With actorly disdain, Baltar walked away, muttering, "I won't deign to argue with children."
Peri turned to Boxey, shaking her head. "Some guys are really rude."
"That guy was a pill, sure enough."
Lucifer, who did not completely understand the exchange between Baltar and the children, was nevertheless oddly pleased by it. In the dim recesses of his memory-circuitry he recalled that he had once worked with Baltar and had not liked him very much at that time.
Boxey suddenly ducked behind a carton. Peri joined him. "You look like you're hiding from somebody."
"I am."
Peering around the corner of the box, she saw a pair of women talking with Dwybolt. One of them wore a med-tech uniform. "Those ladies?" Boxey nodded. "You're hiding from them?"
"They know me. Their names are Cassiopeia and Hera. They're friends of my father's and Starbuck's."
Lucifer's head turned suddenly at Starbuck's name. He knew that name from somewhere. But where? He cautiously walked to the area where Dwybolt spoke with the women in order to eavesdrop. Dwybolt was speaking. "I've made a few changes. I hope you don't mind."
"So long as you didn't change our message in any way," Hera said.
"Not at all. If anything, I've made it stronger."
"You get my vote then."
"Good. Shalheya and I will play the major roles and we'll play it as a curtain-raiser. I think it'll have its best impact that way."
"So long as we got Starbuck trapped in the audience, doesn't matter when you play it."
That name again, Lucifer thought. Starbuck. This Starbuck must be a very important person.
Dwybolt, puzzled by Hera's comment, looked toward Cassiopeia, who explained, "Starbuck is Hera's main target."
"Hmmm, might be a good thing to know where he sits, then we can address the play directly to him. Theatrically, it might work. Let me think about it."
Dwybolt walked off, his mind intent on the new concept. Cassiopeia saw that Hera, excited, was ready to fling the play at Starbuck now. On her part, Cassiopeia was disturbed by the idea of directing the play right at Starbuck. It didn't seem quite fair. Still, the old boy might need to be shaken up. As the two women left the stage area, Hera remarked, "I'm going to get myself the best seat in the house to watch Starbuck from. I can't wait."
Each time someone spoke the name Starbuck, Lucifer's interest was further piqued. His strange reactions to the name disturbed him. He did not like all the mysteries that Spectre's tampering had left him with.
Across the way, Boxey and Peri came out of their hiding place. This Starbuck seemed important to the boy, and to the women, too. This Starbuck must be some fearsome individual.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dwybolt and his company plunged into the whirlpool of preparations and rehearsals. With his repertoire of plays, plus the new curtain-raiser, Dwybolt had his work cut out for him. He felt happier than he had in a long time. He attributed his happiness to the prospect of performing in the big time. Shalheya attributed it to his constant contact with Cassiopeia.
Boxey had to balance the difficulty of learning to act with the need to avoid Hera and Cassiopeia, while Peri found that acting was the most fun she had ever had.
Baltar and Lucifer marked time, waiting for opening night when they would move against the Galactica. Baltar had carefully hidden his solenite in a storage case marked with the name of the theater company so that he could carry it unnoticed through the ship. Now it was with some other cases in a dusty backstage area, ready to be retrieved when needed. Baltar would leave after he delivered a prologue that had been hastily written by Dwybolt to insert before the curtain-raiser.
Lucifer would go after Adama when the first scene of the main play was over. Nobody would miss him for some time, since his next entrance after that was not until the third act. By then the Galactica would be disabled and its commander dead.
Cassiopeia liked to hide in the wings and watch the actors rehearse the play she and Hera, with the help of the strange old man, had concocted. Dwybolt's rich articulation added substance to their words.
Dwybolt saw Cassiopeia in the wings and called a break in the rehearsal. Look at him, Shalheya thought as she watched him walk to Cassiopeia, he's striding like a proud rooster, preening himself. How can I compete with a beauty like her? Taking a roundabout route, Shalheya took up eavesdropping position near Cassiopeia behind a drop-curtain.
"Everyone's impressed with your play, Cassie," Dwybolt was saying.
Shalheya hated the warmth in his voice. And, anyway, who was so impressed? Shalheya wasn't. She thought the play was overheated and too frequently unmetrical.
Cassiopeia felt some guilt at the amount of praise she had to accept for the play's better parts, most of which had been contributed by the old man or Hera. The old man refused any credit. Cassiopeia made suggestions to her collaborators but did very little of the actual writing herself.
"You and Shalheya are performing it so well," Cassiopeia said. "We're happy with the way the rehearsals are going, Hera and I."
Their conversation was ordinary and unemotional, yet Shalheya, conditioned to respond to nuance, thought she detected layers of affection in everything Dwybolt and Cassiopeia said. What they'd shared together must have been something special, Shalheya thought. By the time they stopped talking they stood close together and were smiling much too much.
After Cassiopeia had left, Dwybolt and Shalheya resumed their rehearsal. "This phrase," Dwybolt said. " 'Hate's fury, the beating of fragile wings against the unrelenting rock.' Does it sound familiar to you, Shalheya?"
Shalheya wasn't in the mood to analyze the play. "You don't think your lady friend would plagiarize, do you?"
Dwybolt replied angrily, "No! It's just that the line reminds me of a line in some play I saw long ago. Well, it's probably just similar. Shall we go on?"
"If you say so." She stood still, not quite ready to assume her role. "Dwybolt?"
"Yes?"
"You still love her, don't you?"
"Shalheya, it's none of your business."
Shalheya couldn't hold back her anger any longer. "Isn't it? ISN'T IT!"
She didn't wait for him to answer. Whirling around, she ran off. Dwybolt watched her go, shook his head, raised his eyebrows theatrically in case someone was watching, and returned to his study of the script.
Someone was watching. Lucifer, who often wondered why humans so frequently acted so oddly, was fascinated by the flamboyant and puzzling impresario.
Hera found Starbuck on the running track of the triad court, idly watching a team practice. Telling herself to keep her emotions under control, she took up position next to him. His response to her cheery greeting was desultory.
"Good shot, there," she said after a few moments of watching the practice.
"Good enough. He shoulda bounced it off the other wall, though."
Normally, she would have argued the point, but not now. Anyway, Starbuck was a top triad player. He might be right.
She tried to bring up the subject of the play casually. "Heard about the actors that've come to the ship?"
Starbuck's reply was laconic and disinterested. "Sure. Hard to avoid all those handbills."
"Gonna go?"
"I don't think so."
Damn! If he didn't attend the performance, then all her work with Cassiopeia and the old man would be wasted.
"Why not? You got something against theater?"
"Nothing particularly. Guess it's because it's just fantasy. Myth, legend, ancient times. Swordplay, bright lights, fake trees. All pretense. Too much reality in my world. I can't take playacting seriously."
"But that's what fantasy's for, to escape from everyday concerns."
Clearly irked by Hera's persistence, Starbuck started drumming his fingers on the triad court railing. "You mean. I'm supposed to return from a hard day's piloting, fighting battles and dodging my own death, just to watch a bunch of made-up clowns whack at each other with fake swords?"<
br />
"There's more to drama than that. There's beautiful language, wonderful ideas, insights into—"
"Just what I need. Insights, ideas, beautiful language."
"Think what it could do for your own vocabulary." Hera stopped, angry at herself for being sarcastic. "Okay, I'll treat you to the play."
"What? You mean, buy my ticket?"
"That's what I mean, pal."
"Forget it, Hera. I can pay my way."
"It's just a gesture of friendship, not a dole. God, with you and Apollo around, none of the rest of us need bad moods."
She started beating her fist lightly against the railing. She shouldn't have even talked to him. Cassiopeia would have done this job better. She could handle men in a way that Hera could not, especially a contrary creature like Starbuck.
"I've been thinking, maybe I am becoming a bit of a pill. Getting as moody as Apollo. And for less reason. Okay, I'll go."
Hera was flabbergasted. "What?"
"Send me my ticket by ship post."
Turning around abruptly, he began to jog around the exercise track. Hera stared after him, still amazed at his sudden turnabout. The man was unpredictable, that was certain.
Adama loved theater, but had decided to stay away from the theater troupe's performances. He and his wife Ila had gone to plays regularly, on his leaves from the service. He didn't think he could watch even a comedy without sad memories of Ila dominating his mind.
However, there was no reason, he decided, why his son shouldn't go. Apollo had been much too glum lately, brooding about Boxey. Adama missed Boxey, too, and was certain the boy would return soon. In the meantime, Apollo should get his mind off his troubles.
Adama found Apollo in the Officer's Lounge, sharing a table with the strange old man from the Devil's Pit. Apollo liked to talk with the old man about Boxey.
Adam held out one of the theater company's handbills. "Have you seen this?"
Apollo accepted the handbill, stared at it cursorily, then handed it to the old man. "Yes. They're all over the ship."
"Well, I want you to take some time off, attend the first night."
"I don't feel much like theater-going right now."
"Apollo, this is not a request or a suggestion. It is an order."
Apollo, too morose to even argue with his father, shrugged and nodded. "All right."
Adama accepted his son's response, turned crisply, and strode away from the table. Apollo stared after him, his eyes vacant. The old man leaned toward him and spoke softly, "Your father's right. A little diversion'll do you good."
"Well, then it should do you good, too. You can come along with me."
The old man didn't appear to like the idea. "Oh, I don't think I could. It wouldn't be—"
"Wouldn't be what?"
"Wouldn't be, uh, easy for me."
"If I have to endure it, so do you. As my father says, it's an order. For you, too."
The old man lapsed into a gloomy silence, as if deliberately copying Apollo's mood. Apollo finished his drink, excused himself, and walked off, his slumped shoulders displaying his misery for everyone in the room.
The old man picked up the handbill and stared at it for a long while. "Well, maybe I should go. And, Dwybolt, we'll see how good your memory is."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Long ago Dwybolt had devised a curtain which afforded the actors a chance to study the playgoers as they entered the auditorium. Members of the company could look from the stage through strategically placed portholes that were transparent only one way. On the audience's side the portholes were woven into the curtain's intricate design, which depicted famous theatrical scenes.
Behind the spying actors the onstage activity was frenetic. Stagehands moved sets while technical directors made their last-minute checks. Dwybolt supervised a lighting check while Shalheya inspected props.
Boxey, freshly made-up for his role and wearing a wig and padded costume, stared out one of the curtain portholes. Peri stood just behind him. She'd spent most of the last few moments assuring him that none of the Galacticans could possibly recognize him in his makeup and costume.
Apollo stepped uncertainly into the auditorium. He stared at his tickets then looked around the room, trying to figure out where he should sit.
"There he is!" Boxey said to Peri. "There's my dad!"
Peri squeezed by him. "Where? Show me." Boxey pointed. "Why, he's a very good looking man, Box. He's—oh, my goodness, look who's with him!"
Boxey peeped over her shoulder and saw someone he hadn't expected. It was the old man from the Devil's Pit.
"What's he doing out of the Pit?" Peri said. "I thought he'd never leave. And there he is with your father."
The children were given their calls to get off the stage. Peri had to pull Boxey away from the curtain porthole.
At the other end of the curtain, Baltar chuckled frequently as he inspected the incoming audience. He saw many familiar faces, Apollo's among them. Starbuck entered soon after Apollo. Baltar smiled. "They all look so happy. Well, that won't last much longer," he said to himself.
Starbuck's entrance provoked some comments from Hera and Cassiopeia, too, as they peeked out. "Look at that swagger in his walk," Hera said disgustedly.
"Many criminals, I'm told, swagger a bit on the way to their execution," Cassiopeia said, smiling.
Hera laughed. "We've garroted him, all right. Dwybolt said, though, there're some last-minute changes in our play."
"Don't worry. Dwybolt's good. Whatever changes he's made, they're for the good."
"As long as Starbuck is properly zonked."
Hera had already reserved a box seat from which she could observe Starbuck. After she'd left for it, Dwybolt noticed Cassiopeia alone at her porthole. He sighed audibly, still struck by her beauty. Shalheya heard the sigh, and sighed herself as she watched Dwybolt approach his old flame. He looked over Cassiopeia's shoulder and commented softly, "Good house, huh?"
Cassiopeia, who hadn't heard his approach, was startled but composed herself quickly. "Very good. A sellout?"
"So I'm told."
Dwybolt saw Captain Apollo just sitting down. Following Apollo was an old man, whose face and movements seemed familiar, but Dwybolt wasn't sure why. He said to Cassiopeia, "That man, the old one, next to the captain . . . Who is he?"
Cassiopeia replied cautiously, since Dwybolt didn't know the old man had helped her and Hera with the curtain-raiser. "I don't know much about him. He used to be in the Devil's Pit, they say. He hasn't told anybody his name."
Dwybolt searched his mind for a memory of the old man but his speculations were interrupted by the entrance into the hall of Captain Ironhand,
"What's wrong?" Cassiopeia asked, seeing Dwybolt's sudden, startled reaction. Dwybolt explained how the captain had been a regular attendee at the company's performances on the Broadside.
"Perhaps he likes your plays," Cassiopeia commented.
"He does. That's my problem. He gets too appreciative. He's such a dolt, it makes me insecure."
Cassiopeia smiled. Dwybolt had been this insecure in the old days, too.
Baltar backed away from his porthole and bumped into Lucifer, who had been watching quietly. Lucifer pointed outward, saying, "Which one is Starbuck?"
"Why do you want to know that?"
"Curiosity."
"That one there. Third row. Blond hair, dopey look," Baltar said.
Stooping, Lucifer looked out the porthole. Something seemed familiar about the young lieutenant sitting there shuffling through his playbill, but he wasn't sure what. Again he had the curious sense there was something important to be remembered about Starbuck. Why did Starbuck cause such strong reactions, when he knew so little about the man?
"The commander is definitely not out there?" Lucifer asked.
"No. He sent his eloquently worded regrets. He'll be in his cabin, as I told you. You can go to his cabin, kill him, and get out before the end of the death rattle."
&nbs
p; Places were called and the actors went to whatever shadowy area they'd chosen earlier to await their own entrances upon the brightly lit stage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The curtain rose on a dark stage. Suddenly a spotlight flashed on, catching Baltar, his face grimly actorlike, seeming like a man about to pronounce the salvation or doom of the universe. The spotlight staying on him, he eased two steps forward and stared out at the audience. He was dressed in a dark brown flowing robe and wearing an obviously false beard. He made a triple twirl with his left hand before speaking:
"For those of you whose minds are free,
And need no more society
Stifling your style, your smile, your life,
We offer you imagined strife,
Raging battles across our stage,
A punch, a gun, a sword, a knife,
A villain plotting war to wage,
A hero fighting for his life,
Sets depicting ancient places,
Mountains and a bleak oasis."
Colonel Tigh had arrived late for the performance. With his eyes fighting to adjust themselves to the dark, he heard only the sound of the actor's voice. It seemed so familiar. When his eyes were in focus, he realized he'd never seen the man before. Then why did he seem so familiar?
His body inclined toward the audience, Baltar continued his monologue:
"Prepare now to release your cares,
And let your mind accept our wares,
As now we strain to entertain
With plays and words, legerdemain
To change your life, command your gaze,
Set thoughts afire within your brain,
Add actors caught in plots, a maze
Of intrigue, passion, quests for gain,
Our stagecraft gleaming, lights so bright,
We promise a fulfilling night."
Tigh, as he found a seat on the aisle near the stage, realized that it wasn't the actual timbre of the actor's voice that bothered him, but the voice's inflections and intonations. They were exactly like somebody else's. Had he heard the voice before?
"Stretch your legs, your weariness doff,
Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica! Page 15
