As they reached the place, they heard two familiar voices behind them. The two warriors they'd decked in their escape were standing and shouting on the other side of the skirmish. One of them jabbed a thick finger in the other's thickly matted chest. He pointed toward the children.
"There they are again!"
"Let's take 'em this time!"
Pushing past allies, they rushed toward Peri and Boxey. The old man stood in front of the children and hollered back over his shoulder, "Kids! Run!"
Instead of obeying his order, they moved toward him, intending to help him.
"Out of my way, derelict," one of the grubby warriors said. He pushed at the old man's shoulder from one side, while the other shoved from the other side. The old man fell, hitting his head against a walkway stanchion. His eyes closed as he lost consciousness. Boxey, furious, surged forward, but Peri grabbed his arm and held him back. "Wha—!" Boxey yelled.
"Don't buy trouble, Box. Let's get out of here."
One of the pursuers tried to grab her, but she weaved out of his way. With Muffit scampering along just behind them, the children ran as fast as they could through the now furious battle, ducking weapons and dodging grappling limbs. When they had cleared the combat, they ran faster down a mazelike, threatening corridor. Out of breath, Peri stopped for a moment. Behind them they heard a familiar voice. "I saw them go down this way! C'mon!" The voice was followed by heavy, plodding steps.
Catching her breath, Peri led Boxey and Muffit down several mean corridors, but they couldn't shake the pursuit of the warriors, whose echoing steps kept pace behind them.
Finally they reached the elevator bank from which Boxey had first been thrust into this strange netherworld. "I know this place," he shouted.
"Me, too."
Peri began frantically to jab the call buttons. In the darkness they heard one of the warriors stumble and curse.
"Maybe we should get away from here," Boxey said. "The light's too good."
"Wait."
Peri's voice remained calm as the footsteps became louder. One of the warriors shouted, "There they are!"
Their clumping steps sounded like the rumble of cannon shots. However, that rumble was matched by the rumble of an arriving elevator. As the children waited anxiously, shooting quick looks back over the shoulder at the dark corridor, only one side of the elevator doors opened, very slowly, with ear-splitting creaks.
"Jump, Box!" Peri cried.
The two children and the daggit-droid leaped into the elevator car. Outside, the two sleazy warriors came into the light. Seeing the children, they leaped toward the elevator, whose door was closing even slower, and with louder creaks, than before. For a moment it looked as if one of them would easily wedge his thick body between the closing door and its inert partner, but he could only get a hand in. The warrior yelped and withdrew it. The elevator started upward. As they cleared the floor, the children could hear the warriors berating each other. It sounded as if they were hitting each other, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Baltar was exhausted. Even though his new body was trimmer than the old one, it didn't respond well to hard labor. Every muscle seemed to ache.
As an undercover operation, the cargo job was clearly a dead end. There was no way Baltar and Lucifer could get to the Galactica by tossing around cartons and parcels in a dank cargo bay at the middle of the Broadside.
After his duty tour, Baltar charged into the ship recreation area without even looking around. He spotted the nearest comfortable chair and settled himself heavily into it. Lucifer, who had taken well to hard labor, came in a few moments later.
"Lucifer, uh, Trogla," Baltar said wearily. "I don't think I'm cut out to be a laborer."
Lucifer's Trogla voice had gotten even better. Now it even had the sinister Borellian resonance. "You do not seem to enjoy it. You do not do it well."
"Why, I worked as hard as I could. How can you say—never mind. You're right, I don't do it well. Who would want to?"
"Some of the crew here show pride in their abilities. Not many, I must admit."
"Yes, this is a shoddily run ship. You can't take a bunch of convicts and expect to mold them into—"
The room's two other crewmen, who'd been reading, looked up with annoyance at Baltar's remarks. He chuckled uneasily, made an expansive gesture that took in the almost empty room, and asked, "Where is everybody?"
"Off at the show," one of the crewmen answered.
"Show?"
"The dramatic performance."
"If you can call it that," the other crewman interjected. "If what this troupe does is drama, I don't want to see another play ever again."
Baltar's eyes brightened. "There's a theater troupe on board?"
"Has been for some time," the first crewman answered.
"They're leavin' us soon," said the other. "Thank goodness."
"Yeah, going to the big time. Performances aboard the Galactica."
"They'll be laughed off the stage there, you can be sure."
Wheels turned furiously inside Baltar's head. He smiled at Lucifer and said pointedly, "They're going to the Galactica next."
"What I said, didn't I?" the crewman said.
"Thank you for the information. Luc—uh, Trogla, come with me."
As they went out the recreation room door, Lucifer asked, "Where are we going?"
"To see this theater troupe. To join them. Trogla, you and I are going to become actors."
"Act? I don't know anything about acting."
Baltar dropped his voice to a whisper. "You're acting every step you take, stupid. What kind of Borellian Noman are you, anyway?"
The play was a trying experience for both of them. Baltar sat through it restlessly, hating it. It laboriously dealt with old values, values dominant in the twelve worlds before their defeat at the hands of the superior Cylon forces. For his part, Lucifer could not comprehend why humans would sit still to watch other humans enact odd fantasies in a bombastic manner.
After the performance, Baltar and Lucifer went backstage. A stagehand directed them to the table where the Impresario, Dwybolt, sat, removing his makeup.
"My dear sir," Baltar said with some charm, "I adored—" He almost choked on the word—"your performance. And such a play! A wonderful drama! So heart-wrenching."
Dwybolt, his attention caught by the praise in spite of its smarmy source, slowly turned in his chair. "I take it, then, that you're not the local drama critic."
Baltar did not understand the sarcasm of Dwybolt's words, but, in true Baltarian fashion, he plunged on. "No, in fact, we are actors, my friend and I."
Dwybolt looked at Lucifer, gasped, and pointed toward him.
"A Borellian Noman? I never heard of a Noman in the arts. Any of them."
Lucifer bent toward Baltar's ear and whispered: "As I told you, Baltar."
Baltar whispered back out of the corner of his mouth. "Korriman, remember?" He took a step toward Dwybolt and tried to appear humble. "My friend and I have performed with several theater troupes. Perhaps you have heard of the Caprican State Theater?"
"Of course I have. You acted there, both of you?"
"Yes, with great success."
"Don't bother to show me your notices. What've you done lately?"
"We've been a long time between engagements." Baltar made the next words sound like an intimate revelation. "Frankly, we've been in the grid barge."
"Oh? Ex-cons then?" Baltar nodded as sadly as he could. "Well, I like to give employment to the functionally unemployable. Actors are kind of outside society, too, you know."
"What do you say then? It's a good time to enlarge your troupe, what with you going to the Galactica soon."
"You have a point. Could I talk to you, sir, briefly. Alone?"
"Of course. Wait here, Trogla."
Dwybolt led Baltar to the rear of the stage, then whispered even though Lucifer was not close. The trouble he took was futile, since Lucifer's superior auditory apparatus could
easily pick up far-off sounds.
"Look," Dwybolt said, "I've no objection to giving you a tryout. I need to beef up the troupe a bit. But your friend. I mean, a Borellian Noman?"
"You are prejudiced against a Noman? I would expect a more tolerant attitude from an artist."
"It's not that. Not that at all. It's just that these guys can be bad actors. I don't mean that in the technical sense—I mean that they can cause big trouble. Their tempers are notorious. How can I be sure he won't decide to beat up on somebody in the middle of a performance? What if some clown in the audience decides to boo him? See what I mean?"
Baltar feigned a hurt look. "I assure you, sir, that Trogla and I have been friends and traveling companions for some time. His is not a violent nature. He's really just a big baby. You can trust him."
Dwybolt looked at Lucifer over his shoulder. The menacing creature didn't look like a big baby. On the other hand . . .
"Well, I can certainly use somebody his size. For villains, monsters, the occasional moving tree. Might be good for the company to have a Borellian Noman among them. Keep 'em on their toes. Okay, you get a tryout, both of you."
"You'll not be sorry, Mr. Impresario."
"Don't lay it on too thick. I'm a hardier taskmaster than I look."
The tryouts of the newcomers surprised Dwybolt and the whole company. Baltar was something of a ham, but Dwybolt realized that the man's floridness could be put to good use. There were many parts for hammy actors in Dwybolt's plays.
Lucifer was the real revelation. Although his command of language appeared to be limited, he had clear projection, an awesome, attention-getting voice, and a sensitivity to lines which astounded everyone. Dwybolt foresaw the Borellian Noman eventually graduating to important roles.
Baltar pranced offstage positively glowing with happiness. As the applause continued strongly, he joined the other actors in running back onstage for another curtain call, their third. Lucifer lumbered after the group and several of the actors noted the enthusiastic surge of clapping that greeted his appearance. Baltar did not notice and, in fact, credited the appreciation of the notoriously laconic Broadside audience to his own talents. As he came offstage again, he shouted to Dwybolt, "We really wowed 'em tonight, didn't we?"
"Yes, we really did," Dwybolt said, amused. He was considering what he'd do next with Lucifer. The creature had been so damned good, it might be worthwhile to write a play around him.
That night he began the play. The words came to him fast. He didn't sleep until he'd finished. When Shalheya came to shake him awake, she said, "You scheduled an early call. What happened?"
"Shalheya, I've just written a masterpiece." Shalheya's glance was filled with doubt. "Well, a pretty good play, anyway."
In the intensive rehearsals of the new play, Dwybolt was astonished at Lucifer's abilities. He learned all his lines after one run-through, even though his role, a leading one, was difficult.
"Trogla, you're the quickest study I ever saw." It was clear that "Trogla" had not understood what the director/playwright had said. "That means you learned your lines very quickly. Actors are notorious for learning lines slowly and badly and, then muffing them all during rehearsals, sometimes during performances."
"I don't understand. It is a simple procedure to memorize. Anyone can do it."
Dwybolt laughed and embraced the large creature about the waist. "Don't ever lose your innocence, Trogla. It's wonderful. Precious."
"Am I innocent?"
Baltar, standing nearby and settling into an enormous sulk, muttered, "I don't think 'innocent' is the word for it."
The new play, a one-act swashbuckler, was a smashing success and Lucifer became a definite favorite of the Broadside crowd. No wonder. In his armor and finery, with his awesome Borellian Noman physiognomy, he cut quite a figure. His swordplay became so skilled that some actors were afraid to cross swords with him, even in carefully choreographed battles. Dwybolt had to order his new matinee idol to take it easy.
The Impresario felt that there was still some stiffness, a consistent lumbering quality, to Trogla's physical movements, but the actor's reading of Dwybolt's lines was pure poetry. His acting was so skilled, Dwybolt felt he could be an incarnation of the Great Franda.
Baltar stood in the wings, watching Lucifer and Shalheya enact their scene. As he sensed the audience's sympathy with Lucifer's character, Baltar's jealousy of Lucifer's success increased. He was supposed to be just a member of the ensemble, a spear-carrier. What right had he to become a star?
On stage Shalheya circled the noble-looking Trogla. "You are godlike in your jewelled robes, master, your armor is the sun captured on your chest. Why so sad?"
Lucifer's tones were as mellifluous as a Borellian's voice could get. "My heart is the planet of life, broken into asteroids by your loveliness."
As he studied the adoration in Shalheya's voice, Baltar wondered if the actress was really acting. If she only knew what kind of being her Trogla really was, would she have been able to go on a stage with him and pretend to be his love-slave?
"Master," she was now declaiming in her throaty style, "those words make me so happy. I am like a—"
That was the cue for Baltar's entrance. He charged into the scene, his arms flailing wildly, a sword in one hand, a knife in the other. He was the villain in this little piece. (Sometimes it disturbed him that Dwybolt continued to cast him as a villain. Had the foolish Impresario seen into Baltar's very soul?) The audience booed and groaned at his entrance. He didn't know whether to attribute their reaction to his performance or to the villainous character he played.
He bellowed as loudly as he could, careful to enunciate every word. "I will shake the world with your rolling head, you oversized, breathing boulder. This is my promise to you: you are dead!"
Lucifer whirled on him and they initiated their choreographed battle. Swords clanged and Baltar's knife was sent flying, making the audience gasp in fright as it just missed sailing out into the audience.
Finally, as written, Lucifer defeated Baltar. The audience roared with approval. Baltar was disturbed by their intensely registered approval.
At the end of the play the audience went wild. They would not let the actors go, especially Lucifer, who lumbered through several solo curtain calls. Dwybolt basked in the glow. A crowd formed around him. He broke through their ranks and they followed him to where Lucifer stood, silent and aloof.
"You needn't give me all the plaudits," Dwybolt said. "Here's the reason for the success of my play."
With some difficulty he put his arm around Lucifer. Lucifer, on his part, did not understand what the fuss was all about. These humans really were a bizarre race. Why did they put such importance on a simple skill like playacting? What good did it possibly do them? What positive effects could it have on their society? Cylons never indulged in such vitiating fancies.
"Look at him!" Dwybolt shouted with admiration. "Look at the great actor, Trogla. So quiet, so assured, so confident. See that aura around him? All great actors have it."
Baltar, watching from the shadows, growled to himself. The more praise allotted to Lucifer, the more Baltar hated ever joining this troupe. What about Baltar's contributions to the play? Why didn't a few people gather around him? Why did people always get so enthralled with an amateur, just because his looks or way of acting were different? Baltar recalled his own days as an occasional theater performer. He had been convinced he could make a career out of his talents. Others had, after all, predicted a grand career for him in the arts. If he hadn't been lured away by the draw of money and power, he probably could have been an actor. Once, at the academy, he had even done a skit with his arch-enemy, Commander Adama.
After the excitement had subsided, Dwybolt asked Baltar and Lucifer to confer with him. He had a strange, almost worried, look on his face. "Trogla, Korriman, I have news. Captain Ironhand has just informed me that he is so entranced with our troupe he intends to accompany us to the Galactica. What do you thi
nk of that?"
Baltar managed a guess. "An honor?"
The wrong guess, as it turned out. "An honor to have the skipper of this garbage scow as our greatest fan? I'm not sure. I'm going off somewhere to puzzle it all out." He started to leave. "Oh, by the way, Trogla, you topped yourself out there tonight."
"Topped? I wore no hat."
Dwybolt was always taken aback by his new actor's literal responses. "No, nothing about hats. I just meant your performance was better than ever tonight. Good show."
Baltar took a couple of steps forward, ready to accept a compliment. Dwybolt saw the move and correctly interpreted it. "And you too, Korriman. You were . . . more than adequate."
The Impresario left. Baltar, conscious of Dwybolt's condescension, fumed for a moment, then dismissed the man from his mind. It was one of Baltar's special talents to mentally dismiss people. He turned to his companion. "Lucifer, don't let all this adulation go to your head."
"What would it do to my head? My storage and retrieval banks are located in—"
Baltar, impatient, interrupted. "Just an expression, a figure of speech. Means don't get all conceited about it. We do, if you recall, have other fish to fry. Wait, don't question that one. I'll say it another way. We have a mission to perform."
"Yes, I must kill Adama."
Baltar grabbed Lucifer's arm, so tightly he could feel Lucifer's metal skin beneath the Borellian Noman epidermal overlay, "Sssh, sssh, not so loud. You want to announce it to all the deadbeats on this ship?"
Lucifer obligingly dropped his voice to a whisper. "As you say, Baltar."
Baltar almost shrieked with frustration. "And don't call me Baltar. Even when we're alone together. Korriman. Remember Korriman."
Lucifer's voice sounded vague, bored. "Korriman, yes, Korriman."
"I'm going to corner Dwybolt. We need to know the schedule of performances aboard the Galactica so we can coordinate our plans. You wait here for now."
Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica! Page 12
