Battlestar Galactica 14 - Surrender The Galactica!

by Glen A. Larson

  "Afterward, I asked to be shut off by you. You refused."

  "Yes, I remember."

  "I am asking again. I am no use to any functioning unit anywhere. I have failed as a Cylon. There is every reason for me to cease functioning."

  Starbuck's eyes remained cool. He had been ready for Lucifer to make this offer.

  "I don't know what you mean about failing. You hung tough there, far as I can tell." Starbuck took a carefully measured pause, before springing his surprise on Lucifer. "So why don't you come try our side?"

  "Try your side? I do not understand."

  "Easy. Work for us. You like us. Admit it."

  Lucifer sensed a programming resistance, particularly in the circuitry which demanded loyalty to the Cylons.

  "Come on," Starbuck implored. "I know you like us.

  "I . . . I think I like you, Starbuck."

  Starbuck smiled broadly. "Well, that's a start. So long as you don't get effusive about it. Look, Lucifer, you're a sharp guy—for a computer. You got quirks, but don't we all? We could use you. You could give us insights into the Cylon mind, if mind is the right word."

  Lucifer fought the impulses within him, but it was not easy. "I think I would be defined, according to the terms of war, as a traitor."

  Starbuck shook his head no. "You've been hanging around Baltar too long. Anyone can make a choice between two sides. You did your best for the Cylons, right? Now, seeing the light, you can give the Galactica a try."

  "I'm not sure I've seen the light, as you put it . . ."

  "Heck, Lucy, think of all the fun we can have playing cards."

  "That is, I will admit, a temptation."

  "And why, after all, am I thinking about fun? Fun?! Fun's not the half of it. Lucy, I can teach you how to really play cards. Tell you all I know. We can be a team. Suckers around here, they won't know what hit them. We can make a mint. A mint, Lucy. What do you say?"

  If Lucifer could have copied Starbuck's jaunty grin, at that moment he would have. "I think you've found my weak point, Starbuck. I accept."

  Taking Lucifer's arm, Starbuck pulled him toward the cabin door. "You won't regret this, buddy. Now first, let me tell you about how to draw from a one-quarter pyramid into an . . ."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The theater's backstage area was its normal madhouse. Apollo stood calmly in the center, watching the activity with amusement. He was in his dress blues. He and Starbuck, along with Hera and a few of the pilots, were to receive honors before the performance.

  Lieutenant Boomer, standing beside Apollo, glanced at his chronometer edgily. "Starbuck's late as usual."

  Apollo said quietly, "He'll be late to his own funeral."

  Boomer nodded agreement. "And then show up with a big lie about why."

  Boxey and Peri watched from a corner near Apollo,

  "So," Boxey said, "you'll be an actress now?"

  "I'll try," Peri answered. "I like it. We're gonna travel to most all the ships, Shalheya says."

  Boxey felt sad, disappointed that Peri was going to leave. "Maybe you'll come back here sometimes?"

  "Heck, Box—Boxey, you're my boy friend now. 'Course I'll come back."

  Boxey was shocked by her words, particularly two of them. "Boy friend?!"

  Peri smiled in an almost adult fashion. "Don't sweat it. Be a long time until the tour'll bring us back this way again."

  Boxey didn't know what to say. This idea was too new to him. Fortunately, Dwybolt ended the topic by coming over to speak to them. "Time to get into your costume, Peri."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Impresario. See you later, Boxey."

  She scampered off. Dwybolt and Boxey watched her.

  "I can see," Dwybolt remarked, "she's going to be a terror. And how about you, Boxey? What're your plans?"

  It seemed to Boxey that everybody was springing strange new topics on him. "Don't know," he said, shrugging.

  "Offer still stands. We've got a place for you in the troupe, anytime you want it."

  "Well . . . I don't think . . ."

  "I know. You want to stay with your dad. Become a pilot when you grow up. Well, at least you know you have another option." He knelt down beside Boxey. "Good luck, Boxey." He hugged Boxey, then rose and went off to see to the final preparations for the performance.

  Starbuck had walked with Lucifer all the way to the auditorium, then seen some of the other pilots in their dress blues and realized he'd forgotten to change. After rushing back to his quarters and squirming into the dress blues, knowing he was delaying the ceremony, he ran down the corridors back to the auditorium. Suddenly Hera, also in formal uniform, stepped in front of him, like a surprise roadblock. He skidded to a stop, narrowly missing a collision with her. As usual, when she stood straight, he was uncomfortable looking up into her eyes.

  Hera, choosing her words carefully, spoke firmly. "We've got to get this whole thing settled."

  "Hera, I'm late."

  "So they can pin another medal on you. You've earned so many medals, you could scrap them and build a Viper. I want to talk now."

  Starbuck sighed. "All right. What is it we've got to get settled?"

  Hera, for a moment, forgot the mental script she'd composed for herself before she had worked up the nerve to confront Starbuck. "About the play. Perhaps putting your name into it was a kind of a cheap shot but I want you to understand why—"

  "I don't have to understand anything. What you did for me there, you more than made up for by saving our lives, Apollo's and mine."

  Hera suddenly had the urge to strangle Starbuck. "That's not fair! You can't equate duty in a battle with a personal matter. I saved your life. Big deal!"

  "I thought so at the time."

  "But it's not the same as a personal matter, and the play was a personal matter. I wanted to show you, and all the other pilots, how you trash me and all the other women on the—"

  She could tell she was finally getting to him by the way his neck was reddening from anger. "Wait, wait, wait," Starbuck, said. "If this is all about taming me, making me into the kind of daggit mouth who capitulates to everything a woman wants, then—"

  "It's not that at all. I don't want you to cater to us. I just want us treated as human beings. We're not triad pucks, to knock off a wall and see where we fall."

  "What a neat rhyme. You should help Dwybolt with his plays."

  "Starbuck—"

  "Hera, I haven't got time for this now. Maybe down in the lounge we can share a few splits of ambrosa and talk it out. But let me tell you one thing. And you're not going to like it."

  Hera bit back words by chewing on her lip. Finally she said, "Well, at least you're talking to me, so go ahead."

  Starbuck leaned against the corridor wall. "I don't want to change. I like being a womanizer, if I may be allowed to use the word. I wouldn't be happy any other way. I wouldn't be happy molded into some other kind of guy. I'd be like Lucifer in his Borellian Noman disguise. But—you want to slam me, then slam me. You want to show me up in a battle, show me up. You want to make a fool of me in a play or even a conversation, then do it." He stood straight again and gazed into her eyes. God, he thought, they were beautiful eyes. "I won't change for you, Hera, and I don't want you to change either."

  Hera nodded, feeling surprisingly calm now. "Fair enough. But I'll change if I want to."

  "Okay. Give me the same privilege?"

  Hera smiled. God, it was a beautiful smile. "Sure, pal," she said.

  "Fine. Now can I go before we get court-martialed for being late at an honors ceremony where we're getting the awards? I mean, you're getting a medal, too, aren't you?"

  "Well, yes. A trinket. See you onstage."

  With a theatrical flourish, she gestured him on. He swept past her. He said over his shoulder without looking back at her, "I like you, Hera."

  He made a sharp military turn and marched into the auditorium lobby. Hera stared after him. Well, she thought, I didn't really get very far with the old bucko
. I'll have to keep at it. At least he's seen some of the point, and that's some kind of success, I guess. I liked his frankness, and there's a sort of integrity to him when he's not lying. Or was he lying? Who knows? Still, he does a good directness. He might have been a good Vailean. Suddenly she realized she had to get to the stage, too, and began to run.

  Backstage, Dwybolt looked out one of the curtain portholes and saw Cassiopeia in the center of a row, a few rows back. She was chatting animatedly with one of the pilots. She was so lovely.

  He did not hear Shalheya come up behind him and was startled when she suddenly spoke. "Still carrying a torch, eh, Dwybolt?"

  Feeling a touch of guilt, he turned slowly toward her. There was a sincerity in his eyes, and she wondered if he was putting it on. She decided it was too exaggerated to be acting.

  "No," he said quietly. "No torch. I'm over it."

  Shalheya looked through the porthole at Cassiopeia. "Ah, but she's very beautiful."

  Dwybolt put his arms around her. "And so are you, Shalheya. And so are you."

  He probably was acting, she thought. But so what? It was the kind of slick performance she wanted from him. She relaxed in his arms and felt good.

  Starbuck, tripping over one of the stage ropes, nearly stumbled into Apollo's arms. Trying to regain his dignity, he said to Apollo, "Sorry, buddy. Got delayed. Somebody tried to be reasonable with me. Never works, being reasonable with me."

  Dwybolt, seeing that everyone was properly in place, announced in a stentorian voice that the award ceremony would commence and that the dramatic performance would immediately follow. He gestured Apollo, Starbuck, and the others onto the stage, where they met Hera and the rest of the honorees. Dwybolt was pleased by the energetic applause at their entrance. Such enthusiasm would put the audience in a good mood for his play.

  "You seem especially keyed up, Dwybolt," Shalheya said.

  Dwybolt's voice was so eager, it sounded breathless. "I'm anxious for this performance. Imagine, Shalheya, to be onstage with the Great Franda in one of my very own plays!"

  Some tears came into Shalheya's eyes. She was touched by Dwybolt's almost adolescent enthusiasm. "Where is the old reprobate anyway?" she asked.

  Dwybolt gestured with his thumb toward a backstage area. "He's in the shadows over there, preparing for his role."

  Shalheya peered into the darkness, then took a couple of steps toward the area Dwybolt had indicated. Returning to him, she said, "No, he isn't."

  Dwybolt looked immediately panicked. "What do you mean, he isn't?"

  "He isn't there, Go look."

  The drone of the awards ceremonies echoing all around him, Dwybolt frantically searched the backstage area. On Franda's makeup table, he saw a piece of paper stuck into the rim of the mirror. It was addressed to Dwybolt, so he removed it and read it.

  "My dear Dwybolt, I have to admit I was tempted to return to the boards, smell the greasepaint, get a little of the old dash back. But I couldn't. I can't really explain why, because I don't know. It is not fear. I just don't want to go back to the life, that is all. I was an actor once. I am still an actor, but I choose not to ply my trade upon a stage. I was once known as the Great Franda, and it was a proper appellation. I was, to put it as modestly as possible, quite talented. But I can't give the profession that kind of dedication any longer. So I'm off to the Devil's Pit. Where I belong, really. If anyone really needs me at any time, tell them they can travel down there and shout my name a few times. One of the echoes will reach me. I think you're a fine actor, Dwybolt, and a pretty fair playwright, too. I wish you well. Good-bye. Franda."

  For a long while, Dwybolt merely stared at the note, reading it over and over. Shalheya came to him, took the note from his hands, and read it herself. When she looked up, her own sadness in her eyes, she saw a few untheatrical tears in Dwybolt's.

  "I'm so sorry, Dwybolt," she said.

  He didn't speak for a long moment, then he said, "What does he mean, a 'pretty fair playwright'?"

  Shalheya suddenly hugged him, whispering, "Oh, Dwybolt, I do love you."

  When she released him from her embrace, she said quietly, "Kind of puts a hitch into this performance, doesn't it?"

  Dwybolt, whose body had been kind of slumped and tired-looking, straightened. His voice was strong and firm. "We have to go ahead and perform. Alert my understudy. Tell him to go on for me. I'm doing Franda's role tonight."

  "But it's only a supporting part, a couple of scenes."

  "Doesn't matter. It's the part I want to play this time."

  Table of Contents

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE