Islands in the Sky

  commander's son, after all.

  As they walked down a corridor just as over-decorated as the club

  lobby, Boomer muttered, "When I think of those starving people, I..."

  "Don't even say it, Boomer. I hate this just as much as you do."

  The liner's grand ballroom had been transmogrified into what looked,

  to Apollo, suspiciously like a throne room. A series of tapestries

  depicting what he recognized as a famous hunting cycle from the planet

  Tauron hung along one wall. Other walls displayed paintings, sculptures,

  holoviews that Apollo was certain were confiscated from all over the

  Colonies. Zalto and his cohorts must have grabbed every art work they

  could rescue from the dying planets, looting museums and galleries while

  innocent people died all around them. Before the Cylon invasion, Zalto

  had been famous throughout the Colonies as a political manipulator of

  some skill.

  For a moment, it was difficult to located Zalto amid the impressive

  artwork, the luxurious furniture, and the milling crowd, most of whom

  appeared to be elder statestmen and their courteseans. Almost everyone

  in the room was gathered around arrangements of food, shoveling victuals

  into their mouths with an obscene eagerness. Zalto lounged behind one

  the largest food tables, almost obscured by a high pile of exotically

  colored fruit. He was still as clownish as Apollo remembered him and did

  not seem to have aged much at all, except for his new beard. His graying

  hair was concealed by an oversized green turban, his bulging

  stomach----likely results of the present orgy----covered from collar to

  hem in jewel-studded green robes. How such a dismal madcap like Zalto

  could have been so popular all over the planet Leo was beyond Apollo. On

  Zalto's left arm, there hung a bizarre cybernetic doll that bore an

  uncanny resemblance to its owner. To Zalto's right was a scantily-clad

  young woman whose bland beauty was marred only by the food stains around

  her mouth.

  Apollo drew his sidearm and gestured to Boomer to do the same. As

  the revelers noticed the guns, the sounds of merriment diminished. When

  Apollo and Boomer walked slowly toward Sire Zalto, glaze-eyed people

  along their route drew back. Apollo stopped at Zalto's table. The man

  looked up at him with wide, lunatic eyes.

  "Welcome to our humble celebration, warriors," the dummy said, both

  of its electronic eyes flashing green in time with each word.

  "Welcome, my foot!" Zalto said angrily to the dummy without looking

  at it. "I trust you've got an explanation for this intrusion?" he said.

  "Thass right," said the girl beside him.

  Apollo pushed her away from the buritician and motioned for Zalto to

  put his doll down and stand up. Zalto was about a mili-metron shorter

  than Apollo and he tried to make up for this disadvantage of height

  difference by assuming an imperious tone of voice:

  "Well? Are either of you two simpletons going to tell me what this

  is all about?"

  Apollo stared scornfully at the eccentric buritician.

  "Would you like to make a statement before I arrest you, Sire

  Zalto?"

  "Quiet everybody!" shouted the doll. And all activity that still

  proceeded ceased. Even the musician stopped playing abruptly.

  "I'm glad you know my name, warrior," Sire Zalto said. "Oh, how you

  are going to wish you had died at childbirth when I'm done with you,

  m'boy."

  "Drop the corny rhetoric, Sire Zalto. You're going to follow me to

  my shuttle----minus your stupid little helper!"

  "Don't let him separate us, Zalto!" the doll said in a tone that was

  a mixture of pleading and mockery. "You wouldn't want me to be all

  alone, would you?"

  "Going with you! I don't think so, mister. Besides, you don't have

  any jurisdiction aboard the Rising Star!"

  "I have all the jurisdiction I need. I can take this garbage scow

  and appropriate it for the fleet if I so wish. Better yet, if you choose

  not to accompany me back to the Galactica, I'll just turn the six levels

  of starving passengers beneath you loose. You can take your chances with

  them!"

  Apollo gestured toward the overladen food table, and Zalto

  understood his message.

  "Captain," he said, "I'll admit this may seem a

  little---um---excessive. But, hey, I can't help it if I'm a

  little---overenthusiastic."

  "Excessive? All this? I'd say obscene."

  "Now, now, young man. Me and my friends were just enjoying a

  little, well-deserved celebration, you might call it our prayer of

  gratitude for deliverance. We've a right to..."

  "You have no right, no privilege of the Lords, for this kind

  of----of celebration! In case it's eluded you, Councilor, some hundred

  people have died since our deliverance from the Cylons."

  "I wasn't aware of any cases of starvation, Captain."

  "Maybe not. It may be that hunger hasn't taken a life. Not yet

  anyway. But it's only a matter of time if we don't strictly follow the

  rationing plan my father's sent out to all fleet ships."

  "Your father?"

  "Yes."

  "I do believe," said the doll, "that Commander Adama's son is with

  us tonight."

  "Yes," Zalto said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Captain Apollo,

  isn't it? I didn't recognize you, I'm very, very sorry. No wonder

  then."

  "I don't understand, Sire Zalto."

  He glanced toward the immediate audience. Obviously what he was

  going to say next would be played to the crowd.

  "I mean, Captain, that it's no wonder that you're making this

  ill-timed power play." He turned toward the audience. "You see, my

  friends, this young man is an emissary from his father, the exalted,

  high-and-mighty commander. When he mentions appropriating this ship,

  he's means what he says, and we're not allowed to argue with the

  commander's son, after all."

  "What're you saying?"

  "That you'll jump at any excuse to appropriate ships. To siphon off

  fuel for the Galactica, maybe. Isn't that the reason you're throwing

  your weight around? You don't give a meteor's throw about any hungry

  passengers. I recognize a political ploy when I see it, and you can just

  tell Adama to go to..."

  "Can it, Sire Zalto! With all due respect, Boomer, notifiy Core

  Command that we've located some stores which we will distribute as far as

  they go."

  The doll spoke up yet again. "Now you go too far, son of Adama!"

  Zalto's face suddenly turned red with anger.

  "You bet he does, Friend. This is a violation of proper procedure,

  mister. And I won't stand for it!"

  "You don't have that choice. I remind you you're under arrest."

  Zalto took a deep breath before speaking again.

  "It's mine, you got that! Mine! I had it brought from my own

  estate, and it belongs to me and my guests. The law hasn't been written

  y
et to confiscate personal property without a presidential order."

  Some of the guests clearly agreed with Zalto's aristocratic views,

  although Apollo could see that others were looking somewhat embarrassed

  and ashamed. The drunken young woman at Zalto's side snuggled closer to

  him and made a dramatically meaningful hand gesture in Apollo's

  direction. He wished he could arrest her and all the revelers who

  endorsed Zalto's view.

  "Does your wife share your feelings about denying your food to

  others?" Apollo asked, with a meaningful glance toward Zalto's doxy.

  "M'wife?" Zalto said weakly.

  "Siress Zalto. I don't see her."

  Zalto could not maintain eye contact with Apollo and he suddenly

  looked toward the thickly carpeted floor. Apollo remembered Siress Zalto

  as a plump gentle woman, whose main job in life had been discovering ways

  to rescue her harebrained husband from potentially dangerous situations.

  She had been kind to him and Zac when they visited her during their

  childhood.

  "Alas, Siress Zalto is gone," Zalto said. "Unfortunately, she

  didn't arrive at the Rising Star in time to be resuced with the rest of

  us."

  "My sympathies," Apollo said. "I share your bereavement. Siress

  Zalto was an outstanding woman."

  Zalto's head remained bowed. Dutifiully, it seemed.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Yes," the doll said.

  "I'm sure she'd be moved by your period of mourning and the style in

  which you choose to honor her memory. Boomer?"

  "Yo!"

  "Have Jolly send a team up here to collect and distribute the food

  throughout the ship."

  "Sir, shouldn't we check with Core Command?"

  "Now!"

  He grabbed Zalto by the arm and rushed him out of the room. The

  doll remained silent. The young woman, on the other hand, remained

  attached to the buritician's arm for a few steps before falling into a

  drunken, glutted stupor onto the thick, red carpet.

  While they awaited Jolly and his men, Boomer whispered to Apollo.

  "Without being critical, Captain---is there a chance you overplayed

  out hand a tad, considering Sire Zalto is on the new council?"

  "This isn't a game of pyramid, Boomer, not one of yours and

  Starbuck's two-bit cons. Those people down there are starving, dammit!"

  "Take it easy, Apollo. I'm on your side."

  "Are you?"

  "Captain..."

  "Sorry, Boomer. I'm easily irritated these days. You must've

  noticed."

  "Well, now that you mention it, yeah."

  The elevator arrived and Jolly's large form seemed to fill the

  entire doorway.

  "Let's get to it," Apollo said. "Collect every scrap of food you

  can find here and get it to the people."

  The look of hatred from Sire Zalto as two of Jolly's men took him

  into the elevator sent a chill up and down Apollo's spine.

  *****

  Working gently, Dr. Squires positioned Cassiopeia's broken arm

  inside a transparent cylindrical tubing which was connected to a larger,

  more impressive set of medical machinery. The arm felt numb now, and

  none of the doctor's touching of it gave her any pain. With the arm in

  place, Squires drew out what looked like a trio of gunbarrels from inside

  a cavity of one of the machines. After each gunbarrel had been pointed

  at a different area of her arm within the tube, the doctor pressed a

  series of buttons and faint, laserlike beams came out of the gunbarrels.

  After the beams had penetrated the transparent surface of the tubing,

  they were diffused, entering her arm at several joints. The numbness

  immediately left her arm and sharp tingling sensations replaced it.

  Abruptly, Squires pressed the buttons again, and the gunbarrels retreated

  back into the machine. As he removed her arm from the transparent

  tubing, Squires said:

  "How does it feel?"

  Cassiopeia stretched her arm, then folded it. Even the tingling

  sensation was fading now.

  "It feels like it hadn't even been broken," she said.

  "The bone has been fused whole," Squires said, in a friendly

  professional voice. "It's probably even stronger than before."

  "It's wonderful. Damn wonderful. Thanks, doc."

  "With equipment like this I'm just a mechanic. A talented mechanic,

  to be sure, but just a mechanic. Anything else I can do for you,

  Cassiopeia?"

  The offer seemed to mean more than mere medical attention. As a

  socialator she was used to even such an oblique approach and it was easy

  for her to demur politely.

  In the corridor outside the Life Station, Starbuck leaned

  laconically against a wall, still clad in his flight gear. She smiled,

  glad to see the brash young officer again. Then she frowned, realizing

  why he might be waiting for her.

  "You're going to take me back, aren't you?" she said.

  "Sorry, but we don't take passengers here," he said.

  She turned away from him. She felt the blood drain out of her face.

  "I dread returning to that ship."

  She did not like to admit it, but she was afraid of the stupidity of

  the passengers aboard the Rising Star. She sympathized with their

  plight, their hunger and their disorientation, but on the other hand she

  didn't care to offer herself as a sacrifice for their frustrations.

  Starbuck seemed to undersand, for he said, "Look, maybe I can check

  around, see if there's anyplace you can stay. Ther're better ships,

  might even be space aboard the Galactica."

  Gods! If there was anything this young officer wasn't it was shy.

  "What's the matter?" Starbuck asked.

  "I sense a price tage. Would you be doing this if I weren't a

  socialator?"

  "I might. Then again, I might not."

  "Please don't joke. I'm...I'm a little weak, I mean, I..."

  "Okay, okay. Let's forget the jokes for a while. Look, really, I

  just want to help you. It's nothing personal."

  "Nothing personal?"

  "All right, something personal. But I'll still locate quarters for

  you. And that's all. You can break my arm if I'm lying. "Course, it

  might be worth a broken arm..."

  "Okay, okay!"

  "It's a deal, then?"

  "I think you've made a terrible dea, but all right."

  Starbuck smiled genially as he took Cassiopiea's arm, the one that

  had just been repaired at the Life Station, and led her down the

  corridor.

  *****

  Adama, coming onto the bridge, discovered Colonel Tigh smiling

  broadly, clutching the latest reports to his chest s if they were love

  letters.

  "What is it, Tigh?" Adama said.

  "Long-range patrols've reported in. Their scanners find no sign of

  pursuit from the Cylons. All vectors are looking good. The camouflage

  shielding that Apollo devised seems to be holding steady. Except for that

  one flyby some time ago, no
t a Cylon flight team has been anywhere near

  us."

  "So long as we remain hidden in space like this, it's highly

  unlikely they'll find us. Pray the camouflage continues to hold, Tigh."

  "I do that every waking mili-centon, Sir. Finding us now would be

  disasterous. We're not able to mount any heavy battle, Sir, not right

  now."

  "I'm aware of that, Tigh. Painfully aware."

  "What do we do next?"

  "That question I propose to leave to other voices."

  Tigh looked shocked and angered simultaneously.

  "You're going to go through with that resignation plan then?"

  "I'm submitting it to the council this..."

  "Commander, we'd better talk."

  "Of course, old friend, but my mind is made up."

  "With fuel and food running so low, you can't resign now. If we

  ever needed leadership..."

  "The fleet is filled with good men. You included, Tigh. The

  council will decide."

  "Commander..."

  "Yes, Tigh?"

  Tigh paused, obviously reluctant to speak his mind.

  "Go ahead, old friend," Adama said. "Say it."

  "If you resign now, it will look exactly the same as your act of

  pulling the Galactica out of battle with the Cylons. I'm sorry, but..."

  "And I'm sorry you think that. Perhaps the two events are related.

  And perhaps they merely support my decision that it's time for me to step

  down."

  "No, you can't!"

  "I've made my decision."

  "I can see that, dammit!"

  "Will you accompany me to the council chamber?"

  "I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

  Adama started to say that he did mind, but instead whirled around

  and left the bridge. Behind him, as he went out the hatchway, he heard a

  loud thump. Undoubtedly Colonel Tigh was hitting something metallic with

  his fists. Adama did not look back to verify that speculation.

  The newly-appointed Council of Twelve, a temporary assemblage that

  would govern until a proper Quorum could be elected, started voicing

  their anger immediately before Adama could even finish his resignation

  speech. Some of them sprang to their feet, shouting:

  "No! We won't have it!"

  "Unacceptable!"

  "You can't resign! You especially!"

  Sire Gant silnced the surge of protests with a sweeping gesture.

  Gant had some time ago been an aide-de-camp to President Arcon. A

  hawk-faced, emaciated, old-line politico from Scorpia, he was craft, but

  Adama had always perceived him as trustworthy and intelligent.

  "Adama," Gant said, rising to his feet, "you have led us wisely and

  well. That's why we can't accept your resignation. Things are too grave

  now."

  "Pardon me for disagreeing with you, Gant," bellowed Sire Zalto,