"Then I was roughly placed on a platform attached to cables which had dropped from the ceiling. My captors tied me down. The platform was raised and maneuvered to a position just above the flames. I felt the flames licking near me, coming close to my skin. The surfaces of the platform began to heat up, becoming painfully unbearable.
"Doctors in their shimmering masks floated all around me, circling the platform. How they were there, I don't know. One doctor raised his arm. In his hand he gripped an odd-shaped brazier. Vapors came out of vents in its side and drifted down toward me. I nearly fainted from fear of the vapors, and then they forced me into unconsciousness anyway.
"At the time I had no idea what had been done to me. All I knew is that I woke up alone in the big dark room. The people, villagers and doctors alike, were gone. The fire was out. The room was cold and it echoed with sound that seemed to have no source.
"I came out of the building and saw a crowd waiting for me. There were looks of shock and horror on all faces. They were, of course, staring at this grotesque and ugly visage which the doctors had so skillfully given me. Instinctively, I put my hands to my face and felt it all over. Its contours seemed no different from what I'd known before. I rushed past the horrified and sickened villagers and somehow managed to find my way to my quarters. There I took out a mirror and stared at the face I'd always known.
"It was a long while before I realized that I was the only one who ever saw that face now.
"The doctors, as I found out later, used ancient surgical techniques to implant a transmitter within me. Some say it is a little box, others that it is a set of wires, planted in my brain, which go to transmitters near the surface of my skin; others say that it is just one small microscopic bit placed somewhere beneath the skin of my face. Whatever their technology, the doctors managed to superimpose this ugly face over my real face for the rest of you to see. It is the mask which cannot be separated from me. I cannot suddenly remove it, as the doctors could remove theirs, and reveal my beauty underneath. In the time since, the face beneath the mask has become more beautiful, or certainly stronger. My eyes are more pronounced, my skin more lustrous, my lips fuller, my—well, it doesn't matter what improvements nature has given my real face. No one but me will ever see it again.
"At the time I realized the horror of the mask, I could not bear to stay in the village. Even though I had grown up there and had never been more than a short distance from it, I knew I had to flee. As I ran, I thought I heard a few voices behind me saying good riddance. I've traveled much since that time and have continually had to see the horror reflected in the eyes of people staring at me. I have had to fight off attack. I have had to escape killing. I have sometimes even had to fend off men with twisted minds who wanted to do to me what Burist had done.
"I tried to return to my village once, but it is gone, destroyed, apparently by another of the war's battles. At any rate, it is rabble. And the people of the village have disappeared. In all my wanderings, I've never encountered one of them."
Xiomara stopped speaking, and Apollo could not for a while find words to fill in the long pause that followed her tale. Finally, he said, "Isn't there anybody anywhere who can help? Any medical men who can reverse the process or remove what the doctors implanted in you?"
Xiomara laughed bitterly.
"The doctors are gone, too, with the village. If they are dead, their techniques died with them. It is said that only one of the doctors can undo the damage. Anyone else tries, and I will die. They say that, anyway. There is nothing I can do."
"Don't say that. There must be something."
In spite of the ugliness of her mouth, the smile that it twisted into seemed soft, almost pleased.
"You are extraordinarly compassionate, hero. But, no, there is nothing."
They had, by this time, caught up with the rear ranks of the caravan. Apollo noted several looks of revulsion directed Xiomara's way. She must have seen them, too. The hatred in them alerted Apollo. He knew that it would be necessary to be watchful to protect Xiomara from that hatred.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sarge had watched Apollo's rescue of Xiomara with great interest. Gallantry was unknown in his culture. Helping strangers would have been a phenomenon leading to the commitment of the rescuer for psychiatric observation. Among Sarge's people, an individual protected his family, friends and fellow warriors without question and without a thought of the heroism that might be involved. But many of the humans Sarge had studied seemed willing to put themselves in danger to help others whom they had never seen before. Such recklessness made them good soldiers in the war, although they tended not to survive for long.
Sarge and Barra had arranged for Xiomara to be attacked by the mob in order to see if the new humans would in any way respond to it. With amplifiers placed in the trees, they had increased the volume of Xiomara's screams so that the newcomers would hear them. Sarge had been impressed with the quickness of Apollo's reaction, and the skill with which he had fought when outnumbered.
"An impressive battler, Sarge," Barra commented.
"Very impressive, Barra. The others seemed quick to react and ready to fight, too."
"I think all three of them would fight well for our side."
"Well, there is a look of stubbornness about them, I think. I can still not read a humanoid face well. They're obviously skilled at warfare. I think it's time to recruit them."
The news cheered Barra. He had a look of intense happiness on his face, although Sarge did not perceive it. He could not read Barra's face well, either. The faces of his own culture did not change with emotion, and so he had little skill in reading the faces of others.
"Yes sir, Sarge! What about the woman they saved?"
Sarge pressed a button on Barra's console and examined a close-up image of Xiomara. He did not see that she was ugly according to human perceptions, although he could tell that her somewhat lumpy face differed from the smooth and relatively uncluttered faces of her three new friends. He would not have understood the strange feelings that Xiomara caused in others.
"She looks sturdy," he said. "Take her, too. Send out the orders to the recruiters. I have to return to training now. We have a group ready to send to the front lines. Just cannon fodder, most of them, but they'll help to hold the line."
"Right, Sarge!"
Barra began, happily, to transmit the order to the recruiters.
Apollo did not know what to say to Xiomara. He had never before met anyone who had to live a tragedy day by day. At the same time he was unnerved that he could not quite focus on her face. Sometimes he saw it as the doctors had transformed it, but there were several quick flashes of what seemed to be her real face that he didn't see for long enough to hold it in his memory. Before he could narrow his eyes to look better, the mask-face had returned.
His concentration on Xiomara's face had made him forget about the hateful stares of the others in the caravan. Croft, however, felt their uneasiness growing, and he was not surprised when Beskaroon separated from his cohorts and approached him, a broad smile on his genial face.
"Your friend there keeps some strange company, don't he?" Beskaroon said, with a nod toward Apollo. Croft glanced back, and he smiled cynically.
"No worse than the company I keep, I guess," he said.
At first Beskaroon did not perceive that Croft's insult was directed at him, then he spoke angrily, "Wouldn't cross swords with me, I were you, Croft."
Croft's face relaxed into injured innocence.
"Why'd I do that? I think you're a sweetheart, Besky."
Beskaroon, a bit flustered, waved his arms as he spoke: "Knew the two of you were trouble, minute I saw you."
Sheba, coming out of her daze, said, "Three of us."
Beskaroon swung around to face her.
"What?" he said.
"Three of us. Far as you're concerned, we're all trouble."
"Closing ranks, huh? Like all you warrior types. Don't know what's good for you, do you?"
"Nutrition," Croft said. "Nutrition's what's good for us. And a healthy attitude and the seven daily—"
"Shut up, Croft," Beskaroon growled.
Croft smiled. He was enjoying Beskaroon's bemused anger.
"You the type backs up your words, Besky?"
Beskaroon choked out his words: "Count on that, Croft."
Beskaroon and Croft squared off and began to circle around each other. Beskaroon growled incoherently. Croft's grin grew and he felt a rush of adrenaline. Fighting Beskaroon was at least something worth doing.
Apollo, seeing the two in fighting attitude, rushed forward, shouting, "What's going on?"
Croft addressed Apollo without taking his eyes off Beskaroon.
"Big guy here doesn't approve of us. He'd like to mix it up."
Beskaroon growled an agreement. Apollo stepped in front of Croft.
"Forget it, Croft. Take it easy, Beskaroon. There's no point in fighting among ourselves."
"Doesn't have to be a point," Beskaroon muttered.
"He doesn't approve of your new friend, Apollo," Croft said. "Says she's weird."
"She's ugly," Beskaroon said. "Don't like ugly here, none of us. None of us humans, anyway. Scaleskins don't even know from ugly. Makes us sick to our stomachs, her ugly face. Won't have it here."
Apollo made a sound in his throat that was not much different than the growlings Beskaroon had been making, and he lunged forward. Xiomara, who had run up, grabbed his arm and said calmly, "That's just the kind of treatment I always get, Apollo. Don't get yourself in a mess over it. Please."
The soothing quality of her voice allowed Apollo to relax. Stepping back from Beskaroon, he said, in a voice nearly as calm as Xiomara's, "If you say so. Leave us alone, Beskaroon."
Beskaroon, still grumbling, rejoined his comrades. Croft called after him, "Take it easy, Besky."
After they had walked awhile in silence, their belts gently tugging them toward the city of light, Apollo edged toward Croft and whispered, "See how they're giving us a wide berth?"
"It didn't escape my notice, Captain."
Even as they talked, several of the human travelers glanced balefully toward Xiomara. There seemed to be something brewing.
"We'll have to be careful," Apollo said.
"Maybe we should split away from these guys, get to that city on our own."
"Maybe."
Xiomara had quietly come up behind them.
"No," she said, startling both men. "Don't. Not for me. I'm used to treatment like this. I can take care of myself."
Apollo recalled the difficulty she had had taking care of herself back in the forest, but decided not to mention it to her.
"It's a funny thing," she said. "Until they gave me this face, I couldn't really take care of myself. I relied on Trelon for strength. Since the face, well, I've had to become strong. And not just phsyically. I can't tell you the insults I've had to endure, the cruel behavior. But I can handle myself."
"I'm sure you can," Apollo said, "but it's—"
"And please don't see yourself as my protector, hero, just because you got me out of one scrape. I need no protector. Anyway, you'll have enough on your hands, all three of you, just taking care of yourself. Yevra's a tough world. We all have to look out for ourselves."
"Is that right?" Apollo asked. Xiomara nodded. They walked a few steps. Apollo studied the roadside scenery, then he realized that Xiomara might feel his gaze was focused in that direction because he didn't care to look at her. He looked at her. "Okay," he said, "this may be, as you say, a tough world, and you may have your ways. But they're not mine. Not ours. We don't just look out for ourselves. We look out for our friends, our wingmates, the people in our society who need help. We look out for everybody. In my job I am responsible for the welfare of people I don't even approve of, people I don't like."
As he spoke, the faces of the diabolical Sire Uri and the weak-willed members of the Galactica's Council of Twelve, the dozen deadbeats as he called them, seemed to float in front of him. There had been many times when he had wanted to leave them behind on one of the planets the fleet had visited.
"That's all very nice, hero. But, as you say, it's your way. I don't need you. Any of you. I would let you die, if it meant saving myself."
"An ugly idea, Xiomara."
"Ugly people can speak ugly ideas. It's our right."
The moment he had used the word ugly, Apollo had felt a strong twinge of regret. He wanted to apologize to her, but he realized it would only compound the insult if he did, so he remained silent. A weird crooked smile came into Xiomara's face.
"Smile, Captain. You have such a serious expression all of the time. Your eyebrows bend down to meet the beginning of your nose. And your eyes, they're so . . . intense. Your lips are so grim."
"Boy, she's got you pegged, buddy," Croft commented.
Xiomara turned toward Croft.
"Why aren't you repelled by me?" she asked. "Are you and Apollo so much alike?"
Croft burst into mocking laughter.
"Hardly," he said. "We're from two different worlds. Literally from two different worlds. Apollo's a Caprican. They're logical and calm most of the time, but not without a fierce temper when you can bring it out. I'm from Scorpia. We Scorpians are more devious. Crafty, difficult to get along with, inclined to be cynical. My world, I guess, is a lot like yours, Xiomara."
"The way it is now. Not the way it used to be before the war came down from the skies. But I don't want to think about the war. I want to think about happy things. Music and dancing. I used to know a dance. Let me show it to you."
Humming softly to herself, Xiomara began to dance. Starting slowly, with tiny childlike steps, she circled the two men. As her humming became louder, her dancing became more vigorous. And, Apollo noticed, more sensual in the writhings of her entire body. With the sensuality came a look of happy abandonment. Apollo wondered if it was a release of some of the frustration which she must feel. The melody she hummed had a lilt, Apollo thought, like the best of the Galactica's chanteys, combined with the lovely birdlike sounds of the delicate Caprican tunes he remembered from his childhood.
She raised her right leg and twirled. Looking past her, Apollo saw that other men in the caravan had stopped to watch her. But they were not a friendly audience. Beskaroon was mumbling something to his nearest comrades, and they were nodding with a conspiratorial smugness. He jabbed Croft in the shoulder, told him to look toward Beskaroon and his scurvy bunch. Sheba, who'd already seen the trouble brewing, joined Apollo and Croft.
"Yeah, I noticed," Croft said. "I think Besky's planning a move. What do you think we should do?"
"Nothing yet. Just be ready."
Xiomara, unmindful of the threats surrounding her, continued her dance, which was more frenetic now. The music coming out of her throat had become more primitive. Backing up in a series of graceful swaying moves, she shouted toward Apollo, "It's bizarre seeing something so grotesque as I become so graceful, isn't it, hero?"
Without waiting for an answer from him, she reached her arms toward the sky in a gesture that suggested supplication, and began to spin very slowly. She was now quite close to Beskaroon and his group. She appeared to be deliberately tantalizing them. She rushed toward him like a charging animal, then abruptly stopped and danced away. Beskaroon's body shook with anger. She made another charge, another retreat, and Beskaroon's face darkened. He made a brief grab after she was out of reach. Apollo, Croft and Sheba edged forward.
Gracefully she swept toward Beskaroon and his group again. With a cry of fury, Beskaroon jumped toward her. With a wide smile making her face more grotesque, Xiomara danced right out of his outstretched arms. His comrades joined him, and the group began to charge toward Xiomara. Reacting instantly, the three warriors from the Galactica intervened their bodies between Xiomara and the advancing horde. Croft noticed that a horde was exactly what Besky and his bunch looked like—a surging line of wild animals out to ravage everyt
hing in sight.
Apollo coolly jabbed at Beskaroon, catching him on the nose, making him yelp in pain, forcing him backward. Croft tripped up another of the attackers while Sheba decked a big man with a punch to his stomach. For a moment the others seemed stunned, with their leader and two of his allies squirming on the ground, but Beskaroon made a throaty sound that was some kind of battle cry and the men stampeded toward the Galacticans, some of them brandishing knives. Apollo found himself kicking one man, then quickly elbowing another in the face. Croft just kept punching, never sure where the blows were landing. Sheba heard bones snap as she drop-kicked one of Beskaroon's men in the ribs. Xiomara, with moves not much different from those in her dance, managed to deck a pair who had jumped toward her. Apollo saw another one about to hit Xiomara from behind, and he shouldered the attacker to the ground and knocked him unconscious with a blow to his head. Standing up, he saw that all his allies were in trouble. Croft caught his eye and shouted, "Let's get the hell out of here!"
Sometimes it was better to retreat from the odds, and the Galacticans, with Xiomara, began to back up. Turning suddenly, they raced off the road, feeling a slight tug from their belts, urging them to return. Some of Beskaroon's men stopped at the edge of the road. The rest, led by a yelping Beskaroon himself, continued the pursuit into the adjoining field.
Croft stumbled over a patch of twisted grass. He fell to the ground so hard that his breath was knocked out of him. Sheba helped him up. Beskaroon and his mob were now very close.
High in the sky there was a high-pitched hum. Xiomara was the first to hear it. She stopped running abruptly and stared at what looked like a clear sky above her. Apollo, running back to her, looked up. He could see nothing except what appeared to be a few birds. Glancing toward the rear, he saw Beskaroon's mob gaining on Croft and Sheba.
"They're catching up, Xiomara!" he shouted. "Run!"
"No point in it. That sound, it's them!"
"Them? Who?"
"The recruiters. It's the damn recruiters!"
She pointed upward. Apollo found out that the dots that had seemed to be birds had grown suddenly to large proportions. Squinting against the bright light in back of them, he saw they were figures in flying outfits. Thin vapor trails drifted out of packs on their backs. They were swooping downward.
Battlestar Galactica 13 - Apollo's War Page 6