Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon!

by Glen A. Larson

  The aliens, who particularly enjoyed small displays, looked on delightedly.

  A sudden loud buzz caused the man to pick up a box that contained paper fasteners and toss it idly in the air. The Image Lord controlling him chortled and flipped a toggle. In the room a staccato whistle led the man to grab a bottle of writing liquid and add it to the box in his almost-distracted juggling. Soon the Image Lord had caused him to juggle three objects with one hand while he wrote with the other. His fellow aliens got quite a kick out of the show. Then the controller abruptly banged a button and the man ceased his juggling, drawing his hand away from the trio of desk objects. They fell. The bottle of writing liquid rolled across the desk and spilled darkly onto the man's paper. He kept on writing. His controller jiggled a toggle and the man picked up the dripping paper and wiped his face with it, leaving blotchy black stains against the darkness of his skin. It looked like he'd developed a sudden disease. The aliens all loved it, and chortled with glee.

  At another signal the man meticulously set the paper back onto the desk, smoothed it out, and resumed his writing. After a loud long ring, he dropped the pen and turned to a screen sitting next to his desk. Bright light in many colors, emanating from the screen, entranced him.

  After a few moments of the light flickering off his writing-liquid blemishes, he abruptly stood up and left the room. The alien controller tracked him as he left his building and inspected the street outside, where traffic and pedestrians were moving smoothly. Most of the vehicles in the roadway were five-wheeled and open. Some of the walkers were moving rapidly, clearly on errands of some sort. Others were slower, stopping often to peer into the display windows of shops.

  The controller gave the signal for his co-workers to join in. Their voices rumbling in an almost sensual rapture, the other aliens attacked their consoles with a frenetic energy. The chaos in the control room was quickly duplicated in the street. Cars went out of control, crashing into buildings, narrowly missing people on the sidewalks. Two cars ran into each other and each looped backward, landing neatly on their tires, their drivers and passengers smiling. Some people got into fights, and not ordinary fistfights either. Battlers flipped other battlers over their backs. Others swung their opponents around by their arms, lifting their legs off the ground. Other people merely stood and shouted at each other, while a few exuberant people raced around, destroying any object they could get their hands on.

  As the chaos reigned, the Image Lords watched their collectively created show intently and bobbed up and down in their seats ecstatically. When the events had reached a certain anticipated intensity, they resumed jiggling and twisting their controls to change the street scene.

  Where anger and ugliness had been before, there was suddenly peace and love. Those who'd fallen as the result of blows or collisions picked themselves up, dusted off their clothing, and smiled. Cars whose snouts were up against the buildings backed up into the street and joined a new line of orderly traffic. People began to look sexily at each other, smiling the goofy smile of people on the make. The aliens' console activity accelerated their many arms, creating a room-wide blur hovering over the controls. Soon the people in the streets were running to each other, many of them emerging from cars and stalling the traffic. In an impressive logistical display everybody on the street, except for the younger children, found somebody to smooch with. The sweat of passion speckled foreheads, and there was a general smell of lust in the air.

  A general order reached the alien controllers from the consortium, and they were forced to interrupt their inventions. The romance in the street suddenly stopped. People immediately formed orderly lines and ranks, the lines and ranks of a parade. Sometimes walking over vehicles, they paraded through the city streets. Some groups sang, others rumbled in a rhythmic mutter. Pride was on everyone's face.

  The parade ended in an open field outside Euphoria, where the paraders broke ranks and formed new patterns: circles, spirals, and more complicated designs. The aliens, working furiously, were outdoing themselves, at least according to their own demanding standards of aesthetic manipulation. The human mosaiclike tapestry, when viewed from the descending shuttle, was quite impressive.

  The shuttle landed in an open area in what appeared to be the exact center of the human tapestry. As the doors of the ship opened, the people fell to the ground, maintaining linked patterns.

  Led by their alien captors, Apollo and Chameleon were the first humans to emerge from the shuttle.

  "What is this?" Apollo said when he saw the vast assemblage of prone human beings.

  Crutch, standing just behind Apollo, said, "We like to greet newcomers with a touch of ceremony, Captain."

  "A touch? This is ridiculous. What's the point?"

  Crutch, genuinely perplexed, waved his arms nervously.

  "Point? Must there be a point, mate? We are just bringing a little beauty into your drab lives. That's what the Image Lords strive for. A little beauty, some drama, a bit o' the dancin' and singin' without which existence would be pretty miserable, don't you think?"

  Apollo shrugged, his face dour.

  "I don't know what to think. I don't really understand."

  Crutch's voice lowered, and almost seemed gentle and friendly.

  "Well, you'll be trained," he said.

  "Trained?" Apollo said.

  "Some training is involved, yes. Beings don't respond to our methods automatically, after all. Some conditioning is involved."

  "Conditioning?"

  "You do ask a pretty bunch of questions, don't you? We prefer conditioning to technical implantation. We don't like the side effects of technical or even chemical manipulation of our little charges. But you'll see. No, ask no more questions now."

  On the field, the tapestry unthreaded, and the citizens walked slowly back to the city.

  The prisoners from the shuttle were herded into groups which were then led across the field toward the aliens' ramshackle prison compound.

  In the middle of one clump of prisoners, Croft and Sheba strode.

  "If we can choose our own roommates," Croft whispered into her ear, "like to be mine, lovely?"

  The disgust on Sheba's face would have reduced most men to quivering rodents. Croft, however, was not easily diverted from a goal.

  "What's the matter?" he asked.

  "Your line—it's worse than anything women are subjected to by Starbuck. And that's pretty low, Croft."

  "I take that as a compliment."

  Sheba, feeling revulsion, tried unsuccessfully to edge away from Croft, but her shoulders couldn't make a dent in the surrounding crowd.

  In another group, Maga and Bora kept their vigil on Chameleon.

  "When should we make our move, Maga?"

  "Patience. If we kill him now, it will draw the attention of both our captors and our fellow prisoners."

  A few meters ahead of the Nomen, in the same group of prisoners, Chameleon walked beside Apollo. The many lines of his wrinkled forehead were deep with worry.

  "Don't like the look of this at all," he muttered to Apollo.

  "Me, either. We're getting out of this, soon as possible."

  "With what? We have no weapons, we'll be imprisoned, we're on a planet none of us ever heard of before . . ."

  "We'll find a way."

  "Starbuck used to tell me you were the bravest of a brave lot."

  "Starbuck's a pretty brave specimen himself. The two of us, I guess we make a good fighting team."

  Chameleon wiped his eyes, a gesture designed to conceal tears welling up in them. Con men never cared to be seen with tears in their eyes unless, of course, it was part of the con.

  "I miss him," Chameleon said. "I wish I'd said certain things. Well, it doesn't matter."

  Apollo was touched by the mixed concern and fondness in the man's voice.

  "Sometimes you sound like his real father?"

  "Yeah, don't I? I like the kid, that's all." After a moment of silence, he said, "You know, Apollo, I think w
e have a chance."

  "Sure."

  "As long as you're with us, anyway."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Chandra and her two siblings had not participated in the welcoming parade for the shuttle. Busy with one of their curious forays into the forest around the city, they'd been outside the perimeter of alien control. They heard the commotion and ran to see what was happening, arriving in time to see their fellow citizens sprawled on the ground near the shuttle. Occurrences like this were not unusual for the three children, and they watched it with only mild curiosity. Their interest was not aroused until the prisoners started leaving the shuttle and they spotted Apollo and Sheba. They almost missed seeing Trinzot and Diova walk casually away after the ceremony, holding hands and talking, ignoring the new prisoners and the shuttle.

  When the prisoners had been gathered into ranks and led away, Zossie finally spoke, "See that? One of 'em wore a uniform like the Starbuck's."

  Chandra's response was filled with disappointment.

  "Yes, but he wasn't the Starbuck. He had dark hair."

  Brynt had hardly noticed Apollo.

  "There was a woman in warrior uniform, too," he said, his voice awed. "She was beautiful."

  Chandra scoffed.

  "She wasn't beautiful. Her face was too long. She had a pointed chin."

  "That doesn't matter," Brynt protested.

  Disgusted, Chandra frowned at her brother.

  "Boys!" she said. "You have no aesthetic sense."

  "And you do?"

  "You bet I do!"

  Brynt flinched at the fierce emphasis of her proud reply. Zossie, feeling the impulse to defend her brother, said, "She was pretty, Chandra." Annoyed, Chandra scowled at Zossie, who took a scared step backward, staying, "Well, kind of, anyway. Not as pretty as Mommy."

  "Nobody's as pretty as her," Brynt said.

  Chandra threw up her arms petulantly and said, "You're both ridiculous."

  "Mommy's not pretty?" Zossie asked.

  "Mommy's an attractive woman, but she's not a real beauty. Not like my real mother."

  Brynt and Zossie, shocked by Chandra's remark, gazed at her in amazement.

  "Mommy's not our real mommy?" Zossie asked, her voice frightened.

  Chandra was as confused as her siblings.

  "I don't know why I said that, Zossie. I really don't. Suddenly I got this picture of this other woman, another woman. A beautiful woman, and I thought, mother. She had the kind of red hair that glows in bright sunlight and a dark complexion and . . . and . . . I don't know what. She wasn't real. I don't know why I thought of her as my mother. Mommy's my mother. Our mother."

  Brynt and Zossie were not, however, soothed by her disclaimer. All of the children had had this experience before, a moment when they seemed to recall, in vague scenes, a past life somewhere else in which they belonged to different families in different cities on different planets.

  "I've had enough of watching ships and prisoners," Chandra said suddenly. "Let's go do something else. Brynt?"

  "Well, all right," Brynt agreed reluctantly.

  Zossie laughed. "He wants to see more of the warrior woman, I can tell," she said.

  "Zossie!" Brynt said threateningly.

  "Oh, stop it, you two," Chandra said. "C'mon."

  They turned around to leave the field. Unfortunately for them, Image Lords in a prison control room now located them and moved to punish them as trespassers. However, aliens tended to be kinder to children, and all they did was make these three run until their hearts pounded in their chests, their legs ached, and they felt as if they were going to die. For a moment Chandra passed out on her feet, but kept running. They ran all the way to their home, where the aliens released control. The children fell to the ground. Trinzot and Diova, strolling home from the field, merely stepped over them to go into the house. After a while, the children pulled themselves up and entered their home.

  The prisoners were placed in a massive chamber inside the compound's largest building. There was nothing appealing to look at in the functional room. The prisoners didn't even perceive the holes behind which the recording cameras were placed.

  Apollo, Sheba, Croft, and Chameleon found each other and tried to stay close together. The Borellian Nomen gathered in another section of the room and kept close track of their blood-hunt prey. Chameleon felt their vigilant scrutiny and had an impulse to hide behind the others.

  Next to him, Apollo said, "Lovely accommodations. I've heard Cylon prison colonies look something like this."

  "They look worse," Croft muttered. "I've seen one."

  "Oh? When was that?"

  Croft chuckled sardonically and rubbed his hands together nervously.

  "When I was on the side of the good guys," he said. "We attacked a prison colony in a surprise maneuver. Blew it to the skies. After rescuing the prisoners first."

  "The breadth of your experiences continues to amaze me," Apollo said.

  "I've been around," Croft said, shrugging.

  In their control rooms, the Image Lords surveyed and examined the current crop of prisoners on monitors. There was the usual buzz of excitement among the aliens as they discussed their plans and strategies for the new arrivals. Whenever they had a fresh group of experimentees to work with, they liked to vary the tests and try out new devices. When a series of schemes had been decided upon, the aliens attacked their controls savagely.

  Lucifer and Spectre, observing the prisoners' chamber on a series of screens intended solely for such viewing, saw many of the prisoners go pale and begin to squirm in their clothing. The aliens were projecting some kind of discomfort, Lucifer decided. Not all of them seemed affected.

  Crutch, standing behind them, was busy combing out his facial hair with two of his hands. His concentration on grooming was quite intense, Lucifer noted.

  "You see?" Crutch said. "The whole wall over there is impaneled transmitters, which can be synchronized to transmit one general order or used individually to concentrate on individuals or, more commonly, to transmit different aspects of the general scheme. Once individuals have proven themselves receptive, they are easier to control. At that point very complicated multiple suggestions may be made. Several of the new prisoners are obviously quite malleable. Amazing, eh?"

  "Truly amazing, Lord Crutch, sir," Spectre said.

  "Ever come across anything like this?" Crutch asked Lucifer.

  "In a more primitive—much more primitive—form I created a device which could do something like it." Crutch leaned closer, clearly interested in what Lucifer was saying. "It transmitted emotion, in varying strengths, into humans."

  "You created it?" asked Spectre, who had been present at the demonstration of Lucifer's emotion-device. "I thought it was Baltar's invention."

  Baltar had lied to Spectre and the Imperious Leader about the device, claiming it as his own. At first Lucifer had been annoyed. However, after the Imperious Leader had been driven into a helpless rage because of a flaw in the machine, Lucifer had been grateful that the Leader believed the debacle was Baltar's fault. Now, if Spectre ever returned to the Leader with the truth, he could make a great deal of trouble for Lucifer.

  "Did I say I created it?" Lucifer said. "An unusual slip. I will have to check certain of my speech circuits. Of course it was Baltar's invention. I merely assisted."

  "And became possessive about it, it seems," Spectre said. "Imperious Leader has commented often, Lucifer, on your . . . independence."

  Lucifer, recognizing the threat in Spectre's declaration, vowed to be more careful of what he said in his company.

  Apollo gazed around the room, watching several of the prisoners caress each other affectionately. The romance was becoming more intense, progressing to kissing and firm embraces. He was not at first aware of the lusty way that Croft was eyeing Sheba. Sheba, on her part, had not noticed Croft's concentration on her. She was too troubled by the stirrings of her own feelings toward Apollo. She wanted the captain to take her in his arms an
d perform some of the acts he was watching with such disturbed interest.

  "What's gotten into these people?" Apollo asked.

  "Nature, Apollo," Croft said, without taking his gaze away from Sheba. "Nature's gotten into these people."

  "It doesn't make any sense. We're prisoners here, for God's sake, this is no time for—"

  "Any time's the right time. What say, Sheba?"

  Sheba, who hadn't been listening to the conversation, reacted to her name. "Huh?"

  "Do you agree?" Croft said, stepping closer to her.

  "Agree what?"

  "Any time is the right time."

  "Time for what?"

  "Look around you. For that! For romance, lovemaking, affection."

  Sheba finally saw the desire in Croft's eyes and said, "Oh, shut up, Croft."

  Croft was only half-conscious of Apollo's abrupt laugh. He knew mainly that he wanted the lovely woman in the tight-fitting flight uniform.

  "I'm shocked," he said. "And I thought we were destined for each other."

  "What?" Sheba said, puzzled.

  "Stop it, Croft," Apollo said.

  Croft turned and smiled viciously at Apollo.

  "So the captain's a tad jealous, hey?"

  "Croft, just because everybody else's acting like fools doesn't mean—"

  "God, Apollo, you sound like your daddy. Every time he opens his mouth, out spills some kind of pious morality. You and he—"

  Apollo, his fists clenched, moved angrily toward Croft. Croft merely stood his ground and grinned. Neither of them noticed Maga and Bora standing to the side, watching them with amusement. The Borellian Nomen were not affected by the romantic auras in the room. They had no customs of love. When they needed anything, they just took it.

  Chameleon stepped in between Apollo and Croft. His face was pale. He made a half-hearted gesture to calm the anger of the two men, then his knees buckled.