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.
*****
; 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
; 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