He recognized them all—Starbuck, Boomer, Trays, Sheba. Any one of them could lay waste to six of his men without breaking a sweat. And he knew they were on the other side even before they opened their mouths. This was not turning out to be a good day.
"We mean to stop this bloodbath before it starts," said Starbuck, his tone of voice suggesting that the foreman was responsible in some way. The poor bastard was about ready to turn in his resignation when matters took another turn into even greater complications.
The civilian government's new city police force arrived in the finest vehicles that had yet been strip-mined from the hulls of old fleet spaceships. The city police captain ran over to confront Starbuck. The foreman heaved a sigh of relief that so far the warriors and the cops weren't brandishing their guns yet. He had a pretty fair idea that they were better at hitting their targets than the angry workers who were disinclined to fire again until the mess was settled between every kind of boss they had ever known.
The foreman noticed that the steady advance of the .Gamon had finally slowed. Perhaps they were also interested to see the outcome in this conflict between the human authorities.
The police captain started the ball rolling by asking, "What's going on here?"
It was now the foreman's turn. "The Gamon are preventing us from starting new construction on the city. It's the same as the other times. Somehow they managed to shut down our equipment and none of us has figured out how to counter it."
Boomer interjected at this point. "Who gave the order to fire on them?"
The foreman was becoming more frantic and hostile. "Listen, I don't know why you're making this your business, but let me tell you that we've got a job to do. We've been given strict orders not to let anyone or anything stand in our way. Now, we've asked the Gamon to back off. We've been polite, see? But they refuse. If these primitives don't get the message, we're going to force them out of the way."
Now the police captain dived back into the maelstrom. "That's our job."
"Over our dead bodies," said Sheba, reconfirming the foreman's suspicion that this was going to be an interesting day. He hated interesting days.
"If anyone hurts one more Gamon," she continued, "I'm going to hurt him back!"
Normally the foreman took threats seriously, especially from warriors. He had no doubt that she could do a serious lot of damage before being put down. But he never would have gotten this job if he couldn't do basic arithmetic, and the numbers just weren't on the side of the warriors.
"You're outnumbered," said the foreman, "ridiculously outnumbered. You don't stand a chance."
Starbuck grinned. The foreman really hated that. Then the most famous Viper warrior said, "We'll just have to see about that."
The foreman noticed something new in the police captain. There was fear in the man's eyes. This did not bode well.
Then things got really interesting. "Men, take out your guns and point them at that warrior!"
They did. Starbuck tried to remember the last time he had that many guns trained on him. Off the top of his head, he couldn't quite remember.
Out of the side of his mouth, he said to Boomer, "You know, old pal, this could get out of hand."
Chapter Seventeen
Baltar didn't much care for Dr. Wilker's bedside manner. He hated going to the doctor. But there was no way he could receive help if he didn't admit his problem.
"Sounds like your headaches are psychosomatic," said the physician whom Baltar seriously doubted could heal himself.
"Why do you say that?" asked Baltar.
"Because you admit that the headaches have a link to your nightmares."
In situations like this, Baltar could not keep from being snide. "Has it occurred to you that a physical condition is causing the nightmares instead of the other way around?"
"No," said the doctor. The man was infuriating.
It was one thing to confide in Apollo about his dreams, and quite another to spill his guts to this man. Apollo was open to the possibility that there was some kind of link between Baltar and the Cylons. Baltar had convinced himself that his dreams meant something.
He wasn't about to tell Wilker his latest fever dream. He even hesitated to share this one with Apollo.
Unlike all the rest, this one had begun on Paradis. At first, Baltar let himself believe that he was finally free of the night terrors. The dream was even pleasant at first. Baltar was recognizing in the sleeping state something that his waking mind tended to deny.
Paradis was an incredibly beautiful world. The mountains, the lakes, the fields, the forests, the sea—they did offer something not to be found in the interstellar void. For all his sarcasm and assumed superiority, Baltar was forming an attachment to the new world. He was starting to relax in spite of himself.
He didn't have the planetary dream down below but only when he was back in his quarters in the comfort of a safe orbit. The dream was soft and fuzzy, warm and friendly, blissfully unaware of the growing tensions between the Gamon and the Colonials. It was a vision of what Paradis could be, with all the humanoid forms joining in a great dance, a festival of life.
Naturally it didn't last. The sky of Paradis grew dark. Baltar found himself pulling back from the happy crowd. The hairs on the back of his head tingled. Something was wrong and he didn't want to be too close to the crowd.
No sooner did he put himself at a safe distance than Colonials and Gamon fell to the ground and writhed in agony. They maintained their same positions from the dance only now they performed their respective ballets in the dirt.
The spectacle would have been no more than ludicrous if it stopped there. But nightmares never know when to stop.
The Gamon began to transform—at first by growing scales. They had always struck Baltar as a handsome people but not now as the scales spread and their eyes glowed yellow, and their hands trembled themselves into claws.
For relief, Baltar gazed upon his fellow humans. No relief was to be found there. Men, women and children grew rigid as something dark began to spread across their flesh. Small bits of metal spread like an army of diligent insects until every human form was completely covered in a metal sheen.
The Colonial eyes weren't yellow. They were red as blood.
As Baltar sat in Wilker's office, he was disinclined to share with the medical man the grotesque details of this latest journey into realms of darkness. He wasn't about to get into a philosophical discussion of the meanings he suspected lay behind the horrific images.
Baltar had no intention of sharing the details of this latest nightmare with anyone! The symbolism sank him into a pit of metaphysical dread. Clearly, the Gamon represented the reptilian, organic Cylons, while the humans transforming into a new breed of cyborgs must represent the constant threat of the robotic enemy in its most terrifying aspect of the Centurions.
No, Baltar concluded, a doctor didn't need to hear any of this to prescribe a more powerful drug than a former member of the Council of Twelve could track down on his own.
While Baltar wrestled with his personal problem, the doctor solved it for him.
"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," said Wilker. "I'll give a stronger medication than you've been using."
Baltar brightened at the news but only for a moment. The doctor wasn't through with him.
"I have to tell you what I think, Baltar. I believe your condition is psychosomatic. You obviously disagree. But even if there is a deeper cause, I still don't believe you'll find relief through medication. You can come back and see me when the pills I give you today are no longer effective."
As Baltar returned to his quarters, he had to admit that the doctor had a point. If the Cylons were using him as a kind of receiving set, then there seemed no way to medicate himself out of it. What he didn't want to stress to the doctor was his belief that if he could drug himself heavily enough he'd pass into a state of blissful unconsciousness where no dream could possibly find him.
That seemed
his only hope for a good night's sleep, something he had not experienced for a long time. He was so sleep deprived that nothing else mattered to him now, not even with Paradis coming apart all around them.
Baltar always had a sense of priorities.
It was good to be back aboard the Galactica. Whatever he did and wherever he went, Apollo would always think of his ship as home.
His communicator crackled to life and he heard Starbuck sounding uncharacteristically stressed. "We've got a situation here," reported Starbuck.
"Read you, old buddy. I'm about to attend a meeting with the Council. Fill me in."
Starbuck filled him in, not leaving out the details of the various weapons currently pointed in his direction. Apollo shook his head in consternation.
"Don't do anything at the moment," said the commander. "I don't want them shooting you!"
"That makes two of us," agreed his old friend with a deep sincerity.
"I'll try to buy you a little time at the Council."
Starbuck was not impressed. "A little time is going to be expensive, old buddy!"
"Don't get yourself killed, Starbuck. You owe me for all the times I've saved your ass!"
Starbuck took the bait. "Who saved whose ass? And as long as we're on the subject, who got whom into all those life-threatening situations in the first place?"
Apollo laughed. "Yeah, who turned whom into the fleet's greatest hero?"
Starbuck groaned. "You got me! All right, I admit I'm a lazy and reluctant hero!"
"Don't make me throw up my mushies. I've got a job to do in that Council meeting. Let's wish each other luck. Meanwhile, defuse the situation as best you can. See if you can't get everyone to stand down."
"You got it. May the Lords of Kobol be with of us."
Apollo switched off, took a deep breath and headed into real enemy territory. He had to get a concession this time. He had to make those diehard bureaucrats see reason. The danger that Starbuck and his friends faced at this exact moment only made the stakes all the more urgent.
The first person he noticed was Sire Opis. The man's face seemed to be made of old parchment with wrinkles upon wrinkles. Everyone knew that he has was the defacto patron of Ryis and all the architect's works. Apollo had been fighting him every time he argued with the architect. The time had come to face powers and principalities with no intermediary.
Before launching into diplomacy—which Adama had once referred to as war by another name—Apollo wondered why those sworn to represent the people should be so blatant about serving their personal agendas instead.
The words of the Gamon elder echoed in his mind. And he had to admit that the human race had a long way to go before it would be ready for the peace everyone claimed to seek and always felt their due.
Tigh made a great show of welcoming Apollo. There was no one in that chamber who desired a compromise more than the president. Of that one fact Apollo was certain.
They took their seats around the long table, and Tigh laid out the agenda to be discussed among the assembled dignitaries.
News that the Gamon natives were massing around New Caprica City had already circulated among the Council. Any hopes Apollo might have that such intelligence might shift some of the members to a more reasonable position were soon dashed. He could feel the mood of the room, something his father had labored hard to teach him.
The Council had already made their decision about whether to stay or continue the epic trek across the universe. Apollo had the unenviable task of trying to shift men who didn't want to budge. It was hard enough making a case to people who were genuinely neutral. Today the commander of the fleet had his work cut out for him.
Sire Opis, despite his age, had only recently been elected to the Council and still wore the robes of his office with a pride that old-timers found slightly amusing. Opis had proven himself a master politician many times. Ryis was an example of that.
The Council had elected Opis to speak for them before Apollo ever stepped foot into the room.
"Commander Apollo, let me begin by stating that we have given considerable thought and discussion to what I'm about to say. With that in mind, let me inform you that our scientists confirm that we are in no danger on this planet, or anywhere in this vicinity of space. Thorough explorations of Paradis have also confirmed the presence of every mineral and energy source we need."
He cleared his throat. Apollo availed himself of the momentary pause to swallow hard and hold his tongue. Might as well hear the old bastard out.
"There is one issue of immediate concern," Sire Opis continued. "The problem seems to be from the indigenous species, the Gamon.
However, our best experts have determined that this species is mostly harmless and poses no real and lasting threat to our people. True, the natives may not appreciate our presence; but given the existing condition of the fleet and our people's absolute demand that we give up the foolhardy adventure of chasing hither and yon across space, we have decided to stay. They have decided to stay!"
He paused as if expecting applause, but the situation was too serious for any manifestations of joy. Opis could read a room as well as anyone present, so he picked up the thread of his thought and continued.
"We'll have a vote, of course, but we believe that to be a mere formality as the majority will never choose to venture into space again."
He smiled and looked directly at Apollo. The commander showed no expression and resisted the perfectly human impulse to incline his head in response. Apollo made himself a statue and waited for the other boot to drop.
"With that in mind, Commander," intoned Sire Opis, "what do you wish to address us about?"
Now Apollo allowed himself a natural reaction. He and Tigh exchanged knowing glances. If Tigh had the telepathic abilities of the Gamon elder, he would beaming four words into the center of Apollo's brain right now:
I told you so!
Apollo took the floor. "Honorable members of the Council, please accept my gratitude that you saw fit to receive me today as you have already struggled long and hard through your deliberations. Apparently the debate was so comprehensive that there was no need for a dissenting opinion. If the findings of the research are beyond doubt—and when have we ever been steered wrong in that department?—then what is there left for me to say? I don't doubt that the majority is exactly where you want them to be at this time. So what case can I possibly make to dissuade you from your present course? As usual, my information is based upon speculation and a gut feeling."
Sire Opis laughed but he laughed alone. Tigh interjected, "There have been occasions where we owe our lives to the instincts of Commander Apollo. Even newer members of the Council should be familiar with this history."
Sire Opis beat a hasty yet graceful retreat. "I haven't been living somewhere else in the universe these past yahren. I freely admit that Apollo has often guided us well… in the past."
Ignoring the backhanded compliment, Apollo continued: "Here is the issue that confronts us as I see it. The Gamon have requested that I inform you that although they've invited us to stay temporarily on their planet, we must leave as soon as we have repaired our ships and are spaceworthy again. They also state that we have abused our privileges and must give up our bad habits."
"Bad habits?" thundered Sire Opis. "What do they mean by that?"
"Well," said Apollo, "it would be nice if we would stop killing their people."
A few Council members had the temerity to laugh at Apollo's remark. Not everyone was in complete denial about what was happening on Paradis.
Sire Opis was not amused. "The natives have forced our hand!"
"No!" responded Apollo just as forcefully. "You're wrong. The Gamon have only defended what is rightfully theirs and they have done this without weapons."
Sire Opis bit his bottom lip, keeping certain impolitic words from escaping. When he had regained his composure, he continued.
"Apollo, I appreciate that you are a passionate man; but this is be
yond the scope of any one person to decide. The people have spoken, and as their representatives we are duty bound to insure their protection and survival."
Apollo was having none of it. "Easy enough to say when you have played a crucial role in putting the Colonials into this dire situation to begin with. What kind of duty is that? And what about the Gamon? What theory of duty drives you to violate agreements to which I personally gave my word?"
Sire Opis seized at the personal remark as a hungry man might snatch a bird out of the air. "Is that what we quarrel over? Is it only because you were involved in the initial negotiations that you oppose the will of your own people?"
Apollo didn't lose sight of the argument. "Sire Opis, I would be the first to step aside if someone else took on the responsibility of negotiating with the Gamon. But there have been no other negotiations! All that has happened is that you and your thugs have violated the original agreements."
"I resent the use of the word thugs in this context!" bellowed Sire Opis.
"Is that all you object to? One word? You mean you admit your treachery and pretend it's duty?"
The chamber became a bedlam of insults and imprecations. Tigh gaveled the meeting back to order. "Gentlemen," he admonished, "let us keep these proceedings civil. We don't need a war in here."
When everyone had calmed down, Sire Opis put forth his position yet again with the usual candor. "As long as the Gamon withdraw, they will be safe. We have no desire to harm them. In fact, we believe that eventually they will appreciate all that we have to offer them. We are a sophisticated culture, after all."
This time there was a smattering of applause.
Apollo tried again. "There is more to the Gamon than we know. We are underestimating these people in a way that may prove catastrophic."
Sire Opis kept the dialogue going between Apollo and himself. Despite the consensus he had cobbled together in the Council, the other members were perfectly content to let him do all the heavy lifting.
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