CHAPTER NINE

 

 

On the Cylon base ship, Imperious Leader contemplated the latest report from his centurion on Carillon. The plan was proceeding efficiently; more and more humans were falling prey to the lure of Ovion contentment. Lotay had managed to doctor the food of several of the human leaders (except, unfortunately, for Adama) with a drug that helped her to sway their minds toward foolish decisions. She had been successful, she said, with planting the idea of unilateral disarmament into several councilors’ minds. Also, she had been successful in holding back on the shipments of Tylium to the fleet in the skies above the planet, supplying them enough of the liquid form of the fuel to lull any suspicions they might have developed. The leader wondered if the wily Adama could really be fooled so easily. All signs pointed to that conclusion, but one fact that had emerged in the leader’s many battles with Adama was the man’s unpredictability. If a conclusion about him seemed obvious, then it must be questioned.

Nevertheless, the time to act was now.

He sent out the order that the Supreme Star Force stationed at Borallus be immediately launched and set on a course for Carillon with the mission of annihilating human survivors and their spacecraft. This time Adama’s forces would be rendered impotent, even if a few humans did manage one of their miraculous escapes.

Another message came to the leader a few moments later. The rest of the human fleet, the ships left behind by Adama that were traveling toward Carillon at a slow speed, had been located. A malfunction in their camouflage had given their coordinates away. The leader resisted an impulse to send out a force to destroy this group of wretched and battered remnants of the human fleet. The better strategy was, clearly, merely to maintain surveillance on these ships. They were powerless and indefensible, obviously low on Tylium and supplies. No, the logical move was to save their destruction for later. Adama was no doubt in contact with the ships he had left behind. Attacking them now might alert a rescue fleet, and that could not be allowed. Yes, the waiting game seemed best for now. It was a strategy he had learned from humans.

Cylon victory was certain, the Leader told himself. The Supreme Star Force’s larger numbers would easily overwhelm the weakened human fleet, he told himself. The ships left behind could be toyed with and blasted to pieces, he told himself. He would have Adama’s head as a victory token, he told himself. Nevertheless, a certain uneasiness, an uncharacteristic tension, troubled his thoughts.

 

On the bridge of the Galactica, Adama paced his usual path along the starfield. Frequently he made a fist out of his right hand, pounded it into the palm of his left.

“Those fools,” he muttered once, “give them something to eat and all judgment flies out of their minds. It’s almost as if the food itself had muddled their minds. Is there any way I can stop this council meeting they’re planning, Tigh?”

“Nothing in the regs gives you any authority with the council except in regard to military matters. In military matters you can countermand—”

“Unilateral disarmament is not a military matter?”

“Traditionally such decisions have been in civilian hands, sir. Many believe that it’s proper and logical, even—”

“I know, I know. I’ve a firm grasp on the theories behind the separation of military and civilian responsibility. I even approve of it. In theory at least. It’s just that this group of muddleheads seem possessed, Tigh, I just want to go into the council room and knock heads.”

Tigh smiled slyly, said:

“May I remind you, sir, in all due respect, that if you had not resigned as president of the council you would have the privilege of going into that council room and knocking heads.”

“I am all too aware of that, Colonel. All too painfully aware.”

In the meeting room, the councilors eyed Adama’s entrance with apprehensive caution. To Adama they looked curious, as if they had been physically transformed into total strangers.

Before taking his seat, which had been placed to one side to denote his present lack of status on the council, Adama said, “What, may I ask, is the purpose of this special council?”

Anton, the new president, gestured at the chair and replied.

“Adama, please respect the order of business until called upon by this chair.”

Adama sat, his anger growing. Even Anton, who had once been his ally, seemed odd now. The emaciated old councilor called the meeting to order.

“It is the growing consensus of every man, woman, and child in this body that to set forth into uncharted space is madness,” Anton said.

“Hear, hear,” said the rest of the councilors, almost in unison. The muttered agreement sounded like a chant, orchestrated of course by Councillor Uri.

“The question is,” Anton continued, “what do we do about the Cylons. Obviously to remain here is to run the risk of discovery. Councilor Uri has a measure to propose. Uri?”

Uri rose to his feet, surveyed the council with a smile that displayed his smugness for all.

“My brothers,” he said unctuously. “A hasty attempt to outrun the Cylons spawned in the midnight of desperation seems foolhardy in the light of day.”

Midnight of desperation, indeed! Adama thought. How quickly these oily politicians could reduce the circumstances of a tragedy to a clich�. Did Uri not remember the suffering, the panic, the Cylon fighters killing our people and reducing our cities to rubble? Did he not even remember the joy, however momentary, he must have felt when, safe in the plush compartments of his own luxury liner, he knew he was still alive, one of the few survivors? Or were men like Uri empty of all feeling, alive only to satisfy some instinctual greed or lust that moved them through their shabby existences like transistors inside a droid? Perhaps, Adama thought, he was just seeking rational excuses for what was in reality madness.

“I propose,” Uri continued, with a significant glance toward Adama, “that, instead of rushing off on a doomed mythical quest, we now attempt to appeal for justice and mercy.”

Adama could hold back his rage no longer. He rose to his feet, shouting:

“Justice from the Cylons? Mercy? Did you actually say that?” Are you so far gone—”

“Gently, my dear Adama, gently,” Uri said. His voice had dropped to almost a whisper. What really disturbed Adama was that the other councilors had appeared annoyed with him when he spoke and then had nodded at Uri’s soothing imprecation. “Commander, I know your opposition to us and I understand it. From the military point of view—the militaristic point of view, I might say—gestures toward peace almost always appear senseless. But you miss the total picture, I think. The spoils of enslaving us so far from their base of power hardly seems worth the effort for the Cylons.”

“Enslaving? Base of power?” Adama, still unable to control the anger in his voice, shouted. “Gentlemen, it’s you who do not understand. The kind of reason you’re trying to employ might be sensible if we were dealing with other humans, with any species whose system of values was analogous to our own. But these are the Cylons. gentlemen! They said they would not stop until every human had been exterminated. Not even enslaved, exterminated. We have not even had the privilege of dealing with their leaders openly. All we know of them is by inference and observation. Why should they change their own methods? For that matter, why should they believe we are now willing to accept that which we always found unacceptable? To live under Cylon rule? We have always been just as adamant about that as they have been in their avowed desire to exterminate us.”

Many of the brows around the council table gradually began to frown. Perhaps, Adama thought, he was getting through the muddle.

“Commander,” Uri said, with an obvious sense of theatrical timing, “the Ovion queen Lotay has observed the Cylons up close, and in much more peaceable circumstances. Her race has been at peace with the Cylons for a millennium, and she assures me that victory is the Cylons’ only goal. It is a matter of satisfying their codes of order. If any individual enemy or group of enemies still roam the universe, then they feel it their duty to eradicate them—to wipe out the flaw in their sense of order, so to speak. By destroying our arms to prove we are willing to live in peace, the flaw would be removed and they wouldn’t—”

“Destroy our only means of defense!”

“Or attack. May I remind my brothers that we once were at peace with the Cylons. We didn’t have conflict with them until we intervened in their relations with other nations.”

Adama struggled to keep from coming to blows with Uri. He wondered briefly whether, if Adama sprung upon him suddenly, the man would refuse to fight back.

“Yes,” Adama said, “you are right. We didn’t come into conflict with the Cylons until we defended our neighbors whom the Cylons wished to enslave. And, until we helped the Hasaris to get back their nation, taken by force by the Cylons.”

“Correct,” Uri said. “And you merely prove my point. If we mind our own business, there is every reason to believe the Cylons will leave us alone.”

Again the other councilors, satisfied with Uri’s rhetorical flourish, murmured approval. Adama could see there was no point in trying to get through to them with anything resembling logic. He had made his contingency plans. It was now time to put them into effect. He addressed the council in a quiet but tense voice.

“Gentlemen, if we have come to this table to turn our backs on the principles of human reason and compassion, the principles of our fathers and the Lords of Kobol, from whom all colonies evolved, you do so with my utter contempt.”

He turned and strode quickly from the room. After he had left, many of the councilors squirmed in their seats. Uri turned to them and spoke.

“Warriors are always the last to recognize the inevitability of change. The commander has always been fond of telling us we have no choice, which always means to endorse his ideas slavishly. Fortunately, we have a choice, life or death.”

“I submit that an issue this grave should be decided by the people,” Councilor Lobe said.

“The military will be difficult to convince,” Anton said. “How do you propose we present so delicate a matter?”

After an uneasy pause, Uri said:

“At a celebration. People are always easier to deal with at a celebration. I propose we hold a celebration to decorate those three brave young men who, at the risk of their lives, opened the Carillon minefield for us. Without them, we’d still be on the other side, starving. One of the pilots was Adama’s son, Captain Apollo, correct?”

Some members of the council cheered their support of Uri, happy that some solution had been found. Others applauded, impressed at Uri’s clever stratagem of including Apollo in the celebration.

“A brilliant suggestion, Uri,” Anton said, “just the tonic our people need at this moment. Some old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness heroes.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Uri said, his smile a bit more malicious than usual.

 

Starbuck had spent a great deal of time trying to convince the lead singer of the Tucana group that he could hurl them from this dinky little engagement in an outworld casino into a full-fledged, big-time career. The singer had not responded to Starbuck’s pleadings. She had merely sat nervously, a fat cigar in her lower mouth, looking around the casino as if she expected to see spies everywhere. Starbuck had gone as far as to offer them a seventy-thirty split, with him picking up transportation costs. But the singer had merely said she did not think it would work out, and that she couldn’t talk about it anyway. When he had tried to press her on the subject, she had only become more nervous. Leaving her dressing room, he noticed that her apparent fear of spies was justified. An Ovion jumped behind a nearby stage curtain.

The next day, as Starbuck sprawled in his room in the guest quarters, his head throbbing with a hangover, Boomer rushed into the room and sat on the bed so heavily that the bounce sent waves of pain through Starbuck’s head.

“Out of the bunk, Starbuck. Captain Apollo’s sent out a muster call, and he asked especially for you.”

“Boomer, I been lying here thinking, about what you said last night. I’m beginning to agree with you. Something’s going on around here.”

“Well, whatever it is’ll have to wait. We’re going to have to go back to the Galactica.”

“What for?”

“Our dress uniforms.”

“Dress uniforms? Look, Boomer, I hate dress uniforms and I’ve got a head that won’t go through one of those tight collars. I’ll pass. I’m not getting into any fancy—”

“Starbuck, one does not accept our people’s highest military honor, the golden cluster, in a battlesuit.”

Boomer’s information made Starbuck sit up. Too soon, as it happened, for his head seemed to explode. No matter. He was too amazed.

“A star cluster? You’re kidding!”

“You got it. For that matter, me too. All three of us who went into that minefield blind. Apollo, too.”

Starbuck smiled.

“Hey,” he said, “that’s all right. Doesn’t some kind of pay raise go with that?”

Boomer laughed, while shaking his head in disbelief.

“Hopeless,” he muttered, “absolutely hopeless.”

 

Serina walked Apollo to the shuttle that was to take him back to the Galactica to get ready for the awarding of the star cluster and to respond to a request from his father for a meeting. Boxey and Muffit Two trailed along behind them.

“It was a wonderful night,” she whispered to Apollo.

“For me, too,” he said. “And thanks for letting me get all of that stuff out of my system about Zac. I feel better. It’ll take a while for the guilt to evaporate, as you suggest, but at least I feel better about myself.”

“You should. You’re very valuable, Captain Apollo. A walking lode of Tylium, one might say.”

“And just as dangerous?”

“Well, it depends on what state you’re in, doesn’t it? Just like Tylium.�

“You may have a point there.”

At the shuttle gangway, he kissed her goodbye, to the obvious delight of the young lieutenants, Starbuck and Boomer, who awaited him at the vehicle’s airlock. After Apollo had entered the shuttle and the gangway had retracted and she had been ordered back to a safe area, Serina held Boxey’s hand and watched the shuttle take off. Walking back to the casino entrance, she felt quite pleasant, content that some order seemed to be edging its way back into her life. Into all their lives, if what some people said were true. In front of her, Boxey frolicked with Muffy. The boy was steadily improving, too.

An Ovion stood in the casino entranceway. When she saw Serina approach, she started to back into the building. Serina called to her to wait, and the Ovion waited, dutifully.

“Your name is Seetol, right?” Serina said. “You conducted us on that brief tour of the mining facility.”

“That is correct,” Seetol said. “How may I serve you?”

“Oh, you might just satisfy a former newswoman’s curiosity.”

“Newswoman?”

Serina had extreme difficulty explaining to the alien what a newswoman was. Seetol seemed to think reporting the activities of others a bit sinful, however newsworthy.

“I was fascinated,” Serina said, “by the, well, the order of your society and I certainly couldn’t help but be impressed by your industry, your complete dedication. I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, one gets the impression that those people in the mines work until they simply drop.”

She wondered if she was sounding too naive. Seetol’s answer, however, was noncommittal.

“We know no other way.”

“Well then,” Serina said, edging close to her real question, “what of family institutions? I somehow sense that something is missing.” Seetol appeared a bit ruffled. All of her four arms were in motion expansively as she spoke.

“We are very complete.”

“What about males?”

“Males….”

Seetol seemed unable to cope with the subject.

“Well, I don’t mean to pry,” Serina said, even though prying was exactly her intention, “but the Ovions are a female culture. Obviously. Surely there must be males someplace. You do have need of them, you haven’t found the key to parthogenesis, have you? Perhaps you keep the males at home—”

“We don’t keep them at all.”

Seetol’s high pitched voice had become quite toneless.

“I beg your pardon?”

The Ovion looked up at Serina with her spherical insectoid eyes and said, “You are correct. Males have their place until they have served their purpose. And then, in our society, they have no place. I am sorry. Have I said something wrong?”

“No, not at all. I guess there are, well, value systems in your order worth looking into.”

Serina walked away from Seetol, wondering if the alien had meant that the males were simply disposed of. Sometimes having a newswoman’s instincts had its drawbacks.

 

Apollo was surprised to see only a token crew manning the bridge of the Galactica. His father engaged in a routine check of equipment with Colonel Tigh, turned to greet his son warmly. Apollo felt happy that he could be comfortable with his father again.

“Tigh was just briefing me on current operations,” Adama said. “He wants to be at the celebration planetside. I offered to relieve him for the night. Strictly as a favor.”

“You don’t feel like seeing your son getting a star cluster then?” Apollo asked, puzzled.

Adama smiled.

“It’s well deserved, Apollo. But there’s more to this, this award ceremony than just honoring you and Starbuck and Boomer. My presence would somehow verify Uri’s strategy, and that’s all this ceremony is, just one of his ploys.”

“Ploy? That seems strange—saluting his greatest rival’s son as a ploy.”

“It’s exactly what it is, though. He’ll propose destroying our arms at the celebration. He’s hoping for a cascade of emotion that’ll do the damage before anyone realizes what they’ve done.”

Apollo cursed his own stupidity—of course, anything that Uri had set up should have been suspect from the beginning. After observing Uri the previous night by the grog fountain, Apollo should have known the man was plotting something.

“But you can stop him!” Apollo said to Adama.

“Not anymore, I’m afraid. Haven’t you heard the talk? The scuttlebutt? I’m the villain, at least to most of the population, who are willing to believe anything the handsome Uri tells them. I got us into this predicament, you see.”

“How could anyone believe that. Certainly not the majority….”

“The majority, at least for the present, are with Uri. You must remember, Apollo, what they’ve been through.”

“I’m compassionate, Father. I inherited that from you. But this isn’t the time, it’s—Father, you’ve got to speak out, to the people.”

Adama took a deep breath before responding to Apollo’s plea.

“I’m retired, Apollo. Except for running this ship and certain phases of the total operation, I’m—”

“I don’t believe you’re saying that! This isn’t you. What’s happened? Help me understand.”

It was all he could do for Adama to maintain an aloof official stance, when he wanted to embrace his son.

“You’ll understand, son. In time, you’ll understand.”

Apollo started to speak, then thought better of it, and walked away from the bridge.

Tigh came to Adama’s side.

“That wasn’t easy for you, not telling him,” Tigh said. “Perhaps—”

“No. I need him down there at the ceremony. If I told him, he’d insist on staying at my side. The gamble is mine. If I win, we all win.”

“But if you’re wrong, Uri will have your head on a platter.”

Adama looked out at the starfield. He felt confidence returning to him for the first time since he had assembled the ragtag fleet.

“I am not wrong,” he said. “The Cylons lured me into their malicious deception once.” His eyes narrowed, and he looked like the old Adama of galactic legend. “Never again!”

He turned to Tigh, his eyes glowing with eagerness to act.

“Report. The livestock.”

“All being lifted off the surface of the planet now. No interference.”

“Report. The agricultural project.”

“Everything harvested, sir. The project will be completed soon.”

“Report. The fuel.”

“Another token load just arrived. Barely. Darn near exploded when the pilot set it down on the deck a bit too heavily. Other loads seem ready to be launched from the surface, but the Ovions’re stalling.”

“Don’t make them suspicious. But get as much Tylium from them as you can.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Hop to it, Colonel!”

Tigh was already in action. As usual. Around them, the crew seemed to respond to the commander’s newfound and boisterous energy. Adama remembered some story from his childhood about a sleeping giant awakening.

 

Apollo, waiting with Serina for the guest elevator to take them to the casino, could not stop thinking of his father’s refusal to bring his case to the people. Something had to be done about Uri, or they would suddenly discover that the shrewd politician had eased himself into a position of absolute power.

“Write me a poem!” Serina said suddenly, clearly to break him out of his mood.

“I couldn’t,” Apollo said, stirred out of his reverie. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Oh, I do. It would mean a lot to me.”

She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek, muttering, “I’ll do better in private.”

Apollo was about to suggest something even more specific for their later privacy, when he was distracted by a passing man who wore the dress uniform of the Galactica. The man, whose collar was clearly too large for his neck and whose sleeves seemed to hang down past his knuckles, seemed a shade too old for combat duty. Apollo’s scrutiny was so obvious that the man noticed. He turned away uncomfortably and headed for the nearest corridor, as if to escape.

“What is it?” Serina asked.

“That man’s insignia is Blue Squadron. I thought I knew everyone in it. Don’t recall ever seeing him before.”

“Maybe he transferred in from one of the other units.”

“I know most of them also. And did you see the fit of the uniform?”

“Well, how often do you guys get to wear your dress blues? He probably bought it when he was a couple of sizes larger and hasn’t worn it for years.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“In any case, the guest of honor fits into his uniform quite neatly—and looks delicious, I might add.”

He squeezed her hand. But, in spite of her glowing smile, he could not get the sight of the officer in the oversized uniform out of his head.

 

The Ovions, as anxious to serve as ever, had rearranged the whole casino for the award ceremony. Colored lights had been arranged in flowerlike patterns to add to the festive atmosphere. Acrobats and entertainers of many species performed their acts at one end of the massive room. The men in full military dress uniform completed the decorative picture.

Starbuck could not get his shoulders to relax. As he and Boomer waited by the podium for the celebration to begin, he couldn’t stop fidgeting. Boomer appeared to be equally uncomfortable.

“Have I ever told you how lovely I think you are in a dress uniform?” Boomer said, in a strained attempt to be cheerful.

“Just get me out of here,” Starbuck said irritably. “Starfighters don’t mix with all this pomp and—”

“Careful. Guests of honor don’t curse. It’s not etiquette.”

Sire Uri, looking every inch the man in control, swaggered up to them.

“I don’t see Captain Apollo. I trust he’s well….”

“Business aboard the Galactica.” Starbuck said. “He’ll be along.”

Uri regarded the roomful of people, which was dominated by the Galactica’s dress blues.

“From all the uniforms, I’d deduce that most of our warriors are here,” Uri said. “Other than your captain, of course.”

“Well, Sire Uri,” Starbuck said, “I’m always a big draw.”

Uri, not certain how to take Starbuck’s sarcasm, strode away, seeking another detail to attend to. Boomer pulled at Starbuck’s sleeve.

“Don’t spoil the crease,” Starbuck said. “What is it?”

“Those three guys over there, watching the acrobats, can you tell me who they are?”

Starbuck studied the three men, all of whom wore ill-fitting Colonial fleet uniforms.

“Nope, Boomer. Darned if I know. Sure have lousy tailors, or else all the fun and games down here’s tiring them out.”

“Starbuck, you should know them.”

“Why in hell should I know them?”

“They’re wearing insignia from our squadron.” Starbuck peered at the oddly attired trio. Suddenly he started walking toward them, shouting back to Boomer, “Don’t let them start the festivities without me.”

One of the three men saw Starbuck coming, and he pointed to him for the benefit of the other two. Immediately the three began to walk toward the elevators. Starbuck picked up his pace, trying to close in on them.

 

Getting off the elevator, Apollo was bumped roughly by a man in a Galactica uniform. He was about to dress the violator down but the elevator doors closed in his face. There had been something odd about the man and his companions. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned to Boxey and said:

“The Ovions’ve really fixed up this place attractively, haven’t they?”

“I don’t like them,” the boy said laconically.

Serina whispered to Apollo, “Boxey’s a little miffed because some Ovion tried to prevent him from bringing Muffit to the celebration.”

“I see he won the dispute.”

Apollo gestured toward the daggit-droid in the boy’s arms.

“Of course he did,” Serina said. “He’s in training to be an officer of the Galactica, isn’t he?”

Starbuck came running up to Apollo, saying, “Captain, those men that just got on the elevator….”

“Yes, I have a strong tactile impression of one of them, but what’s it all about?”

“Something’s going on around here, and I don’t like the feel of it at all,” Starbuck said. “I think those three were imposters. Somebody else wearing our uniforms, or duplicates of our uniforms. Can we talk?”

“Of course. Serina, will you excuse me?”

“Sure, but not for long, okay? I’ll take Boxey and get something to eat.”

Muffit Two sprang out of the boy’s arms and ran into the main room of the casino, Boxey running after him.

“Gotta go,” Serina said. “But you two, don’t be long. You don’t want to miss your own honors ceremony.”

As she walked off, Starbuck took Apollo to a quiet corner.

“Now what is this about imposters,” Apollo said, remembering the man in the ill-fitting uniform he had spotted aboard the passenger shuttle.

“I don’t know,” Starbuck said. “I’ve been running into people all night who aren’t from our unit. But they’re in our unit’s clothes.”

“Yes, I saw one myself. We’d better find out what’s going on.”

The elevator door slid open and the two men rushed into it.

 

It took a long time for Cassiopeia to find a dark place where she could get away from the crowd of people. A dark place for her dark mood. When she had arrived at the casino, Starbuck had been distant with her, and she did not care for the young lieutenant’s mercurial moods. Then the wretched and lecherous Sire Uri had made about twenty indiscreet proposals to her, following her around while she denied him his every wish until he finally gave up, muttering that no damn socialator should dare to insult him like that. Finally, the festive atmosphere had depressed her more, and she knew she needed to sulk for a while, work some of the sadness out of her system.

What she found was a plush chair which had been placed behind an ornate screen. She flopped down onto it and shut her eyes. The darkness did not enclose her as it should have, as it usually did when she employed the meditation techniques she had acquired in her training as a socialator. Too many other scenes intruded.

Her ritual defloration, which occurred at the age of twelve following her vow to enter the socialator ranks. He was a handsome older man. Like Sire Uri. Since he was associated with a pleasant memory, she should like Uri, but she did not.

Her winning of the highest academic honors and the awarding of the golden fringe which she was allowed to wear along the neck and hem lines of her street-robe. The award required Gemonese males to treat her with a special dignity.

Her selection as a socialator officer and its accompanying privilege of teaching the young.

Her long intermittent love affair with a Gemonese artist, his kindness to her, the way she had felt when he had not turned up among the refugees.

Her one disastrous night with Starbuck, the only man who had treated her with any extra kindness in a long time. Why couldn�t he�

An Ovion, apparently stepping out of the wall, interrupted her thoughts. Before she could say anything, the alien had placed one of her four hands on Cassiopeia’s mouth and started dragging her to a concealed pod-elevator in the wall.

 

Serina responded to Sire Uri’s gesture to approach the podium. He asked her where Captain Apollo was.

“He’ll be here in a moment,” she said, “I’m sure.”

Uri looked toward Boomer, the only one of the three awardees on the platform.

“I suggest you find your two friends and tell them we’re going to begin,” Uri said. “With or without them.”

Boomer snapped to and jumped off the podium, a weak smile on his face.

“I would like to speak with you later,” Uri whispered to Serina. “Alone.”

“Drown yourself in the grog fountain,” Serina said sweetly and moved off.

 

Seetol could not figure out why she was disturbed about the operation that seemed to be progressing in the casino and within the several levels of the Ovion colony. The Colonial warriors, most of them, had been assembled for the award celebration. They would be easy targets when the proper time came. Her troops were successfully abducting humans who wandered away from the main body and taking them to the lower levels. Everything she had been ordered to see to had been done. Still, she felt troubled.

The Cylon centurion walked arrogantly into the throne room and both she and her queen automatically bowed.

“By your command,” Lotay said.

“Speak,” said the centurion.

“The humans are in full attendance.”

“How many warriors?”

“We have counted more than two hundred.”

“My reports indicate that number as very near the full complement. A very good effort, Lotay.”

The centurion’s condescending compliment sent a shiver of distaste through Seetol’s body, agitating all four of her limbs.

“We are, but to serve,” Lotay said in her soft deep voice.

“You have served well. See that the humans remain entertained until the end.”

“How will we know—”

“When the Galactica is destroyed, the night will be as bright as a thousand suns, for a quick moment, then there will be darkness. Eternal darkness for the humans. And their remnants will be yours, for your lower chambers.”

“We are very grateful, centurion.”

“As you should be.”

Lotay and Seetol bowed and backed out of the throne room.

 

Imperious Leader sensed that the time for action had finally arrived. His centurion on Carillon had reported that the human warriors were collected in one spot. The battlestar Galactica and the rest of its fleet were being operated by token crews. They could not launch counterattack craft, nor could they adequately fight back with their artillery. An attack could be initiated now, both against the ships in the sky and the trapped humans on the ground. He ordered the Supreme Star Force out of the ambush screen, where they had hid themselves upon arrival in Carillon Sector, and toward the planet. At the same time, he activated another force to head for the ships that Adama had left behind. They could be wiped out in one sweep of fighters, they were so weak. Then all humanity, except those whom the Ovions claimed for the pods in their lowest levels, would be finally annihilated.

The leader allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, the kind of joy he felt when conducting such a multi-faceted campaign. He would be both relieved and happy to rid himself of the human pest. He had been fighting them so long he had begun to think like them. He was glad there would be no more of that.

 

Apollo and Starbuck could find no trace of the three strange men in Galactica uniforms on the guest accommodation levels.

“They’ve got to be down here someplace,” Starbuck muttered in frustration. “If they aren’t here, they must’ve reached another level.”

“The other levels aren’t accessible to humans.”

“They are to Ovions. Maybe somebody gave them a free trip. You know, I’ve been wondering: just how inaccessible are the other levels?”

“That speculation’s crossed my mind, too. Shall we try?”

“After you. Captain.”

They returned to the elevator. Inside the car, Apollo drew his weapon, aimed it at the control panel and fired. The thin red beam pierced the metal of the panel and, in a near-perfect circle, a section of the control panel above the selection touch plates was severed, falling to the floor. Inside the panel, several wires were cut by the beam from Apollo’s sidearm.

Staring at the dangling wires, Starbuck commented, “You realize that’s private property.”

Apollo smiled.

“I think we owe it to them to try to put it back together,” he said. “Any suggestions?”

“Yes, sir. I’d suggest you try tapping those little critters there together.”

Apollo connected a pair of the wires. As soon as they touched, the elevator car came to life again and began moving downward.

“You’re a gambler,” Apollo said. “Pick a level.”

“I say we take a look at what’s farthest from the guest rooms.”

“Agreed.”

Apollo pressed the touchplate for the lowest level. No soft forbidding voice intruded and criticized this time.

 

Her abductor carried Cassiopeia down several levels to a dark, cavernous chamber. She struggled all the way, and the Ovion had to call in reinforcements in a high-pitched but ominous voice. The group of Ovions flung her onto a massive table and, before she could squirm off, a large canopylike cover came rapidly down from the ceiling and sealed off her escape. Tubing leading into the canopy started pumping in a dark reddish gas. Cassiopeia tried to hold her breath but, looking down at her arm, she saw that the gas penetrated her skin. Her mind told her to scream, but her body was beginning to feel extremely comfortable, extremely content. As the tension rushed out of her, she looked out the transparent canopy. The Ovions were opening what appeared to be large pods. In a trio of other pods three men in Galactica dress uniform were nestled snugly, calm expressions on their faces. Cassiopeia smiled at them and managed a weak wave. She was dimly aware of some human voices moaning in the distance.

 

Moaning was the first sound Apollo noticed as he and Starbuck stepped in the oppressive atmosphere of the lower level corridor. Drawing his sidearm, he gestured to Starbuck to follow him in the direction of the sound.

“You’re the leader,” Starbuck whispered.

Right after they turned into a corridor, they heard a chattering noise behind them. Recognizing the sound as the Ovion language, Apollo whirled around ready to fire. However, the Ovions were gathered around the elevator, examining the damage Apollo and Starbuck had caused, and arguing among themselves. Their queen, Lotay, swept up and examined the damaged car control. Her excited chatter sent the other Ovions scurrying in all directions.

“They’re gonna be looking for us,” Apollo whispered. “Let’s move.”

As he started running forward, he thought he heard the sound of a daggit barking ahead of him.

 

Serina finally located Boxey on the other side of the massive casino. He was, as usual, chasing after Muffit Two. The daggit-droid was sniffing around a decorated screen that blocked off a small part of the room. As if picking up a trail, Muffit scampered behind the screen.

“Come back here, you daggit!” Boxey hollered, and ran alter the pet.

Serina smiled. It was time to herd in Boxey and Muffy, get them both something to eat. She went behind the screen, and saw an overturned chair. And nothing else. Boxey and his daggit were not there.

All right, don’t panic, she told herself, somehow they got back into the casino. She rushed back into the main room. On the podium, Sire Uri had made some excuses for the missing guests of honor and was launching into a speech about rebirth, about wiping the slate clean of animosities, of displaying peace to their former foe.

People were applauding. There was a madness in the room, she thought. Where was Boxey? Where was Apollo? Why were there so many Ovions slowly gathering, as if in ranks, near the exits of the casino?

She started walking fast, looking for somebody she could trust, and finding no one.

 

Apollo and Starbuck leaned against a corridor wall, out of breath.

“I’m beginning to think you’re right,” Apollo said.

“About what?”

“Your suspicions. About something being wrong here.”

“But what? What’s the connection between the casino and the luxury quarters, and all of this?”

“I suggest we get out of here, then figure that one out.”

Ovion chattering plus the sound of barking up ahead brought Apollo away from the wall. He began to run down the corridor toward the sounds, Starbuck following close behind. The agitated growling of the daggit-droid was the equivalent of a guidance system. They turned a corner and saw Muffit Two, snapping at an Ovion who seemed puzzled by the animal android. The Ovion kept reaching for Muffit with one of her four arms, and then springing back when the daggit leaped toward her, steel teeth gleaming. Boxey came out of a nearby corridor, hollering, “Muffit? Muffit?” The Ovion moved toward the boy, drawing a small but sharp-looking, thin-bladed knife from her belt. Boxey cowered backward as the Ovion raised the weapon.

“Run, Boxey!” Apollo shouted.

The boy ran toward Apollo. The Ovion whirled around. Starbuck emerged into the dim light and sent a beam of laser fire through the alien, who seemed to collapse inward as she fell to the ground.

“Let’s get out of here,” Apollo said, sweeping Boxey into his arms.

“The elevator,” Starbuck shouted.

“Muffy!” Boxey yelled. The daggit yelped and followed after them. They stopped at the corridor archway leading to the lobby in front of the elevator bank. Apollo peered around the corner.

“Oh, God, no!” he muttered, springing back against the wall.

“What?” Starbuck whispered.

“There’s a crowd of Cylons collecting there. A whole brigade, it looks like.”

“Cylons! But how’d they get—”

“They must be able to key a path through the minefield. Either that or….”

“Or what, Apollo?”

“Or the Galactica’s under attack. Damn it, that’s why the award ceremony. To get us down here while the Cylons sneak-attacked us. Father’s up there with just a skeleton crew. He’s probably—”

Muffit Two, peeking out of the archway, began to bark. Apollo looked. Several Cylons were looking toward the archway, light beaming out from their helmets. When they saw Muffit and Apollo looking out, an officer pointed toward them, and a platoon started running their way.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Apollo screamed, and they broke into a run. The daggit-droid held ground for a moment, yelping at the Cylons, then scampered after the retreating humans.

 

The leaves of the pod were gently wrapped around Cassiopeia’s body. They felt soft and velvety. Ovions picked up the pod and carried her out of the chamber. She began to feel dizzy. The feeling of peace seemed to be wearing off. The pod leaves were wrapped too tightly about her. She could not move her arms or legs. Her entire body was becoming numb. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound could be forced out.

They arrived at another large cavern. Lying around its floor, filling almost the entire surface, were many pods, each with tubing leading to machinery at the far end of the room.

Most of the pods contained human beings, but some of them contained red and grey clumps of matter which, if you squinted at them and filled in missing areas, were recognizable as human shapes. Recognizable human shapes and they seemed to be dissolving, dissolving into component matter, dissolving.

Cassiopeia’s voice returned in a sudden, piercing scream.