you around, then you can reconsider."
The old man stood up and held a hand out to Boxey. Taking it, the boy got to his feet. The two walked away from the elevator bank, with Muffit scampering after them.
After a few moments, Boxey wondered if he'd been right in accompanying this strange old man. They'd been down so many dark and eerie passageways that Boxey was now thoroughly lost. He wondered if he could find his way out if something went wrong.
He looked up at the long series of pipes that seemed to be the ceiling of the Devil's Pit. There were also walkways up there, which swayed lazily from side to side, and Boxey had a terrible sense of strange people, monsters even, gaping down from
them. The passageways smelled odd and unused. Stifling odors of dust and grease mixed with overly pungent scents that Boxey couldn't identify.
They passed by many strange doors. A couple of them stood partly open. Boxey thought he saw many eyes looking out at them.
The old man said little, voicing a few directions or telling Boxey to watch his head or feet, or to go down a particular way. He appeared to be tensely alert, his dark eyes darting this way and that at the slightest sound.
Suddenly he grabbed Boxey's shoulders and pushed him sideways into a hiding place formed by a number of overhead pipes joining upright cylindrical pipes.
"What is it?" Boxey whispered.
The old man pointed down the corridor. "There. A scouting party."
Staring where the old man pointed, Boxey saw a small group of men coming in their direction. Their clothes were frayed and thready versions of Galactica crew uniforms. They held makeshift weapons, pieces of pipe and broom handles. As they walked, they peered from side to side cautiously, as if looking for something or someone. The old man put a finger to his lips to keep Boxey silent, and Boxey made the same motion at Muffit, who nodded. After the party had passed by the hiding place and gone out of sight around a corner, and the noises of their walking had faded, the old man edged cautiously out of the hiding place, then motioned for Boxey to follow.
Boxey whispered, "Who were they?"
"For the moment, the enemy."
"I don't understand."
"No, you wouldn't. It's difficult to explain. Here, sit there and I'll do my best."
Boxey sat on an old packing crate, Muffit curled up at his feet.
"Down here, Boxey, come a great deal of the outsiders, misfits, and general sleaze of the fleet. Some of them are people who just need to get away, or give up their dreary routines. But some are convicted criminals, troublemakers or just plain bad-tempered idiots. So there's always some danger here. However, we all tend to recognize our individual rebellions, no matter how small, and like to leave each other alone. There are many loners here and, in fact, not too many who actually choose to travel together. Still, factions have developed and sometimes . . . well, sometimes disputes arise. Currently there is a kind of small war going on between two sides. The ones you saw were members of one group. They call themselves the Warrior Elite, a fancy name for a decidedly unfancy and scruffy group. They come by that appellation because they are, most of them, former Galactica crewmen. They think that because they once belonged to that part of society which helped power this great ship or fought in the war against the Cylons, such experiences make them better than the rest of us down here. Many of the ship's former engineers tend to lead them. Engineers have a special status here because they understand the technical stuff all around us here in the Devil's Pit. I call them the devil's companions."
Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica! Page 7
