"Apollo?" he said plaintively. Apollo, concerned for the old man, felt his anger leave him.
"What is it, Chameleon?"
"I don't know. I feel dizzy. I think . . . think I'm going to pass out. I'm—"
He fell. Even his fall had a kind of graceful movement to it. Apollo knelt by him.
In the control room, the aliens, ever intrigued by the unexpected reactions to their machinations, discussed Chameleon's fainting spell with avid enthusiasm.
"Is he all right?" Sheba asked.
"The old geezer's all right," Croft said and put his arm around her waist. "Sheba, you are the most seductive female I've seen in—in I don't know how long."
She wriggled out of his grasp without responding. For a moment Croft lost his urge to pursue her. This ugly, crude approach was uncharacteristic of him, anyway, but nevertheless he could feel a tugging in his head, urging him on.
"We should get Chameleon out of here," Apollo yelled. "How do you make contact with one of those—"
"Ah, forget it, Apollo," Croft said. "This is a prison. He'll be all right." He turned away from Apollo and stepped in front of Sheba. "Sheba, I can't keep my hands off you."
He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. She tried to resist, but he was too quick.
"Let me go, Croft," Sheba cried.
Apollo looked up, saw Sheba squirming in Croft's arms. He stood up, grabbed Croft's shoulders, and yanked him backward. The move disrupted Croft's balance, and his hold on Sheba weakened enough for her to spring free. Regaining his balance, he turned on Apollo, growled, and took a punch at him. Apollo's head darted sideways, and Croft's fist missed contact. Apollo jabbed Croft in the face and then made a solid blow to Croft's midsection. Croft doubled up momentarily, then kicked at Apollo, hitting him in the thigh, sending him reeling backward.
The Nomen, watching the fight, saw their opportunity. Maga strode to Chameleon, scooped up the unconscious man, and carried him away.
Sheba, intervening between the battlers, convinced them to stop fighting. Both of them glared at each other and tried to catch their breath. Sheba, unable to resist the alien manipulation, threw herself into Apollo's arms and embraced him.
Croft stared at them and growled bitterly, "So that's how it is, huh? The uptight lady and the holier-than-thou hotshot pilot—how appropriate. An uplifting romance."
The control room Image Lords chattered gleefully. This was the kind of unexpected acceleration of circumstances that they particularly delighted in. However, it was time to go on to another stage. Their many arms rapidly manipulated controls.
In the prisoners' room, embracing couples began to separate, confused about why they'd been embracing in the first place.
Sheba backed away from Apollo, saying, "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."
"You don't know?" Croft said. "Sure you don't. I don't know what came over me either, how about that?"
"Stop squabbling," Apollo said, "we—"
"Apollo!" Sheba shouted. "Chameleon, where is he?"
Apollo scrutinized the room frantically. He saw the massive back of a Borellian Noman disappearing into a crowd.
"The Nomen! It's them, I know it!"
He rushed toward the closing ranks of the crowd, Sheba and Croft just behind him. Pushing people aside, he saw Maga holding Chameleon in his arms, Bora next to him, other Nomen beginning to gather around their two leaders.
"Put him down!" Apollo yelled. "Now!"
"Careful, Captain," Maga said. "You have no weapons to enforce your puny authority here."
He nodded his head downward. Apollo then saw that the Nomen were still armed. Laser boles still clung to the crossed belts on their chests. Of course. The aliens hadn't realized that the bright jewellike ornaments on the Nomen bandoleers were really weapons.
"You won't use boles in here," Apollo said.
"Can you be sure of that?" Bora said.
"It is useless for you to interfere," Maga warned. "We are on blood trail, and it is no business of yours."
"Blood trail?" Apollo said. "You agreed to call that off. You told the commander—"
"Our vows aboard the Galactica do not hold here, Captain. We are free to resume our ways."
Croft whispered to Sheba, "Who are these guys? No, don't say it, I know it's a long story."
In Maga's arms, Chameleon squirmed and came awake.
"Where am I? Oh . . . oh, my."
"You are ours, Captain Dimitri," Bora said, "or Chameleon, or whatever name you use now."
Chameleon smiled weakly.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
"Apollo," Croft said suddenly.
"What?"
Croft walked to Apollo and turned his back on Maga.
"I don't want to risk my life for this Chameleon," he said.
"Get out of the way, Croft."
"I was going to say—"
Croft suddenly lunged backward and elbowed Maga in the stomach. Before the Noman could even double up in pain, Croft had kicked him in the side and jabbed three quick punches in Maga's hirsute face. The blows served to dislodge Chameleon from Maga's grasp, at least enough for the slippery and graceful man to slide downward, then jump free as soon as his feet hit the floor. Apollo, reacting immediately to Croft's lead, sent Bora reeling backward with a pair of quick strong blows. Sheba hit another of the Nomen with a backhanded punch that knocked him off his feet.
"Move!" Apollo yelled, and the Galacticans retreated, taking care to get enough of the crowd between them and the volatile Nomen, who were yanking people aside in their attempt to pursue.
"They have weapons," Apollo said to Croft.
"Are they smart enough not to use them here?"
"I think so, but you never can tell with one of those—"
Suddenly all around them people began to scream and squirm in pain. Some of them fell to the floor. Apollo had to jump over a young woman in order not to trip over her. Soon more than half the men and women in the room were on the floor writhing in pain.
"Apollo!" Sheba called. He turned and saw that all the fallen people had given Maga a clear view of them. His left hand was reaching toward his laser bole belt. Before he touched the bole, his face contorted in agony, and his hand reached for his head instead. His scream roared and echoed through the room. Apollo thought he saw the walls shake from it. Maga, too, fell.
Then Sheba and Chameleon both howled in pain.
"What's going on?" Apollo said.
"I don't know," replied Croft, then he grabbed at his own head. "I—oh, God!"
Croft joined the writhing mob on the floor. Few people were now standing. Apollo watched more and more fall. Then, with the sharpness of several knife blades in his skull, he finally felt the pain that was tormenting everybody else in the room. It was excruciating, like his brains were being sliced up. His consciousness fading, he began to fall.
Lucifer watched Apollo's descent to the floor and was appalled by the expression on the young captain's face. He had seen enough of the Image Lords' manipulations.
"Why do you give them such pain?" Lucifer asked Crutch.
Two of Crutch's hairy arms gestured upward in what was evidently an Image Lord version of a shrug.
"Humanoids tend to remember pain," he said, "and fear it. The more pain we give them early on, the easier to control them later. All routine procedure for us, chum."
Lucifer did not care to look at the screens any longer.
"What will happen now?" he asked.
"Can't say," Crutch said laconically. "This looks to be a pretty good batch. You don't often get a fight breaking out like that. And a pretty one it was. We delight in variation."
"Some of your . . . manipulation seems quite cruel."
Crutch laughed that screechy laugh that Lucifer had heard too often now.
"We make no such judgments. It is fun, mate. That's all, just fun."
"But what of the pain you cause?"
"What of it? Sure, they endure some pain, but for th
e greater good. I'll show you the city. Euphoria, we call it. The citizens of Euphoria lead good lives because of us. They are granted a great deal of comfort and pleasure, are entertained by our various devices and contraptions, and even have a wide variety of literature, art, and show. We use them for our own purposes from time to time. The rest of their lives is contentment in a worry-free environment. Hang my strips out to dry, I believe we provide for them better lives than they ever knew before."
"It seems cruel to me," Lucifer said, and was sorry for the weakness of his comment.
Spectre glided to Crutch's side and oozed, "And ingenious. Oh, quite ingenious."
All the humans were now lying still. Lucifer wondered what their opinion of Crutch's benign philosophy might be.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
There was no indication that Starbuck's squadron had been detected flying down to The Joyful Land. The pilots settled their Vipers onto a field not far from Euphoria. As they emerged from their cockpits they could see the evening glow of the city beginning to grow as twilight came on. Beyond the city, the system's sun was setting behind mountains whose arrangement was nearly symmetrical. Starbuck was joined by Boomer, Bojay, and Hera next to his Viper.
"Kind of a pretty place," Bojay commented.
"Maybe," Boomer said. "Gives me the chills though. And not from this cool breeze."
Starbuck wondered what Boomer was feeling. There was a breeze, true, but it seemed quite warm to him.
"My calculations show the shuttle landed south of here," Hera said. "Not too far. We can walk it."
"We?" Starbuck said. "Cadet, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but only Boomer and I are going exploring right now. S.O.P."
"I want to go, too," Bojay said. "Sheba's—"
"No," Starbuck said, "I want you and the others to stay by the Vipers. Be ready to take off if threatened. Don't wait for Boomer and me to return."
Bojay, who never liked sitting around and waiting, pouted,
"All right," he said sullenly.
Starbuck regretted not taking Bojay with him. Bojay and Sheba had been wingmates for a long while. But Starbuck and Boomer had been paired for longer, and knew each other's moves so well that it made sense for them to stay together in a dangerous situation like this. He explained to his squadron that he and Boomer would head out in the direction Hera indicated in order to scout out the terrain and see if they could locate where Apollo and the others had been taken. Then they'd return in order to block out a strategy of rescue. The pilots went to their posts, and Boomer and Starbuck started their journey.
After they'd walked some distance without talking, Starbuck finally said, "Pleasant smells in the air. Good, after the oily odors inside a Viper."
"You say so. I'd feel a little less nervous inside a cockpit."
"Boomer, you have refined caution into an exact science, you know that?"
"We're still here, aren't we?"
"Point taken."
If they hadn't had a mission to attend to, the trip through the forest would have been a fine stroll. Not only was the air filled with the perfumes of many flowers and trees, but the gentle and autumnal colors of the landscape were soothing to the eye. Tiny furry animals frequently skittered by them, apparently unafraid of their presence, and some multicolored birds watched them stoically from branches.
Before they came to a clearing, they were aware of a soft light coming from its direction. As they emerged from the woods, they saw that the light was a glow located beyond some rolling hills.
"Seems to be a city over that way, judging by the light," Starbuck said.
"Makes sense," Boomer agreed. "Probably the city we saw when we were descending."
"Let's take a look. It might be where they took Apollo and Sheba."
"Right."
They walked on with a special determination.
In an anteroom off an Image Lord control area, Crutch showed Lucifer and Spectre scenes of life in the city, where the citizens appeared to live pleasantly normal lives in a well-planned urban environment. Houses were spread along streets with an admirable geometric neatness, and commercial areas were decorated in pastel eye-soothing colors. The people went about their business cheerfully, frequently waving at or speaking to each other. They smiled often, and seemed quite at ease with themselves and each other.
"So you see," Crutch commented, "we treat our subjects well, allowing them a pleasant domestic life with all the conveniences and luxuries that go along with such an existence."
Lucifer pointed to a screen in the middle of the complex arrangement of screens.
"What's happening there?" he asked.
Crutch leaned down to take a good look.
"Ah," he said, when he recognized the scene, "the family is gathering together for an entertainment. See there, mates, in the middle of the room?"
He turned and ordered, in his own language, a technician to enlarge the picture. When it had refocused, Lucifer could see in the center of the screen a smiling, gun-toting figure shooting at an offscreen enemy. Lucifer, astonished, recognized the figure.
"Starbuck!" he said.
The name drew Spectre's attention to the screen. He had only seen Starbuck briefly, long ago, so he asked Lucifer, "Lieutenant Starbuck? From the Galactica? Is he here, in The Joyful Land?"
"Don't understand ya, chums," Crutch said.
"That man in the middle of the room," Lucifer said. "I know him. I have met him."
"Him?"
Crutch, with an ugly crescendo, began his awesomely ugly laugh.
"Starbuck, is he a prisoner here?" Lucifer asked. He found himself hoping against hope that Starbuck was here. He so wanted to see the reckless young lieutenant again.
"That gunslinger there ain't a real person, mates," Crutch said. "It's an illusion created by that little box there at the kid's feet. See?"
"Yes. You mean it's a projection from that box?"
"Sort of. It creates a field in which settings are possible at all sizes and shapes. The people can manipulate the scene themselves. In a very primitive way, of course. Nothing like we do here. The figures, too, like your buddy there. There is a story that we create for them, but to a certain extent the figures and what they do are manipulable, too. A clever toy, don't you think, swabbie?"
"What's a swabbie?" Spectre asked.
"Beats me. Our slang goes back so many generations, nobody understands it anymore."
Lucifer tapped the surface of the screen with his long thin metal fingers.
"Then that's just a depiction of Starbuck?" he asked.
"Right."
"But where did they get the image in the first place?"
"I don't get you."
"I mean, how did they know there was a Starbuck to recreate for this dramatic process?"
"Imagescan's what we call it. I don't know about this particular Starcrossed, but—"
"Starbuck."
"Whatever. Our stories are often derived from the mythology of the beings we capture, so I suppose the exploits of your real Starbuck were renowned on one of the cultures we invaded to obtain subjects, and we were able to reconstruct heroic stories about him. It's simple to recreate a person through Imagescan. A few memories, some descriptive details, and, easy as sky-pie, you've got the image of Starbuck. If we discover you guys are heroes where you come from, we can concoct little entertainments about you."
"We're hardly heroes," Lucifer said.
"Still, you might make good story material. I'll talk to the Image Planners. They're in charge of these little amusements, and I hear they're always looking for new material for stories. Might be really good. The Two Metalmops saving their world from evil invaders. And no need for reconstruction, they'd have you right here to copy. I could clear a good piece of change with—"
"Please," Lucifer interrupted, "I don't wish that."
"Why not, Lucifer?" Spectre asked. "It sounds interesting."
"It sounds embarrassing."
"Don't be silly. We can't be emba
rrassed."
Maybe you can't, Lucifer thought.
"It seems to me you've lost some of your adventuresome spirit, Lucifer."
Crutch went off to contact the Image Planners. Spectre turned to Lucifer and began grilling him about Starbuck. To get rid of him, Lucifer told him what he knew about Starbuck. Spectre showed special interest in the fact that the human was a card sharp, and that he had taught Lucifer a few of the games, then beaten him every time. He asked what steps Lucifer had taken since to improve his strategy and gamesmanship. Lucifer couldn't imagine why Spectre was so curious.
Spectre, on his part, had a sense he could use the information, although he had no idea how. But he was sure he could find a way.
It was, of course, Chandra who had led the children into the woods. Bored with the fifth run-through of the new adventure of the Starbuck, jealous of the woman companion Denra who got so much of his attention between battles, and with no new episodes of the Starbuck forthcoming for at least a week, she had needed something different to do. As usual, the other children were enticed by her whims.
Just after twilight, they found themselves in an unfamiliar part of the woods. They had been playing adventure games based on the Starbuck, with Brynt enacting the hero. Chandra found the games joyless since her brother hadn't even the slightest resemblance to the Starbuck. Exhausted, they all plopped down under a tree.
"We should be getting home now," Brynt said.
"Mister prim and proper," Chandra said softly. "Always want to follow the rules, don't you?"
Even though he recognized the threat in her subdued voice, Brynt was too tired to be careful with her.
"That's why there are rules, dumbie," he said. "You—"
"Don't fight please," interrupted Zossie. "I'm so sick of the two of you always fighting when we get alone."
Chandra turned on her little sister, and Zossie recoiled before the disastrous gentleness in her voice.
"Zossie, if they bottled wine with an 'h,' you'd be rich from selling your whines."
Zossie, braver than usual, stuck out her tongue, then skittered away.
Battlestar Galactica 12 - Die, Chameleon! Page 12
