"Nope. 'Fraid we'll have to investigate, good buddy. That's what
were were sent over here for."
Starbuck coaxed extra speed out of the landram as they headed toward
the aurora framing the hill ahead of them.
*****
Not far from Boomer and Starbuck, the main body of the Galactica's
survey team were coordinating their detection equipment to search for the
fabled Lost Tylium Mine of Carillon's Lot. From the point of view of a
quartet of rather large humanoid males who were spying on the Galactica's
force from a nearby mountain, the humans looked like small
insects----organized and disciplined small insects. Each of these spies
was about five metrons tall, with hairless gray-white skin, two eyes that
glowed an eerie neon green, foreheads that ended in thick, bony beetle
brows, and huge pointed ears. All four men---if one could truly call
them that---were busy with either two-triggered weapons or several-lensed
cameras.
One of the humanoids took aim at the formidable target of Lieutenant
Jolly, but another one pushed the barrel of the weapon down. Bar-lo, a
leader of the race called the Ubbo-Sathlas by the few star voyagers
unlucky enough to encounter them, had for the moment decided not to kill
any of the invaders. At leat, not until he reported back to his queen.
He gesturted his soldiers back, took the camera from the Ubbo-Sathla who
held it, and in the soft, monosyllabic language of his race ordered them
away from the spying post. At a nod from Bar-Lo another Ubbo-Sathla used
his hands to turn in different directions and at different speeds a
couple of wheels concealed underneath a rock. With just an audible
whine, an opening appeared in the ground and the Ubbo-Sathla disappeared
into it.
Riding on an pod whose soft, leathery wings sheltered them totally,
the four Ubbo-Sathla progressed through a long, descending subterranean
passageway to a cell where the pod opened and they stepped out of it.
The tunnel they now traveled through was walled with cell-like panels
from which amber light glowed. They emerged from the passageway into an
immense underground cavern. The giant, multi-celled chamber when deeper
into the ground than Bar-lo's inhumanly powerful eyes could see, and
ascended almost as high. There were countless levels, each one ringed
with compartments shaped like coffins. Within the compartments
Ubbo-Sathla workers poked at walls, extracted nuggets of amber-colored
ore, and placed them in small, multi-wheeled vehicles which other workers
continuously drew in and out of the compartments and sent on through dark
intervening corridors. To an outsider, this large-chambered mine might
have looked quite nightmarish---but to Bar-Lo, something of an aesthete
among his people, it had an artistic coherence that exited him each time
he stepped into it. Today, however, there was little time for aesthetic
satisfaction; he had to continue his mission.
He crossed a horrifying bridge that seemed to have been put
assembled out of bones extracted from the corpses of beings from all over
the galaxy, a latticework of spines, skulls, femurs and arm and leg bones
that stretched across the wide chamber. At the guarded archway to Nor's
chamber, Bar-Lo spoke the proper ritual password and he was admitted to
his queen's presence.
The luxury of Nor's throne room contrasted strongly with the
austerity of the mine. Finely woven, elaborately patterned cloth
decorated the walls and ceiling. Nor herself lounged on a cushioned
floor, surrounded by her bejeweled retinue of slaves. One slave played a
gentle tune utilizing the Ubbo-Sathla three-note scale artistically,
discovering intriguing variants on her restricted melodic theme. Another
slave held a long tube from which the queen occasionally drank a thick
crimson substance, the "life-nectar" upon which all Ubbo-Sathla fed upon
to give them eternal life. When Nor acknowledged Bar-Lo, she requested
her report.
"They have come," Bar-Lo said, his voice soft and pleasant.
Nor's even more musical voice replied:
"Do not disturb them. It will only stir them up. Remember, they
are harmless unless angered or frightened."
"As it is with all our victim races, highness."
"Well said, my faithful one."
Bar-Lo bowed and withdrew, leaving Nor to pull another draught on
the long tube.
*****
Apollo felt extremely comfortable at the controls of the landram he
had commandeered for his own particular search of the Carillon's Lot
surface. He liked the feel of a landram as it rode the air currents with
surprising smoothness, adjusting to surface peculiarities with barely
noticeable shifts to right and left, up and down.
He also felt comfortable with the presence of Serina beside him in
the co-driver's seat. He had been impressed with the way she had picked
up the skills of driving a landram without ever having been inside one
before. In the back seat of the landram, Boxey played quietly with
Muffit Two.
"That was some show you and your friends performed up there," Serina
said suddenly. "You seemed to be trying to prove something. I wondered
if it had anything to do with your brother."
The comment evaporated the feeling of being comfortable.
"I get it," he said irritably, "you're saying I'm being reckless to
make up for leaving Zac behind."
"Or proving your courage for his ghost."
"How did you find out so much about Zac and me?"
"I asked around."
"I don't appreciate that."
"Sorry. I was a newswoman on Caprica, remember? I can't get out of
the habit. Change the subject, why don't you? Or I will. Tell me about
the agriculture project. I was especially impressed with it. How long
before things start to grow?"
"Oh, say, morning. I think we'll see quite a few sprouts and stuff
by morning. Then, by the end of the day tomorrow, we'll have a whole
crop of fresh food---which, you must admit, will be a welcome substitute
for the comrations. They'll taste better. And you be sure to eat them,
you hear, Boxey?"
"I guess so."
In spite of Muffit Two, the boy had still been showing signs of
moodiness.
"Say, Boxey," Apollo said, "time for your part of the mission. What
I want you to do is keep your eye on that readout. If the indicator gets
up into this colored area, it means we're right on top of a rich Tylium
deposit."
"Yes, sir."
The job assignment seemed to pick up the boy's spirits.
"You sure don't mid working with such a green crew?" Serina said.
"I chose you, didn't I?"
"I'd think, with your connections, you'd do better, that
you'd----I'm sorry, didn't mean to touch a sore spot. You're upset your
father resigned the presidency, correct?"
"Stop being a newswoman, and let's concentrate on the mission.
We've got a lot done in a short time. We don't dare stop on any one
planet for too long."
"Why'd we have to leave home at all?" Boxey asked. "Why'd those
people want to hurt us?"
"I'm not sure, Boxey. Some say it has to do with very complicated
things, political things. Others say the Cylons just like war, and will
attack anybody who interferes with their part of space. I don't
know...sometimes I think it just boils down to who's different. There're
always life forms who cannot accept anything they don't understand. Some
humans are like that, too; they can't accept anything different."
"What do you mean different?"
Apollo sighed, not knowing how to explain complex matters to a
child. He remember yahrens ago, trying to have complicated conversations
with Zac, who was then much older than Boxey was now, and then
discovering that the answer Zac sought for was much simpler than Apollo
expected. Other times, Apollo's answers were too simp;le and Zac prodded
him until he had not only extracted the more complex ideas but
successfully argued against them. But what should he tell a
six-yahren-old whose main concern was the welfare of an animal about the
subject of racism?
"Well, Boxey, just about anything at all can make one species
different from another. The shape of your eyes, the number of lims, the
color of the outer layer of your skin, even thoughts and ideas. Maybe
our enemies just aren't equipped to deal with the difference."
"You mean they're stupid?"
"Yeah, in a way. I mean, in some ways they've got it all over us,
in certain matters of science and technology, in certain methods of
warfare. But, yeah, they're stupid, too. It's stupid to kill what you
don't understand."
"Why don't we just kill them back?"
In Boxey's belligerent question, Apollo could hear, almost like a
ghost-echo, the sound of Zac's voice. Zac sometimes showed a positively
bloodthirsty desire for violent solutions. In that sort of mood he would
never listen to the calmer voices of his brother or his father. For that
matter, there were times when Adama's humanistic theories of war proved
too much for Apollo, who still had sharp pangs of doubt about the
Galactica's leaving the scene of battle.
"Boxey, if we just killed mindlessly, the way the Cylons seem to do,
then we'd be changing what we are. We'd become like them. Although
we're quite skilled at war, we are not basically a warlike race, at least
I don't believe we are. We were pushed into this war, had no other
choice. In fact, perhaps what we're doing now, searching for someplace
else, away from our enemies, is the better thing to do. Fighting them no
their own terms has not certainly..."
"What if they come after us?"
Why did Boxey have to ask the hard questions.
"Then we might have to protect ourselves."
"You mean kill them?"
"If we have to."
"Then we'd be like them."
Apollo smiled.
"You know, Boxey, I think you're getting glimpses of just how
complicated life is. Yes, we don't believe in war---but the opposite of
war isn't necessarily peace. No, what we want is freedom. Just that,
freedom. The right to be left alone. It's a right we humans have always
tried to protect and preserve. But there's always a chance someone will
come along and spoil everything."
He could see in the boy's questioning eyes that Boxey was not
following this part of the discussion.
"So you kill them?" Boxey said.
"No. What it is, you try to establish, ah, penalties, something
that'll make spoiling others' way of life unrewarding."
"You kill them."
"Boxey, you've a way of reducing everything to very simple terms."
"I'm just a kid."
"Right. Sometimes I forget you're only six."
"Almost seven."
"Almost seven. I don't know, though. Maybe you're right. No
matter how you slice it, what words you use, in the end we're talking
about life and death. Life is precious. No one has the right to tamper
with another's life, without the risk of forfeiting his own. Ah, I sound
like one of the classes in war games I used to teach back at the
Academy---and I think getting a bit deep for a boy your age."
"Why?" You can die at any age, can't you?"
"Yes, Boxey, you can. Keep an eye on that readout, okay?"
"Sure. C'mon, Muffy, looka that."
Muffit Two barked and nuzzled closer to the boy.
*****
Starbuck stood at the rim of the hill and stared down at the
evidence of genuine life forms that had been registering on the scanners.
He called to Boomer, who was just climbing out of the landram.
"Boomer..."
"Yo!"
"You're not going to believe this..."
"Feeling is believing. I just busted a finger on..."
"No, I mean really..."
Boomer looked down. His mouth fell open.
"I don't believe it!"
In contrast to the eerie landscape aroud them, the carnival of color
an dlight and glass in the meadow in front of them was a dazzling
spectacle. Surrouding glass-walled spherical buildings was a
meticulously landscaped garden of greenery and exotic plants. Waterfalls
slipped gracefully between what seemed an artistic arrangement of rocks.
Sounds of laughter drifted upwared. Songs were being played and sung in
the distance. A few people, talking gaily, emerged from a building and
began to chase each other, with obvious amourous intentions, through the
neatly sculpted garden paths.
Starbuck looked overa t Boomer, who appeared just as confused as he
was.
"What is it?" Boomer asked.
"I don't know," said Starbuck. Drawing his sidearm, he started to
make his way along the narrow pathway that zigzagged down the hill
leading to the bizarre complex of spherical buildings and lush gardens.
"You sure you need that?" Boomer said, pointing to Starbuck's
sidearm.
"Whenever I'm not sure, that's when I need it."
Nobody in the gardens seemed to notice the two men. If anything,
the happy noises of celebration and song grew louder as they approached
the garden. They stood at the beginning of a path for a long time, just
watching the myriad colors and shifting lihts that kept changing the
appearance of the garden and the buildings.
"It sure is pretty," Starbuck said, some awe in his voice. "And it
sure sounds friendly."
Starbuck started down the path. Boomer following, staying close.
As they came to a fork in the path, a sudden scream made both of them
jump. Starbuck whirled around, his sidearm pointed in the direction of
the scream.
A woman stood trembling in the center of the path. Her wide staring
eyes only emphasized the look of beauty in her face. Starbuck was
impressed with he
r voluptuous figure, round in all the right places. She
wore a red gown that clung appropriately.
"Don't shoot!" she said. "What do you want?"
Starbuck, red-faced, glanced down at the weapon in his hand, made a
show of putting it in its holster.
"I mean no harm," he said.
"I usually go on the assumption that men with guns just might mean
harm, the woman said.
"You're from Tauron," Starbuck said.
"Yes," the woman said, obviously surprised at the shift in topic.
"I'm a Taurus. How'd you know that?"
"The dialect. Always can tell. What're you doing here?"
"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" Why are Colonial
warriors sneaking around a resort with their weapons drawn? Everything
here's perfectly legal."
Starbuck and Boomer, both just as bewildered as the woman, exchanged
mystified looks.
"Isn't it?" the woman said.
"Would you mind telling us how you got here?" Starbuck said, trying
to sound as official as he could under the circumstances.
"On the bus."
The incongruity of her answer startled both men.
"Gotta be a vasilizine addict," Boomer muttered.
"Um, would you tell us about this bus?" Starbuck asked.
"Sure. It was all handled by my travelator. This place is
fabulous! I just can't believe they give you all this for so little
money!" She opened a red-sequined purse that had been dangling from her
wrist. "Look, I won over a thousand cubits."
Some of the cubits spilled over the edge of the purse onto the path.
The woman made no effort to retrieve them. Starbuck, always responsive
to the glow of gold, became excited.
"You won those cubits here?"
"In there, sure." The woman pointed toward the complex of
varicolored glass buildings. "Look, they said it was all legal so if it
isn't, you'd better take on the whole star system, because everyone is
doing it. I'd like to stand here and discuss this all this with you, but
I'm late for a moonlight cruise. Two moons, how can you go wrong? And
talk about meeting people, the brochures weren't kidding about that. I
never had it so good. See you in church, fellas."
The woman giggled and hurried off down the path. Boomer started
after her, while Starbuck picked up the fallen cubits.
"I don't get it," Boomer said. "How cut off can these people be?
She didn't act like she'd even heard about the destruction of the
Colonies."
""Yeah," Starbuck said thoughtfully. "I wonder if they have.
Something else is peculiar about all this. If it's such a big deal, like
she said, how come we haven't heard about this place?"
"I suppose you know every gambling chancery in our star system?"