Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon!

by Glen A. Larson

  "Lieutenant," Hera said in a husky voice, "we didn't finish discussing emergency evasive tactics."

  "I was just giving you a graphic demonstration."

  "What, I don't—"

  "I evaded you, didn't I, Cadet?"

  The moment became tense as Hera stared piercingly at Starbuck, catching the irony of his remark, but not sure what it implied. Apollo decided to break the tension.

  "Are you going to introduce me to this lovely trainee, Starbuck?"

  Hera turned on him, her eyes angry.

  "I do not like to be called lovely," Hera said firmly. "Compliments from pilots are generally devious, I have found."

  Apollo nodded.

  "Sorry, Cadet. I meant nothing by the word. I was being factually descriptive, not devious."

  Hera searched Apollo's opaque blue eyes for irony, but realized he was being sincere.

  "I think you're telling the truth, Captain. Many men aren't when they offer compliments. Particularly on the Galactica, I have noticed."

  "Whoa there!" Starbuck said. "I never complimented you once, Cadet Hera, except for your skill in class."

  "I'm aware of that, Lieutenant. And I appreciate it. That's why I'm so attracted to you. You're not like other men."

  Apollo could barely control his laughter. Imagine, he thought, Starbuck being praised for not being like other men, especially when it came to women. Unless his friend swore him to silence, this would be wonderful material for teasing Starbuck in the lounge.

  The Intercom Circuit clicked on with the usual three-beep warning that an important message was about to be broadcast. The two pilots and the cadet glanced toward the speaker and waited tensely. Whenever those three beeps were heard, it could mean anything from a routine summons to the beginning of battle orders. This time it was a summons, as they heard Colonel Tigh's voice, a bit muffled by decays in the system, saying: "Captain Apollo, your presence is required on the bridge. On the double, please!"

  As Tigh repeated the message, Apollo said, "Got to go. Pleased to meet you, Cadet Hera."

  "We did not actually meet, not formally."

  "Another time, then. Soon, I hope."

  As Apollo started to walk away, Starbuck called after him, "Wait. That sounds like an emergency. I'll go with you."

  Seeing that his friend was just looking for an excuse to get away from the attractive cadet, Apollo decided to leave him on the hook. All over the ship, people had been victims of Starbuck's pranks. To be "starbucked" was a phrase that had been part of the Galactica's lingo for ages. It was time to starbuck Starbuck for once.

  "Not necessary, Lieutenant. The message was for me."

  Apollo strode away quickly in order to keep Starbuck from arguing him into anything. Some buddy, Starbuck thought, couldn't he see I'm trying to get away from this infernal female? Next time he needs help from me, he'll get felgercarb. He slipped a new cigar from his upper-arm zipper pocket and put it, unlit, in his mouth. He would think about lighting it later. He was trying to cut down and actually smoked only when he absolutely needed it.

  Hera planted herself directly in front of Starbuck, who was more than usually conscious of her height.

  "A charming man, Apollo, I think," she said.

  "Yeah," Starbuck muttered. "He is. Charming. Very charming." Then he saw a new strategy. His voice became smooth and persuasive, the kind of tone he employed regularly in a con job. "Say, Hera, you know, you and he, with all your positive qualities, might make quite a team. Romantically, I mean. Give it some thought, Cadet. And you can rely on me to make it happen. I'm quite the matchmaker, especially when it comes to a good buddy and a . . . good woman."

  Hera smiled, showing uneven but gleaming teeth. She spoke softly, "I envy the lover who wins the captain's heart, Lieutenant. But it will not be me, I'm sure. Now, Lieutenant Starbuck, I must tell you: We Vaileans are direct. A hard life in a wilderness planet doesn't allow time for clever strategies. I wish to tell you that I am extremely fond of you, Starbuck."

  Showily rubbing his chin in mock surprise, Starbuck's reply was spoken in his most boyish manner. "What? Really? Gee, look, Cadet, you've really got the wrong take on me. I'm not like you think I am."

  "I'm aware of your reputation as a skirt-chaser, Starbuck. I am also aware of your record of conquests, and the way it has marked you on this ship. The women, it seems, can't get through a normal conversation without mentioning your name."

  Starbuck felt his heart beat faster at Hera's information.

  "Is that right?" he said eagerly. "Really? My, I didn't realize that. It's . . . very flattering."

  Hera sighed. "I suppose. If you believe in flattery. I don't."

  "Well, I'm sure they exaggerate the—"

  "I think not. I believe you are every bit the romantic rogue they say you are. But that doesn't concern me. All I know is that ever since I came aboard the Galactica and saw you for the first time, I haven't been able to get you out of my mind. On Vaile we have a saying: 'To rid your mind of something that is bothering you, you must confront the source of it.' You are that source. I wish to be your woman, Lieutenant."

  Starbuck tried to control his anger. She wasn't supposed to proposition him. That was his job. He hadn't been sure he wanted to make a pass at Hera; now he knew he didn't want to. It would be redundant, anyway.

  "Hey, hey, wait a centon," he said, backing away from her. "You just don't go up to somebody and announce that sort of thing with—with—"

  "Honesty?" she said, and let the word hang for a moment before going on. "Is honesty not a good trait with you?"

  Again, Starbuck was flustered by the directness of the woman, and again it brought out his pose of boyish charm.

  "Well, no. Heck no, I'm honest, too. Known for it."

  Hera's smile was sardonic. "Quite the opposite. Everyone says if a person believes everything that you say, then that person is well on the way to being starbucked."

  It seemed Hera was determined to convey to him the praise of others.

  "Gee, they say that, do they? I didn't know. I feel kind of—"

  "Enough of your tricks, Starbuck. I only want you, and no fuss."

  She reached out for him, and he jumped out of her grasp.

  "Hey, wait!"

  Her second try brought him into her arms. In a graceful and smooth gesture, she removed the unlit cigar from his mouth and flipped it away. Her embrace was firm as she kissed him. At first he tried to resist the kiss, then he realized that he was enjoying it and he relaxed. He was, however, somewhat disconcerted by his awareness that his head was turned up toward hers as she bent down slightly for the kiss.

  Hera's skill at kissing was overwhelming. He was disappointed when their lips separated. Suddenly he heard footsteps coming toward them. Whirling around, he saw Cassiopeia, the gorgeous blond med-tech who had recently been his one and only romantic interest. She was smiling. He couldn't tell whether the smile was friendly or malicious. What had she seen? How could she have missed anything? He slipped out of Hera's embrace, his face reddening.

  "Some children never give up their hobbies," Cassiopeia said. She seemed amused.

  "Cassiopeia!" was all Starbuck could think of to say.

  "That's my name. Nice of you to remember it."

  "Cassie, I—"

  "I told you to stop calling me Cassie."

  Hera stepped forward.

  "Who is this?" she said, nodding toward the blonde.

  Cassiopeia grinned at her and said, "I was once the great love of his life. I think number forty-two in the series of Great Loves of Starbuck's Life. Perhaps you're the next."

  Hera seemed affronted.

  "Positively not. I seek no rating or ranking. I have no wish for a lasting romance with the lieutenant."

  "Oh?" Starbuck said, disturbed, not knowing whether or not he had just been insulted.

  "On Vaile we do not love until each partner in the relationship has satisfied the other that he or she will be devoted for the rest of both the
ir lives. There is no other possibility, and punishment is severe for anyone who breaks the vows of wedlock. As a result, there are very few marriages on Vaile—"

  "I'll bet," Starbuck commented.

  "Starbuck!" Cassiopeia said, annoyed at the flippancy.

  "The marriages that do result," Hera continued, "are almost always happy, particularly since we're allowed complete freedom in our unmarried days to choose partners for flings. I enjoy flings. And I wish to have one with you, Starbuck, simple as that."

  "Wow, Starbuck!" Cassiopeia exclaimed. "Simple as that, Starbuck. What an offer! Right up your launch corridor."

  Starbuck felt under siege from both sides.

  "Hey, Cass, you don't think I—"

  "It doesn't matter to me what you do, bucko," Cassiopeia said testily. "You're free to pursue any . . . hobby."

  "And what about you? What if I—"

  "Win some, lose some, Starbuck. See you."

  Cassiopeia briskly walked away. Starbuck took two steps after her, but Hera, grabbing his arm, pulled him back.

  "Hey, easy on the threads."

  "How about it, Starbuck?"

  "About what?"

  "Our fling."

  "There won't be any fling."

  Hera hit a metal wall panel roughly.

  "Because I ask? Is that it? If you asked, it would be all right?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "But that's it, isn't it? I can read you like a scanner screen, Lieutenant. All men are wild-daggits when it comes to romance. You're no different."

  "Don't put words in my mouth, Cadet."

  Hera appeared ready to explode, but she calmed herself quickly.

  "Well, it doesn't matter," she said. "I want you, Starbuck. I'll have you." She proceeded down the corridor in the same direction Cassiopeia had taken.

  Starbuck called after her, "Don't be too sure of that, Cadet Hera."

  "I'll have you, Starbuck," she said ominously. Her words reverberated through the corridor.

  Apollo knew something was up as soon as he set foot on the bridge. His father was pacing and taking quick sidelong glances at the massive starfield, on which presently could be seen, against the backdrop of multitudinous stars, the ragtag fleet—the common slang for the hundreds of ships that formed Adama's questing caravan—trailing the Galactica in orderly fashion. Their even lines were a credit to his father's leadership. There were so many and diverse kinds of ships, not all of which were up to par in the engineering and maintenance departments, that it was unusual there were so few breakdowns in formation and, at least recently, so few stragglers.

  Colonel Tigh, his face troubled as he studied his commander, brightened up when he realized Captain Apollo had arrived. Adama, too, looked less anxious after Tigh had informed him of his son's presence on the bridge.

  "Ah, Apollo," he said. "Sorry to interrupt your recreation period."

  "I'd finished, sir. Even did the full exercise program."

  "Good." Adama gestured toward Tigh to join them. "It seems we have a crisis, Apollo. Tigh?"

  "It's been reported that there's been a mutiny aboard the investigatory science ship, the Eureka."

  Apollo, as Adama had expected, was astonished.

  "The Eureka?! Why, that's one of the last ships I'd expect to—"

  "My thinking exactly," Tigh said. "It's not likely the crew there would mutiny. And certainly the scientists are above that sort of thing. We need fuller information before proceeding on this matter."

  "Captain," Adama said, "I want you to take a team and shuttle to the Eureka under a flag of truce. Find out what in Kobol is going on over there! The one cryptic message we have from them indicates they plan to separate the ship from the fleet."

  "We can't allow that," Apollo said. "Even if the fleet could afford to lose any more ships, it's too dangerous for an individual vessel to go on alone. They'd just be sitting ducks for a Cylon attack squadron."

  "Precisely why we need to find out more," Tigh said. "The shuttle is being readied. Choose anyone to accompany you."

  Apollo thought over the matter of the team for a moment, then said, "No need for a large group. I'll take two people with me. I suggest Sheba. She has the experience of dealing with insurrections. And I'd like to take Croft along. He's itching for some real action, I hear."

  "Croft?" Adama said, not sure if he had heard right. "I thought you two didn't get along."

  "We don't. But mutinies are tricky matters and Croft, well—-"

  "Croft has a tricky mind," Adama remarked. "Good thinking, Apollo. And it just happens that Croft is presently aboard the Galactica."

  "I know. That helped me to think of him. We've had a run-in already."

  Apollo had been sipping an unusually flat and tasteless glass of grog. He'd noticed Croft sitting alone and had nodded to him when he arrived in the lounge. Croft had shown no response. Apollo had shrugged it off, but had been surprised when the man suddenly appeared next to his table, staring down at him through narrowed critical eyes. As always when encountering Croft, Apollo was amazed at the extreme leatheriness of the man's skin. It looked too tough to be porous, too dry to have any blood flowing beneath it.

  "Captain Apollo!" Croft said, some nastiness in his voice. "Still among the privileged, I see."

  "Something bothering you, Croft?" Apollo asked.

  Croft sat down and leaned toward Apollo. He held a glass of Ambrosa in his hand, but didn't seem interested in it.

  "A lot, including that you get yourself on all the important missions while I've got to do garbage duty as grid barge commander. A peculiar little revenge your father played upon me."

  "Croft, you know it wasn't revenge. You were assigned to head up the prison ship because you already knew it so well. And Commander Adama has often mentioned the humane and fair measures you've initiated to improve the state of the prisoners. He regards your work highly. Rehab rate figures are sensational. Many have been freed to perform useful—"

  "Can it, Captain. I have no fair and humane measures. I just talk sense to a few of my old comrades. I'm no reformer. Give a prisoner enough to make him feel human, plus three squares a day and credit for his achievements, and you can make any bozo useful. But you forget, I wasn't always a grid rat. I was a commander, a specialist, not a bureaucrat."

  Both were silent for a while, remembering their uneasy alliance, so long ago now. Croft had been imprisoned for thievery and smuggling; however, since in the law-abiding part of his life he had commanded a division on an ice planet, he was peculiarly suited for a special mission. The flight of the Galactica and the ragtag fleet had been threatened by a massive laser cannon located on an ice planet named Tairac. Croft and his team of convicts had been joined by Apollo, Starbuck, and Boomer in an assault upon the mountain on whose peak the cannon rested. With the aid of a strange race of clones, they had successfully taken out the big gun, although Croft had lost the woman he loved in the subsequent battle. In fact, he was the only survivor of the prison squad. His heroism had won him his freedom, restoration of rank, and the return to the prison barge as its commander.

  Apollo wondered if perhaps Croft was wasted on the grid barge. He vowed to talk to his father about the matter. Croft was too old to regain Viper pilot status, but perhaps there were other more vital duties available than helming a prison ship, especially now that, due to his efforts, it was running so efficiently that a subordinate could take it over.

  "You're allowed to go through channels," Apollo suggested to him, "petition the commander for a different assignment."

  Croft laughed mockingly.

  "Sure, and Commander Adama'll give me any old job I want."

  "I didn't say that."

  "Of course you didn't. You know how privilege works, being one of the most privileged beings aboard this rattletrap. Commander's son, ace Viper pilot. Goes together, don't it?"

  "Croft, you're overstepping—"

  "Don't lecture to me. I was blasting Cylons to fragments when you were st
ill in your diapers, kiddo."

  "And robbing your own side at the same time."

  That got Croft's goat. He stood up, obviously angry, clearly considering a challenge to Apollo. Looking around, he saw that Boomer and several other Viper pilots were watching him guardedly. Ever shrewd, he relaxed and smiled at Apollo.

  "I've been officially pardoned for that, Captain."

  Apollo nodded. Croft was right to admonish him.

  "You're right," he said. "I apologize. I was wrong to bring that up."

  Croft peered at him with those mysterious shaded eyes, then said, "Sorry, Apollo. I'm kinda bitter about the way things've worked out. You fought bravely and well, back at Tairac. But still, you can't tell me that being the commander's son hasn't given you a step up from time to time."

  Croft certainly hadn't lost his talent for being irritating. Apollo resisted standing up and challenging the man.

  "I'm not going to be drawn into an argument with you, Croft."

  "No. Protect yourself, Captain."

  Croft slammed his glass down on the table. Apollo realized he hadn't drunk from it at all. Turning on his heel, Croft strode arrogantly out of the Officer's lounge.

  Apollo couldn't get Croft's criticisms out of his head. Were they true? Did he reap the benefits of privilege? Would he have been in some lowly position aboard the Galactica if his father had not been in charge? He had earned his rank, he was certain of that. He had performed above the standard in battle after battle. He had saved fellow pilots from disaster with his combat and flying skills. His plans and strategies had gotten the Galactica out of many jams already. Everyone appeared to respect him for his achievements, and not because he was the commander's son. Everyone apparently but Croft.