Part Eighty-Seven
Another gash in his uniform, another conductor secured in place. Sometimes the blade gouged, drawing blood and inflicting pain, sometimes it merely scraped his flesh. He didn't know what to expect next. That was part of Guidobaldo's game. That was why the blindfold was back in place as he sat, still immobile, shackled to the chair. The unknown and the unseen was twice as intimidating as the expected.
"Just so you understand completely . . ." Guidobaldo leaned in, lips close to Starbuck's ear, his voice low and monotone. Almost clinical. Like Dr. Salik during the yahrenly physical. Right before the physician inserted that hideous probe right up. . .
This time the blade only nicked him mid-chest, feeling more like a paper cut. A sharp sting, and then the adhesive pad was pressed into place. Starbuck gritted his teeth, refusing to react, even though his tired and battered body was tense with expectation. Every nerve ending was alive, hypersensitive, awaiting the killer's next move. The game was psychological as much as physical. The one advantage was that every centon that Guidobaldo prolonged the torture, he unwittingly gave Apollo and Boomer one more centon to find him. He had to cling to that hope, however tenuous it was.
"The Human body, Lieutenant, has twelve main neural meridians that can be targeted to either help heal disease, or," he paused, and Starbuck could almost hear his torturer smile, "cause exquisite pain. Depending on the artist's training, of course."
"Of course," Starbuck replied, ever flippant in the face of danger.
"And believe you me, Lieutenant, it is an art form. One of the most . . . well, words fail me."
"Sorry to hear that. You know, one of the Galactica's bridge officers does wonders with the little kids in instructional period. Maybe some remedial reading might help?"
Guidobaldo just laughed softly, refusing to rise to the bait.
Conductors clung to Starbuck's body linearly. Starting at his head and going down both arms to his hands, his legs to his feet, his back, and now his torso, following the supposed neural pathways. He could feel the sweat running off his body, following the route of the pads. His breathing was quicker, more shallow, in response to both the pain he already felt, and that which he knew would soon be coming.
"I wonder, Lieutenant Starbuck, if you will lose control," the goon laughed softly again, the sound like the rasp of serpent skin, "of certain bodily functions on the first treatment. . . or the second." Guidobaldo's voice purred in his face, his breath hot and foul. "I'm willing to bet it will be the first."
The blade pressed against his stomach, slowly exerting an increasing pressure until it cut through material and tissue as though they were air. It was all too reminiscent of a crazed Regus driving a knife into his guts with the intent to kill. Starbuck held his breath, waiting.
"The conductors are connected by a relay, which will direct the transmitting signal to the desired probe. Once all of them are in place, I simply press a button and electrical impulses shoot through your entire body to the points I decide, at the exact intensity that I decide. Only three more to go." He chuckled again. "Don't worry, Lieutenant. I once suffered through first yahren med school so I could perfect my skills on delivering pain with the utmost efficacy. I know my anatomy."
"Comforting to know you're not an amateur." The pilot murmured, his skin prickling at the closeness of the knife. "I'm touchy about those things."
The blade was withdrawn and Starbuck let out a slow, steadying breath as another pad was pressed into place. He could now feel the blade on his lower abdomen, just above his pubic bone. Again the knife pressed against his skin, this time only puncturing clothing and ripping it aside before the conductor was firmly fixed into place.
"Are you wondering where the last one goes yet?" This time the voice was Dracus' as he laughed sadistically, seemingly some metrons away. Close enough to observe without actually getting his hands dirty. "Hmm?"
"Sorry, but the study of neural meridians wasn't my forte at the Academy. Uhh, maybe we could arrange a review of the systems with descriptive diagrams and I could brush up . . . "
Whack!
Starbuck tasted the blood in his mouth from the blow, whether delivered by Dracus or his pet simian he could not tell. All that mattered was he interrupted the assassin once again. Prolonging this session, but giving a potential rescue effort more precious time. He spat in the general direction of the closest sound, satisfied when someone hissed in disgust. It was worth the throbbing jaw.
Whack!
"Okay," said Guidobaldo, the mirth evident in his voice. "Here goes the last one. Now don't move, Lieutenant. Then again, it's not like you'll be needing them again . . ." Low, chilling laughter.
"Fr . . .frack . . ." Starbuck swallowed the sudden lump in his throat as he realized the straight line of descent down the middle of his torso inevitably led to his . . .
Abruptly, the loud noise of a hatch opening, swinging back to its limit, interrupted the proceedings. Starbuck sat up straight, ears straining, listening for the inevitable sound of Apollo's voice as his friends rushed to his rescue.
It didn't come.
But . . .
"Alright. Alrightalready. I'm moving, lady. I'm moving."
It sounded like . . . Dayton.
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Dayton's hands were held up high over his head as he came through the hatch, Chameleon following behind him in Siress Rea's mourning dress. The key was that Chameleon couldn't speak before they put their two-step plan into action.
Step one: enter room. Step two: wing it.
"Well, this sure doesn't look like Narnia, Siress. Exactly, what kind of wardrobe . . . ?" The introduction died on his tongue when he saw what was happening. "Holy crap, what the hell are you doing to the boy? He's a bit young for a vasectomy!" Dayton growled as he saw Guidobaldo's knife poised at Starbuck's groin. Chameleon's gun pressed into his back, urging him forward insistently.
Guidobaldo jumped to his feet, at first not seeing the 'Siress', covered from head to toe in black, behind the Earthman. He relaxed as he spied her, lowering the blade he was getting ready to let loose in the intruder's direction. It seemed the 'Siress' had things well under control.
"Sorry to interrupt your little party, I came to check on you, Sire Dracus. I was . . . worried when you didn't return to the soiree." Dayton shrugged innocently, surreptitiously looking over the warrior who appeared to still be in one piece and breathing.
For the moment.
"I'm sure," Dracus returned wryly, his eyes narrowed as they stopped before him. "Rea, my dear, why did you bring him in? Surely you understand we'll have to kill him now."
"One more hardly matters . . ." Chameleon's voice was high pitched, the upper crust accent perfect, but the tone was a long way from Siress Rea's. Dracus' face went dark, as he realized it was a deception. The conman was already pivoting sharply, aiming the weapon at the bureautician. "Don't move, Dracus."
At the same time, Dayton reached behind him, unsheathing the longsword strapped to his back. In an instant, he was in position, feeling like Luke Skywalker with his light saber . . . or maybe, a little more accurately, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Either way, with a flick of his wrist and a downward slash of the blade, he disarmed Guidobaldo.
The assassin screamed as the blade cut down to the bone, halfway through his arm. He cradled the mutilated limb to his chest, crumpling to his knees in agony, blood soaking his tunic and running to the floor.
"Crude, Dayton, but effective," Chameleon murmured, pulling the veil from his head.
"I'm a bit rusty . . . out of practice," Dayton amended when Chameleon looked at him curiously. Hell, how long had it been since he and a few friends had decided to join the Society for Creative Anachronisms where he had risen in the ranks to a member of the Chivalry through his acquired expertise in single combat fighting? Who would have thought that a great excuse to get away from it all and drink a few beers too many for most of the summer weekends of his early twenties, would one day pay off in spades?
"Chameleon?" Starbuck asked, his head cocked in his father's direction, his voice hesitant. Hopeful.
"Yes, s . . . Starbuck. We're here." Chameleon reassured his son. "It's over."
"I think not, gentlemen." Dracus held up a small black box. They could see the red button in the middle and the dial above it that the bureautician had just cranked to the right. "I'm still holding the capstone, as it were. Drop your weapons." He nodded in approval as his henchman, face still tight with agony, began to tighten a belt around his own forearm, turning it into an effective tourniquet and slowing the bleeding.
"Don't listen to him! That could be the remote control for his television set for all we know," Dayton snapped, seeing the conman lower his gun.
Dracus smiled, though not understanding the literal translation The conman was obviously closer to the warrior than he had believed, being so anxious to drop his only line of defense at the first threat. The Earthman however . . . "Actually, it's the control for the conduction units on the lieutenant's body. I believe, though I admit I'm not a qualified professional, that one push of the button at the highest intensity would be the equivalent of death by electrical impulse."
"Well, that's a damn sight better than torture," Starbuck remarked casually, but his body was taut with tension.
"Is that true, Café Colonial? Are you wired?" Dayton could see cuts or incisions all the way down the lieutenant's body, some of them oozing varying amounts of blood onto his tattered uniform, but what lay beneath he couldn't tell. Then again, there was something peaking out beneath that mane of hair . . . It came far too close to all the horrors and indignities he had suffered or had been forced to witness at the hands of Torg and Bex when the pirates had threatened him or his men with the Obediator.
Starbuck sniffed at the nickname. Leave it to Dayton to not let up, even in a life or death situation. It was reassuring under the circumstances. "More or less. Though, according to Guido, they departed from wires in torture technology deca-yahrens ago."
That was enough for Chameleon. He dropped the weapon, stepping back from it.
Forget me!" rasped Starbuck in panic as he heard the sound of metal hit the deck. Surely to God they hadn't dropped their weapons! "Take this piece of Boray mong out!"
"Commander Dayton." Dracus' thumb was poised over the button as the Earthman stared him down, his back straightening, his jaw set, refusing to yield. "Did you want a little demonstration? Do you doubt my word?" His voice rose with his ire at the other's silent rebellion, and he cranked the dial back to the left, hitting the button without pause.
Starbuck's body went rigid, straining at the shackles and arching his back, as electrical impulses shot through him. The chair shifted under his momentum. Dayton dropped the longsword as if the grip was suddenly red-hot. It was over a moment later. Starbuck slumped back in the chair.
"You bastard . . ." Dayton snarled at the bureautician before striding towards the young man. "If he's dead, I'll kill you, you piece of shit!" He pulled off the blindfold, cradling the limp head and brushing the sweaty hair back from his eyes. "You okay, kid?" The young man was ashen, his mouth hanging open, eyes unfocused.
"Starbuck!" Chameleon cried from his other side.
The warrior let out a shuddering breath, blinking his eyes to see Dayton and then Chameleon staring at him in concern. He winced, as muscles continued to twitch involuntarily in aftershock. Shifting his astrum, or what he could still feel of it, he moved back in the chair. "Define . . . 'okay'," he rasped as he took a mental inventory, careful to note that his military briefs were pleasantly unsoiled, possibly due to the fact that they had never affixed the last conductor. His spirits thus buoyed, he added, "Great rescue. Did you get your ground assault training at your corner coffee shop?"
Dayton smiled grimly, patting the younger man's cheek. He had a point. Next time—if there was a next time—they'd move it up to a three step plan.
Starbuck smiled slightly looking back at his father. Somehow he couldn't quite believe that Chameleon had come. Just as he had promised. He blinked, squinting as he focused on the aging conman once again. He appeared to be wearing . . . a dress. "Something else you wanted to tell me . . . ?" he asked hesitantly. Maybe the Factuality Elixir wasn't so short lived after all . . . or so he hoped.
Chameleon only smiled, his relief evident, words failing him.
"You said you were out of practice, Commander Dayton. Does that mean you actually know how to wield a sword?" Dracus asked curiously as he watched them, kicking Siress Rea's weapon over to his assassin. He wondered for a brief moment what had become of her, then discounted it as unimportant.
"Academy fencing champion, my senior year," replied Dayton, rather creatively. It sounded more impressive than, 'well, I joined this group of eclectic people who liked to dress in historical costumes, drink beer, and then stage sword fights . . .'
"Academy?"
"United States Air Force Academy, Class of '93."
"All of which means so little. So?" He indicated the blade on the floor. "What do you say?"
"It was . . . a long time ago." Dayton answered slowly, crossing his arms, scratching his chin nonchalantly, and wondering if he could stall for more time. Ryan would be wondering why he hadn't checked in. There was still hope. Despite his blithe and lighthearted manner, his friend was like a half-starved wolf on the scent of wounded prey when push came to shove. Ryan wouldn't let him down. "But they say it's like riding a bicycle. It all comes back."
"Then I challenge you, Commander. Winner leaves alive." Dracus smiled, turning for a longsword displayed on the wall. He clipped the control unit to his belt and lifted the magnificent weapon off the wall, leaving Guidobaldo to cover them with the laser.
"Winner also gets that remote," added Dayton. "Not to mention, my two friends here."
"That goes without saying."
"I'd rather it was said."
The sword reminded the Earthman of an Earth katana, the blade long, curved and single-edged with no obvious cross guard. Obviously hand-forged in the traditional manner by a master smith, it was a truly magnificent piece of work, one that any samurai would have been honoured to call his own. The historian in him paused as he gazed at it in wonder, again finding a parallel between their two civilizations, star systems apart.
"You are impressed?" asked the renegade Councilman, indicating the sword.
"Well, 'impressed' doesn't really cover it, Sire Dracus. An incredible piece of workmanship. Very like one from my own planet."
"An fellow aficionado?" asked Dracus, brow raised.
"Not exactly, but my father was an historian. I had a very liberal education."
"Indeed. What a shame to see it go to waste when I take your head off. You may choose your own weapon, Commander."
"Oh? In that case, where's the lieutenant's laser?" Dayton quipped, reminded of Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Meanwhile, he quickly assessed the other swords, keeping in mind what he might be able to handle after enough years out of the SCA, rather than what looked the most impressive. There was a huge broadsword, but the thing had no crossguard and it looked like it weighed a ton. A blade similar to a rhomphaia was tempting, as was the one resembling a Dacian falx. In the end, he chose the closest thing to a side-sword that he could find. Just over three feet long with a tapered, double-edged blade, a ricasso above the cross guard, and a jeweled pommel. He could handle it single-handed or use the ricasso to double-hand it and improve his grip. Hell, if luck was with him, he could get in close and half-sword it like he did in the old days. The very old days, he reminded himself, hoping his old joints were up to it. He still wasn't exactly back to normal after decades of nothing but koivee to eat. All the same, it would be an advantage over the katana, and he could use every advantage available to him.
"Come now, Commander Dayton. Don't despair so soon. I admit, it has also been yahrens since I dueled. I would not have challenged you if I didn't think we were evenly matched," Dracus reassured him as he practiced a few strokes.
"That's a comfort."
Starbuck snorted in disbelief. "Yeah, he said the same to me just before he shackled me to this fracking chair." He shook the restraints, his muscles somewhere between numbness and insensibility with the enforced immobilization followed by the beating and electrical shock.
"The lieutenant is exaggerating. I never intended to fight you, Starbuck. Just kill you after I acquired the information I desired."
"Ah. Am I too much of a man for you, Dracus?" Starbuck scoffed.
"Remember, Lieutenant, I still hold the key to your pain and the ultimate instrument of your death." He patted the remote unit fondly, his finger hovering over the button as his eyes bored into Starbuck's.
"And if you try and use it, all bets are off and I kill you, Dracus," said Dayton.
"Brave words for the position you find yourself in," drawled the Sire, indicating the laser that Guidobaldo held with a surprisingly steady hand.
"Prepared to bet your life on that?" asked the astronaut.
"You military types are all alike. Your supposed honour hinges on empty threats and false bravado." Dracus looked measuredly from Dayton to Starbuck, smiling smarmily. "You really don't know when to quit, do you? Is it in the blood . . . or the regulations manual?"
"How can you stand yourself, Dracus?" Starbuck sneered. "You go on about the honour and glory of the old days 'when things were decided by the blade', and then you restrain me to a chair letting your lackey use electronic felgercarb on me. You don't know mong about honour and glory. All you've done is read about it and then acquired the weapons of those long dead who once lived it. It's not one and the same, you sniveling, two-faced reprobate." He could see Dracus' face flushing with anger and his finger twitching over the remote, just itching to begin cranking the dial to the right. It didn't bode well, but, Sagan, it felt good to get under the man's skin. So he did what he usually did . . . pressed on. "And then you challenge Dayton to a duel. He's got twenty yahrens on you, all of them spent in slavery. He's old, grey and slow."
"Hey!" Dayton shouted in affront, but the warrior continued to rave regardless.
"You don't even have the slightest amount of courage that it would take to even the odds . . ." Starbuck spat, his visage reflecting his obvious disgust.
"Enough!" Dracus hollered, his finger again poised over the red button, the malignant look on his face spelling out his obvious lethal intent.
"Wait, Dracus! You said you wanted a duel, so let's get on with it!" Dayton cried, moving into position with sword in hand. He yelled back over his shoulder, "Starbuck, shut the hell up! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Gag him if you have to, Chameleon, but keep him quiet!"
"Sire Dracus." The voice sharp and insistent. They turned to where Guidobaldo was again climbing to his feet, grunting in pain, his tunic covered in his blood, his injured hand dangling limply against his side, his other one holding the laser. "I'm curious, Sir. How would the lieutenant propose that we 'even the odds'?"
Dracus' gaze fell back on the warrior as he gripped his sword with both hands, facing Dayton . . . who, he noted, might actually know what he was doing with the side-sword. He could feel that familiar stirring, that blood lust he experienced every time he competed, begin to ebb . . . and a glimmer of fear take its place. "Do tell us, Lieutenant."
"Easy. Fight me." Starbuck replied, looking down his own bloodied frame, aware he looked less than intimidating. That's exactly what he wanted Dracus to think. "Not longswords though. Your other . . . fetish. Daggers."
"Daggers?" Dracus asked. "Colonial Warriors don't know the first thing about fighting with daggers."
"Prepared to bet your life on that?" Starbuck grinned dangerously, egging the man on while holding his gaze, "Try me."
The bureautician considered it for a moment. After all, with what they had put him through, the lieutenant looked as though he could barely stand, never mind fight with a weapon that Colonial Warriors weren't trained with. But he had underestimated Starbuck before, and had regretted it. Hades, the man had escaped from Cylon patrols, jumped into their cities, and even infiltrated a Base Ship! When he looked searchingly in those unwavering blue eyes, he could see unshakeable confidence . . . and his own ultimate demise.
"Remember his betrothed is Empyrean, and they are known for their skill with the blade, especially those who joined the Fleet from the planet Empyrean, such as the princesses. I would be very surprised if Ensign Luana hasn't shared some of those skills with her fellow warriors," Guidobaldo mentioned carefully as Dracus looked at him in surprise. "I make it my business to know such things, sir," he said, pain obvious behind the words.
"Either you're Sumatra Extra Bold, or you're just plain stupid, kid. He's mine, Starbuck. Back off," Dayton shook his head at the pilot.
"This is my fight, Dayton." Starbuck snapped back, straining at his bonds.
"Damn it, Lieutenant. You're in no shape for a fight!" He used his superior officer tone.
"Frack that. I'm still breathing!" The warrior returned.
"My, my, everyone is certainly eager to have a chance to kill me," Dracus muttered in amusement. "Should I feel honoured, or annoyed?"
"Well," Chameleon interjected politely. "From where we're standing, you must admit, you're a rather despicable individual. More loathsome than Borellian intestinal worms, in my humble opinion. After excretion, of course." He smiled slightly, carefully keeping himself between Guidobaldo's weapon and his son. He needed to get that remote unit off Dracus. But how? Guidobaldo was covering him, but he was down to one functional hand. But which was his dominant one? Chameleon kicked himself for not having bothered to find out since it would have a bearing on his aim . . .
"Come on, Dracus. Let's finish this. Man to man. Now." Dayton baited him, again raising his sword. "If you have the guts. Or the balls." His ensuing smile was challenge enough.
"All right, Commander. If you insist." Dracus smiled, lifting his own sword and rushing the man.
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"This way," said Apollo, referring to his data pad as Ryan and Baker leaned over each of his shoulder's anxiously. "Boomer?"
"On your wake, Captain."
----------
If Dracus was expecting Dayton to fall for his first move, he was sadly mistaken. Dayton sidestepped him with seeming ease, blocking his swing. The blades clanged like bells, their sound falling dead in the cloistered chamber. After separating, they found themselves opposite to where they had begun.
"If that was your idea of an attack. . ." began Dayton with a loud chuckle. Man alive, it felt good to hold a sword again. He shifted the weight, surprisingly light in his hands, getting used to the feel of his chosen weapon.
"Shut up!" snapped Dracus.
"And your mother wears open-toed combat boots!" Dayton blathered, grinning as he watched the other's somewhat confused response. The gradual anger washing across his face was a welcome sight.
"You will regret that," hissed Dracus.
"I doubt it! You gonna fight or talk?"
With a snarl of anger, Dracus attacked again, although this time it was better executed. He feinted, and fell back, trying to draw his opponent into a vulnerable position. Reacting cautiously, Dayton swished the weapon in front of him, forcing the other to scurry back, keeping his distance. Dracus raised his sword, and brought it down, trying to force Dayton's aside, and create an opening. The Earthman blocked it with an upthrust. The bureautician hissed in pain. He danced back out of the way, escaping the encounter with a deep cut on the edge of his hand.
Dayton grinned at him as he drew first blood. "My point. Hurts?"
Dracus' reply was unintelligible as he renewed his attack, faster than Dayton would have given the sedentary Councilman credit for. He brought his blade down hard on Dayton's. The Earthman moved forward, letting his blade slide along Dracus', until it caught on the lips of the ricasso, then he shoved hard upwards and whipped his own blade hard over. The bureautician nearly lost his grip on the sword, one hand coming away, as he staggered back a few steps. Clearly, he hadn't expected it. Dayton grinned triumphantly.
For a moment, Dracus stood back, breathing hard. It had indeed been yahrens since his dueling days, and he was feeling it. While not heavy, he was simply out of shape. The Earthman also had a great deal of natural ability, which shamefully he couldn't profess. His skills came from yahrens of practice, which lately was sorely lacking. His eyes flickered to the lieutenant, almost regretting that he hadn't taken on the younger man instead. He looked pointedly at his henchman, nodding a silent message. He would win this engagement one way or the other.
For Dayton's part, he was breathing easier. For the first time ever, he realized that a prolonged diet of koivee had at least warded off the middle age spread that had affected his opponent. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his body, and welcomed the powerful energy boost it provided him.
"Not bad," said Dracus, sparing a glance at his wounded hand, and then holding it up for the other to see. "My compliments."
"Thanks. I'll put that on my resume." He noticed the control unit hanging precariously off the other's belt, obviously jostled loose during the skirmish. He caught Chameleon's eye for a moment, nodding his head towards Dracus. The conman nodded briefly. He had already noticed.
As Dayton considered his next move, something caught his eye. Guidobaldo raised his weapon, the image reflected in the polished surface of a silver ewer on a stand. At the same moment, Chameleon shouted his name in warning.
Dayton side-stepped and pivoted, blade pointed towards the wounded henchman as laser fire shot harmlessly past him. With a lunge, he caught the other's laser, sending it flying from his grip. It flew off into a dark corner, almost hitting Chameleon, as Guidobaldo gasped in shock. Dayton winced apologetically at the conman who hurried to recover it.
The assassin lunged forward.
"I don't think so!" Dayton yelled, cutting him off with a downward stroke that put his blade between the weapon and the killer like a castle wall. He quickly turned, moving to where he could see both men, his blade still pointed at the killer. "You try anything like that again and they'll be fitting you for hooks by morning. Got me, Guido, old boy?"
He held the point of his sword to Guidobaldo's gut. When the thug didn't answer, he flicked the blade across the enforcer's tunic. The assassin winced as the point cut through the fabric and into his flesh. "Got me? Huh?"
"Yeah," nodded the other, taking a step back, bowing his head, and again cradling his arm. He seemed almost submissive.
"Good boy." He nodded, turning towards the conman who was returning, weapon in hand. "Watch him, Chameleon."
"Dayton!" Starbuck yelled in warning.
Dayton turned to see Dracus' blade bearing down on him. He thrust his blade upward barely in time, blocking a blow that would almost certainly have ripped deep into his flesh. He stumbled backwards under the force. The two blades scraped metal on metal, then with one more powerful shove and momentum on his side, Dracus pushed Dayton away. The commander lost his footing, unable to recover his balance, and tumbled onto his back, knocking the breath from his lungs. Simultaneously, the control unit hit the floor, skittering away.
With everyone distracted, Guidobaldo leapt for the old conman, knocking him down, the weapon again sliding across the deck. He scampered towards the laser, but Chameleon grabbed his ankle, and he crashed to the deck once again.
"Frack!" Starbuck shouted helplessly, eyes swinging from one battle to the other as he jerked at his bonds uselessly.
"My point, Commander." Dracus gloated down at the astronaut as he raised his blade with a laugh, and brought it down in a deadly blinding arc.