"You amuse me, Croft," Carome said. "Still as devious as ever. You think you have any worth as a hostage? They'd be on us like fur on a daggit, soon as the captain here got back to the Galactica. He'd probably be in his super Viper, leading the attack against us. No, we need the illustrious Captain Apollo here to keep the Galactica away. Grid rats make lousy hostages, Croft."
"Carome, you—"
Croft made a lunge toward the cell door. His hand briefly penetrated the force field and a numbing shock went up his arm and across his chest. Apollo pulled him back.
"Easy, Croft," Apollo said. "We have to go along with him."
Croft, disgusted, wrenched his aim away from Apollo's grip.
"How can you say that, Apollo? Coward!"
"Maybe. But I believe we should cooperate with Carome."
"Commander Carome," Carome said sternly.
Apollo's head made a slight bowing motion as he said: "Commander."
"Apollo," Croft said, "you can't—"
"I can."
Croft pushed his way past Apollo and Sheba to the rear wall of the cell.
"Always knew you had no guts, knew that the first time I saw you."
Apollo smiled sardonically toward Croft, then turned back to Carome and said to him in a soft, polite voice, "Forgive my colleague's temper, Commander."
Carome was clearly pleased with Apollo's cooperation. His smile was smug and cheerful.
"Forgiven, Captain. Croft is well-known for flying off the handle, after all. I am happy to find you so amenable, Captain Apollo. That will go in your favor when we meet next."
Carome gestured to his squad of mutineers and the entire party started down the corridor. When their heavy footsteps had faded, Chameleon re-emerged from the shadows, holding the lockcard high.
"Thank you, Apollo—for the diversion," Chameleon said.
"My pleasure, Chameleon."
Whirling around, Croft's mouth dropped open.
"What's going on here?" he said.
"The captain kept our band of mutineers busy while I relieved the jailer of this," Chameleon explained. "But we must work fast before he realizes I copped it. It'll take a moment to dope out the combination."
Chameleon slid the lockcard into a slot next to the cell. It clicked into place and a blue operating light showed that the lock was activated. Chameleon stared at the half of the lockcard that was still outside the slot. He touched a few of the numbers tentatively, holding his head close to the card.
"These lockcard key combinations can be tricky," he whispered. "But the right numbers usually sound just the slightest bit different. There. Those, I think, are the numbers—but in what combination?"
He continued to work with the numbers, careful not to press the tiny bottom circle that would transmit the numbers to the lock itself. If he sent the numbers in the wrong order, it would set off an alarm and there wouldn't be time to try a different combination. His fingers flew smoothly and gracefully over the number grid of the card.
Croft leaned toward Apollo and whispered, "You were just faking all that nicey-nicey with Carome?"
" 'Course he was," Sheba said. "So Chameleon could lift the lockcard from the jailer's belt."
Croft nodded.
"Sorry, Captain. I should've known . . ."
"No need to apologize. Actually, your outburst helped just as much. Kept their attention away from what Chameleon was doing."
"There," Chameleon said proudly, and, with a flicker, the cell-door barrier was gone. Apollo and Sheba were first out of the cell, followed by a cautious Croft, who peered up and down the corridor. He never felt comfortable when things went easy.
"We'll need some weapons," Apollo said to Chameleon.
"Nothing easier. Follow me."
As they headed for the end of the corridor, there was a commotion behind them. Whirling around, they saw the jailer and three other mutineers running toward them, their laserguns out of their holsters.
"We've got to make tracks," Apollo cried. "Let's go."
Several shots singed the walls beside them and cut grooves in the flooring. Croft felt a beam come so close it seemed to singe his hair ends. A hole suddenly appeared in the sleeve of Sheba's tunic.
They reached the hatchway at the corridor's end, and Chameleon flung it open. In turn, they each dived through as shots bounced off the walls near them.
Carome was not prepared for the news of the prisoners' escape, and he nearly struck the crewman who'd brought the message. Turning to an aide, he ordered, "Mobilize all off-duty personnel. We'll scour the ship. And triple the guard around their shuttle."
Maga and Bora, standing in their usual background positions, exchanged glances which, in the facial language of the Borellian Nomen, displayed to themselves (but not to others) their doubts about Carome's abilities to recapture the prisoners. Carome feared the Nomen. They could easily kill him if they thought that was the right thing. It was important to keep a Borellian Noman content.
Maga and Bora listened to the messenger's report with interest, especially when the nervous crewman revealed that the man who'd been spotted with the prisoners, and who no doubt had helped with the escape, was Chameleon.
"He probably stole the keys himself," Carome commented. "He's a slippery one, all right. Isn't that right, Maga? Bora? . . . Maga? Bora?"
He turned to find that the Nomen had left the bridge. They always moved with sleek silence. Carome shrugged. Borellian Nomen would always be a mystery to him.
They had run in a twisting maze through the Eureka until their pursuers had lost them completely, then Chameleon led them into a cavernous dark chamber. Weird shadows seemed to enclose threatening shapes. There was a strange jumble of noises, some of them coming from living beings.
"What in hell is this place?" Croft said.
"Anthrobiology lab," Chameleon answered. Chameleon, even after the others had come to rest at the foot of a base holding a large cage, couldn't stop moving. He peered around crates, peered down aisles.
"What kind of work goes on here?" Sheba asked.
"Study of representative animals, some saved from the twelve worlds, others captured on planets we've visited. The scientists specialize in testing their adaptability for dozens of possible environments."
Satisfied they were safe for the moment, Chameleon relaxed and leaned his slim wiry body against a tall crate. Even after a long chase, he looked elegant.
Apollo glanced up and saw the kind apelike face of one of the animals staring benignly down at him.
"Where are the scientists now?" Apollo asked.
"I don't know. Most of them didn't go along with the mutineers and were locked away. And the rest, well, they hide out, I understand. I haven't found any."
Sheba, her curiosity aroused, glanced in several cages.
"Chameleon," she said, "some of these animals are dead. Did they die from neglect?"
"Not in most cases. Some couldn't adapt to shipboard captivity. They died. The scientists preserved them as records of their findings, in case no others in the species were found elsewhere. I worked here, for a time, as an aide."
"How'd you wind up here?" Sheba asked.
"Transfer from a foundry ship. I . . . I got into a spot of trouble on that ship. What abilities I had, according to fleet tests, were useful here . . . and elsewhere on the Eureka."
"You seem to make a career out of getting into scrapes," Apollo commented, drawing an embarrassed smile from Chameleon.
"Well, yes, I suppose. Not in the same league with you fighter pilots when it comes to scrapes, though."
"I see your point," Apollo said, returning the smile.
"I don't," Croft protested. "What is it with you guys? You know each other from somewhere, that's clear."
"It's a long story, Croft," Apollo said.
"I ask questions, everybody always tells me it's a long story."
"Well, it is."
"And we've got to figure out what to do now," Sheba said. "Should we work our way
back to the shuttle?"
Apollo shrugged.
"We can try, though we'll need weapons. I suspect they've got the shuttle pretty well guarded by now. Still, they are inexperienced. The four of us might pull it off."
A voice whispered darkly from somewhere beyond the apelike animal's cage.
"Would it help if you had an even dozen . . . to pull it off with?"
A short black man with a benign kindly face stepped out of the darkness and swung down from the cage-pedestal. From the shadows several other people emerged. Most of them seemed to be dressed in lab smocks over conventional clothing.
"Perhaps we can help," the short man said. "We're not trained warriors, by any means, but we've had a taste of combat, and we're willing to fight. Hello, Chameleon."
"Professor Branch," Chameleon said.
"You know this man, Chameleon?" Apollo asked.
"He's my boss," Chameleon replied.
Apollo studied the group. They were certainly a mixed lot. Men and women of quite different ages and sizes. A motley crew, at best. How could they possibly be useful?
CHAPTER SEVEN
"You look a little green around the face-bolts, mate," Crutch remarked to Lucifer. "Are you well?"
"Of course. It is impossible for me to be sick. I am just a bit overwhelmed by you people and your ship."
All around them the aliens worked frenetically. Their equipment had no real logic to it, Lucifer thought. It looked like it had been thrown together from found objects in a junkyard. It was bent, beat-up, scarred from use. Still, the aliens in their awkward way utilized the devices quite effectively. As far as he could tell, they were tracking another ship. A squarish dark blip on a pale nearly white screen seemed the object of their immediate attention. He wondered if soon they would attempt to use his abilities for their own benefit. He was designed to serve. In one way or another he would always be a slave, it seemed. First, to the Cylons, now to these aliens, in the future to whom?
" 'Tis a bit of a mess, ain't it?" Crutch remarked, the gesture of his two left arms taking in the anarchy on command bridge. "We seen a lot of order in our travels. I say, who needs it? Order's just as messy as mess, you ask me. Every society I ever seen that believed in order had no character, I like to tell you. Everybody had everything in the right place, and their minds were turned off. Well, clip my strips, that's no way to live. We got most of our best study-subjects from orderly worlds."
"Study? You're involved in study?"
"Sure. This is a research ship."
"I thought it was a pirate ship."
Crutch's gestures were so expansive Lucifer had to duck a number of emphatic hand-sweeps.
"Well, o' course it's that, too. A pirate ship whose plunder is living beings. We load 'em up, take 'em back home, get a good price for 'em, I like to tell you. The consortium is particularly fond of humanoids, but I think we can get a pretty fee for you two ironheads, too."
Crutch's insulting remarks were delivered so casually that Lucifer hardly noticed them. When Baltar referred to him by a pejorative name, he didn't like it, but Crutch was a different kind of fool from Baltar.
"What will your consortium do with us? With them?"
"I'm not free to say that. But it's better'n you think, tell you that. I'll bet you're not pleased, sonny."
"Not precisely."
"Nope. Nobody ever is, at first. But you'll see, we're not a malicious race, we Image Lords."
"Image Lords, that's what you call yourselves?"
"You bet your boot-hinges. We are a superior race."
"You don't act like one. Attacking lone ships, bucking us about, enslaving peoples."
Something like a gleeful expression twisted Crutch's strange facial features.
"Well," he said, "I be split, you gotta be one o' us to know our superiority. I'd think a computer creature like you'd know sump'n as simple as that."
"It was clear to me, sir," Spectre said.
Spectre had been hovering in the background, listening to the conversation. And of course he had chosen his moment to interrupt. Lucifer was sick of watching Spectre butter up their enslaver. There was only so much he could accept from a fellow member of the Cylon IL series.
"Are you the captain of this ship?" Lucifer asked.
Crutch's version of bellowing laughter was a sound that would have frightened children of all species.
"Bless my strips, no. There's no captain here. We all work in unison, and there are no leaders. Leadership is a sign of limitation. Like what I was tellin' you before, you got to be superior to know superior."
Lucifer wondered how the Cylon Imperious Leader, a threebrained being who considered himself the finest representative of the most advanced race in the universe, would respond to Crutch's claim of superiority. He would certainly never agree with the idea that the Cylons were inferior to this race of ugly creatures, and he would have been offended by Crutch's opinions on leadership. Cylons believed in leadership. They adhered to a more rigid hierarchy than any other race they had ever discovered in the universe.
"I do not understand," Lucifer said. "You mentioned a consortium before. Aren't the members of that consortium your leaders?"
"Well, my bonny ironhead, you must sharpen your metal tongue with a rasp. The consortium makes our decisions, yes, but its members are not our leaders. We may despise imposed order, but we're not so ignorant we don't believe in systems."
"A fine distinction, to be sure."
"You just run it through your own system while we attend to business."
"Business?" Spectre asked, his interest piqued.
"Yep. We've gone and located another ship in this sector. More adventure, fellows. Get out your grappling hooks. Our detection scan shows many humanoids aboard, a bumper crop. We're gonna go back home with our holds full. A profitable venture, my lads, a profitable venture."
Spectre rolled closer to Crutch, saying, "You're attacking soon?"
"You can bet your circuit protection switch on that, mate."
"Interesting."
Lucifer found himself an alcove away from Spectre to watch the ship's crew gradually raise their activity to combat levels. Weapons were broken out of storage and passed around. Speeches, apparently inspirational ones, were made by several crew members.
He knew now that he wanted to escape from these aliens. He couldn't envision being under their control, no matter how superior they might be. He could not bear to be among them for the rest of his probably eternal existence.
While she monitored the flight of the intruder ship, Hera's thoughts were often on Starbuck. She'd been surprised to find him so reluctant to respond to her. Perhaps directness, a quality quite important to Vaileans, had to be subdued and controlled when dealing with the people of the Galactica. Still, she didn't think she could resort to the kind of devious romantic trickery Starbuck employed himself. And she hated the idea that she should stay in the background, demure and patient, waiting for Starbuck to make his move. If she wanted him, she should be able to arrange it on her terms, not wait for his.
The intruder ship was now close enough to put on more detailed scan. She brought it into such sharp focus she could make out the markings on the ship's side. She checked its course coordinates and found what she had been suspecting for some time.
"Lieutenant Starbuck!"
Starbuck sounded amused.
"You can drop the military formalities when we're in deep space, Cadet."
"Starbuck, I've been following the courses of both the Eureka and the unidentified ship. There's something."
"What?"
"Looks like the intruder is heading straight for the Eureka. And, Starbuck?"
"Yes."
"The markings on the side of the new ship. I could be wrong, but I could swear they're an old form of the piracy symbol."
"Pirates? You think they're pirates?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good work, Hera."
The cadet side of Hera was thrilled with her sq
uadron leader's approval.
"What should we do?" she asked. "Try and intercept the pirate vessel?"
"No, I don't think so. We'll intervene when we have to. Let's wait and see what they do."
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Apollo had expected, the Galactica shuttle was, indeed, heavily guarded. It stood in the middle of the Eureka's landing bay with a ring of guards around it, and many other mutineers milling about.
Apollo and Croft crouched behind a pile of supply crates and surveyed the situation. In the corridor behind them, the others awaited their signal. Apollo wondered if he should give it. Branch and his renegade scientists were brave, but their inexperience might be fatal against these numbers. Their earlier exploits against the mutineers had been successful, but sabotage in the dark by a dedicated resistance group was radically different from a frontal assault on armed warriors by a motley band of marauders. Still, they had had a well-stocked cache of arms and explosives, filched during their many sneak attacks.
Apollo heard a couple of sounds from the corridor, but by and large the creatures which the scientists had freed from their cages were remarkably quiet. Apollo had originally been against bringing the animals at all, but Chameleon had argued well for his plan. Any plan, Apollo felt, was better than no plan, after all.
"Lotta firepower out there," Croft whispered. "Almost every bozo out there is armed. Formidable, Apollo, formidable."
"Maybe it's lucky we have help. We'd have trouble taking them, just us alone."
"Not sure our help can even do the trick."
"But we'll try."
"Your play, Captain."
Croft couldn't hide his sarcasm, even though he felt it was useless just now. He had a lifetime of being outspoken; it was difficult to stop now.
"Well," Croft said, "should we begin?"
"Things aren't going to get any better out there. You ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
Apollo took a deep breath then, by raising his arm, sent the prearranged signal to Sheba, who knelt at the corridor entrance. She said something over her shoulder to the small group behind her, and everyone tensed, ready. Chameleon, at the rear of the group, made a sign to a third contingent well down the corridor.
Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon! Page 8
