"Yes, sir."
Both men smiled.
Baltar prepared to teach his final class. At least he intended it to be his last class for a good, long time. They weren't exactly pressuring him to keep everyone's nose to the academic grindstone now that the Colonials again faced a time of crisis.
From his point of view a time of crisis was the norm.
"We won't meet again until this area is secured," he said. "We almost had to cancel this session but President Tigh assures me that today we're safe because of military maneuvers that were essential in this sector."
"Why don't we reconvene in space?" asked the gorgeous blonde student who had become his favorite.
Baltar sighed. "Perhaps we will but there are more important issues than pursuing this course of study. We all have to do our part now that politicians have again led us into opportunities for sacrifice."
"You don't blame the warriors," noted a nasal-voiced student from the back who always rubbed Baltar the wrong way.
"Not this time."
Again Baltar closely scrutinized the faces of the class. He still wasn't sure which students were spies, and if they reported directly to Tigh or to Apollo. The way things had been going lately, he didn't much care. With the return of chaos there was no way of telling friend from foe on other than a daily basis.
"Let us conclude our first phase of study with questions we can carry with us as we hopefully live through the current crisis."
"Aren't you exaggerating the situation?" asked a red-haired girl whose grades were steadily improving.
"What do you mean?"
"Well," she began slowly, then dived into her point. "The natives can't really fight us. I mean, they're basically pacifists anyway, aren't they? That's how they've protested Ryis's projects. Isn't everyone making too much of the danger?"
A few groans from other students suggested to Baltar that he could be tough on the girl without losing any of his hard-won popularity with the class. Still, the girl expressed an opinion all too common among Colonials in this place and time.
"How old are you, child?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" she demanded, pouting.
"I don't mean to condescend." Baltar was surprised to hear himself sound non-judgmental. "But this is still my class so please bear with me."
"I'm eighteen." She spat out the words as if they were a curse.
"Don't be in such a rush to grow up," he surprised himself again with the words coming out of his mouth. What was happening to him? Were his students teaching him to be a softie?
"Every older person says that," the red-head complained.
"Yes, I agree. But it is a true statement for all that. As you grow older you retain the hopes and aspirations of youth as reality crushes you, wears you out, makes you sick and sad."
"Are you still suffering from the headaches?" asked the blonde student sympathetically.
"Yes," he almost whispered, "but it's not as bad today. It's not my headache talking right now." He promised himself that soon he would seek medical help, having exhausted every palliative offered by Colonial pharmacies.
For now, he would tell his students things they had never heard before. "As you age, you still feel young inside until the ailments begin. The first few physical problems you dismiss. After all, even when you're young you have ailments. But when you're young, they don't last long."
He took a deep breath. This wasn't easy for him but he had to throw his words at their eager, young faces. They had to hear it all. "As your face becomes a canvas for wrinkles, one of your minor pains gets worse instead of going away. Then gray hairs begin to infiltrate your head, or the hairs fall out. Other pains join the first one and they all take up permanent residence in the frail house of flesh and blood you used to trust as a healthy, young body.
"That's when you realize that you're getting older. And when you become sick, it takes so much longer to get well. And then your stamina begins to go. All the vital energy of youth that you took for granted slowly drains away—but it happens slowly so you can fool yourself into believing that it's not over for you, that you still have a chance when it's already too late."
He was breathing heavily when he finished his bitter diatribe. The students were staring the way they had at the conclusion of his first class. But now there was a different quality. In the past, when he'd overwhelmed them with his personality there had been a reaction of wonder, a touch of awe combined with a touch of fear.
This time he felt an emotion coming off those young faces like a wave and he hated it. He was feeling their pity. And that was the most excruciatingly painful evidence of how old he really was on this sunny day in Paradis.
"I'm sorry," he said, sitting down heavily in his chair.
"Are you all right?" two of the students asked in unison. Several others laughed at the unintentional stereo effect.
Baltar raised a weak hand. "Don't mind me," he said. "I thought I'd be able to scare away my usual headache."
"Did it work?" asked the blonde.
"No, but I remembered some medicine today," he said, and took a pill with the glass of water on his desk.
Clearing his throat, he attempted to regain control of the situation. "I suppose that if you're going to grow older you might as well grow up, too! I've worked at that."
"Why did you want to know my age?" asked the redhead, demonstrating a lack of tact but an admirable devotion to her teacher's subject matter.
"You've spent your entire life in space on the run from the Cylons. You've lived through Chitain attacks. You've never known peace and now you're so quick to throw away something you've never had. You might worry more about the upcoming conflict if you weren't inured to constant strife."
The girl laughed with that infuriating quality of the young where they know everything because they have experienced so little. "The Gamon aren't like that. There won't be strife for long."
"When you say they aren't 'like that,' do you mean they aren't enemies?" Baltar challenged her.
"No, I mean they aren't dangerous."
The nasal voice of the annoying male student hammered home the point. "Which means we can brush them aside, Professor. It hardly counts as a war when the enemy is so weak."
Baltar remembered the day when Athena had come to him in sick bay and announced that he would be teaching a class. Of all the areas in which he might claim expertise, ethics was not among them. Now here he was confronted with the raison d'etre of this damned academic enterprise—and on what might be the last time he would try to reach the hearts and minds of these students.
How ironic to hear his own rationalizations echoing back to him from yahren ago, now rendered even more absurd by the situation on Paradis. It just wasn't fair. No punishment should be this poetic and perfect. He shouldn't have to hear the words of his own proud youth in this context.
"Why do we hate the Cylons?" he asked the class. There was no response. "Why do we fear Imperious Leader?" Again there was no answer. He took the silence to indicate the thinking of eager young minds that would, in time, discern the dim outlines on the horizon that stood for good and evil.
"I was not as bad as you," he muttered to himself, still waiting for an answer to his questions.
"What was that, Professor?" asked a student in the front row who had never spoken before.
Baltar rose to his feet and moved in front of his desk. "While waiting for answers to my questions about the Cylons, I merely observed that I was never as bad as many of you."
"Bad?" echoed back at him from young throats.
"Wicked," he amplified. "Malicious. Unfair."
"Who the hell are you?" screamed a young voice, angry and full of fight. It was a young man training to be a warrior. At that moment, Baltar no longer suspected him of being a spy in the class. He'd never lose his temper like that if he were.
"I'm Baltar."
"The traitor!" the young man almost screamed, trembling with rage. "I'm glad you're old," he added. "
I want to see you wither and die. I want to see the flesh fall from your bones and I'll dance on your skull."
"Shut up!" said the blonde firmly.
"Yeah," agreed one of her classmates.
Baltar held up his hand. He felt refreshed. The headache had suddenly vanished. The medicine had never worked this well before. A burst of adrenaline and a good fight were the tonic he needed.
"This young man is entitled to his opinion," said Baltar. "I encourage that here. If I can't get you to respond to my questions, I'll take the personal abuse instead."
A short, pudgy student in the front row who rarely had a word before today seized the initiative. "No one answered you about the Cylons and Imperious Leader because the question was silly."
"Why is that?" Baltar persisted.
"Because we're all afraid of them. They are dangerous and powerful."
"In other words, they could kill us all?" said Baltar.
"Yes."
"And what did we do to inspire such enmity?"
The newly loquacious student ran out of steam just then. But others took up the challenge. "They hate us for being different," said one. "We were in the way of their plans," said another.
"Very good," pronounced Baltar.
"No, it isn't," said a sandy-haired student, a friend of the apprentice warrior. "I don't agree that we're worse than you are just because we are willing to fight the Gamon and you're not."
"At least you appreciate where I was going with my argument," said Baltar. "How are we any better than the Cylons if we brush aside the Gamon because they're different from us and in the way of our plans? The Cylons had an army. They had weapons like ours. They proved themselves invaders and conquerors before we fought back. The Gamon have done nothing to deserve what we're doing to them."
Every teacher comes to recognize the different qualities of silence. This was a thoughtful silence. At least it was until the sandy haired student launched his attack.
"That's specious reasoning coming from an admitted traitor."
"I have never admitted anything," said Baltar with a smile.
"A proven traitor, then," the young man continued. "You betrayed your own people to a powerful enemy."
"I did not feel solidarity with Colonials then. I was trying to secure advantages for Caprica."
"But your fellow Capricans were destroyed!" This came from the blonde, his usual defender.
"I know. I carry that guilt forever."
"You wanted to be the dictator of Caprica," said the nasal voice.
"It seemed the only way to keep us alive. I was wrong."
"You stayed alive," accused his red-haired nemesis.
"True. But that was a near thing. You'll never believe how close I came to being blasted by a Cylon pulse rifle and spaced out an airlock!"
"Good riddance," said the would-be warrior. The class was definitely taking on a chilly quality.
A petite brunette who rarely spoke was inspired to join in the fray.
"I want to say something on behalf of our teacher. He has always been honest with us and I don't think it's right the way we're treating him today. He's trying to make us see the ethical problems we face right now with the natives on Paradis. And all we do is insult him."
He hadn't expected a day like this. "Thank you. It seems as if we're about to have a war in this classroom and that is not my intention. But think on this all of you, whatever decision you make about the ongoing hostilities.
"Some of the strongest voices against fighting the Gamon emanate from the warriors. These are the same people who forced me to confront certain shortcomings about my past."
"I'll bet," said someone but Baltar ignored the taunt.
"War has ethical rules like everything else. If you fight to liberate victims from a tyranny, that is a just war. If you fight for reasons of self-defense, that is a just war. But if you occupy a region and then pretend you're not occupying it, beware! That way lies madness…or actual evil."
The nasal voice challenged him again. "How do we tell an occupation from holding ground in a just war?"
"Simple," said Baltar. "What do you do with a civilian population after you have defeated its military?"
"Treat them fairly," suggested the blonde.
"A hard lesson to learn but the right answer if you aren't a Cylon."
The red-haired girl laughed. "What does any of this have to do with anything? The Gamon don't have a military."
"A very good point," said Baltar.
"This is ridiculous," said the would-be warrior. "Who says the Gamon have any special claim on this planet?"
"Commander Apollo," answered Baltar softly.
"It's sort of strange hearing you sound like one of the good guys," said the petite brunette.
Baltar laughed. "It seems strange to me as well."
He had silenced the young man who aspired to be under the direct orders of Apollo but the sandy haired agitator was still at it.
"If this is going to be our last class for a while, I have a question for you to ponder, Professor."
"Fire away," said Baltar, prepared to duck.
"Everyone knows about the mysterious object that was found when we first arrived here—the book of ancient writings that bore the seal of the original tribes. If this is truly the work of the Thirteenth Tribe, then we may have a claim to this planet that goes back many ages before the Gamon. You can tell from looking at them how strange they are. They can't possibly be descendants of human beings. So the planet is ours by rights and it is our sacred duty to take it back."
Baltar nodded. "Now, that is the belief of those who support a campaign against the natives that will soak Paradis in blood. At least you understand the deepest implications of your position and state them boldly."
"I thought the whole idea was for Ryis just to give us a permanent home," said another student. "He never talks about history and destiny or any of that stuff. It sounds like when Apollo talks about Earth."
Baltar nodded again. "Wheels within wheels," he said. "There are different motivations that bring factions together in times of war or peace. But I will conclude with this thought. If we had actually found Earth, and we were in this exact situation, I am positive of one truth. Commander Apollo would never advocate doing to Earthmen what we are doing to the Gamon. Hopefully we will meet again when the unpleasantness is over. Class dismissed."
Chapter Fifteen
Koren had given up on ever meeting a Gamon child, even though he was assured that they existed. He figured that he would have stumbled across at least one by now. He finally gave up on his personal search for one.
Except in his imagination, of course. When his foster father mentioned Baltar's nightmares around Koren one day, the boy suggested that the scary old man would sleep better at night if he did more daydreaming.
In daydreams Koren played with an imaginary native boy. He didn't do it too often. He wasn't unhappy and he wasn't particularly lonely, either. But he had an active imagination.
So here they were on a brand-new planet about to engage in senseless strife with the native population. That was all too painfully real. If Koren had a real Gamon friend his own age, he could actually talk to him.
He gave his make-believe native boy the name of Zo'hm. He imagined him taller than himself, but not unreasonably so. The lad still had a lot of growing to do. He also imagined that Zo'hm was very smart, which was in line with what Apollo told him about his direct involvement with leaders among the natives. Koren's real friends weren't good students, anyway, with the exception of the girl he had helped rescue from the quicksand. But the problem was that he didn't see Caran all that often. He wasn't exactly sure what to do about her.
His imaginary friend was really just a way for Koren to talk to himself and reason out problems.
Or was he? There were times when Koren could almost feel the presence of someone else with him. It only happened when he was alone in his room or out in the woods. At times like that there was a mystical
quality about the voice he imagined in his head. He'd have to make himself stop, really stop, for the voice of Zo'hm to go away.
When Koren was having trouble with his math homework, he understood it better if he could talk out loud to his imaginary friend.
"Think about the red sun," he imagined his friend saying when he was trying to master the basic equation of f = ma (force equals mass times acceleration). The test question was to answer why planets closer to the sun orbit it faster and planets farther away orbit it at a slower rate of speed.
Koren often overheard the scientists and his father go on and on about how surprising it was to find such an advanced biosphere in an orbit this far from a sun; and how there was no other solar system like this in all their adventures.
For the Galacticans, f = ma meant that the closer one came to a celestial body, the more powerful the force of gravity would be. And in the case of their new sun, the closer you came to being burned by the giant furnace in the sky if you got too close.
Koren wished that same law of the universe didn't apply to relationships between different cultures, but he was afraid that it did in some strange way. It seemed that the closer the Galacticans came to other intelligent races, the more friction there was. The passion released burned everyone up instead of generating the pleasant glow of love.
Basically, Koren wanted to find an extended family in the universe instead of an endless battlefield. He didn't believe these feelings contradicted his desire to be a warrior. The Cylons were the exception to any rational being's desire for peace. There was no choice but to fight them, at least for the forseeable future.
But the Gamon were completely different. They shouldn't be fighting them.
He convinced himself that the biggest advantage of finding an actual Gamon peer would be that the two of them might be able to communicate on a deep level. They could get past the fear that made it so hard for adults to speak from the heart; even the brave ones, like the warriors.
Koren still remembered the barrier between him and his biological father. Jinkrat tried doing little things to make it up to his son; but when everyone is starving, all the rest of human life is reduced to unimportance or distraction.
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