After preliminary scanning by a scouting patrol of Red squadron planes, the livery ships were cleared to land. It was considered essential to provide the animals with some grazing and eating room. The livery ship officers had reported an increased listlessness in their animals, one which seemed to be caused by something more than just the limited rations available to feed them.
The farming ships landed soon after, and took immediate advantage of Carillon’s fertile soil, whose texture and mineral content indicated a fine medium for the planting of accelerated-growth foodstuffs. At the same time, the farmer-technicians collected as much grazing material from the Carillon surface as they could, and transplanted it to the meadows inside the livery ships.
While Carillon was proving exceptionally fruitful for livestock and farming, it didn’t impress some of its human visitors. Especially Boomer and Starbuck, who had been dispatched to the dark side of the planet to investigate mining possibilities.
“I’ll be sure to come here on my next rest-and-recuperation leave,” Boomer commented. “I just adore monotonous landscapes.”
“Yes, it is lovely,” Starbuck said. “Can’t imagine why it isn’t overpopulated.”
A pilot on a viper flyby informed them that his scanners read life forms in an area a short distance from where Boomer and Starbuck were driving in their landram. Boomer broadcast the specified time check to the main expeditionary force, and announced they would investigate the life form report. Starbuck accelerated the landram and headed for the area the pilot had indicated.
“If this place is so bloomin’ rich in resources, how come it was abandoned in the first place?” Boomer asked.
Starbuck shrugged.
“Legend has it the mining and colonization groups both got spooked and pulled out. Probably that’s just a story, though. Looks to me like the planet was just too drab. In those days sources of supply were plentiful, plus it’s off the normal trade routes, so I suppose Carillon was just written off as a bad investment.”
“Then why’s the old man think it’s such a good investment now?”
“It’s the only investment, Boomer, that’s what he’d tell you.”
“Yeah, he does have a penchant for finality, the commander does.”
“Yes, well—hey, will you look at that? That glow over that hill. What could it be?”
“I don’t know, but it’s what we’re sent out here to investigate.”
Starbuck coaxed extra speed out of the landram as they headed toward the aurora framing the hill ahead of them.
Not far from Boomer and Starbuck, the main body of the Galactica’s survey team were coordinating their detection equipment to search for the fabled lost Carillon Tylium mine. From the point of view of a quartet of rather large insectoids who were spying on the Galactica’s force from a nearby mountain, the humans themselves looked like small insects—organized and disciplined small insects. Each of these spies was about five feet tall, with large bulbous eyes near the top of oval heads, long thin trunks, and four arms, all of which were busy with either two-triggered weapons or several-lensed cameras.
One of the insectoids took aim at the formidable target of Lieutenant Jolly, but another one pushed the barrel of the weapon down. Seetol, a leader of the race called the Ovions by the few humans unlucky enough to encounter them, had for the moment decided not to kill any of the invaders. At least, not until she reported back to her queen. She gestured her soldiers back, took the camera from the Ovion who held it, and in the soft, monosyllabic language of her race ordered them away from the spying post. At a nod from Seetol another Ovion used all four of her hands to turn in different directions and at different speeds a series of four wheels concealed underneath a rock. With a just audible whine, an opening appeared in the ground and the Ovions disappeared into it.
Riding on a pod whose soft leaves sheltered them totally, the four Ovions progressed through a long, descending, subterranean passageway to a cell where the pod opened and they stepped out of it. The tunnel they now traveled through was walled with cell-like panels from which amber light glowed. They emerged from the passageway into an immense underground cavern. The giant, many-celled chamber went deeper into the ground than Seetol’s keen eyes could see, and ascended almost as high. There were countless levels, each one ringed with compartments shaped like honeycombs. Within the compartments Ovion workers poked at walls, extracted nuggets of amber-colored ore, and placed them in small-many-wheeled vehicles which other workers continually drew in and out of the compartments and sent on through dark intervening corridors. To an outsider, this large-chambered mine might have looked quite nightmarish—but to Seetol, something of an aesthete among her people, it had an artistic coherence that excited her each time she stepped into it. Today, however, there was little time for aesthetic satisfaction; she had to continue her mission.
She crossed a natural bridge that stretched across the wide chamber. At the guarded archway to Lotay’s chamber, Seetol’s four arms provided the proper ritual password and she was admitted to her queen’s presence.
The luxury of Lotay’s throne room contrasted strongly with the austerity of the mine. Finely woven, elaborately patterned cloth decorated the walls and ceiling. Lotay herself lounged on a cushioned floor, surrounded by her bejewelled retinue of slaves. One slave played a gentle tune utilizing the Ovion three-note scale artistically, discovering intriguing variants on her restricted melodic theme. A pair of other slaves were filing down the fine spikes that dotted the surface of Lotay’s limbs. Another slave held a long tube from which the queen occasionally drew a liquid substance whose residue she blew out her mouth as smoke. When Lotay acknowledged Seetol, she requested her report.
“They have come,” Seetol said, her voice soft and pleasant.
Lotay’s even more musical voice replied:
“Don’t disturb them. It will only stir them up. They’ll be perfectly harmless unless angered or frightened.”
“My thought exactly, highness.”
“Naturally.”
Seetol bowed and withdrew, leaving Lotay to draw and puff on the long tube.
Apollo felt extremely comfortable at the controls of the landram he had commandeered for his own particular search of the Carillon surface. He liked the feel of a landram as it rode the air currents with a surprising smoothness, adjusting to surface peculiarities with barely noticeable shifts to right and left, up and down.
He also felt comfortable with the presence of Serina beside him in the co-driver seat. He had been impressed with the way she had picked up the skills of driving a landram without ever having been inside one before. In the back seat of the landram, Boxey played quietly with Muffit Two.
“That was some show you and your buddies performed up there,” Serina said suddenly. “You seemed to be trying to prove something. I wondered if it had anything to do with your brother.”
The comment evaporated the feeling of being comfortable.
“I get it,” he said irritably, “you’re saying I’m being reckless to make up for leaving Zac behind.”
“Or proving your courage for his ghost.”
“How did you find out so much about Zac and me?”
“Asked around.”
“I don’t appreciate that.”
“Sorry. I was a newswoman on Caprica, remember? I can’t get out of the habit. Change the subject, why don’t you? Or I will. Tell me about the agriculture project. I was especially impressed with it. How long before things start to grow?”
“Oh, say, morning. I think we’ll see quite a few sprouts and stuff by morning. Then, by the end of day tomorrow, we’ll have a whole crop of fresh food—which, you must admit, will be a welcome substitute for the comrations. They’ll taste better. And you be sure to eat them, you hear, Boxey?”
“I guess so.”
In spite of Muffit Two, the boy had still been showing signs of moodiness.
“Say, Boxey,” Apollo said, “time for your part of the mission. What I want you to d
o is keep your eye on that readout. If the indicator gets up into this colored area, it means we’re right on top of a rich Tylium deposit.”
“Yes, sir.”
The job assignment seemed to pick up the boy’s spirits.
“You sure you don’t mind working with such a green crew?” Serina said.
“I chose you, didn’t I?”
“I’d think, with your connections, you’d do better, that you’d—I’m sorry, didn’t mean to touch a sore spot. You’re upset your father resigned the presidency, correct?”
“Stop being a newswoman, and let’s concentrate on the mission. We’ve got to get a lot done in a short time. We don’t dare stop on any one planet for too long.”
“Why’d we have to leave home at all?” Boxey asked. “Why’d those people want to hurt us?”
“I’m not sure, Boxey. Some say it has to do with very complicated things, political things. Others say the Cylons just like war, and will attack anybody who interferes with their part of space. I don’t know—sometimes I think it just boils down to who’s different. There’re always life forms who cannot accept anything they don’t understand. Some humans are like that too; they can’t accept anything different.”
“What do you mean different?”
Apollo sighed, not knowing how to explain complex matters to a child. He remembered years ago, trying to have complicated conversations with Zac, who was then much older than Boxey was now, and then discovering that the answer Zac sought for was much simpler than Apollo expected. Other times, Apollo’s answers were too simple and Zac prodded him until he had not only extracted the more complex ideas but successfully argued against them. But what should he tell a six-year-old whose main concern was the welfare of an animal about the subject of prejudice?
“Well, Boxey, just about anything at all can make one species different from another. The shape of your eyes, the number of limbs, the color of the outer layer of your skin, even thoughts and ideas. Maybe our enemies just aren’t equipped to deal with the difference.”
“You mean they’re stupid.”
“Yeah, in a way. I mean, in some ways they’ve got it all over us, in certain matters of science and technology, in certain methods of fighting the war. But, yeah, they’re stupid, too. It’s stupid to kill what you don’t understand.”
“Why don’t we just kill them back?”
In Boxey’s belligerent question, Apollo could hear, almost like a ghost-echo, the sound of Zac’s voice. Zac sometimes showed a positively bloodthirsty desire for violent solutions. In that sort of mood he would never listen to the calmer voices of his brother or his father. For that matter, there were times when Adama’s humanistic theories of war proved too much for Apollo, who still had sharp pangs of doubt about the Galactica’s leaving the scene of battle.
“Boxey, if we just killed mindlessly, the way the Cylons seem to do, then we’d be changing what we are. We’d become like them. Although we’re quite skilled at war, we are not basically a warlike race, at least I don’t believe we are. We were pushed into this war, had no other choice. In fact, perhaps what we’re doing now, searching for someplace else, away from our enemies, is the better thing to do. Fighting them on their own terms has not certainly—”
“What if they come after us?”
Why did Boxey have to ask the hard questions?
“Then we might have to defend ourselves.”
“You mean kill them?”
“Possibly.”
“Then we’d be like them.”
Apollo smiled.
“You know, Boxey, I think you’re getting glimpses of just how complicated life is. Yes, we don’t believe in war—but the opposite of war isn’t necessarily peace. No, what we want is freedom. Just that, freedom. The right to be left alone. It’s a right we humans have always tried to protect and preserve. But there’s always a chance someone will come along and spoil everything—”
He could see in the boy’s questioning eyes that Boxey was not following this part of the discussion.
“So you kill them?” Boxey said.
“No. What it is, you try to establish, well, penalties, something that’ll make spoiling others’ way of life unrewarding.”
“You kill them.”
“Boxey, you’ve a way of reducing everything to very simple terms.”
“Well, I’m only a kid.”
“Right. Sometimes I forget you’re only six.”
“Almost seven.”
“Almost seven. I don’t know, though. Maybe you’re right. No matter how you slice it, what words you use, in the end we’re talking about life and death. Life is precious. No one has the right to tamper with another’s life, without the risk of forfeiting his own. Ah, I sound like one of the classes in war games I used to teach back at the academy—and I think getting a bit deep for a boy your age.”
“Why? You can die at any age, can’t you?”
“Yes, Boxey, you can. Keep an eye on the readout, okay?”
“Sure. C’mon, Muffy, looka that.”
Muffit Two barked and nuzzled closer to the boy.
Starbuck stood at the rim of the hill and stared down at the evidence of genuine life forms that had been registering on the scanners. He called to Boomer, who was just climbing out of the landram.
“Boomer….”
“Yeah, what is it now?”
“You aren’t going to believe this, Boomer.”
“Feeling is believing. I just busted a finger on—”
“No, I mean really….”
Boomer looked down. His mouth fell open.
“I don’t believe it!”
In contrast to the drab landscape around them, the carnival of color and light and glass in the meadow in front of them was a dazzling spectacle. Surrounding glass-walled spherical buildings was a meticulously landscaped garden of greenery and exotic plants. Waterfalls slipped gracefully between what seemed an artistic arrangement of rocks. Sounds of laughter drifted upward. Songs were being played and sung in the distance. A few people, talking gaily, emerged from a building and began to chase each other, with obvious amorous intentions, through the neatly sculptured garden paths.
Starbuck looked over at Boomer, who appeared just as confused as he was.
“What is it?” Boomer asked.
“I don’t know,” said Starbuck. Drawing his sidearm, he started to make his way along the narrow pathway that zigzagged down the hill leading to the bizarre complex of spherical buildings and lush gardens.
“You sure you need that?” Boomer said, pointing to Starbuck’s sidearm.
“Whenever I’m not sure, that’s when I need it.”
Nobody in the gardens seemed to notice the two men. If anything, the happy noises of celebration and song grew louder as they reached the garden. They stood at the beginning of a path for a long time, just watching the myriad colors and shifting lights that kept changing the appearance of the garden and the buildings.
“It sure is pretty,” Starbuck said, some awe in his voice. “And it sure sounds friendly.”
Starbuck started town the path, Boomer following, staying close. As they came to a fork in the path, a sudden scream made both of them jump. Starbuck whirled around, his sidearm pointed in the direction of the scream.
A woman stood trembling in the center of the path. Her wide staring eyes only emphasized the look of beauty in her face. Starbuck was impressed with her voluptuous figure, round in all the best places. She wore a red gown that clung appropriately.
“Don’t shoot!” she said. “What do you want?”
Starbuck, red-faced, glanced down at the weapon in his hand, made a show of putting it in its holster.
“I mean no harm,” he said.
“I usually go on the assumption that men with guns just might mean harm,” the woman said.
“You’re from Taura,” Starbuck said.
“Yes,” the woman said, obviously surprised at the shift in topic, “I’m a Taurus. How’d you know that?”
“The dialect. Always can tell. What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? Why are Colonial Warriors sneaking around a resort with their weapons drawn? Everything here is perfectly legal.”
Starbuck and Boomer, both just as bewildered as the woman, exchanged mystified looks.
“Isn’t it?” the woman said.
“Would you mind telling us how you got here?” Starbuck said, trying to sound as official as he could under the circumstances.
“On the bus.”
The incongruity of her answer startled both men.
“Must’ve been sniffing plant vapors,” Boomer commented.
“Um, would you tell us about this bus?” Starbuck asked.
“Sure. It was all handled through my travel agent. This place is fabulous! I just can’t believe they can give you all this for so little money.” She opened a red-sequined purse that had been dangling from her wrist. “Look, I won over a thousand cubits.”
Some of the cubits spilled over the edge of the purse onto the path. The woman made no effort to retrieve them. Starbuck, always responsive to the glow of gold, became excited.
“You won those cubits here?”
“In there, sure.” The woman pointed toward the complex of varicolored glass buildings. “Look, they said it was all legal so if it isn’t you’d better take on the whole star system, because everyone is doing it. I’d like to stand here and discuss all this with you, but I’m late for a moonlight cruise. Two moons, how can you go wrong? And talk about meeting people, the brochures weren’t kidding about that. I never had it so good. See you in church, fellas.”
The woman giggled and hurried off down the path.
Boomer stared after her, while Starbuck picked up the fallen cubits.
“I don’t get it,” Boomer said. “How cut off can they be? She didn’t act like she’d even heard about the war.”
“Yeah,” Starbuck said thoughtfully. “I wonder if they have. Something else is peculiar about all this. If it’s such a big deal, like she said, how come we haven’t heard about this place?”
[Battlestar Galactica Classic] - Battlestar Galactica Page 15
