Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica!

by Glen A. Larson

  Boxey didn't like the coming scene, which called for Dwybolt to pretend to beat Boxey. Dwybolt never really hit him, but it always scared Boxey to see the man come after him so violently.

  Dwybolt continued:

  "And I'll not accept your bleating,

  Your begging to leave you alone,

  Don't cry, don't sigh, don't groan or moan!"

  Dwybolt raised his hand to administer the fake beating. As the hand came down, a stagehand in the wings created the sound of impact. Boxey fell backward, feigning pain. There was a loud offstage yelp as Dwybolt raised his hand again. A second bark came as he began to lower it. Suddenly Muffit, who thought that Boxey was really being attacked, bounded onto the stage, going right for Dwybolt's legs. Although he only nipped at the man, Dwybolt was sent off balance and into a stumbling pratfall. Muffit growled.

  Boxey ran to the daggit-droid and hollered in his normal voice, "Muffy! Get out of here!"

  The laughing audience didn't at first see Apollo scrambling forward, knocking down chairs, pushing people aside. He'd recognized Muffit immediately and started moving as soon as he heard Boxey's voice. "Boxey!"

  Boxey, alarmed, backed up into a fake tree, which fell over with a loud resounding thud. The audience roared. Dwybolt, sitting up, groaned. Boxey stumbled over more props in his haste to reach the wings.

  Apollo stormed onto the stage and reached Boxey in three steps. Boxey stood and tried to run again, but Apollo's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Boxey, don't run away again!"

  Dwybolt, now standing, managed to suppress his fierce anger and speak in a whisper that couldn't be heard by the audience. "How dare you! This is ruining my play, sir."

  Apollo barely glanced at the angry actor, "I'm sorry, but this is more important."

  "More imp—!"

  Apollo took one careful step toward Boxey. "Boxey, please, I love you."

  Boxey couldn't resist his father any longer. He ran to Apollo, called to him, "Dad!"

  Apollo knelt down to meet him, and Boxey ran right into a tight embrace. All the actors onstage and everyone in the audience became quite silent. Then, spontaneously, the whole audience plus a quartet of hopelessly stagestruck actors began to applaud wildly. Dwybolt, annoyed but always the showman, faded back into the crowd, allowing the father and son their "scene."

  Suddenly Apollo became aware of the audience reaction and his face reddened. Picking up Boxey, he stumbled offstage to the accompaniment of some gentle laughter. As soon as they were in the wings, the audience applauded their exit with enthusiasm. Dwybolt waited for the applause to peak, then, improvising energetically, he resumed his play.

  Offstage, in darkness interrupted by flashes of light from the stage area, Apollo and Boxey stared silently at each other. Finally, Boxey spoke. "I was scared."

  "I know you were."

  "You keep going away and nobody knows if you're coming back."

  "It's not my choice, Boxey. I'd stay with you if—"

  "Then stay with me! There're other pilots."

  "Boxey, I have a duty to—"

  "Everybody's always using that word, 'duty.' "

  "I can't avoid my duty."

  The boy was on the verge of tears. Apollo reached toward him but Boxey pulled away, shouting, "Duty's more important than me!"

  Apollo couldn't speak as all the clichés about duty and responsibility raced through his mind. It would not be fair to use them on Boxey now. He needed more. He had never seen Boxey so filled with resentment, so antagonistic. He wanted him back.

  "Boxey?"

  "Yes?"

  "I can't stop your worries. When I go out on a mission, I always face danger. I've gotten out of more scrapes than I can count. When I'm out there, I think of you. Often. I count on getting back here—to you."

  Boxey, trying to choke back his tears, wouldn't look at his father now. "Boxey, I can't tell you things will be better. I still have to go on the patrols, the missions. There's always danger. But I need you, Boxey. It's selfish, but I need to find you here whenever I return."

  Apollo could see a moment of doubt flash through Boxey's face, then the boy ran tearfully into his father's outstretched arms.

  Dwybolt came offstage at that moment, an exit he was only too willing to take. Touched by the father-son reunion, he studied it, a fictional scene beginning to take form in his mind. He was always on the lookout for a good sentimental scene. After a while he spoke softly, "Could you lend us your boy back? To finish the play?"

  "Of course," Apollo said. Dwybolt directed Apollo to a chair near the lighting board, where he could watch the rest of the performance.

  Boxey, who didn't have another scene for some time, strolled back to the makeup area, feeling happy that he'd be returning to his normal life. He was surprised to see Peri standing in the shadows, looking disconsolate.

  "Goin' back now, are you, after the show?" she said, her voice sad. Boxey nodded. "Well, see you around. If you're lucky."

  "You can come live with us."

  She was tempted, but she said, "No. Not my kind of life, Box."

  "Boxey. Not Box. Boxey. I don't like Box."

  She smiled. "Can't say as I blame you . . . Boxey."

  "What'll you do now?"

  She shrugged. "Don't really know. Maybe go back to the Pit. Maybe stay here with these clowns. This is fun."

  They stood together awkwardly. After a long while, Boxey said, "Well, if you change your mind—"

  "Sure, Boxey. Get away for now. Please."

  Boxey didn't quite understand her dismissal, but he went to another part of the backstage area. Glancing back, he saw little change in Peri. She had not moved. Stage lights made her eyes gleam.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A figure stood in the shadows near Apollo. Boxey walked closer and recognized the old man from the Devil's Pit. He ran to him and hugged him.

  "What're you doing here?" Boxey asked.

  "Came here with your dad, to help him find you," the old man said. Apollo nodded, verifying the old man's words. "When he sprang up on the stage after you and didn't come back, I thought I'd better sneak back here, see what was happening. We were all worried about you, kiddo. That's what it's like when—"

  The old man stopped speaking and pressed his body against the wall as Dwybolt, with Shalheya, strode offstage. They were discussing some matter of stage blocking, and neither looked around. The old man started edging back along the wall, toward the stage door. Boxey followed him.

  "What's wrong?" Boxey asked.

  "You're all right, kiddo. I better get back to my seat."

  Even though the old man whispered, his voice carried. Dwybolt looked up. Peering into the darkness, he saw the old man and gasped.

  "What is it, Dwybolt?" Shalheya asked.

  "It's him. Him! Him!"

  The old man broke into a run.

  "Franda!" Dwybolt shouted. "The Great Franda!"

  "Who's the Great Franda?"

  "HIM!"

  The old man flung open the stage door and hurled himself out into the corridor. Dwybolt scurried after him. Shalheya, confused, followed. Apollo looked at Boxey, Boxey at Apollo, and both shrugged.

  Cassiopeia had entered the lobby of the auditorium. After the curtain-raiser had driven Starbuck away, she'd begun to wonder if razzing Starbuck had been right. Opening the exit-door, she saw the old man race past. He looked worried. Maybe he needed help. She rushed out into the corridor and collided with Dwybolt. Both fell. Dwybolt sprang up and leaped over her, continuing his run down the corridor.

  Shalheya stopped running to help Cassiopeia up. As she dusted herself off, Cassiopeia remarked, "What was that all about?"

  "Franda," Shalheya said. "The Great Franda."

  "Who's the Great Franda?"

  "Beats me."

  Seeing that Cassiopeia was all right, she continued pursuing Dwybolt. Intrigued, Cassiopeia followed. Passing Shalheya, she caught up with Dwybolt.

  "Who's the Great Franda?" she yelled
at him.

  "The greatest actor of our times."

  "Where'd he spring from?"

  "I don't know."

  "Where is he?"

  "Up ahead there."

  "Him? The old man?"

  "Yes, him."

  "But he's just a derelict."

  "A part Franda could play to the hilt."

  Cassiopeia was so astonished, she almost stopped running. The old man was an actor! No wonder he'd been so willing to help Hera and Cassiopeia write the play. She was really curious now, and she passed Dwybolt to lead the way in the chase.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Baltar knew there was no chance to retrieve his own ship. The only way out of the Galactica, now that he'd planted the bomb, was to steal a monoshuttle. After he'd knocked out the single crewman in the guard booth, it was easy for him to locate a freshly fueled shuttle, but he knew he had to work fast. Once the bomb went off, Spectre's forces would be surrounding the Galactica and it might be difficult to convince them he was on their side.

  As he was about to enter the shuttle, a voice behind him nearly made his heart stop.

  "Thought there was something overripe about you, Korriman."

  There was no mistaking the rough well-traveled voice of Captain Ironhand. Baltar whirled around. His voice rose high, as it always did when he was scared. "Wh—where in Kobol did you come from?"

  "Been trackin' you for some time. You're up to something, I can tell, did something back there. Sabotage, was it?"

  "I—I don't know what you're talking about, Captain. I was just—just—just taking a walk and—"

  "Send those lies down the plank. I know you're about to take a powder, leave the ship. I can see flight in a man's eyes. I been down the garbage chute myself, coupla times. You're coming up to the bridge with me, see the commander, straighten all this out."

  Baltar knew he couldn't face Adama. There was too much chance the man might recognize him in spite of his remade face. He approached Ironhand, smiling amiably, and said, "I'll be happy to discuss this with the commander, Captain."

  As Ironhand clearly relaxed, Baltar whipped out the small laser pistol he'd concealed inside his tunic and fired. The shot caught Ironhand in the chest. The man swayed on his feet, but there was still life in his eyes as he lunged toward Baltar, who dodged sideways and fired again. He hit Ironhand dead center. The captain swiped at Baltar with his metal hand. Baltar felt its point go right by his face. On its downward sweep, it caught in his tunic, ripping it sideways, then it made contact with the skin of Baltar's arm. Baltar nearly fainted as he watched the claw make a long gash in his upper arm. Blood spurted out.

  Ironhand had raised his iron claw again and it was coming right at Baltar's eyes. Backing away, Baltar shot again as the hand missed blinding him by inches. Ironhand, life finally going out of his eyes, dropped heavily at Baltar's feet.

  Baltar, still afraid of the damage the hand could do, examined Ironhand's body gingerly, afraid the captain might come to life and make one final thrust at him. After assuring himself the man was dead, Baltar dragged the body to a nearby shuttle and started to shove it beneath the ship's underbelly. Before he could stuff it all the way under, he heard steps behind him.

  "What's going on here?"

  Baltar, taking care to keep his body in front of the corpse, turned around and almost swallowed his tongue when he saw who he was facing. "Colonel Tigh!"

  Tigh's eyes narrowed, a frightening look to the already terrified Baltar. "You know who I am? I thought you did." He took a couple of steps closer. "It's Baltar, isn't it? All dolled up and changed, but Baltar."

  Baltar didn't know what to do. The bomb would explode at any moment, and then he'd be trapped on the Galactica. That was the substance of his every nightmare, being trapped on the Galactica. "I don't know what you're talking about, Colonel."

  "I think you do." Tigh saw Ironhand's body. "And what's this? Looks like you're up to your old—"

  Baltar quickly drew his pistol again. But Tigh was ready for him. His weapon was already out, with a good bead on Baltar.

  "Your disguise is good, Baltar. What is it, actor's makeup? Does it peel off? Or did you have something—"

  Baltar, as he always did when backed into a corner, lunged out to save his life. He collided against Tigh, who was caught off guard by the move. Baltar, who had flung his own pistol away as he made the jump, seized Tigh's gunhand and knocked it against the edge of a shuttle exhaust tube. The gun fell out of the colonel's hand. Tigh, dazed, tried to fight back, but Baltar's move had been too swift and the new conditioning in his body had given Baltar an edge even he had not expected. With two swift punches, he knocked Tigh out.

  Baltar made a quick search for one of the guns, intending to finish Tigh off, but before he could pick one up, he thought he heard a noise outside the shuttle area. There was no point in battling another intruder, so he raced toward the ship he wanted to steal. In a moment the ship roared into action and out of the launch bay, leaving Tigh still unconscious on the floor. He remained unconscious until awakened by the rumble through the floor that disrupted the entire Galactica.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  In front of Adama's cabin, Lucifer first checked both directions of the corridor to ensure nobody would see him enter—then, with a mighty heave, he slammed his body against the door, which collapsed inward with a sound that resembled a small human gasp.

  Adama looked up from some papers on his desk. Beginning to stand, he shouted, "What is this?" Who are you?"

  There was no reason for Lucifer to answer. Scrambling over the commander's desk, he grabbed the man by the neck. Quickly, efficiently, he began to strangle Adama.

  Moments before, Starbuck rounded a corner and saw a skulking Borellian Noman ahead of him. Something about the creature's movements prompted caution. After his experiences with the treachery of Boreilians, Starbuck felt no Noman could be trusted.

  As he tracked the Noman, he did not sense Hera tracking him. Hera couldn't see the Noman and thought that Starbuck's abrupt movements, moving forward quickly and suddenly pulling back, were bizarre and perhaps disturbed.

  Starbuck watched Lucifer breaking down the door. As the creature stepped over the remains of the door, Starbuck swung into action. He leaped into the corridor and raced down the hall. Hera, again surprised by a sudden move from Starbuck, ran after him.

  At the doorway, Starbuck saw the Borellian Noman inside with his big hands around Adama's throat. Adama was gasping and the veins of his face stuck out.

  With an angry yell, Starbuck leaped onto Lucifer's back. "Let go, you hairy lump of felgercarb!"

  Starbuck stuck his hands in Lucifer's face, cutting off his vision, but Lucifer did not loosen his hold. Adama's eyes bulged out under Lucifer's firm but not quite fatal grasp.

  His legs firmly around Lucifer, Starbuck reared back slightly and brought his fists down upon the back of Lucifer's neck. Something in Lucifer's circuitry was jarred by the blow and his grip on Adama weakened. Adama took the opportunity to intrude his hands between Lucifer's arms and push sideways. Though he loosened Lucifer's grasp, Adama was not able to squirm out of it. He began to feel dizzy.

  Hera ran into the room and saw Starbuck on the Noman's back. She circled around for a better view and saw the commander in the Noman's hands, struggling to disentangle himself, his eyes dazed. Hera jumped onto the desk, grabbed a pyramid paperweight, and slammed it against the side of Lucifer's head. At the same time Starbuck pulled at Lucifer's neck with all his strength. The double blow stunned Lucifer momentarily. He released Adama.

  Lucifer wrenched backward. Starbuck flew off his back. Simultaneously, Lucifer gave Hera a backhand blow that knocked her off the desk and backward against a wall. Adama scurried backward, his hands on his own throat, checking for damage.

  Lucifer looked around. His mission was not so clear in his mind now. Starbuck, not so clear himself, slowly edged toward the door, a move intended to take the attacker's attention away from the flou
ndering commander. Deliberately, he taunted him. "You want a blood trail, you overgrown hairball, come after me."

  Lucifer stood still. "I . . . recognize you. You are Starbuck."

  "That's me all right. Who are you?"

  "It does not matter. I do not matter. Only my mission."

  Lucifer turned back toward Adama. Starbuck jumped into the gap between the apparent Noman and the commander. "Well, big guy. I've got a mission, too."

  The remark confused Lucifer. "You do?"

  "We all do. You Borellian Nomen might not understand but we're the good guys and we stand up for each other. You've got to fight me."

  "I can't stop for you, human."

  Starbuck was puzzled by the creature's words. The Borellian Nomen might not be the gentlemen of the universe, but they were technically humanoid. "Human?"

  Lucifer, not wanting to be drawn into a discussion that would only stall his mission, drew his pistol and aimed it at Starbuck. Yet, when he tried to pull the trigger, he was unable to. He did not want to kill this man, but could not figure out why. The pause allowed Starbuck to pull out his own pistol.

  "If that's your game . . . ," he said.

  Lucifer, reacting quickly, shot the gun out of Starbuck's hand. Hera came to and leaped up. She ran at Lucifer's arm and deflected his aim. Lucifer's pistol went flying. He took another swipe at Hera, who he had not seen coming, and knocked her against the opposite wall.

  Adama grabbed the edge of his desk and finally got some words out. "Starbuck! Get away . . . get help . . . save yourself."

  Lucifer took a step toward the desk. Starbuck, his eyes fixed on Lucifer, stayed in between the attacker and Adama.

  "No thanks, Commander. Too dangerous. Don't mean to disobey your orders, but I'd kinda like to save your life."

  "You're . . . begging for a court-martial, mister."

  "I'll prosecute myself, sir."

  Lucifer, unable to understand this exchange, lashed out at Starbuck, who neatly dodged his outstretched arm. Moving in closer, he realized he would have to kill this intrusive, but strangely familiar, human. Starbuck eased sideways, beckoning Lucifer with arrogant gestures.