Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica!

by Glen A. Larson

  Sit still, relax, and please don't cough,

  We labor here for your delight,

  With plays prepared by day and night.

  Please! No snickers, no comments rude,

  No scornful laughs, no early flight,

  Such actions make our players brood,

  And turn great drama into blight.

  We are, you see, your servants all,

  Responding to our playwright's call."

  Tigh was sure he knew the voice. His instinct told him to investigate. Standing up suddenly, disconcerting some of the audience, he started toward the door at the side of the stage. Baltar, detecting movement in the audience, wondered if people were walking out already. He rushed his last lines.

  "As with a flourish of my hand,

  I conjure up an antique land,

  My signal to bring actors in,

  I ask your leave, let the play begin!"

  Baltar's spotlight went out abruptly. In the darkness, he scuttered to the wings. Using a dim backlight, stagehands brought on set pieces representing greenery.

  Dwybolt, standing offstage, had watched Baltar's florid delivery of the prologue with some admiration. The man, he thought, might not be much of a realistic actor, but he did act the prologue with just the right touch of ham.

  Baltar brushed by him, urgency in his eyes. Dwybolt followed a few steps. Baltar donned a cloak, picked up a suitcase from a dark backstage corner, and left by the stage door. Dwybolt, always concerned about the members of his troupe, was disturbed by Baltar's odd behavior. Was the old fool conducting a romantic liaison? Well, he wasn't needed back onstage until the second act, so he had plenty of time for whatever trivial thing he was doing. Dwybolt had to turn his attention back to the performance as Shalheya urged their mutual entrance. It was time for Hera and Cassiopeia's play.

  Tigh arrived backstage after Baltar had gone through the door. As he searched for him, he wondered why the actor had reminded him of Baltar. That had certainly not been Baltar on that stage, he thought.

  In her perch above the audience, Hera couldn't hold back her anticipation. She knew the curtain-raiser would begin at any moment. Settling into a chair and leaning forward, resting her elbows on the box's railing, she stared down at her intended victim. Starbuck had smiled faintly through the prologue.

  With a trumpet flourish, the lights came up, revealing Dwybolt and Shalheya, in the costumes of another era, walking in an apparent forest. Dwybolt's arms were raised in frustration, and Shalheya was staying right behind him. Suddenly Dwybolt whirled on her and said in an angry voice, "And why say you I treat you so?"

  Shalheya jabbed her finger into his chest several times as she retorted, "You think I know? How could I know?/You jam your mind like you stub your toe."

  "Go away from me, Vixen! Hear me? Go!"

  "I'll leave by staying, I'll sit down here."

  Starbuck felt eyes on him, although he didn't know whose. He glanced up toward the box where Hera sat and she scrunched backward just in time.

  Leaning forward on his toes, Dwybolt now stood over Shalheya. He sneered stagily as he spoke. "So stubborn's still your way of life, my dear/And I'm not surprised."

  "You're not?"

  "Of course not./Stubborn's a woman's quite natural lot./You all clip your words when the temper's upon you,/You sit and look hurt when we artfully con you."

  Starbuck frowned at the word con. Looking upward again, this time he saw Hera staring down at him. She made no move to get out of sight. He felt uncomfortable about her benign, smug smile.

  While Hera was pleased with the way the play was going, Cassiopeia, standing just offstage, was having qualms. The words that had seemed so sharp when they'd been writing them now sounded artificial in actors' mouths.

  Dwybolt continued:

  "Women, your wiles fool no man, we greet them with joy,

  We play with your moods, we plan our next ploy, the ploy

  That will bring us the love we require,

  And raise you, all women, out of the mire,

  To stand beside us at our moments of pride,

  To be sweetheart, mother, lover, bride,

  To—"

  Shalheya poked her finger in the general direction of Dwybolt's nose, shouting,

  "Wait! Your smugness befouls the air.

  Your unfair words reveal your soul, and bare

  It is of human feeling, you send me reeling

  With fury at your double-dealing unappealing

  Attitudes so characteristically male.

  Men! My words can't rail enough at your betrayal

  Of the basically human, logically humane—"

  Dwybolt, who had been stepping backward according to the beats of her speech, now stood his ground to complain, "This vituperation goes against the grain/Rankles the—"

  Shalheya laughed mockingly, placed her arms akimbo, and addressed the audience as well as Dwybolt:

  "Don't get in a huff, my lad,

  So terribly masculine, I might add,

  To get that threatening sound, that voice,

  That clearly shows your prejudice, your choice,

  The man above all, the woman on call,

  The man standing tall, the woman slumped small."

  Dwybolt walked downstage and looked out at the audience. Starbuck felt that the actor was aiming his next speech directly at him.

  "That's not true, it's simply not true,

  I'm fair to all, even to you,

  I merely prefer to pursue

  Ladies in my own way, accrue

  A few centons of timeless joy,

  You as young girl to my young boy,

  Time we can lustily employ

  For—"

  Shalheya, the words of Dwybolt's speech reminding her of Dwybolt's own pursuit of Cassiopeia, came forward also. Her words were tinged with much more anger than she'd ever put into them during rehearsals.

  "Silence, knave. I am not your toy,

  A rag-doll for your idle time,

  Or tiny ship afloat on slime,

  The slime of all male vanity

  Taking us to love's insanity."

  Dwybolt made an exaggerated turn toward her. "Insanity, you say?"

  "Madness I say.

  It's time for women to send men away,

  Time at last to resist the traps

  Of selfish men whose finger-snaps

  Make us say, yes my lord, oh yes,

  Whatever you say, lord, address

  Us as slaves to your ev'ry wish.

  This dish you want? Here is your dish.

  A knife you need? Please take my knife.

  Your food? Of course. To ease your life.

  Whatever you want done is done,

  My dear, you are my only one,

  My lord, my life, my dream, my god.

  A god? Of course. Where are you flawed?

  Lord, I'm more than just your vassal,

  I'm drawbridge for your high castle.

  Walk on me, please, yes, walk on me.

  I'm falcon for your falconry,

  Slip off my blindfold and I'll fly.

  Though I don't know why. Don't know why."

  Starbuck began to squirm in his seat. This actress, whom he'd never seen before, appeared to be directing her words toward him, too. He wondered whether Hera was still watching him, but he was determined not to glance up at her again.

  Hera was having the time of her life. She especially liked watching Starbuck shift about in his seat.

  Dwybolt, smiling with a Starbuckian jauntiness (he had secretly watched the young lieutenant, following him around the ship, as part of his preparation for the role), now turned his back on Shalheya and said,

  "My lady, I have heard enough,

  Your tone is mad, your voice too rough,

  Don't want my love? I'll go now then—"

  Shalheya's return smile was suspiciously like Hera's.

  "Go. Go sulk. The way of all men

  When women reject y
our sad advances,

  Your puerile poses, pathetic stances.

  You think that you can only pretend

  You're hot stuff, wild beasts, the living end,

  And we'll just crumble at your feet,

  To adore you, and your praises bleat,

  Telling you that you'll go far,

  Ride the asteroid, . . ."

  She turned toward the audience again, a move Hera had requested, and she took care to emphasize her next phrase, also Hera's choice.

  "Buck the star.

  Yes, buck the star and you'll go far—"

  In back of Starbuck, Ensign Giles got the point and whooped with delight. He pointed forward toward Starbuck.

  As soon as the phrase came so eloquently out of Shalheya's mouth, Starbuck glared up at Hera. She was quite clearly delighted with his angry reaction. He muttered loudly, "I don't have to sit here for this!"

  Standing up, he nearly dove over the people between him and the aisle. In the aisle, with his dignity as intact as he could make it, he strode out of the auditorium. Hera raced out of her box to follow him.

  Onstage Dwybolt was momentarily disconcerted by the activity in the audience. Then he and Shalheya finished the play, bringing it to its conclusion, which included a reconciliation that might have slightly mollified Starbuck. The happy ending had been insisted upon by the old man, who had instructed his collaborators that they must leave the audience with a hopeful feeling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lucifer's first role in the performance of the main play was as a silent awesome monster. He was cast in three separate roles but, of course, had no intention of showing up for the other two. The play was based on a popular twelve-world legend, a complicated one involving violent action, disguises, identity switches, and several supernatural apparitions. Dwybolt had scheduled it because he felt it was just the right kind of drama for a work-weary battlestar audience.

  The audience gasped when Lucifer came on stage in his heavy, intricate costume. He looked like a giant worm with a sextet of tentacles. As he followed the directions he had been given, he wondered why all this onstage make-believe provoked such strange responses in its watchers. Receptive to fantasy, they treated it as if it were really happening.

  Dwybolt, in the costume and makeup of the play's hero, looking yahrens younger than he did offstage, encountered Lucifer in a dark cavern. Papier-mache stalagmites and stalactites dominated the scenery. According to the story, Dwybolt's character had been hired by a village to rid it of its local monster—Lucifer. In a long, well-choreographed battle, Dwybolt came back from what looked like certain defeat to overpower the Lucifer-monster. Lucifer felt a bit embarrassed at feigning defeat by Dwybolt when the audience must have seen that he could have beaten the man easily.

  After the stage had gone dark for a set change, Dwybolt whispered to Lucifer as they both sneaked offstage, "Good job, Trogla. Better than rehearsal."

  Lucifer could not figure out why he felt such pleasure from Dwybolt's praise. At any rate, he didn't have much time to enjoy it, since now was the best time for him to seek out Adama and kill him.

  Dwybolt noticed Lucifer's departure and asked himself why so many of his actors were sneaking away, but he had little time to wonder as it was time for his next entrance.

  Lucifer, who had studied ship blueprints, was able to find his way through the Galactica easily. Frequently he had to make use of the many job and equipment alcoves to hide out from ship personnel, many of whom would have stopped a Borellian Noman from walking normally through the ship. Nobody had told Lucifer what a handicap the Noman disguise could be when it encountered human prejudice.

  Going down one hall he saw Lieutenant Starbuck coming toward him. The young man, who deemed intent on his own thoughts, did not see the apparent Borellian Noman, and Lucifer was able to slip into one of the convenient alcoves. From the darkness he studied the lieutenant, who had stopped in his tracks, apparently to mumble to himself. There was something about the man that intrigued Lucifer each time he saw him. Dim memories were always stirred, but Lucifer couldn't interpret them.

  Starbuck resumed walking and strode by the alcove. As soon as he was out of sight, Lucifer took a step out of the hiding place. However, there was another figure hurrying down the hall, and he quickly scrunched back.

  He recognized Hera from her work with the theater company. She had shown especial concern with the words of the play she had collaborated on with the woman known as Cassiopeia.

  Now her eyes were held steadily forward, obviously fixed on Starbuck. Her long dark hair bounced wildly with each of her steps. She was tall, this woman, almost as tall as Lucifer. Her eyes seemed worried, yet at the same time she looked toward Starbuck with affection. They were certainly complex beings, these humans. He had a notion to follow them, but he had his mission. He could not stop for them. He must kill Adama. He slipped out of the alcove after Hera had passed.

  Starbuck had not sensed the many eyes upon him. He was in a blind rage. He knew Hera had had something to do with that insulting little play. But why? he asked himself. Why did she feel such enmity toward him? Why make such a fool of him in front of his shipmates and fellow warriors? How could anyone feel that much hatred for him?

  The last voice he wanted to hear at that moment was Hera's. It was, of course, the voice he heard, as she ran to catch up with him. "Starbuck! Wait up. I want to talk to you."

  He whirled on her. She stopped running, frightened by the fury in his eyes. When he talked, his voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was a frightening control in it. "You have something to say to me, Cadet Hera?"

  That "Cadet Hera" was a jolt. How could he invoke the formal address when his eyes were so angry? She found it difficult to reply to him. Her words wouldn't come easily. "Well, I—I'm sorry. I'm—well, no, I'm not sorry really. I'm glad we wrote the play. You deserve it. All you hotshot pilots with your—"

  Starbuck's voice was cool and ominous then. "You said we wrote a play. You didn't concoct that little atrocity all by yourself then? You got help. Who helped you?"

  "That doesn't matter."

  "I can probably guess. And what was this puny little epic supposed to do?"

  Hera felt as if words were piling up in her mouth and she couldn't get them out. "It was . . . uh, to make you . . . for you to see . . . well, how you treated us . . . to . . . uh . . ."

  "I got all that. It was, you might say, quite obvious."

  "And . . . uh, to make you angry and get you—"

  "Well good then. You wanted me angry, I am angry. Anything else you wish to say to me, Cadet Hera?"

  "Well . . . uh . . . uh . . . I didn't want you like this!"

  He turned around and began to walk away. "Then I'm sorry to disappoint you."

  "Starbuck, I'm—"

  His voice finally got angry, but he did not turn around. "Can it, Cadet. And from now on I'm Lieutenant Starbuck to you. By the book."

  "Starbuck, you—!"

  Starbuck turned the corner of the corridor. His voice, coming back to her, seemed to echo down the passage. "By the book, Cadet Hera. By the book."

  Hera, her anger taking over, began to ram the metal walls of the corridor with her fist. She was as angry with herself as with Starbuck. "Damn, how did I get myself into this situation? I'm such a . . . such a Vailean! Always acting first and thinking later. Why can't we just savor our victories? I accomplished just what I wanted. I went out to nail Starbuck and now he's dangling from the wall. Why aren't I satisfied? This is victory. I should be satisfied." She kept seeing the hurt in Starbuck's eyes, and she felt empty. "Damn it, I was right about Starbuck. He treats women like waste particles. Hell, this is a command ship. Women should have their rightful place here more than anywhere else. We can't all be Athena and, anyway, she's rather well connected. Oh, damn." She took a deep breath. "Well, that's what happens when you try to deal with the big issues. Somebody gets hurt. Too bad it had to be Starbuck. Why do I want to win his friendsh
ip back?"

  She stared at the corner where she'd last seen him. She should just turn and go back, forget him, let him sulk. Who could change him anyway? Could anyone?

  "Well," she muttered, "nothing's ever easy, I guess. This'll take time."

  Soon she had hurried around the corner Starbuck had taken, and picked up her pace in order to catch up with him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Apollo, observing Starbuck's quick exit, wondered what all the fuss was about. The warriors and crew of the Galactica tended to be good-natured folk who understood humor and didn't attach much importance to it. He figured that the hand of someone from the ship had penned the offending words and perceived it as a small joke.

  Otherwise, the performance hadn't particularly involved him. He could not concentrate on acted-out fantasy when his own troubles dominated his thoughts.

  Onstage, in the main drama, the hero had dispatched a monster, courted a maiden, found himself in deep trouble with village elders, fought off some rude, burly ruffians, and gone off to prove himself for some reason that escaped Apollo. Now he was being followed by a young boy whose blond locks didn't look natural. Well, actors did wear wigs, even children. The boy also seemed padded to make him look chubby, wore a half-mask and spoke in a scratchy voice that sounded put on. He seemed like a cute enough child, but the last thing Apollo wanted to do was watch some child who was not Boxey go through his paces. This kid was, after all, nothing like Boxey.

  Onstage, Boxey, in all his heavy gear and makeup, was nervous. With his father in the audience, he didn't want to make a mistake that would tip Apollo off to his actual identity. As a result, he not only exaggerated his character-voice, but he spoke so softly the audience had to strain to hear him.

  While another actor spoke, Dwybolt leaned down toward Boxey and whispered, "Remember what I told you about projecting your voice. Don't mutter."

  Dwybolt stood up again smoothly and resumed the scene, an argument with an actor portraying a tradesman. The sequence was one of those earthy moments that Dwybolt loved to insert in his plays for comic relief.

  The tradesman scene over, Dwybolt turned to catch Boxey pulling at the skirt of a woman, another Dwyboltian comic touch. His eyebrows raised in exaggerated rage as he scolded Boxey. "You, my child, deserve a beating . . ."