ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

PART EIGHT

“What we found? Junk, mostly. Typical Cylon junk. None of it abandoned very long,” Miriam told Apollo in the officer’s mess afterwards as they ate what was either a very late dinner or a very early breakfast. “Judging from the residual heat and the amount of evaporation from the fuel tanks, maybe a yahren, maybe less. Likely much less. Probably after they destroyed that frigate on the way here.” She hesitated, went on, “I heard what you found.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t very nice. Colonel Akamas found his sister.”
“And Hector.”
“Yes.”
Miriam pushed her empty tray aside and said, “I always liked Hector.” She smiled and confessed, “I had a thing for him when I was young. He was fifteen yahrens older than I was, and I thought he was a god. He was very good at avoiding me; I must have been pestilential. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t object too strongly to the sealing with his brother, although Aleksandros is pretty faint thunder compared to Hector.”
“What do you think Commander Aeneas will tell my father?”
“What is there to tell, Apollo? We found a Cylon base, attached to a rather interesting alien artifact. Aeneas expected to find a base in this very area. This base is two warp jumps from Molecay and only three from Cosmora. If we had time, I bet we’d find the system where they got the Olympia as well. It has to be around here.”
“I think he expected to find it occupied.”
“Well?”
“So it doesn’t prove that the Cylons are lying about the peace treaty.”
“They are. They have to be.”
Reasonably, Apollo asked, “What if they aren’t?”
Miriam tapped her spoon on the table once or twice, then said, quiet but intense, “They are. They exist to destroy us, how many times have they said it?”
“Maybe things have changed.”
“The only thing that has changed is that we are losing the war, and they see a chance to get us with our guard down. Be real, Apollo.”
“But if there was a chance to end it…,” he persisted.
Miriam’s jaw tightened, then she turned and got a fistful of his flight jacket. “Listen to me, Apollo,” she said. “No one would like to see an end to this war more than I do. I have a daughter; I would dearly love to give her the chance not to be a warrior, if that’s her choice. And the Colonies are tearing themselves apart over this damned war. Protests in the streets, in the planetary legislatures, companies refusing to accept military contracts, bureauticians interfering with military recruitment in their areas…people spitting on warriors, for Sagan’s sake. Before I had Amala my father sent me on a quick tour of the Colonies to report back to him on public opinion. Everyone is sick of it, sick of the cost, sick of the casualties. Hades, I’m sick of it. I would love to see it done with. But we have to win, not sign a treaty that the Cylons will break the instant they see an advantage. And they’ll have it. We sign this thing, how much public support do you think there’ll be for maintaining a decent level of military spending? Even before we left on this mission my father told me that President Adar was already bleating about something he referred to as a ’peace dividend.’ And the Cylons will keep building and building and building. We let our guard down, and they’ll have us.”
“With peace we could rebuild the Colonies, get back into space exploration, find the lost outposts—have a future for once instead of a continuous present of war.”
“You truly amaze me,” she said, releasing him. “You come back from a Cylon corpse collection and you think we ought to sign a peace treaty with them.”
“I think we should be cautious, but it could be real.”
“The public won’t see it that way. As soon as word gets out, they’ll be dancing in the streets.”
“I don’t blame them,” said Apollo.
She rose abruptly and said, “Then join them. And stay out of my sight.”

Apollo took her at her word. On the subdued trip back to the Colonies he saw her only twice, once in a tight group with Aeneas, Sark and Colonel Dirce, Columbia’s Beta Wing commander and Miriam’s half sister, hunched over the battle simulator in the back of the Columbia’s bridge; they were, he was startled to note, running a simulation of a full-bore battle fleet action, four battlestars against no fewer than eight basestars, and the amazing thing was that they were obviously winning. He would have dearly loved to watch, since the tactics looked unfamiliar to say the least, but did not.
The second time was the day before they arrived back in Colonial space. Visiting the gym to get some much-needed exercise, he noticed in a corner Miriam and Aeneas surrounded by a small cluster of Columbia crew. Every single one of them had a sword, of various designs; Miriam had hers, a single-edged broadsword, absently resting on her shoulder and was lecturing, “…Commander Aeneas is left-handed and I am right-handed, and today we are going to demonstrate methods for taking on a mirrored opponent.”
Sagitarans, Apollo thought, and continued through to the weight room.

Aeneas stood before Adama in the latter’s quarters aboard the Galactica, feeling like a first-orbit cadet, expecting to be read out. But Adama said, with no sign of rancor or disappointment, “Sit down, Aeneas.”
Aeneas did so gingerly. “You’ve read my report….”
“Yes, I have. I wish the Cylons had still been there. The uncertainty of when they abandoned the base…..”
“Sir, if we could get together a better-equipped recce mission….”
Adama shook his head. “It’s too late.”
“Too late?” Aeneas ventured.
“Adar went public. He made a formal announcement last secton that we’re in negotiations with the Cylons. Which isn’t true,” Adama added. “We’re actually talking to those intermediaries of theirs. But Adar has always been fast and loose with the truth. Not to mention Baltar. You can imagine what the public reaction was like.”
Aeneas could, and it frightened him. “The public likes it.”
“Loves it,” Adama corrected. “Adar and Baltar can do no wrong, and people on the other side, like Diomedes or, for that matter, me, can do no right. Except on Scorpia and Sagitara. There are already strong separatist movements on both planets.”
“Separatist movements?”
Adama nodded. “They’re talking about pulling out of the Colonies, going on fighting the Cylons by themselves. That’s started movements on the other Colonies to prevent them from doing so, even if it means inter-Colony war.”
Aeneas was appalled. “My God,” he said.
Adama leaned forward over his desk and counseled, “If we can ride out the initial peace fervor, all we have to do is wait for the Cylons to make one wrong move.”
“What if we don’t have the time?”
“That’s in other hands. I understand you’re going to Sagitara for Hector’s funeral.” Aeneas nodded and Adama continued, “Talk to Diomedes. And support him, Aeneas. He has to hold the planet together and keep it in the Colonies. Fighting the Cylons is one thing, but drawing the blood of our brothers is another. War between the Colonies must be prevented, at any cost.”
Aeneas rose. “You know I’ll do all I can. We all will.”
“I know that. The Lords of Kobol and the gods of Sagitara watch over you, Aeneas.”
“I hope that they watch over all of us, my lord,” Aeneas replied.

It was late spring in the northern hemisphere of Sagitara, and the mornings were warm enough for Diomedes to take his tea on the massive battlements of his family’s ancient fortress. With his granddaughter sleeping in a cradle at his side, he lounged in a favorite old chair, read the latest news crystals, and sipped his drink, glancing up at the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Good morning, Aeneas.”
“Good morning, my lord,” Aeneas replied. He leaned against the worn stonework, looked out over the bay of Tiryns beyond, then said, “The defense computers on Aeries have been tampered with again.”
“I was just reading about that.”
“I don’t like this, my lord. I don’t like it at all. I especially don’t like the President’s idea that we meet the Cylon envoys with all of the heavy units in our fleet as escorts for the Star Kobol.”
“Interestingly enough, according to Adama’s latest missive that was Baltar’s suggestion.”
“That’s another thing, this man Baltar. I’ve studied his record. He was drummed out of the military on a variety of charges mostly relating to corruption and sexual harassment. He is now a particularly corrupt businessman. He tried to buy the Mark IX viper contract for a firm on his home planet by plying the military contracting officers with money, willing sex partners, and other lures. This after the Gemonese viper prototype had exploded on its first test flight! How in hades did he get elected to the Council?”
“The Scorpians were sufficiently interested to send an investigator to try and find out. She was found murdered in an alleyway on Gemoni. Supposedly in the course of a robbery attempt, but interpret it how you will.”
Aeneas was becoming more and more agitated, circling Diomedes’ chair and the adjacent cradle like a caged animal. “This is the sort of person we trust our future to!”
“Baltar is no more corrupt than many politicians,” Diomedes said.
“And then there’s Aleksandros,” Aeneas went on as if he had not heard. “A Sagitaran talking about peace with the Cylons! Hector’s brother, for the love of the Lords. I still can’t believe it!”
“It got him elected to the Council of Twelve. By Sagitarans,” Diomedes pointed out. “They may regret it now, but….”
Aeneas rounded on the old warrior and exploded, “You don’t even sound angry about it!”
Diomedes replied, “My young friend, I am angry about it. I am infuriated by it. I am frankly terrified by it. But random displays of emotion will get us nowhere.”
“What the hell will?” Aeneas lowered his voice and suggested, “We could have Aleksandros assassinated, my lord. I’d do it myself. Or I could call him out, either one. You know I’d win, my lord. Give the word.”
“Don’t tempt me. I won’t stoop to that, Aeneas. Adama believes that if we’re patient, the Cylons will do something aggressive and then we’ll have public opinion back on our side where it belongs. I agree with him.”
“And the meeting tonight, my lord?”
“Things will work out. Don’t worry, my friend.”

Apollo did not enjoy the morning sun at all. While he had been supervising Blue squadron’s return to the Galactica, Commander Aeneas had returned from his meeting with Adama and passed Apollo a note, in his father’s familiar handwriting, requesting him to attend Hector’s funeral as his representative, confer with Diomedes, and then report back to the Galactica. He’d learned little at Hector’s funeral. He could not recall ever seeing people look so utterly destroyed, so hopeless. Two days later, it still disturbed him. No one present had been in the mood to talk politics, which Apollo knew was the real reason his father had sent him.
Likely he’d learn more tonight, when the leaders of all the Sagitaran noble families were to meet at Diomedes’...‘castle,’ Apollo supposed was the technical term for it. To be a guest in that massive pile of stone was not physically uncomfortable; old as it was, the fortress was fully equipped with modern amenities. Mentally, however, it was uncomfortable, and Apollo was doing his best to avoid not only Miriam but also her husband, Prince Aleksandros, the new Council member from Sagitara.
Apollo spent most of the morning sequestered in his room reading; just keeping up with the flow of peace treaty-related news from the Twelve Colonies was practically a full-time occupation. Polls on most planets showed the populace of the Colonies to be nearly evenly split over the advisability of negotiations with the Cylons, except on Scorpia, where fully eighty percent were firmly against any such discussions, and on Sagitara, where the poll numbers were gradually sliding from around sixty percent for, to, in the very latest poll taken after the funeral of Hector, almost seventy five percent against.
But who’s right and who’s wrong? Apollo asked himself, casting aside his newsreader with a sigh. I know which side I want to be right.... He shook his head, decided he needed some fresh air. Picking up his flight jacket off the chair beside his bed, he left the room and started up the stairs.
The stairs ended well before the battlements; he sought out a servitor and asked directions, and the young woman pointed him down the hall to another staircase.
The second staircase was evidently one of the main ones in the fortress; it was wider and grander than the one near his room and, since it was entirely within the fortress and so protected from projectiles, was lit by large windows let into the stone walls. At each landing, a large family portrait was hung. On the first landing he came to was a portrait of a woman Apollo recognized as Diomedes’ mother, dressed in a somewhat old-fashioned version of the command blue uniform, posed sitting in a chair in a room probably somewhere within this very fortress, a sheathed sword casually across her knees. She had, Apollo recalled reading, been lost in combat with the Cylons not long after Diomedes’ birth. On the next landing was Diomedes himself, a much younger version of the man Apollo knew, wearing a combat pilot’s uniform; the backdrop was a space battle, obsolete predecessors of the vipers Apollo flew in dogfights with Cylons. There was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a sword in Diomedes’ portrait also, resting at his feet near his flight helmet and gunbelt. Evidently, Apollo thought, swords are an important feature of Sagitaran portraiture.
On the next landing, the last one before the staircase opened onto the battlements, was a portrait of Miriam. Apollo stopped, studied it. She was portrayed standing, about a three-quarter view, wearing her black striker-pilot uniform. Her strong hands were laid, one on top of the other, on the hilt of the unsheathed sword that rested, point-down, in front of her. The unknown artist had captured the strange, fascinating mixture of hardness and intellect and raw attraction that had always fascinated Apollo, the woman at war with her own nature. My love-hate relationship, he thought. No, not hate, never that...but there are parts of her I will never for the life of me understand. I wonder what Starbuck would make of her? Not that she’s his type. Way too strong, I think.
He suddenly became aware that someone had come up the stairs behind him while he had been musing, and turned to apologize for blocking the stairs. The words froze in his throat before he could utter them.
Prince Aleksandros, a tall, handsome man a few yahrens older than Apollo dressed in elaborate Sagitaran civilian robes, studied him for a centon. He knows, Apollo realized.
But there was no hostility in the Sagitaran politician; after a centon he nodded curtly, and continued past Apollo up the staircase.
Looking after him, Apollo knew there was no mistaking Aleksandros’ expression. He feels sorry...for both of us.

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