Islands in the Sky

  who, fortunately, had the good sense to keep his talking doll out of this

  Council meeting. Adama had known that, if there were to be any serious

  opportunity to any sensible plan, it would originate with the

  respresentative of the Leon survivors. Tainted as he was with scandal,

  his people had nevertheless given him a vote of confidence to continue on

  the council.

  "I think dear old Adama is the one best qualified to judge his own

  capacity to lead," Zalto said.

  Adama glanced at Apollo, who was sitting with the newswoman Serina

  in the gallery in front of the Council table. His son appeared to be

  furious, and the pretty young woman had her hands on his arm, apparently

  to convince him to remain seated. Adama liked what he had seen of the

  Caprican newswoman, and liked the fact that she appeared to show interest

  in his son. Apollo, so unhappy over the deaths of Zac and his mother,

  needed such a compassionate friend. He turned his attention back to

  Zalto.

  "Let's face it, my brothers," he was saying, "I personally don't

  think the commander has led us all that wisely, all that well. Are the

  Cylons really to blame for our present predicament? No. I say it's the

  result of poor planning."

  "Zalto, without Adama, none of us would've survived this Holocaust,"

  Gant shouted.

  "I suppose so," Zalto said, "but I still hold the commander

  responsible for the troubles we've got now. Poor judgment in choosing

  food and fuel lots now leave on the brink of tragedy."

  "Sire Zalto,"Gant said, "you have a lot of nerve casting accusations

  about food shortages when you have been brought up on charges of hoarding

  in the face of starvation."

  "Are your hands so clean, Gant? What about..."

  "Gentlemen," Adama interrupted. "Gentlemen, please. This squabbling

  is not in our best interests. Zalto is not entirely incorrect aboug the

  state we are in now, nor is he unjustified in blaming me. The problem

  is, and has been, that there are too many of us. Too many people, too

  many ships. We would have had troubles even if our food supply had not

  been contaminated, even if so many of our ships had not proved to be in

  such unstable condition. If we had time---ah, but that's the real source

  of our disturbances. We must obtain fuel and food, that's our only

  solution. Otherwise, we all perish---slowly and gradually, as our

  supplies run out. We have to convert our ships to hyperspace capability

  and leave behind those that can't be converted."

  "That would mean crowding ourselves together even more," Zalto said.

  "As if things weren't bad enough already."

  "Yes, Zalto, it would," Adama replied. "That's why I've intended to

  propose that we pool our stock of fuel and send the Galactica and the

  most capable ships of our improvised fleet on ahead in order to obtain

  fuel and supplies for the rest of us."

  "Leave ships behind?" Zalto shouted. "Adama, just how many ships do

  you propose we send on this fool---I mean---this foraging mission."

  "Captain Apollo has the hard figures on that, Sire Zalto."

  Apollo stood and spoke brusquely, obviously holding in his temper.

  "About one third of the present fleet. There's just that amount of

  fuel to spread around, and that's a bit of thin spreading, gentlemen."

  "Yeah, it's thin spreading, all right!" Zalto said. "I think this

  is just a ploy for you and your chosen few to escape the rest of us,

  leave us here, without fuel, to die slowly. That's..."

  "Sir," Apollo interrupted. "As things stand now, there isn't

  sufficient fuel to get the entire fleet anywhere. We must let those few

  who can seek out a solution to do so."

  "Aw, you're daddy's little boy, all right," Zalto sneered. "I'm

  sure you're not lying to us in tandem."

  "That is uncalled for!" Gant shouted. "You know better than that,

  Zalto!"

  "Who's side are you on anyway, Gant?"

  "Gentlemen, please," Adama said. "Hear me out."

  "For a leader who'se just resigned, you sound pretty damn high and

  mighty," Zalto said.

  "I am merely advising," Adama said.

  "Then, by Kobol, tell us your advice and get it over with,

  Commander."

  Adama cleared his voice to buy time. He wished he could make Zalto

  disappear. It was bad enough having to cope with ignorant opposition in

  a meeting like this; it was worse to know your opponent was merely a

  boastful crook who would never listen to reason, anyway.

  "I propose," Adama said, "that we send our best ships to Carillon's

  Lot for the purpose of obtaining food and fuel."

  "Carillon's Lot?" Zalto asked, a curious sarcasm in his voice. "Why

  that gods-forsaken rockpile?"

  "Carillon's Lot was once the object of a mining expedition from the

  Colonies. Rich sources of Tylium."

  "But, if I remember right, it was abandoned as impossible to mine."

  Zalto was obviously prepared. His spies must have obtained Adama's

  plan before the meeting.

  "It was abandoned," Adama said, "only because there was no local

  labor, and it was too far from the Colonies to make shipping a very

  practical operation. However, the demands of trade needn't concern us

  now.

  "I don't believe Carillon's Lot is a proper solution. The same

  problems do exist. I mean, Carillon's Lot, that's just too far away.

  Too many disasters could occur to our ships and people left behind."

  "It's the only solution, Zalto."

  "Why not go to Arrakis instead? It's closer, and we know everything

  we need is there. Food, water, fuel."

  Many of the councilors clearly agreed with Zalto's proposal. How

  could they be so dim, so unaware, Adama thought.

  "And there's undoubtedly a Cylon task force there," Adama said. "It

  could be fatal to let down our camouflage shield and attempt a landing on

  Arrakis, or Dune, as it is sometimes known."

  "Possibly fatal!" Zalto shouted. "To me, it seems definitely fatal

  to use Carillon's Lot as a destination."

  "Carillon's Lot is our only hope," Adama said. He noted, by a quick

  count of the nodding heads around the half-circle of the council table,

  that more than half of the group seemed to be on his side now.

  "Gentlemen, you must understand that the situation has reached a critical

  level much sooner than we'd anticipated. Rations have already been cut

  by two-thirds. We can't afford to squabble any longer. We must act, and

  we must be able to present our plan of action to our people unanimously."

  "Unanimity means just being your echo," Zalto said bitterly, but he

  sat down. He was the last holdout to the plan. When the final vote

  came, Zalto voted for the plan only after the council had agreed to

  accept Adama's resignation as president, and after they had agreed that

  Zalto's ship, the Rising Star, would be one of the vehicles chosen for

  the hyperspace jump to Carillon's Lot.

  *****

&nbsp
; After the Council meeting, Apollo felt relieved that a positive

  action would finally be taken, but unhappy that his father had chosen to

  resign. He also felt deep anger at the insult Zalto had thrown his way

  during the meeting. The bastard was just getting back at Apollo for

  arresting him. A lot of good the arrest did, anyway. Zalto had

  manipulated the situation to his advantage and become leader of the

  factions opposed to his father.

  "You look so sad," Serina said softly. She had been standing

  silently at his side for some time.

  "Forget it. I wanted to ask you, did you bring Boxey with you over

  here?"

  "Just as you ordered, Captain. I stowed him away in that lovely

  compartment you provided for us. Thanks, by the way."

  "Think nothing of it. Let's go get Boxey."

  Apollo strode through the labyrinthine corridors with a fierce

  determination. Serina, although she was long-legged and near his height,

  had trouble keeping up with him.

  "How's the boy doing?" Apollo asked just before they stopped in

  front of the door to Boxey's quarters.

  "Still won't eat, doesn't sleep."

  "I think we may have something that'll interest him."

  "Right now?"

  "Yes."

  "But there's so much for you to do, preparing for the trip to

  Carillon's Lot and all. Shouldn't you be getting your rest?"

  "I thought I might sleep better after we solve Boxey's problem."

  "That's a tall order!"

  "You haven't seen me in action, lady."

  Boxey, lying on the lower level of a double bunk, appeared as

  listless as ever. Apollo ordered him to get up and come with them. The

  child asked if he had to. Apollo said it was orders, and the boy

  reluctantly took his proffered hand. They traced a circuitous route to

  an area of the ship that Apollo had only visited two or three times in

  his entire tour of duty aboard the Galactica.

  Stopping at a door marked DROID-MANT-4, Apollo said, "This is it."

  He smiled at the confusion on Serina's face as he ushered her and Boxey

  into the lab. Immediately in front of them was a row of droids, propped

  up against a wall, all of them obviously turned off. Some of them had

  been opened up and various wires dangled from the regions of their heads,

  chests, and legs.

  "What are these?" Serina said.

  "Droids. Mechanical constructs deisgned to simulate human or

  animal..."

  "I know what droids are. I thought they were illegal."

  "On Caprica, they were. See, we Capricans didn't believe in using

  mechanical substitutes for human effort. A noble but foolish philosophy,

  if you want my opinion."

  "I don't know about philosophy, but I do know, in the few

  experiences I've had with droids, I'm uncomfortable percieing human

  traits in something that turns out not to be human at all."

  "I think you're wrong, but under the circumstances it's not a

  worthwhile discussion to pursue. Let me just say that droids have become

  a necessity for spacecraft. They can tuck themselves into niches that

  bulkier humans can't reach and they can perform minor repair jobs on the

  surface of the ship or in atmospheres we can't breathe."

  A stocky, middle-aged man in a lab coat came through a door. There

  was a certain mechanical look to his movements and Serina wondered if he

  was a droid, too. The way his face lit up when he recognized Apollo

  proved him to be human after all.

  "Ah, Captain Apollo. Right on time. We've been expecting you. Is

  this the young officer who's been put in charge of the new project?"

  Boxey, surprised at the attention from this stranger, star ted to

  hide behind Apollo's legs.

  "Well, Dr. Wilkder, I haven't had time to fully discuss the project

  with him. It's our hope he'll accept."

  Boxey pulled on Apollo's leg. Apollo looked down at the befuddled

  young boy.

  "I want to go back," Boxey whispered.

  "Boxey, this is a military order. We have to at least hear the

  doctor out. Tell us more about the project, doctor."

  Dr. Wilker assumed a professorial manner and addressed most of his

  next speech to Boxey.

  "Well, you see, we'll soon be landing on various alien planets, no

  telling what we'll find there. It's important that we be safe.

  Ordinarily, we'd have trained daggits to stand watch at night when our

  warriors are asleep in their encampments, but we don't have any daggits.

  So, we've had to see what we could come up with. We'll call the first

  one----Muffit Two."

  Boxey looked sideways at Apollo.

  "What'd he say?"

  Apollo shrugged.

  "I didn't really get it at all, Dr. Wilker. Maybe you'd better show

  us."

  "Right. Oh, Phesch"

  The call to his assistant was as exaggerated a cue as any found in

  ancient melodrama. Phesch, a young, bespectacled man, held what appeared

  to be a small bundle of fur in his arms. Apollo knew the short-haired

  fur was fake, implanted on the droid body, but he would have taken the

  construct for a real daggit if he hadn't known better. Phesch put the

  daggit-droid down on the floor, and it immediately began to bark in a

  high-pitched, compellingly friendly tone. Moving to Boxey, it stuck out

  its tongue and began to pant. The wagging of its tail was natural and

  convincing, unless you looked up close and could see that the tail

  protruded through a square hole at the back of the droid.

  "Naturally," Dr. Wilker said, "the first one will hae to be looked

  after very carefully."

  Boxey, incredulous, backed a couple of steps away from the eager

  daggit droid.

  "That's not Muffit, Boxey said. "It's not even a real daggit."

  "No," said Wilker softly, but it can learn to be like a real one.

  It's very smart. If you'd help us, he'll be even smarter."

  Boxey couldn't take his eyes off the daggit. The panting replica of

  an animal seemed to have a similar fascination for the boy. With the

  first hint of a smile in several days, Boxey took several careful steps

  backward from the daggit, who stopped panting and looked up quizzically.

  The boy started to turn and the daggit ran toward him. Looking back over

  his shoulder, Boxey started to cross the room. The droid, appearing

  quite content, stayed at the boy's heels.

  "We used the image of Boxey you gave us to train the droid to

  respond to him," Wilker whispered to Apollo and Serina.

  Boxey stopped walking and turned to look down at the daggit. Slowly

  he opened his arms. The droid moved forwad, sat up on its hind legs and

  put its paws on the boy's chest. The trying-out period was over. Boxey

  hugged the daggit and smiled back at the three watching adults.

  Apollo smiled toward Wilker, and said, "That's one I owe you, Doc."

  "Anytime," Wilker said.

  As they followed Boxey and his new pet into the corridor, Serina

&nbsp
; whispered to Apollo:

  "That's one I owe you, Apollo."

  "Anytime."

  "You look quite smug, you know that?"

  "If you say so."

  "But I'll kiss you anyway."

  *****

  From the Adama Journals:

  One day, when there was a lull in the war and we were off doing

  convoy duty for some ships carrying supplies to a fueling station under

  construction, I noticed Starbuck running down a corridor, muttering to

  himself and making furious entries in a little notebook. Now, when it

  came to military matters, Starbuck was the proverbial innocent

  ensign---if you could take a peep at them, you'd've expected his diapers

  to be as green as he was. But when it came to money maters, especially

  when the money could be wagered, Starbuck had been born adult. In his

  first week on the Galactica, he had maneuvered so many people into so

  many corners that everybody was walking around round-shouldered. By this

  particular time I thought I was on to the shrewd young man, so I decided

  to see what he was up to. I figured if I could catch him in the act of

  some illegal enterprise, I could apply a little discipline and get him to

  confine his sinning to the proper designated areas.

  He moved fast and I had a hard time tailing him, since it's hard to

  be a very good shadow when you're the ship's commander, but I could soon

  see he was making for the Life Station. Sure enough, when I caught up

  with him, he was in an empty ward. A bunch of the medics were gathered

  around him, hollering dates at him, and passing him little slips of paper

  along with what appeared to be a good amount of money. Starbuck was very

  busy, somehow managing to write things in the notebook and take the money

  and the slips.

  "What's going on here, ensign?" I hollered in my best authoritarian

  voice. "Some off-centons gambling?"

  Starbuck began to look very sheepish, very much the green ensign.

  "I'm sorry, skipper," he said in a soft voice. The diabolical louse

  knew I hated to be called skipper, but I ignored that.

  "And what's the subject of your little swindle this time, Starbuck?"

  All the medics began to look apprehensive and I thought Ensign

  Stabuck might sink through the metal floor.

  "Well, sir, we're betting on---uh, we're betting on..."

  "Out with it, ensign. I want to know what this is all about before

  I confiscate everything for the ship's pension fund."

  "Sire, we're getting together this little bet on, well, on the day

  you'll die, sir."

  I have to admit I was taken aback by that reply, and couldn't speak

  for a moment.

  "You're---you're all betting on---on the date of my death!?" He

  nodded. I sputtered a bit more on the subject, then demanded that