Part Eighty-Five
"I'm telling you, he's clean!"
Starbuck's chest heaved as he lay with his cheek pressed against the cold deck, trying to work the blindfold just a little further upward. It was bad enough being trussed up like a Winter Solstice avian, stuffed and about to be roasted for dinner, but when he couldn't even see where the next strike was coming from . . . well, it was a little unsettling. Even for a hot shot Colonial Warrior of over a deca-yahren's experience and at least one course in resisting torture.
Lords, didn't we already do this? It was disturbingly similar to his session with Torg and Bex on the asteroid base. They had even taken his boots to search for the transceiver. Well, at least these clowns didn't have an Obediator. Thank the twelve Lords of Kobol for small favours.
"He'd better be clean. If they catch him here, I'm finished. And if I am, so are you! There's no amount of explaining . . ." The speaker broke off. Again the voice was disturbingly familiar, but the affect glaringly different. He was certain it wasn't Fausto. If he could just place . . . "Get him up. We need to find out how much he really knows before we kill him."
A beefy arm grabbed him around the neck, cutting off his air as his assailant hauled him backwards and up onto his knees. Starbuck gasped as the pressure eased for an instant, then he felt himself jerked back onto a hard surface, probably a chair, his arms positioned behind the frame. The chair rocked backwards precariously under the momentum before he was again shoved forward and the two front chair legs hit the deck. They wobbled back and forth. Uneven legs, he thought fleetingly. Must be old.
Starbuck used the forward momentum to surge forward, delaying the inevitable interrogation, and giving Apollo and Boomer as much time as they needed to get there. Apparently, they were taking a short java break
The meaty arm was instantly around his neck again, cutting off his breath and momentum abruptly. He was dragged back into position onto the chair, gagging on the wad of cloth in his mouth.
"Shackle him! He's too clever to leave unbound."
Starbuck's right ankle was gripped momentarily before he kicked out blindly, his bare foot connecting with something soft that grunted loudly. It sounded nearby, so he kicked out again, this time certain he hit bone with his heel, the resulting crunch, and cry of pain corroborating his suspicion.
He wheezed as he was jerked back by the throat again. A strangled gurgle escaped his lips and he struggled for a breath as the pressure grew by the micron. He jerked from side to side trying to loosen the other's grip, but couldn't evade the crushing hold. His chest ached as he fought for some air, desperate for a single breath. The tightness rose up from his chest until a dull roar filled his ears.
"Let me finish him." The voice in his ear, low and menacing. "Make up for the Life Station. The frackin' Boray's astrum!"
Guidobaldo.
Starbuck's back arched off the chair, his head swimming. His body shuddered with exertion and he tensed from head to toe as he strained to breathe. He felt himself tipping backwards, uncertain if it was gravitational or if he was fast approaching unconsciousness. Vaguely, he became aware of his feet pressing against the deck, seeking purchase. In a final desperate attempt, he gave a mighty shove with both feet, thrusting the chair and himself back, head over heels.
They crashed to the deck.
----------
It was like being in some nightmarish version of an IFB game show. Although some might describe IFB as something of a nightmare in itself.
Apollo shook his head as he ran along the scaffolding on what had to be Delta Deck. If that was the case, he knew it generally housed the elite. Bureauticians, celebrities, bluebloods and entrepreneurs, along with their hangers-on, parasites, and what one of the Earthmen had called groupies . . . Cubits and lineage seemed to capstone morality and compassion. It wasn't exactly like he and Boomer could just start blasting their way through the endless back doors until they found Starbuck. Someone innocent could get hurt.
His eyes scoured the area looking for some sign that Starbuck had passed—or had been dragged—that way. A myriad of doors to choose from, and not a fracking idea of which one to go through. He fleetingly wondered why the ship had so many secret escape routes, evidently one for each suite. What had she been used for before she became the luxury liner that for more yahrens than he could remember chartered wealthy patrons from destination to destination throughout the Twelve Worlds? Or perhaps that was why this labyrinth existed. Perhaps she had always been this way, from the day she was first launched. To hide the elite from pirates or marauders in case of an attack and subsequent boarding. Had it ever happened? His comm crackled to life.
"Apollo!" Boomer's voice rang out. "Back this way. Looks like fresh blood."
They had split up when they had determined there was more than one way to go, being approximately amidships of the Rising Star. The captain's gut twisted with worry at Boomer's news. At the same time, he pivoted on his heel, the clap of his boots echoing through the labyrinth as he sprinted to catch up with the lieutenant, all thoughts of the liner's dubious history now far from mind.
As he arrived, he could see Boomer with the control panel open, trying to bypass the access code that kept the heavy door closed to them. It was all that separated them from Starbuck and Guidobaldo, if they were right. He briefly looked at the surface below them, noting the smear of blood that his friend had found. It looked odd; alien in the bad light. "Well?"
Boomer shook his head in frustration. "I can't hot-link the system, Apollo. It's got way too many redundancies. If we don't have the access code, we can't open the door." Even as he spoke, the control pad went dark. "Damn! It's locked me out."
Apollo pulled his blaster for the second time, recalling the lift he and Starbuck had used on Carillon. "There's more than one way to skin a felix."
Boomer stood back as the captain fired point blank into the door itself. There was a flash of light, but nothing else. The heavy door simply seemed to absorb the laser energy, not even smoldering under fire.
"What the frack did they build that thing out of?" Boomer asked in disbelief, remembering how the secret door in Fausto's turbo flush had crumbled. He felt the point of impact. The metal was barely warm.
Apollo shook his head. "Obviously, whoever has these quarters is serious about no one getting in uninvited." He briefly considered just blowing the control panel itself to scrap, or going back for some solenite . . . both would be a waste of time. Time that Starbuck probably didn't have.
"Can we contact Corporal Komma again? Give him our coordinates and find out who the registered occupant is according to the Rising Star's schematic?" Boomer suggested. "Then, maybe just go through the front door?"
Apollo pulled out his comm unit, nodding with a smile. "That's why I keep you around, Boomer."
"Well, I knew it must be for something beyond my good looks and charming disposition." Boomer returned with a grin.
"You've been hanging around Starbuck . . ."
". . . too long. I know."
----------
He obviously felt you had it coming, Bucko.
Starbuck was curled into a ball—or as close as he could get to it—on his side and still attached to the chair by one ankle and his wrists. He couldn't even remember the shackles being applied before he upset the chair, hurling himself, the chair and the charming Guidobaldo as well to the deck. His face, his shins, and, indiscriminately, everything in between were pulsating in pain—all had been targets of the vicious mong-kicking the killer had just delivered.
With this fella, who needed Obediators?
"Had enough?!" Guidobaldo hollered in his ear, just about piercing an eardrum as he grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked the warrior's head upwards. "Have you?!"
Starbuck could feel his cheeks puffing out with each breath as he tried to suck in a decent amount of air around the gag in his mouth. Of course, the blood oozing out of his nose wasn't much help either, effectively blocking the rest of his airway. Something had to have happened with the transceiver. There was no way in Hades hole that Apollo couldn't have found him by now if he was following the signal. After all, the captain was a navigational genius. Well . . . except for that time he got lost in the magnetic void, his sensors scrambled, just before Kobol. Hades, Apollo had claimed to be locked on Starbuck's voice, using it as a navigational fix then too. Some frackin' fix that had turned out to be. Well, he obviously wasn't locked on Starbuck's voice or homing signal now. Or . . . maybe he was about to burst through the door, Boomer at his side, lasers blazing.
"Enough!" The other man said. Starbuck felt his tormentor being pulled away, the sound of someone yanking at fabric. Probably Guidobaldo's arm being stayed. "You've softened him up. Now let's find out what he knows."
Well, the rescue was a nice mental image anyhow.
Abruptly, he was grabbed by the tunic, hauled upright, and the chair with him. Another shackle was instantly applied to his free ankle as his head dropped listlessly to his chest. Pain radiated through him in new directions. He hissed as his wrist restraints were tightened cruelly.
A brief searing pain at the back of his head, and the gag dropped into his lap, severed by something sharp that had also sliced his skin. He tried to push the lump of cloth from his mouth with his tongue, but he was so dry, it stuck to his tissues like adhesive. He spat at it ineffectually.
"Let me get that for you."
The cloth was torn from his mouth, his head whipping to the side in reaction . He gasped, as his neck cracked and his skull pounded some more. An instant later his hair was gripped, and his head jerked back, a sharp, cold tylinium blade at his throat.
It was then that he figured it out. That familiar voice he couldn't quite place, mainly because he couldn't connect it with Fausto or his assassin, it was . . . Dracus.
The humanitarian. The above reproach Bureautician. The moral puritan.
"Now tell me what you were doing in Fausto's office on his computer." Dracus demanded.
Starbuck's head reeled as he tried to rationalize the Councilman's presence. His voice was more of a croak as he licked dry lips before replying, "Playing . . . Starhounds?"
----------
Ryan paused in the corridor of the chancery's offices to see several of Fausto's own security people, as well as a couple Colonial Security Officers, standing there with data pads in hand. He looked aside at Baker. "I'm almost afraid to look."
Baker nodded. "Can't be good," he said, around his snack. Some sort of cheese balls. He couldn't get enough.
Discovery meant one of two things. Successful mission with Starbuck being fingered. Or unsuccessful mission with Starbuck being fingered. Either way, the kid could be in a whole lot of trouble. Thankfully, Colonial Security was supposed to be on their side.
"Let's go make sure our Liaison Officer is alright," Ryan murmured as they continued down the corridor.
"Right." Baker replied through partially chewed cheese balls.
"Hey, leave some of those for someone else."
"They're good!"
"So I've heard, and I'd like to try some too. So might one or two others."
"You act like I've eaten every last one." Baker argued, holding up his last one and considering it momentarily before popping it in his mouth with a grin.
"Well, you are what you eat." Ryan ribbed him.
"Humph."
They only made it a few more feet when one of Fausto's men approached them, hand held up to stop them from proceeding. "What are you doing back here? This area is off limits to guests."
"We're not guests, we're the hired help. The Earthmen." Ryan returned, meeting the man's eyes until he nodded in recognition. "We need to get to our office." He pointed the way to the one just down from Fausto's. "I left my Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ra there."
"Your what?" the man asked, his face blank.
"His Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ra." Baker replied with the help of the languatron. "The one Bing Crosby gave him. Heck, I'm pretty sure it was just next to my Mele Kalikimaka."
"You sure that's the thing to say?"
"Well, sure, it isn't Christmas Day, but . . ."
"Meli . . ." the man's face twisted as he tried to say the words, grabbing Baker's languatron and looking at it helplessly. "Uh . . ."
"Kalikimaka." Ryan inserted smoothly. "You can't have a presentation of this importance without a decent Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ra or a Mele Kalikimaka." He looked at Baker. "We were remiss in thinking we could get away with it. Pretty damn supercalifragilisticexpialidocious of us really."
Baker nodded, seemingly abashed. "God. What would Julie Andrews say?"
"Well, hopefully, she'll never find out. This really is something quite atrocious."
"Uh . . ." The man shifted from foot to foot, seeing the corridor clear as Security Officers and Fausto's people alike stepped into the office. "All right. Go ahead. Straight in and then straight back out." Far be it for him to ruin the Journey to Earth presentation because they didn't have a . . . whatever it was.
"Right." Ryan assured him, stepping past him and slowing his pace as he passed Fausto's office. He glanced inside to see three burly Security men squeezed into the head at the rear of the office. There was no sign of Starbuck . . . or his posse. He hesitated.
Baker opened the door to their office, pausing to wait for his friend. "You coming?"
Ryan nodded slowly, then startled as Fausto suddenly appeared in his doorway.
"Can I help you, Dr. Ryan?" Fausto asked, his eyes narrowed, closing his door behind him and blocking their view of the unfolding events.
"Bloody well hope so, Fausto, old boy." Ryan looked up and down the corridor, amazed to find it empty. He grinned at Baker. "We've lost something kind of important to us, and we were hoping you could help us find it." He put a friendly arm around Fausto's shoulders, guiding him steadily and forcibly towards their office.
"Wait, just a fracking centon . . ." Fausto snarled, putting on his breaks.
"Don't think so, Cheese Ball." Baker inserted with a grin at Ryan, grabbing Fausto by the arm and bodily throwing him through the door. The gangster stumbled, barely keeping himself from landing face-first on the rug. "Now plant your butt in the chair, or my friend and I will personally rip you a new one."
"How dare you! I am. . . " He didn't get to finish, as he was settled into the seat.
"This worm makes Al Capone look like a saint," said Baker to his friend. "Now, it's like this, Fausto, my man." He dropped the languatron on the chancery boss' lap, hoping the translation would lose nothing of his heartfelt words in the translation. "You and your cruds have taken Starbuck somewhere. And we wanna know where that is."
"Look, I don't know. . . " Fausto began, but Baker shoved him back in the chair. Fausto glared furiously at him, and opened his mouth.
Baker slapped him, open handed and hard enough to feel the heat on his palm. "You have only one thing to say, Buster, that we wanna hear." He reached for the samples of material they had been given to chose from for their tuxedos, beginning to tear some into strips.
"You are dead! Both of you!" snarled Fausto, red-faced and teeth bared. "No one treats me this way and gets away with it!"
"Save your breath," said Ryan. "You may need it before the night is over." He leaned close to Fausto, as his friend bound the chancery boss to the chair. "And when you threaten us, it might be wise to keep something in mind. Me, my friend here? Dayton? We spent thirty years being humiliated and tortured by experts! Nothing you can possibly threaten us with could ever come close . . ." his voice rose to a shout, " . . . to the living hell we've been through." He stood back, looking down at the other. "So you better start. . ."
"Let me go!!!" bellowed Fausto at the top of his lungs, straining at the bonds. "I demand you release me!"
"He demands," said Baker, with a smile. "This piece of trash murders with impunity, and he demands things of us."
"Yeah. Come half-way across the damned galaxy, and it's the same old crap." He shook his head. "Pathetic. Totally pathetic."
"Now," said Baker, a glinting knife in one hand. He moved closer to Fausto, and let him get a good look at the blade. "This is how it's going to be, Dirtbag. You tell me and my friend what we want to know, and you get to keep your anatomy intact."
"I . . ." hissed Fausto, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes fixed on the knife. "I. . ."
"Yes?" said Baker. "We're all ears."
----------
It was the first instance that his blindfold had been slightly out of place since he had originally awakened, bound and gagged. Starbuck was reasonably sure he had lost consciousness again after Dracus had ordered the killer to teach him a few manners, but just this centon it was all a blur. The last thing he remembered he was wishing he'd kept his big mouth shut as the hit man went berserk on him. Who would have thought that Guidobaldo could be such a stickler for the social graces? Wait a centon . . . Guidobaldo was Fausto's man . . . What in Hades hole was he doing here taking orders from Dracus? His muddled mind tried to make sense of it. And where was here incidentally?
Starbuck blinked, raising his head painfully and cautiously, his neck muscles screaming in protest, as he tried to look around the dimly lit room. The blindfold must have shifted during the last pummeling the hit man had given him, and had left one eye partially uncovered. Mind you, from the throbbing in that general area, he realized it would probably be swollen shut in no time, so perhaps it was a moot point. He bit his lip, trying to ignore stiff and aching muscles that had been immobilized for too damn long as he was tied unconscious to the chair. He straightened his back and neck slowly, hearing and feeling each vertebra protest, popping, cracking and creaking as though he was three times his actual age. A soft groan escaped him as he wondered where Dracus and Guidobaldo had gone. Not that he missed them.
He blinked again, trying to clear double vision from his single eye. He sighed, shaking his head dubiously. Why? Oh, whycouldn't it be single vision from double eyes? His eye was drawn to the several lights on the walls surrounding him. He rolled his neck before again focusing in on the light closest to him. What the . . .?
A painting. Now he wasn't much of an art connoisseur, leaning more towards actually experiencing life rather than hanging it on his wall, but even his untrained eye could tell he was looking at something . . . damned old.
And valuable.
The colours were rich, the light and shadow effects varied and subtle, the scene depicting a group of young women wearing antique dress and surrounding another. A soft golden light bathed the central figure, setting her apart as she gazed reverently towards the heavens. If he wasn't shackled to a chair, it might have been inspiring. Actually, in that light, it reminded him of an introductory art course he was forced to endure as a young teen, through the generosity of the head matron of the Caprica City Orphanage.
"Ah, you're awake, Lieutenant."
His mouth was thick and dry, and the usual flippant remark remained stuck to the tip of his tongue. His licked his lips without relief. Life was just not fair sometimes.
Dracus walked in front of him, sniffing in disgust as he noticed the askew blindfold. He smiled sadistically as he held a blade up in front of Starbuck, its ornate hilt disturbingly similar to one that had been sticking out of the lieutenant's gut recently, compliments of Sire Regus. He pushed it closer to the warrior, his smile slipping when the already battered pilot refused to react. "Are you ready to talk?"
Starbuck swallowed, again trying to moisten his mouth. He glared at the bureautician in silent resistance.
"Guidobaldo, give the lieutenant a drink." Dracus ordered the assassin, looking beyond the chair. "Something cool and refreshing. He's had a long day."
"Of course."
The killer was directly behind him. Once again, a beefy arm had him in a headlock, forcing his chin up. In an instant the assassin was trying to pour a cup of noxious liquid down Starbuck's throat. The warrior sputtered and choked, inhaling half and spitting the rest out into Dracus' face, the chair rocking as he thrust his body weight from side to side, resisting the only way he could.
"Bastard!" Dracus cried, joining the assault. He grabbed Starbuck by the jaw, clutching his face and helping force more of the beverage into their prisoner until the pilot was gasping and wheezing for breath. "Enough!"
They let him go.
Starbuck's chest heaved, fighting for air between hacking coughs, bent on clearing his lungs. As his wracking coughs finally calmed, his head drooped to his chest wearily. Blinking his eyes to clear them, he shook his head slowly, his brain feeling fuzzy. The world seemed to be slowing down, everything moving in slow motion. He blinked again as the lights before him refracted, splitting off into colourful beams that coursed through the air. He watched them mesmerized. Funny, some of these colours didn't actually exist, but hey, they were so nice he was willing to nominate them for inclusion in that whole colour network. It was the least he could do really. It was beautiful.
"How long does it take to work?" Dracus asked the other.
"It's very fast-acting. He should be ready now."
"Then let's begin simply." Dracus grabbed Starbuck's jaw, assessing his glazed visage. "Tell me your name."
The warrior closed his eyes briefly, feeling the grip tighten, fingernails digging into his skin. It hurt. His head felt heavy and out of sorts . . . like someone had snuck in and given him a cranial transplant. He fleetingly hoped it was a decent replacement over his old head. . . mind you, how could you possibly improve on perfection?
"YOUR NAME!" Dracus hollered in his ear.
He found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything beyond Dracus' question . . . especially at that volume. "Starbuck." He opened his eyes blearily, a faint smile lit his face. "But my friends call me House Blend."
Crunch!
----------
"Nobody home," Dayton muttered disdainfully as he stood in front of Sire Dracus' quarters. He pinged the chime again.
"I gathered as much," Chameleon agreed. "Either that, or he's not receiving guests." He looked up and down the corridor before pulling Dracus' ID card out and holding it up to the activation unit. Dayton moved slightly to one side, to cover Chameleon's actions. The door slid open.
"Nice," Dayton nodded approvingly at the conman, stepping inside. "Slicker than snot on a doorknob."
"Maybe," replied the other, as he mulled the odd reference. "But I still miss the good old days when I could just pick the lock," Chameleon reminisced. "So much more skill involved then."
"I would have thought you folks were long past something as crude as mechanical locks."
"Well, in fact the sophistication of one's security system is often limited by one's budget . . ." his words petered out as they walked into the antechamber.
"Holy Highlander . . ." Dayton exclaimed, looking around at the fine old swords displayed on the walls. "Does this guy have his own armoury or what?"
"Doesn't exactly fill me with comforting thoughts. . ." Chameleon muttered as they continued through to the main chambers, pausing to glance at the swords in the display cabinets. "By the Lillium moons, this is valuable merchandise."
"Whew, where's the Round Table?" Dayton shook his head, returning to the here and now. "Where the hell did he go?" the Earthman asked the conman as he began looking through adjoining rooms for any sign of Sire Dracus.
"Hmm?" Chameleon asked, his eye caught by a sculpture of a man's head displayed prominently on a black stone pillar. He knew that piece. Had seen it once yahrens ago in . . .
"Dracus."
"Wait a centon." Chameleon murmured distractedly as he turned slowly in a circle, following his instinct, trying to put it all together. A painting . . . the sculpture . . . at least a couple swords . . . a very old, hand-illuminated copy of the Book of the Word . . .
"Chameleon! He's not here! We were wrong!" Dayton told him briskly. "He's up to something, I'm telling you. I don't like it. We need to find out what's happening on Starbuck's end. I'm going to call Ryan and see what he found out." He had prearranged to comm Ryan and Baker in their 'office'. He glanced at his wristwatch. . . chrono.
The older man raised a calming hand. "This collection." He indicated the antiques displayed proudly in the room. "I'm certain that a few of these pieces are stolen. Famous, priceless pieces that have been missing for deca-yahrens, appropriated from some very well-known museums and private collections."
Dayton paused, looking at the other. "So, you're saying that the squeaky clean, Golden Boy, fine, upstanding pillar of the community, Sire Dracus, is a . . . a thief?"
Chameleon nodded. "So it would seem." He looked grudgingly impressed. "And a damn fine one."
"Okay, well if he's scum, at least he isn't cut-rate scum. That still doesn't get us any closer to connecting with Starbuck, and finding out what's going down there."
"You're right," replied the older man.
"I'm gonna call Ryan and . . . "
"No one is making any calls just now, I'm afraid," said a voice. They heard a click behind them. "Hands up, and turn around slowly."
"Why do these things always happen to me?" muttered Chameleon.