"I won't beat around the bush. If I have to kill some Gamon, then I will. I'll do it with regrets. I'll try to avoid it! But if I must, they will die."
Apollo couldn't believe this turn of events. His friend could ask him to kill innocents? His sister could go along with it? How had they all come to such a pass?
"When you start digging graves make sure you dig one for me as well," he said. "You'll take these actions over my dead body!"
Tigh and Athena were stunned as Apollo left the bridge.
The new medicine helped a little. The headaches didn't vanish but Baltar found it easier to function. What he really wanted didn't come in a syringe or a bottle. There didn't seem to be any soporific that blocked the dreams.
Hell, he'd happily take anything that would keep the dreams from becoming nightmares. Failing that, he'd pump himself full of anything that took away the memories of the dreams so that he could stop analyzing his night fevers all day long.
His current dream was not too bad. He was deep in a sea of sludge, failing to claw his way out as shiny razors rained down on him from above—each shard of metal shrieking little tin messages about the greatness of Imperious Leader—when he was saved by a knock on the door. Apollo was visiting.
"Come in," moaned Baltar, voice thick and heavy. He rubbed his eyes raw and half fell out of bed.
"Don't bother getting up on my account," said Apollo.
"Try and stop me," said Baltar. "To what do I owe this visit?"
"I need your help," said Apollo.
"The basis of a sound friendship," said Baltar, pulling on a ragged bathrobe. "I always need help as well, so we have the basis for a bargain. Maybe you'd like to enroll in my course?"
"I'm serious," said Apollo, taking a seat.
"Well, if I'm going to help you there is an element of my playing the role of teacher, I'm sure you'll agree. What is the problem?"
Apollo observed his old enemy with new respect. The man kept growing, which was no small accomplishment. What Apollo told Koren about wisdom wasn't a string of platitudes but the essence of what Adama's first son was coming to believe about life. Now he saw an example of his beliefs right in front of him.
Baltar was expanding his consciousness at a time when so many others of Apollo's friends and co-workers seemed to be shrinking theirs or standing still. The man was not a lost cause.
"I'm at my wit's end," Apollo admitted. While he struggled to find the right words, he realized that the old Baltar would have taken the opportunity to make a crack that if Apollo was at his wit's end, then the commander didn't have to go very far! The new Baltar didn't think that way any longer. Instead of seeking out opportunities to prove his cleverness, the man actually listened.
"Go on," said Baltar.
"Once again the Council has put all of us into an impossible situation. I am expected to take innocent lives in order to serve the agenda of colonizing this planet. Neither the Gamon nor our people are willing to compromise. The host race on this planet believes we've outstayed our welcome and I can't say that I disagree. But I'm placed in the position of choosing the Gamon or us! Our people who have been dying for the past twenty yahren in space want to stay on Paradis and rebuild their lives. Who am I to deny them that opportunity? Yet how can I live with a decision that may slaughter thousands of innocent natives? In addition, there are other developments leading me to believe there may be dangers on Paradis that we have yet to understand."
Apollo placed his head in his hands. Baltar scratched his chin and asked, "Other than that, how is it with you?"
Apollo allowed himself a small chuckle.
"Other than that, I have personal problems that are none of your damned business!" the commander was glad to tell him.
Baltar nodded. "You sum up the situation on Paradis with admirable clarity. Now you know the rigor and responsibility of command in every way that Adama did. That is the true test of leadership, I suppose—when you have to choose between those who will live and those who will die. A doctor faces that on the battlefield when it's triage time. But only a political or military leader makes the choice on the grand scale."
"Yeah, but what to do?"
"I wish I had a clue. I can't even help you make your peace with your final decision, regardless of outcome. You might as well accept that you will be blamed and hated whether the outcome is good or bad."
Apollo shrugged. "You're right. No one can give advice on something like this."
"Well, maybe this will help, Apollo. After a lifetime of pain and introspection, I've come to believe that nobody wins unless everybody wins! I can hardly believe that I'm telling you this."
"Baltar is reborn," said Apollo with a smile.
"I feel that way! I tell you, a leader is always blamed by those who lack the balls to take responsibility for their own decisions. I don't envy you, Apollo. I do want to thank you for my new career. I have learned to appreciate what it means to take a job that requires so little of me but to tell the truth. As a result, I'm getting better at recognizing all the lies people tell themselves to make it through the day. You don't allow yourself that luxury, Apollo, and I respect you for that."
Apollo stood up, feeling oddly refreshed. "You've become a philosopher in your old age."
As Baltar extended his hand to Apollo, his smile faded. As he clenched his teeth and groaned, it was clear that he was suffering another of his relentless headaches.
But there was something different about this one. The man's hand went limp and the color drained from his face. He actually whimpered as he collapsed on the floor.
The commander called for help. None of Baltar's headaches had caused the man to pass out before. It didn't seem right that just as Baltar started learning how to be a human being that he should die.
Apollo believed that the story of Baltar was not over.
Something new was happening on Paradis. When the Colonials first arrived they couldn't decide how many natives lived on the planet. When statisticians and demographers did their best, they could never agree on a number.
Given the visible number of habitations, the population should be relatively small. But the Gamon had the unnerving talent of showing up in places where they had no visible means of sustenance. Having performed whatever mysterious tasks brought them there, they just as suddenly disappeared.
But until today, no Colonial had assumed the population of the Gamon capable of what the scanners showed and eyewitnesses reported from the ground. The native population must be huge for hundreds of thousands to begin gathering around contested construction sites. New Caprica City drew the lion's share of this population explosion.
Ryis sat in his plush chair in his ornate office and stared dumbfounded at the reports on his desk. "Impossible," he kept muttering. "There aren't that many of them."
He jabbed at controls on his desk and the face of his ally Sire Opis ' flickered on the screen. The Council member didn't seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation, no doubt because he was safely in orbit while Ryis was very much at ground zero.
"Battlestar weapons will be at your disposal," said Opis.
"They can only be so precise when finding targets on the ground!" countered Ryis.
"You'll be sent more warriors."
"That's no good," screamed the architect. "I'm not sure what side they're on."
"Don't you have your own trained security forces in addition to civilian police?" asked the man in space.
"You know I do," said the man on the ground, "but their numbers aren't adequate for this. We never calculated anything like this. You don't seem to understand what's happening. The natives can't possibly produce these numbers of protestors!"
Both men had access to the most current intelligence. On their screens they saw the milling throngs surrounding New Caprica City. A sea of natives spread out to the horizon.
"How can this be happening?" Ryis asked the universe at large. "Where have they been hiding themselves all this time?"
"Underground?" Opis suggested.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Well, you asked. I don't see why you're so upset."
Ryis stared at the monitor screen in front of him as though it had short circuited. "You don't appreciate the danger of this?"
"They don't have weapons," said the portly Council member. "Isn't that what matters?"
"Sire Opis," Ryis began in the tone of voice one might use for a child, "you overestimate the utility of weapons. A non-violent protest with these kind of numbers is equivalent to a whole battery of weapons. The sheer mass of numbers makes it impossible to carry on business as usual. In case you've forgotten, we're in the business of business as usual."
Sire Opis didn't fully appreciate the point. "We can always use the Galactica to fire at the outer edge of the circle the Gamon are forming around the city. That is a sufficient distance to keep you and your people from danger. We could go right around the circle, bringing the beam in closer every time until there are no more reinforcements of their numbers from outside the circle they've formed. That would give you a more manageable number to deal with at the gates of the city proper. We could make certain the warriors we send to you are loyal to our cause. Your own people could do a holding action until the warriors arrive."
Ryis tapped his fingers on his desk. He always did that when he was impatient. "We can discuss strategy and tactics later, Sire Opis. The Gamon are not breaching the walls of the citadel just yet. Our immediate problem is how equipment always tends to break down when they pull these stunts. And you still haven't addressed my greatest concern."
"Which is?" asked the man with infuriating calm.
Ryis spelled it out. "If we don't know the source of their numbers, your plan is useless if they can produce more numbers from the same inexplicable place. We don't know how many we are fighting or how they are getting here!"
"Oh," said Sire Opis.
"Right," said the architect. "I'll get back to you."
He broke off the connection and broke out his last bottle of ambrosa.
Not only Ryis noticed the flood of Gamon. Gar'Tokk hurried to Commander Apollo with the same report. The Borellian Noman was not concerned about an explanation for the sudden population explosion among the natives. For some time he had concluded that the Gamon were magicians. The night Yarto managed to sneak up on Gar'Tokk's hilltop, the Noman concluded that these guys had plenty of tricks they hadn't bothered to use yet.
Apollo had just left Baltar in sickbay. He was in the mood for good news. This was the closest he was going to get.
"Looks like the showdown is tomorrow morning," said the commander, his military instincts back in play. "I wonder what the elder meant when he said that we'd have no choice but to leave this planet? Maybe the increased numbers of Gamon is meant as a last warning."
The two walked down the corridor as they talked, moving like well-oiled machines ready to do battle. Since they were both natural fighters they assumed military motives behind any threat. At this point the elder's words didn't sound like a spiritual pronouncement to either of them.
Apollo would have tried for a telepathic link right then if the elder had not been so firm that he would initiate the next contact.
Gar'Tokk didn't need to use his telepathic abilities to share thoughts with his old friend. "The Gamon appear to be primitive, like the Nomen. But that is misleading. I now believe they are far in advance of you humans."
Apollo nodded. "I've been coming to that conclusion myself."
"I have more to report," Gar'Tokk said. "Boomer has contacted Starbuck."
"With news about the crashed starship?" Apollo anticipated him.
"Yes. He says that we need to do a full study of the vessel. He also requests that we join him. He needs us to interpret ancient symbols and writings he has found on the ship. I told him I will come."
"Good. That sounds important, and you should go. My hands are tied for lack of information. There might be something on that ship I need to know about. But I can't leave my post. Tomorrow is only eighteen centons away. If all hell breaks loose I'll be expected to bark orders right in the middle of it."
Gar'Tokk nodded. "Are you sure that you don't want me to stay?"
"Old friend, there is no one more suited for a fight than you but right now you need to help Boomer. Report back to me if there is anything unusual."
"Who will fly the mission?" asked Gar'Tokk.
"Let's give this assignment to Starbuck," he said. "He needs more to do since he keeps missing meetings! I'll pass on the orders."
They parted and Apollo watched the sturdy back of his alien friend. Those muscles were indeed meant for fighting. But what Apollo needed now was not another warrior. He needed a miracle.
Chapter Twenty
This was the day he dreaded. The odds were that it would never happen. He could always tell himself that he suffered from an unreasonable fear and that was no good reason to avoid a career he wanted so badly.
So Captain Page had taken that first step and joined the military police. In short order he was promoted. He had an exemplary record. He was known for sense of fairness, but no one considered him a pushover. He was good at his job and there was no reason to worry over the possibility of one dreaded day.
But that day had finally arrived. It crept up on him without fanfare. It brushed him on the back of his neck and made itself known. The Council had huffed and puffed and now it was up to Captain Page to implement their decision.
Some terrible ghost calling itself The Law was telling him that he must act under the orders of the civilian Council. That meant he must gather together a contingent of officers and they must go on the bridge of a battlestar, and there they must inform the leaders of the warriors just what they were to do and how and when.
Captain Page admired warriors. He had a son who wanted nothing more than to join their exalted ranks. The young man had even taken a class from the arch-traitor Baltar so that he could report to the warriors if his teacher wasn't behaving himself. The would-be warrior had been informed that he was not the only student with his special assignment. He liked to play a game and imagine how many other students might also be keeping tabs on Baltar. He didn't hesitate to criticize his teacher so no suspicion would fall on him that he might be a spy.
Page laughed when his son suggested that maybe the entire class had been assigned to spy on Baltar. The old villain might even take that as some kind of honor.
Captain Page had never told his son the one thing he dreaded most—the idea that one day he might be assigned the unwelcome duty of going up against warriors on their own ships. Page admired them. He had studied their exploits. He never let himself forget the debt of gratitude that all civilians owed these true heroes of the spaceways.
The last thing he wanted was an altercation with Apollo and his inner retinue. The particular order he had just been given galled him. But Page had a duty to perform, the same as the warriors. He kept telling himself about his duty as he gathered his men and arranged transportation to the battlestars circling above.
Today his job sucked even worse than when he had confronted Starbuck at the city gates. But at least that had been on Page's home turf. He could tell himself that the warriors were interlopers there.
He didn't want to mess with warriors on their home turf. They were at their best up there in space. They could handle Cylons. He wasn't about to let his men forget that.
Apollo allowed himself a moment's sleep. He figured that if he didn't catch a few winks, his judgment would be adversely affected. But he'd been so wound up that it wasn't easy to shut down the adrenaline pumping through his system. If he was addicted to anything, his own body produced it.
Before returning to his quarters he'd taken a moment to gaze out the large space window revealing Paradis in all her glory. The planet was so beautiful that it reminded him of the gorgeous women in his life. Maybe beauty was the curse of the universe, driving men to acts of folly and despair.
He couldn't imagine men fighting to the death over a burned-out cinder of a world. But the blue-and-green globe beckoning to him with its promises of lushness and life was worth fighting for. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe there were too many things worth killing for. And dying for.
The moment he crawled into his berth he plunged into unconsciousness with the speed of a stone dropping down a well.
However long he rested in the calm center of dreamless sleep he didn't know, but what seemed to be a dream finally intruded. He dreamed that he was rested and refreshed even while he slept.
His dream was nothing like one of Baltar's nightmares. It drew on no sources of wild imagination. There was nothing threatening. It was a pleasant vacation not to be threatened.
Gar'Tokk strode into the black center of his sleeping mind. He simply wanted to talk. Was this a telepathic communication? If so, there was no particular content to the message. It was pretty much a wake-up call with a strong suggestion that they touch base as soon as possible.
Apollo awakened, feeling a powerful tug on his solar plexus. There must be something to his fragment of a dream. He better check in.
The comlink did not show any messages from Gar'Tokk, nor was he able to raise him. As long as he was at it, he tried to reach Starbuck. No luck there either.
When all else fails, call on your sister. He made contact with Athena, hoping neither would bring up their last conversation. The less said about that right now the better.
"I'll send out a patrol to see what the problem is," she reported. Suddenly he heard the sounds of a scuffle behind her, although he couldn't see past her picture on the screen to identify the cause of the disturbance.
"You won't believe this," she said, tilting the screen so that he could see a contingent of civilian police storming the bridge of the Daedalus.
"They aren't wasting much time," he said morosely.
"You better check the bridge of the Galactica," she said.
"Right."
Before the link was broken, a civilian captain approached Athena. "May I speak to the commander?" he asked with more politeness than she expected.
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