THE SCHOOL OF FEAR

CHAPTER 11

Apollo was sent to make arrangements for the establishment of a Colonial liaison office on Gamoray. At the spacedrome he was met by Bojay, who drove him in his personal ground car into the city. It was the first time that any of the Colonials had been on the ground in Gamoray’s capital and Apollo observed closely, making mental notes of all he saw. Parts of the city had been absolutely devastated in the war, but even in those areas cleanup work had taken place. Wreckage was neatly stacked and sorted for eventual reuse, recycling of the materials, or disposal. Ruined buildings, instead of being knocked down, were being dismantled carefully to save the materials. Passing a site where a large building, somewhat less damaged than many of the others, was undergoing repair, Apollo was not surprised to see that much of the visible work was being undertaken by a variety of robots. The Delphian Empire had been a leader in the production and export of specialized robots and with the obvious manpower shortage it was perhaps not surprising that Cain’s people had taken advantage of whatever portion of the Delphian robotics industry had survived or been repairable. But it also disturbed him. Colonials had a deep, abiding mistrust of cybernetic organisms, an inevitable result of the Cylon war and the teachings of Sagan and his followers, and it seemed to Apollo that Cain’s people had abandoned those tenets far too easily. He decided to ask Bojay about it.
“Be real, Apollo,” Bojay replied, a little patronizingly. “Sure, we’ve had all that stuff drummed into us for yahrens, but when push comes to shove you do what you have to. We couldn’t have accomplished a tenth of what we have without the robots. And they’re harmless. They do what they’re told. They’re not like the Cylons.”
“The Cylons were only following orders too,” Apollo could not help pointing out.
“Well, that was different. These aren’t war robots. Besides, we need the help. Can’t have the women working.”
Apollo tapped his fingers on the armrest for a centon. Isn’t he lucky Miriam’s not here, Apollo thought, then, but why in hades should I tolerate it? “You know,” Apollo said mildly, “women are useful for more things than raising children.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t remember you ever being like this,” Apollo went on, a little angry. “You’ve come here and turned into a bigot. I’m almost ready to agree with Miriam and her theory that Scorpians left to themselves always revert to the norm.”
“Apollo, have you ever read the Book of the Word?” Bojay asked patiently, as if speaking to a five-yahren old.
“I have read it. I read it regularly. And I think parts of it are wrong,” Apollo replied. “Women are human beings too. And,” he added coldly, “you call me sir.”
A wall seemed to visibly form between their seats. Apollo found himself a little sad. He had liked Bojay. But what had turned a polite, competent, humorous viper pilot into an unthinking Scorpian drone quoting from the Book of the Word and firmly convinced that a person’s worth was determined solely by their reproductive function? Apollo supposed all men went through a period when they saw women solely as mobile gonads, but it was normal to grow up and realize that they were considerably more interesting as people. Evidently the authors of the Book of the Word, with their cringing, guilty attitude towards sexuality had never outgrown that phase no matter how old and wise they were supposed to have been. And unfortunately some people took their words, however wrong, as absolutes. Apollo felt that there was much wisdom in the holy books, but they were also a minefield if you didn’t apply your own experiences.
To change the subject, Apollo asked, “Who is this Count Iblis I’m supposed to meet?”
Bojay evidently regretted his outburst and his tone was warmer than Apollo would have expected. “He’s Cain’s number-one advisor. I’ve got to admit, most of us are a little jealous of him. He’s really got the old man’s ear.”
“We have no record of a man with that name in the Fifth Fleet.”
“No, he wasn’t in the Fleet. Not long after the Cylons left Gamoray we sent some expeditions out to nearby systems to make sure they weren’t around,” Bojay explained. “On a planet in one of those systems we found Iblis. He was the only survivor of a ship that we think was destroyed by the Cylons, though he never said it was—only said it was destroyed by the �great powers,’ and the way he talks that isn’t synonymous with the Cylons. About everything else he makes sense, though. He’s sharp. He was really the prime mover in getting the robotics industries back on line. In fact, we were really kind of floundering around before he got here.”
Gamoray’s government buildings had been destroyed by the Cylons before their withdrawal, so the survivors of the Fifth Fleet had established their headquarters in an easily repaired office building that fronted on an attractive plaza. Any damage to the surrounding buildings had been put right and the plaza itself fully restored. Where Colonials might have placed fountains and decorative art was a small park full of Delphian tree sculptures. People were visible moving about on their business, as were several small robots, some of which seemed to be messengers, moving purposefully from building to building, while another gathered scraps of trash and fallen leaves and two more industriously trimmed the tree sculptures.
Bojay drove into a garage located beneath the headquarters. A scanning device examined their car closely before it was permitted to go in, and at the elevator a guard checked Bojay’s credentials closely. The guard was one of the young, vicious-looking types who worried Apollo, just the sort who had tried to rape the scout crew, who had been born after the arrival of the Pegasus at Gamoray and so owed no allegiance to the Colonies. He tried to tell himself that he was imagining the guard’s contemptuous glance at him, but clearly he was not.
They traveled up several levels, exiting near the top of the building. Another guard checked them again, passed them through into a locked corridor. Once the door had closed behind them, Apollo asked, “Are all the guards necessary?”
“It’s procedure,” Bojay replied.
Who, Apollo wondered, perplexed, is all this security aimed against? Surely it was in place before we arrived—Bojay takes it too automatically for it to be new. Who or what is Cain afraid of? Or is it Cain?
Two more guards flanked a door near the corridor’s end. Once again Bojay submitted automatically to a more-than-cursory examination of his papers.
The spacious office they were passed into was rather more sumptuously furnished than either Scorpian or Caprican taste dictated. Paneled in rich woods with carvings picked out in gilt and enamel, its carpet was so thick that Apollo’s boots sank into it. The furnishings, a table, chairs, a desk, were clearly hand-made, with woodwork and metal fittings polished to a high gloss. In the room’s far end a large window looked out over the plaza, and gave a view of the distant hills beyond the city.
From his place behind the desk a man rose in greeting. He appeared to be of middle age, a few touches of gray in his hair and lines on his face. The man was tall and his flowing white robes did not disguise a robust figure. “Colonel Bojay, good morning,” he said pleasantly, in perfect if accented Standard. “I take it this is Commander Apollo.”
Bojay nodded deferentially and confirmed, “This is Commander Apollo, of the battlestar Galactica. This is Count Iblis,” he said to Apollo.
Iblis did not offer his hand but bowed slightly; Apollo responded with a nod. “Sit down, Commander,” Iblis invited. “May the Colonel bring you some refreshment?”
“No, thank you,” Apollo said, settling into one of the chairs set before the desk. Apollo knew that Iblis was studying him closely. He looked up and met the man’s gaze levelly and Iblis smiled.
“I understand that you wish to establish an office of some sort here. A liaison,” Iblis said, seating himself.
“We feel it’s necessary. We ought to have formal lines of communication in place in case of any misunderstanding, and to begin to arrange future diplomatic and commercial relations,” Apollo explained.
“I agree completely,” Iblis replied. “In fact, I have already ordered my people to prepare a suite of offices in this building for that purpose, with living quarters nearby. After our meeting, Colonel Bojay will show them to you. Of course if you need more room or wish to make any changes, just inform the Colonel and he will see to it. He has my orders that you and your people receive whatever you require.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Apollo replied. “We’ll have a small staff to begin with, one liaison officer and perhaps four assistants.”
“Has the liaison officer been selected yet?”
“Not yet, but we’ll inform you as soon as that happens.” It suddenly occurred to Apollo that this was one way of getting Xaviar out of his hair, at least for a time. I’m glad I thought of that, Apollo congratulated himself.
“Splendid. I believe we have much to offer one another, Commander, especially in trade. As a warp nexus, Gamoray is perfectly placed to extend Colonial business out beyond the limits of what once was the Delphian Empire.”
“I’m sure you will find our businessmen more than ready to take up that opportunity.”
Apollo had wanted to be suspicious, but he was very favorably impressed by Iblis’ manner. Still, as he followed Bojay out afterwards, he felt odd. Slightly violated. He wondered why.

Ares leaned back against a conveniently-parked tow tractor in Columbia’s beta bay and watched as Sergeant Philos, an avionics tech and the established crew artist, painted on the nose of the striker Rhiannon had suddenly been assigned. Apparently there was going to be some kind of welcoming air show on Gamoray and Aglaia, likely to her dismay, had been forced to admit that Rhiannon was the sharpest pilot in her squadron, so she’d been selected to fly a demonstration. Rhiannon thought it best to have the aircraft suitably decorated for the occasion and Philos had executed an elaborate design that showed a Sagitaran lancer mounted on a charger, lance lowered. Unsurprisingly, the lancer’s shield and surcoat bore Rhiannon’s family emblem, an armored fist hovering threateningly over a stone tower on a blood-red background. With the lancer finished, Philos was carefully lettering under the picture Sagitara’s Champion. Further back, under the pilot’s side of the cockpit, he’d earlier painted the striker’s name, Lovely Leah.
“What do you think, sir?” Philos asked as he took a break to clean his brush and carefully remold its point.
“A little busy for me,” Ares said. “It’s beautiful, though,” he added, not wanting to hurt the man’s feelings.
“Hey, this a great Sagitaran tradition. And a damn sight better than those naked women the Scorpians always paint on their stuff.”
“True.” Ares looked around as Rhiannon came up.
“Nice, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Very. And it’s gonna be a big hit at a Scorpian airshow, for cert.”
“Good. People need to be offended. My aunt says that, you know.” She produced a cloth from somewhere within her flight jacket and carefully polished Leah’s name.
Ares had to smile. People in love are ridiculous, he thought, but it’s fun to watch. “Have you heard the latest rumor?”
“Is it good?”
“Not sure. Supposedly they’re opening an office of some kind on the planet, and just as supposedly the officer in charge is going to have three or four lieutenants as aides.”
“Frack, don’t tell me we’re being considered for that.”
“Not we, just me.”
“Have fun,” Rhiannon invited. “Leah and I will miss you.”
“It’s not like it’s permanent; you won’t get rid of me that easily.”
“I hope not,” Rhiannon said, more seriously. “We happen to like you.”
“It’s mutual.”
Sparing a glance at Philos, who seemed absorbed in his careful lettering, Rhiannon took Ares’ arm and drew him away a little. “Seriously, Ares, be careful.”
“I will be...Rhiannon, is something going on? You and Leah have been acting...well, strange.”
“I can’t talk about it. It’s orders,” she emphasized. “But be careful down there.”
“I will be,” he repeated. “Promise.”

“I hope that we’re making a somewhat better impression today, Cassiopiea,” Miriam said pleasantly as she served Cassiopiea steamed tubers out of an elaborate stoneware dish. They, along with Noday and Starbuck, were seated around the dinner table in Victory’s senior officer’s mess, which Miriam had reserved for her own use this evening.
“I’ve always understood the controversy, Commander,” Cassiopiea replied. “I may be a civilian, but the situation is obviously touchy. I do wonder, though, if the people on the planet might be more hospitable if you were to invite them to your ships, if you haven’t done that.”
“We haven’t,” Starbuck said, “and there’s a good reason for it.” Cassiopiea looked questioningly at him and he elaborated, “You’re a civilian, like you said. You must see a lot of stuff here and aboard the other ships that you don’t understand. You kind of go, ‘well, that’s strange, that’s a military thing’ and you probably don’t think much about it.” She nodded and he went on, “But a person with a military background...well, they’d learn something from everything they saw. We’d be losing our element of surprise. Especially about the battlecruisers. They’re strictly post-holocaust ships and they can’t know much about them.”
After they’d finished the meal they retired to Miriam’s day cabin and sat down to enjoy vignon and, in Starbuck’s case, a fumarello. He made himself at home on the couch, started to swing his feet up onto the table but stopped when he caught a warning glance from Noday, who had definite opinions about combat boots on furniture. Once Starbuck was satisfied with the way his fumarello was burning he commented, “You know, I’ve always wondered.”
“What?” Cassiopiea prompted.
“What would have happened if the Cylons had won.”
“I don’t,” Miriam said flatly. “We’d all be dead.”
“Maybe not. Some people would have survived. You wonder how things might have been different.”
“It seems....an unprofitable line of thought,” Noday said.
Studying his cigar, Starbuck allowed, “Well, maybe.”
“I rather like the way things turned out,” said Miriam.
“Commander,” Cassiopiea ventured to Miriam, “perhaps I should be allowed to meet Cain.”
“My own opinion is that you should. But Aeneas has to make that decision.”
“It seems that any chance we have to minimize misunderstanding should be exploited,” Cassiopiea pressed.
“I agree,” Miriam replied. “Like I said, it’s Aeneas’ call, but I’ll talk to him again about it. I promise.”

Who the flying frack was dumb enough to put Xaviar in charge of this liaison? Ares wondered. Galactica’s executive officer was making a supreme nuisance of himself, setting his aides in motion in four or five directions simultaneously, ensuring that no one task was performed to his satisfaction and hence giving him all the excuse he needed to read them out. The instant Xaviar stepped out of their new office to go to his first meeting with Count Iblis, the four lieutenants he’d been assigned as aides collapsed onto the nearest convenient piece of furniture or, in Ares’ case the floor, in relief.
“Son of a bitch,” he exploded. “And I thought Rhiannon was exaggerating.”
“Whoever Rhiannon is she couldn’t have been exaggerating about Xaviar,” Lieutenant Arlos, a junior weapons officer from the Galactica, replied. “He’s something else. Don’t know how the old man stands him. We all figure he got stuck with the modocker.”
“Yeah, well he threw my pilot in the brig because she requested quarters with our navigator.”
“Well no wonder, Ares, he’s Scorpian,” Arlos said as if it were self-evident.
“They’re all boarks,” Lieutenant Alisa, from the Triumph, said.
“No, that’s not true,” Lieutenant Thora, a computer specialist from the Victory, maintained. “I know a lot of nice Scorpians. Jerks are jerks, no matter the tribe.”
“I think you’re right,” said Ares. He looked wearily around the cluttered outer office and said, “I suppose we’d better finish getting this in order before it gets back.”
“Guess so,” said Alisa, and they set back to work, in considerably better temper thanks to the absence of their commanding officer.
It was a long time before Xaviar returned and when he did he went into his own office and closed the door behind him without saying a word.
“A decided improvement,” Alisa murmured to herself.
“A little odd, though,” Ares said.

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