but not a fit laison between the humans and the Cylons, not the proper
carrier of sacred trusts. Why send a corpulent merchant whose unhealthy
skin suggested the tarnishing of coin when power-hungry diplomats were
available?
Who could ever known what went on in the alien mind? There might
have been some reasoning among Cylons that led to the choice of the
overweight, soft-looking trader. And, besides, who was Adama to judge
the facets of the peace? He'd never known peace, he'd geared his entire
life to the fighting of the war. He knew nothing, factually or
philosophically, about peace.
Adama returned his attention to the celebration, which was in its
final stage of formality. Arcon embraced Baltar. The trader's ornate,
colorful garments, especially the long, flowing velvet cape, made the
president's simple robes appear rustic. The two men seemed alike only in
the high boots each wore---a bizarre link, since Arcon's boots clashed so
strongly with the austere lines of his white silken toga. Even in this
respect, Baltar's footwear, with its scroll-like decoratons, appeared
more sumptuous. It was absurd, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve
having to warm up officially to the merchant-messenger. Arcon's voice
boomed across the Atlantia's dining room.
"You've done well, Baltar. Your tireless work has made this
armistice conference possible. You have secured for yourself a page in
the history books."
A page in the history books, indeed! Adama thought. The man didn't
even deserve a decent burial within a footnote.
It always annoyed Adama that his old friend Arcon speak so
officiously and with such an overtly political manner. They had gone to
the Academy together, Adama and Arcon. Fate had continually thrown them
together in classes, a solid example---they always claimed---of the Lords
of Kobol cementing a valuable friendship. Their comradeship had been
secured later when they had both been assigned to the same battlestar
fleet as Viper pilots. After being elected President of the Quorum of
the Twelve, Arcon had continued to rely strongly on Adama's advice.
Until now.
The obsequious look of humility upon Baltar's face forced Adama to
concentrate again on the starfield. His shoulder muscles tightened as he
heard the trader's reply to Arcon.
"The Cylons chose me as their liaison to the Quorum of the Twelve
was an act of providence, not skill."
Party noises intervened and Adama could not hear Arcon's subsequent
remarks to the trader. Good, he did not want to hear any more
politicking. He had had enough of that already today.
"You look troubled, old friend," Arcon said. Adama had sensed the
president's approach, but he chose a bit of petty insubordination by not
taking note of it. Suspecting Adama's antagonism, Arcon spoke with the
patronizing nasality that was his trademark when he was opposed. Fussily
stroking his bald head as if he were considering wearing a wig, he said,
"Well, I see the party isn't a huge success with all my children."
Although he rankled at Arcon's patriarchal phrasing, Adama decided
not to reply in kind.
"It's what awaits us out there that bothers me," Adama said,
pointing toward the bright starfield. Arcon smiled his best
condescending smile.
"Surely," he said, "you don't cling to your suspicions about the
Cylons. They asked for this armistice. They want peace. For myself, I
look forward to our coming rendezvous with the Cylon representatives."
Adama studied the president's bland, confident face, and considered
addressing him in the blunt vocabulary of their Viper pilot days. No,
Arcon had been too far removed from the field for too long to understand
plain language anymore, so Adama resorted to diplomatic phrasings.
"Forgive me, Mr. President, but---but the Cylons hate humans deeply,
with ever fiber of their existence. In our love of freedom, of
independence, our need to feel, to question, to affirm, to rebel against
oppression---in all these ways were are different from them. To them we
are the aliens and they'll never accept our ways."
"Ah, but they have accepted. Through Baltar, they have sued for
peace."
There was a finality in Arcon's voice, a
this-is-the-end-of-the-discussion command. Adama stared at the bald man
who, even though they were contemporaries, looked so much older. He knew
there was no point in opposing him at this supposedly joyous moment. As
in any battle, there was also a logical point of retreat in political
disputes.
"Yes," Adama said, "of course you're right."
And, of course, Arcon had come to him requiring this capitulation.
Pleased, the President stopped stroking his bald head so nervously, and
grabbed his old comrade by the shoulders. The man radiated confidence,
Adama wished he could be that assured, but Baltar's vigilant stare only
added to his present uneasiness.
Leaving Adama alone, Arcon strutted back to a group of the more
jubilant Quorum members. Adama, sullen, walked along the rim of the
giant starfield which composed nearly one-half of the dining chamber. He
stopped at a position from which he could observe his own ship, the
battlestar Galactica.
He took great pride in the unanimous acknowledgement of the
Galactica as the greatest fighting ship in the Colonial Fleet, and the
most efficiently run of the Fleet's five battestars. Commissioned at
least two centuries before its present commander's birth, and commanded
by Adama's father before him, the Galactica had survived thousands of
rough encounters with the enemy, no mean achievement when one considered
the notorious Cylon deviousness. With the destruction of the Atlantia's
sister ship, the Pacifica, Adama's craft had become the largest fighting
battlestar in the Fleet. And since he had taken over command its record
had become as impressive as its size. The most heroic exploits, the most
suicidal missions, the highest number of Cylon kills were all now part of
the Galactica's gallant history. If this peace lasted any time at all,
the battlestar would surely be declared a monument to human achievement.
While it appeared to drift placidly, the Galactica was actually
"idling" at near lightspeed. Its slowness was due to the fact that it
had, as guardian to the Atlantia during the peace conference, to keep its
pace down to the Command Battlestar's speed. No wonder. Where the
Atlantia was a hive of bulkily designed sections, the Galactica was a
slim-lined, multi-level vehicle whose functional components allowed for
the rarely achieved combination of size with speed. In regular space, it
could traverse distances nearly as fast as the fighting craft launched
from it. Its fuel system provided the most power possible from the
mixture of Tylium with lesser fuel sources. Its launching decks could be
activated within microns, emerging as long extensions from the
/> cylindrical core of the vehicle, and its guidance systems had been
refined---at Adama's orders---so that his pilots could land on an
InterFleet Memo without smudging a single letter.
Adama was equally proud of the efficient social system within the
ship. A commande rcould not wish for a more cohesive crew---amazing when
considering the thousands of people required to keep a battlestar going.
His daughter Athena was always saying the crew worked well because they
knew they had a fair and understanding commander. While he chided her
for the sentimentality of the observation, he was pleased that the
skillful performance of everyone on the Galactica testified to the
abilities of Adama as commander (His father had predicted that Adama
would surpass his own achievements after he regretfully retired from
active command, and the prophecy had proven out---so far). Yes, it was a
fine ship and a fine crew. Even his impulsive children----Apollo, Zac,
Athena---shaped up when it came to the needs of the Galactica and its
commander.
Now, though, more impressive than his battlestar's efficiency within
or without was the image of beauty it created set against the background
of flashing stars. So delicate were its lines, so multifaceted the jewel
of its blue-gray surface that a casual observer looking out the viewing
wall of the Atlantia's starfield would not in the least suspect that its
dimensions were so monumental, its overall size so huge. Adama recalled
his father saying that the Galactica was the size of a small planet, that
a traveler could use up most of a lifetime walking its corridors without
having to retrace a single step. He had learned later that the old man's
description was somewhat exaggerated, one of the outrageous tall tales he
had so savored in the telling. Still, the Galactica would be a mighty
challenge for the dedicated hiker. Viewing it now, he was struck for a
brief moment by the feeling of disbelief that it was his domain, his
world. He had felt that way when command had originally been transferred
to him two and a half decades ago, and he now felt it quite deeply again.
He grew impatient to return to the Galactica as soon as possible, to
escape from the emptiness in the joyous sounds of the Quorum's victory
celebration.
*****
Starbuck didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that a
gallery of onlookers had formed behind him. When he had a pair of rubes
like these two on the line, word always spread through the ranks of the
Galactica, and people came running to the ready room. It was considered
a privilege to be in on the kill. Starbuck's gambling acumen had become
so famous that his name was now part of warrior slang. To be
"starbucked" meant that you had allowed yourself to be maneuvered into a
situation in which your defeat was inevitable. It was in the vocabulary
of battle as well as in that of the gambling tables.
Like an actor, the handsome young lieutenant knew how to play to an
audience. He let his face, so clean-cut for a man so diabolically
shrewd, assume a mask of naivete, as if he had just boarded the
battlestar fresh out of the Academy. Awkwardnes substituted for the
normal grace of his movements, and he leaned into the table like a man
who wo ndered how he had gotten himself into this mess in the first
place. It was all part of the setup. The gallery knew it, just as they
knew he was ready to sweep down on his foolish opponents like a Cylon
patrol from behind a cloud cover.
This time his marks were a pair of Gemonese from the planet Gemon.
Apparently Starbuck's notoriety had eluded them, for they held their
round cards with a cavalier sureness characteristic of men positive their
hands are the winning ones. Like all Gemonese they resembled each other,
even though their features were quite dissimilar, one thin-faced, the
other with a hint of chubbiness. Something in the expression of the
Gemonese, a placidity bordering on inanity, seemed to make all of them
look alike. Gemonese were among the most intelligent members of any
battlestar crew, but when it came to gambling they were often the easiest
victims of all.
Starbuck was ready now. He could feel victory on the smooth
surfaces of his cards, as if it had been encoded there as a private
communication for his hands only. Keeping his voice steady, he
announced:
"Just to keep the game instructive and because you're new to it,
I'll only wager...oh, say, this much."
Coolly he pushed out half his stash, an evenly stacked high pile of
square gold cubits. His dark blue eyes hid the mockery of his opponents
which he felt inside. The two men looked quite astonished.
Simultaneously, and with a duplicate raising of eyebrows. As they had
done all game, they passed their single hand of cards back and forth,
while whispering together about their next move. Some smiles and a pair
of chuckles activated the previously stoical gallery. They all had a
stake in each of Starbuck's strategic moves. As each of them had
arrived, Starbuck's buddy, Boomer, had collected cash from him to add to
Starbuck's cubit-pile. Now they were sensing his own profits.
"Despite the humblness of this hand," said the Gemonese who now held
the cards, "for the honor of our colony, we must challenge you."
"Honor. Challenge. Gemon," said the other Gemonese. Whichever one
spoke, the other usually echoed the main points of his statement.
The Gemonese with the cards pushed forth apiloe of cubits equal to
Starbuck's wager. Starbuck could feel the gallery tense. He was about
to speak, say it was time to acall, when the Gemonese quietly spoke
again:
"And for the glory of Gemon, another equal measure."
"Glory. Equal. Measure," said his partner, who now took the hand
back and himself pushed the pile of cubits that would double the stakes.
Feeling the nervousness of his gallery, Starbuck knew it was important to
continue feigning his relaxed manner.
"Well," he said, fingering some long strands of his cornstalk-yellow
hair, "in the name of our planet Caprica and for her everlasting glory,
I'll measure your increase and double it."
If they hadn't been packed so closely together, some members of the
gallery might've passed out and fallen to the floor. Starbuck shoved in
all his remaining cubits and sat back confidently. He felt a tap on his
shoulder, and he looked up into the tense black face of his buddy,
Lieutenant Boomer. Who else but supercautious, never gamble unless it's
surer than a sure thing, intellectual Boomer?
"Where is the remaining portion of your bet?" said the cardholding
Gemonese.
"Remaining. Bet."
"Just a moment," Starbuck said. "Come on, guys, up with the rest of
it."
The gallery seemed to take a collective step backward. Boomer acted
as its spokesman:
"Could we speak to you for a moment? In private." Turning to the
<
br /> Gemonese, he said: "Only be a flash, fellas."
With an exaggerated courtesy, Boomer led Starbuck away from the
table. Out of sight of the Gemonese behind a nervous wall formed by the
onlooker's gallery, they were joined by Lieutenant Jolly and Ensign
Greenbean, whose physical appearances made it clear why the Galactica's
crew had awarded them such descriptive names. Jolly was hefty, a strong
but overweight young man---while, of course, Greenbean was tall and thin.
The conference among the four men was conducted in heated whispers.
"Are you crazy?" Boomer said. Boomer, who rarely sweated, now wiped
away lines of glistening perspiration from his brow.
"Were you listening?" Starbuck said. "This is for the glory of
Caprica."
"Glory, Caprica," Jolly said.
"Are you a Gemonese, too?" Starbuck said, smiling. "Look, have I
ever steered you guys wrong?"ike that?"
The faces of the three men, especially Boomer's, displayed the
message that of course he had.
"All right," Starbuck said. "Once or twice. But this is the real
goods. I can take these guys. Look at it this way, we'll double our
money. They're trying to buy the pot."
"You told us they didn't understand the game," Jolly said.
"Evidently they caught on fast," Boomer growled, but he sighed. He
was always a pragmatist, whether in gambling or in a furious encounter
with the enemy. All that reading on his bunk viewer had made him a
thoughtful analyst of any situation, and for this one he could see that
cutting losses was simply not practical---the investment was much too
high. "We've got to do what Starbuck says or we lose everything we've
already got in the game."
Boomer moved among the gallery, forced its members to cough up
enough to cover Starbuck's impulsive wager. Handing a neatly-stacked
pile of cubits to Starbuck, he told him to go it. Starbuck nudged the
cubits to the center of the table and turned his cards over.
"Beat that," Starbuck snarled, his voice sending up an unsettling
echo through the stillness of the room.
The Gemonese smiled and revealed his cards. The gallery stared at
the tragedy revealed by the pasteboard hexagons, then collectively they
sagged as they had to watch the Gemonese rake in the golden cubits.
*****
For a brief moment Apollo got a good look at a second tanker, the
one that had been revealed as the companion of the first on his and Zac's
scanners, before it disappeared into the cloud layer. He couldn't tell
whether the move was a strategic one, or whether the apparently empty
ship had simply drifted into the portentous clouds.
"There's the other ship, tucked in nice and neat," he said to Zac.