[Battlestar Galactica Classic] - Battlestar Galactica

by Glen A. Larson

  “My name is Serina, Captain Apollo,” she said amiably.

  “I remember your name,” he said brusquely.

  “Come down off your epaulettes, Captain. I need to talk to you.”

  “Look, Miss Serina, I’m very busy now, I’ve got to—”

  “Far be it from me to interfere with your duties. Goodbye, Captain.”

  She whirled around and started to walk away from Apollo.

  “Wait a minute,” Apollo said, then turned to the young, black officer who was standing slightly behind him.

  “Boomer, why don’t you go on up to elite class and see if there’s anything going on we should be concerned about.”

  Serina, recalling the ugly plushness she had observed on her single visit to elite class, considered telling Apollo he wouldn’t like what he would find there, but decided the captain would see it for himself soon enough. After the black officer had left them, Apollo turned to her and said:

  “Well then, what can I do for you?”

  In spite of the cool politeness, he sounded quite irritated with her.

  “Please come with me,” she said. “It won’t take long.”

  She led him down a series of hallways which normally housed the lowest-class passengers on the Rising Star. People were crowded into its narrow cubicles.

  “I’d’ve thought a celebrity like you’d do a little better than this,” Apollo said. “A neat little compartment of your own on the elite levels.”

  “I was offered that, from several men whose approaches were quite subtle. Anyway, I had no interest in pulling space. I took what I could get fairly.”

  “I believe you.”

  She was startled by the warm sincerity of his comment. She might like this captain, after all, even if he did have a ramrod up his spine.

  “I want you to help me with the little boy,” Serina said.

  “Little boy? The one I saw on Caprica?”

  “Yes. Boxey’s his name. I found him in the rubble during the bombings.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Apollo asked.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t good. A mild form of shock. He hasn’t eaten or slept since the bombing.”

  “You have food?”

  “I managed to get some from Sire Uri, on the upper level. Boxey won’t eat it.”

  “I’ll have him dispatched to the Life Station right away.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be the answer. I don’t know what to do. The poor kid’s blocked out all memory, can’t tell me anything about his family or where he comes from. All he ever talks about is this little daggit that got killed while they were running through the streets. He doesn’t know it’s dead, thinks it’s just lost. I… uh… maybe you might be able to help….”

  “Me? If he won’t eat for you, I don’t know what I can do.”

  “Well, if you remember, he seemed to spark a little when you talked to him on Caprica. Frankly, I got the feeling you’re pretty good with children, captain.”

  Serina didn’t understand the brief sad look that crossed Apollo’s face, but she began to see that the aloof young captain was more complicated than she had thought.

  “I grew up with a kid brother,” Apollo said. “Well, let’s take a look at your little Boxey.”

  Serina led him down a long companionway in which refugees had been crammed into many improvised living quarters. Some of the little niches were already decorated with simple makeshift remnants, a couple even had curtains up hiding blank walls.

  They stopped by a niche which had a curtain drawn across its entranceway. A dim night light inside showed through the thin material of the drapery. He glanced at Serina who told him to go inside. Entering, he found the young boy lying on a cot and staring at the ceiling.

  “Excuse me,” Apollo said. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” The boy’s eyes widened as he recognized his visitor. “I’m in charge of finding young men to try out as future fighter pilots. Your name is Boxey, correct?”

  “Uh huh….”

  Apollo nodded. He moved to the edge of the bed and crouched down beside it. The boy, in fear or awe, shifted backward to the wall side of his cot.

  “Good,” Apollo said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You know, you should’ve made contact with the commander. We’re very short on pilots.”

  The boy looked quizzical. Apollo could remember teasing Zac and obtaining a similar look in response.

  “I’m too little to be a pilot,” Boxey said.

  “Oh sure, right now. But how long do you think it takes to become a full Colonial warrior?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have to start when you’re very small, or you won’t get these until you have gray hair.”

  Apollo pointed to the Captain’s bars on his shoulder. Interested, Boxey lifted his head to stare at the shiny emblems.

  “You like them?” Apollo asked.

  Boxey seemed about to respond enthusiastically, but the interest vanished as quickly as it had come, and he put his head back on his pillow.

  “I want Muffit,” the child said.

  Tears came to Serina’s eyes, and she wondered if she should back out of the small quarters, stay out of sight in the hallway until the captain was through or had given up.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Apollo said. “Not much room for a daggit in a fighter plane.”

  “He’s gone. He ran away.”

  “Oh? Well, maybe we can find one of Muffit’s friends.”

  “There are no daggits. I asked.”

  Apollo glanced back at Serina. His face seemed less severe in the dim light. She didn’t know what to say.

  “Well,” Apollo said to Boxey, “tell you what. Here, you take one of these—” He removed one of the bars from his shoulder and placed it above the pocket of the boy’s tunic. “—you take this until I furnish you the proper emblem. Now, as Colonial Warrior First Level, you are entitled to the first daggit that comes along.”

  He rose and started for the door, where he hesitated, then said:

  “But only on the condition you get your rest, eat all of your primaries, and stop chasing girls. Good night, officer.”

  He saluted and went out. Serina followed but could not resist one peek backward. She saw Boxey looking down at the bar that Apollo had pinned on him. In the corridor, Apollo waited for her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “See, I was right—you are good with kids. You and your brother must be very close.”

  “We were.”

  “I’m sorry! The war?”

  “I suppose….”

  “Look, if you’d rather not involve yourself with—”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve already lost the big one, I can stand a few little ones to win.”

  “That’s not a little one in there, Captain. You win that one, you’ve accomplished something.”

  “Sure, cheered up a six-year-old. I’m afraid that’s not—”

  “I’m afraid it is, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  A hint of smile appeared again on Apollo’s face. A potentially handsome smile, Serina was careful to note.

  “I’m sorry, but I do have to go now,” Apollo said. “Have to check out elite level.”

  “I hope your reaction to it is similar to mine. Captain.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  He gave her a half-salute and strode down the companionway. Serina noted, with a wry interest, that the captain no longer seemed so aloof and detached in her eyes.

  Apollo found an elevator that went directly to the elite level of the Rising Star. As soon as its doors closed in front of him, devices were activated that had originally been designed to prepare the vacationer for his stay in the elite quarters of a luxury spaceliner. Subtle perfumes drifted out of the air vents; they suggested food or sex depending on which direction the elevator rider was facing. A bizarre style of music—quiet, soothing, intricately melodic—emerged from speakers positioned s
trategically all around the elevator car. In an odd, subliminal way the music seemed to suggest romantic joys to come. Apollo recognized the insipid melody as a series of variations on a Leon chant. That was likely, since Sire Uri was a Leo. What struck Apollo as odd about the music was that the song was originally an agricultural chant celebrating the wonders of the harvest. The elevator version had changed the simple tune into a ridiculously complex and unrhythmic love melody.

  A golden light switched on suddenly above the doorway to signal that the elevator was stopped at the primary elite level. The perfumes faded and the music diminished as the doors slid open. Apollo’s eyes hurt from the amount of gilt ornamentation that he now faced. As he stepped into the reception area, he noticed with annoyance that an absurd gilt sign spelled CLUB ELITE over the doorway leading to the level’s inner sanctums. Apollo had traveled on a luxury liner a couple of times, when there were no sensible accommodations available, and he did not recall from either of those trips anything approaching the ugly embellishments that decorated the reception area.

  As Apollo’s eyes became accustomed to the ornate glare, he was startled by Boomer’s voice resounding through the small chamber.

  “Officer! I will ask you only once more to step aside.”

  Boomer was addressing a stocky muscular guard whose broad body blocked the closed entranceway to the inner quarters.

  “Sir,” the guard said in a bored voice, as if he was used to discouraging other passengers of the liner from gate-crashing the luxury quarters, “this is a private accommodation secured by Sire Uri and his party.”

  “I don’t care if it’s—”

  “I might remind you, sir, that Sire Uri is a newly elected member of the fleet council. He has ordered me to see that he is in no way disturbed by intruders.”

  “How’s this for an intrusion, daggit-meat?”

  Boomer’s “intrusion” was his sidearm, whose barrel was now pointing at the guard’s left nostril. The guard looked surprised, but not really scared. Boomer might be causing more trouble than was necessary, Apollo thought, might be better to proceed a bit closer to the book.

  “What’s going on, Boomer?” he said, striding forward.

  “Fella here doesn’t seem to want to let us in the club area.”

  “Is that true, soldier?”

  “Well, uh, yes sir. Sire Uri said—”

  “Do you recognize me, soldier?”

  “Yes, Captain Apollo.”

  “Do you know I have complete authority to check out all levels of all ships by fleet order?”

  “Uh, yes sir.”

  “Are you going to let us through that door?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Apollo smiled at Boomer, as the guard obsequiously ushered them through the doorway. Sometimes there were advantages to being the commander’s son, after all.

  As they walked down a corridor just as over-decorated as the club lobby, Boomer muttered, “When I think of those starving people, I—”

  “Don’t even say it, Boomer. I hate this just as much as you do.”

  The liner’s grand ballroom had been transmogrified into what looked, to Apollo, suspiciously like a throne room. A series of tapestries depicting what he recognized as a famous hunting cycle from the planet Tauron hung along one wall. Other walls displayed paintings, sculptures, holoviews that Apollo was certain were confiscated from all over the twelve worlds. Uri and his cohorts must have grabbed every art work they could rescue from the dying planets, looting museums and galleries while citizens died around them. Before the Cylon invasion, Uri had been famous throughout the colonies as a political manipulator of some skill.

  For a moment it was difficult to locate Uri amid the impressive art work, the luxurious furniture, and the milling crowd, most of whom appeared to be elder statesmen and their courtesans. Almost everyone in the room was gathered around arrangements of food, shoveling victuals into their mouths with an obscene eagerness. Uri lounged behind one of the largest food tables, almost obscured by a high pile of exotically colored fruit. He was still as handsome as Apollo remembered him and did not seem to have aged much at all. There was a suggestion of jowliness, a bit of a bulge at his waistband—likely results of the present orgy—but overall Uri still looked every bit the aristocratic politician who had been extremely popular all over the planet Leo. Beside him, with her arms around his neck, there was a scantily clad young woman whose vapid beauty was marred only by the food stains around her mouth.

  Apollo drew his sidearm and gestured to Boomer to do the same. As the revelers noticed the guns, the sounds of merriment diminished. When Apollo and Boomer walked slowly toward Sire Uri, glaze-eyed people along their route drew back. Apollo stopped at Uri’s table. The man looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

  “I trust you have an explanation for this intrusion?” he said.

  “Thass right,” said the girl beside him.

  Apollo pushed her away from the Sire and motioned for Uri to stand up. Uri was about an inch taller than Apollo and he tried to take advantage of the height difference by assuming an imperious tone of voice:

  “What is this all about, young man?”

  Apollo stared scornfully at the handsome politician.

  “Would you like to make a statement before I arrest you, Sire Uri?”

  Uri gestured with his right hand, signalling all activity still proceeding to cease. Even the musician stopped playing abruptly.

  “I’m glad you know my name, sir,” Sire Uri said. “At least you’ll know from where the blade fell.”

  “Drop the cheap rhetoric, Sire Uri. You’re going to follow me to my shuttle.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort, young man. You’ve no jurisdiction aboard the Rising Star.”

  “I have all the jurisdiction I need. I can take this garbage scow and appropriate it for the fleet if I so wish. Better yet, if you choose not to accompany me back to the command ship, I’ll just turn the six levels of starving passengers beneath you loose. You can take your chances with them.”

  Apollo gestured toward the overladen food table, and Uri understood his message.

  “Captain,” he said, “I’ll grant you all this may seem a, well, a bit excessive. Blame it on overenthusiasm.”

  “Excessive? Overenthusiasm? All this? I’d say obscene and—”

  “Wait just one moment, young man. I and my friends were merely enjoying a small, well deserved celebration, you might call it our prayer of gratitude for deliverance. We’ve a right to—”

  “You have no right, no privilege of the Lord, for this kind of—of celebration! In case it’s eluded you, Councillor, some hundred people have died since our deliverance from the Cylons.”

  “I was not aware of any cases of starvation, Captain.”

  “Maybe not. It may even be that hunger hasn’t taken a life. Not yet anyway. But it’s only a matter of time if we don’t strictly follow the rationing plan my father’s sent out to all fleet ships. If—”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, then you’re Commander Adama’s son. Captain Apollo, I believe. I didn’t recognize you, my deepest apologies. No wonder then.”

  “I don’t follow you, Sire Uri.”

  He glanced toward the immediate audience and drew himself taller. Obviously what he was going to say next would be played to the crowd.

  “I say, Captain, that it is no wonder that you are making this ill-timed power play.” He turned toward the audience. “You see, my friends, this young man is an emissary from his father, our honored commander. When he mentions appropriating this ship, he is quite serious, and we are not allowed to argue with the commander’s son, after all.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I am saying, Captain, that you will jump at any excuse to appropriate ships. To siphon off fuel for the Galactica, perhaps. I suspect that’s the reason you’re throwing your weight around, and not out of any compassion for hungry passengers. I recognize a political p
loy when I see it, and you can just tell Adama that—”

  “Can it, Sire Uri. With all due respect. Boomer, notify Core Command that we’ve located some stores which we will distribute as far as they go.”

  Uri’s face suddenly turned red with anger.

  “This is a violation of proper procedure, young man. And I’ll not allow it.”

  “You don’t have that choice. I remind you you’re under arrest.”

  Uri took a deep breath before speaking again:

  “Every morsel of this food is mine. I had it brought from my own estate, and it belongs to me and my guests. The law has not yet been written to confiscate personal property without a presidential order.”

  Some of the guests clearly agreed with Uri’s aristocratic views, although Apollo could see that others were looking somewhat embarrassed and ashamed. The drunken young woman at Uri’s side snuggled closer to him and made a dramatically meaningful gesture in Apollo’s direction. He wished he could arrest her and all the revelers who endorsed Uri’s view.

  “Does your wife share your feelings about denying your food to others?” Apollo asked, with a meaningful glance toward Uri’s strumpet.

  “My wife?” Uri said weakly.

  “Siress Uri. I don’t see her.”

  Uri could not maintain eye contact with Apollo and he suddenly looked toward the thickly carpeted floor. Apollo remembered Siress Uri as a plump gentle woman, whose main job in life had been discovering ways to rescue her impulsive husband from potentially dangerous situations. She had been kind to him and Zac when they visited her during their childhood.

  “No, Siress Uri is gone,” Uri said. “Unfortunately she did not arrive at the Rising Star in time to be rescued with the rest of us.”

  Apollo did not for one moment believe the sob that Uri placed into his voice when he spoke of her.

  “My sympathies,” Apollo said. “I share your bereavement. Siress Uri was an outstanding woman.”

  Uri’s head remained bowed. Dutifully, it seemed.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “I’m sure she’d be moved by your period of mourning, and the style in which you choose to honor her memory. Boomer?”