CHAPTER SEVEN

Boxey could not get Muffy to master sit-ups. No matter how much the daggit tried, it had too much bulk to bend comfortably at the waist—although, since it had been programmed to please the boy, it gave the exercise a good try. Boxey told it that it was all right to stop trying. Muffit responded by standing on its head.

Boxey looked toward the doorway. His father, Apollo, stood there, wearing a snow parka. When their eyes met, he smiled at the boy. Boxey noticed there seemed to be tears in Apollo’s eyes, and he wondered why.

“You’ve got him trained well,” Apollo said, nodding toward Muffit.

“Muffit’s very intelligent. For a daggit.”

Sometimes Boxey remembered the first Muffit, back on Caprica, the daggit he’d lost. He was not always sure that the second Muffit was quite as nice as the first one. The first Muffit had been more affectionate, especially in the way it had licked his face with its wet tongue. The new Muffit’s tongue was scratchy and dry, and he’d had to tell it not to lick his face.

Apollo got down on his haunches to talk to the child.

“Boxey, I have to go away for a while.”

Boxey did not like that one bit.

“We don’t want you to leave us,” he said.

“It won’t be long. I promise.”

Boxey realized there was some mysterious force that guided grown-ups into making decisions that they, or anybody else, could not like. He did not know whether that force was the god he’d been told to pray to every night, or whether grown-ups just obeyed rules that were like his Dad’s instructions to him about eating or preparing himself to be a colonial warrior.

“Where are you going?” Boxey asked.

“Down to the ice planet. With Starbuck and Boomer.”

Boxey did like the sound of that.

“An ice planet!” he cried. “Can Muffit and I come with you? We’ve never seen real snow.”

“Not this time. See, it’s a special project. To help the Galactica.”

“But I’m a warrior.”

Apollo smiled and squeezed Boxey’s arm.

“I know,” he said. “And as one you’ll follow orders. Right?”

Boxey looked downcast.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. See, disappointment at being left off a mission roster is all part of your warrior training. When your qualifications meet the needs of a mission, why then you’ll be picked. Do you see?”

“I suppose so.”

“Okay.” Apollo’s voice became more military. “Your orders are to eat your primaries and go to bed when Commander Adama says it’s time, and—”

“And say my prayers.”

“Yes. Say your prayers.”

Apollo called to Muffit, who scampered over and offered a metallically taloned paw. The captain shook it, then hugged Boxey. It seemed to the boy that his dad’s hug was harder and longer than usual. Then, saying goodbye again, Apollo quickly left the room. Boxey stared at the doorway for a moment, then he said aloud:

“Remember, Muffy, when Dad showed us the shuttle as part of our training?”

The sensors inside the daggit picking up the questioning sound in the boy’s rising tone of voice, Muffit nodded.

“Well, remember that hatchway that Dad said was an emergency exit?”

The daggit nodded again. Since this time the boy’s question was more conspiratorial, the daggit’s sensors transmitted the message that the droid should add a low growl, and Muffit growled quietly.

“Well, remember he told us the story of the time he’d saved a trapped squadron by using it as an entrance?”

The daggit-droid kept nodding.

“Well, I can eat my primaries and say my prayers on that ice planet, Muffy. Let’s go try that hatchway.”

Muffit, reacting to sensor-transmission, barked eagerly.