The Yarning Piper’s Ultimate Cross-over

	by Sanna M. Guérin


		Prologue
		A long patrol produces idle chatter

	Looking out of his Viper cockpit, Lieutenant Starbuck 
stared at the stars as he and his four companions continued 
on their patrol.  There hadn’t been much chatter in the past 
few centons, and it was beginning to bother him.  Silence, 
to him at least, was a bad sign.
	“So,” he said into the comline.  “I read the neatest 
thing the other cycle.”
	“You, Starbuck, read?” Sheba scoffed, but she sounded 
like she was joking.  They’d long ago gone past the sniping 
that used to go on between them when she’d first arrived on 
the Galactica a few sectars before.
	“I know, that’s a little hard to grasp,” he returned.
	“I thought the only thing you read were cards and your 
opponent’s faces,” Boomer added, joining in the bantering 
with full enthusiasm.  Everyone loved teasing Starbuck when 
the going got tough.
	“That, and sometimes even the opponent’s cards!” Jolly 
exclaimed.
	“Hey, that wasn’t cheating!” Starbuck shot back, 
thinking back to the one and only time he’d gotten an 
accidental peek at a player’s hand.  His fumarello had 
fallen and rolled to the other side of the table, and when 
he reached to grasp it, he’d looked up to see cards.  Of 
course, they had to have been Jolly’s, and the portly 
sergeant had never allowed Starbuck to forget it.  “It fell, 
honest to goodness!”
	“Hmm-mmm.  Tell, what cards did I have exactly?” Jolly 
replied.  “I’m telling you, I’m glad I folded that round!”
	“You always fold, Jolly,” Apollo said for the first 
time.  He sounded as though he weren’t paying complete 
attention to the conversation, and was instead concentrating 
on something else.
	“You don’t play Pyramid, Skipper.  You have no idea how 
aggravating it is playing against Starbuck!”
	“No, but my cubits are more often than not included in 
the bet,” the captain pointed out.  “Still, Starbuck, we’re 
getting a little off-topic.  What’s this thing you read 
about?”
	“Thank you,” the lieutenant breathed.  “It’s a study of 
some sort.  Didn’t get the credentials or anything.  Anyway, 
it says that everyone has a double.”
	“You were reading the Colonial Inquirer again, weren’t 
you?” Boomer asked, laughing.
	“No, I’m serious.  It’s called a dopel-something.”
	“Dopelganger?” Sheba supplied.  “You know that’s just a 
myth.  The Gemons have a belief that if you meet your 
double, it means that you’re going to die if you don’t get 
out of the area ASAP.”
	“Yeah, yeah, but this sounded pretty neat!  Somewhere, 
there’s another me, another you, and I know it’s pretty 
scary, but there’s another Apollo somewhere, too.”  Starbuck 
grinned as he imagined the dirty look his friend wanted to 
give him.  “But even so, it’s not us.  It’ll just look like 
us.  So much that no one can tell the difference except for 
the minute details.”
	“That’s too far-fetched for me,” Jolly said.  “It’s 
also impossible.”
	“Oh, and what mark did you get in biology at the 
Academy?” Starbuck retorted.  “Look, I don’t know the 
precise details, but it’s possible.”
	“If I ever see a second Starbuck, I’m going to run and 
hide.  One of you’s bad enough,” Apollo said, finally 
getting back at Starbuck’s jibe earlier.  “Anyway, I want 
you guys to pay a little more attention to the patrol, okay?  
I’ve got a faint signal on my scanner.  Over in sector 
twelve.  I can’t identify it, either.  Do any of you have 
better luck?”
	“Just a micron,” Starbuck said, snapping to attention 
and turning his scanner to the proper area.  After a few 
moments, the data started scrolling onto his scanner screen.  
“I’ve got it, too.  Doesn’t look Colonial to me, whatever it 
is.”
	“Same with me, Apollo,” Boomer said, echoed by Jolly 
and Sheba.
	“We’re going to check it out,” Apollo decided.  
“Boomer, I want you to maintain an orbit around the planet’s 
moon, so you can get a clear signal back to the Galactica 
should the need arise.  The rest of you are with me.”


Chapter One
Sam Clam’s disco

	“Can’t anybody get him to shut up?” Templeton “Face” 
Peck moaned for the tenth time as he pushed H.M. Murdock 
away from him.  The trip between Los Angeles and San 
Francisco was long enough, but having the babbling, blue-
hatted maniac sitting next to him made it seem all that much 
longer.  It was times like these that Face agreed that 
Murdock deserved the nickname “Howling Mad.”
	John “Hannibal” Smith, sitting in the front passenger’s 
seat, glanced back at the two men, a slight smile on his 
face as he absent-mindedly chewed on the end of his cigar.
	“Problem, Face?” he said, the expression on his face 
telling the younger man that he knew very well what was 
going on.
	“Yeah, I’m glad you noticed,” Face replied.  “Get him 
to sit in his own seat.”
	“Is that fool buggin’ you again?” B.A. Barracus 
demanded from the driver’s seat, frowning as he concentrated 
on the driving the black van that was usually the team’s 
transportation.
	“I’m not bothering Face,” Murdock protested.  “He’s got 
a better view than I do.”
	“The only view you’re going to get is my --”
	“And can I help it if he doesn’t want to hear the story 
of Sam Clam and Larry Lobster?” Murdock continued, acting as 
though B.A. hadn’t said anything.
	“Enough with the jokes,” Face told him, crossing his 
arms in a motion of finality.
	“I don’t think I’ve heard that one,” Hannibal said, 
cutting into the men’s bantering.  His blue eyes sparkled at 
Face, telling him that the afternoon was far from over.
	“No, Hannibal, you don’t know what you’re doing,” Face 
moaned, covering his face with his hands as Murdock grinned 
widely.
	“Once upon a time, there were two fish named Larry 
Lobster and Sam Clam,” Murdock began, using the same calm 
tone despite the hostile expressions that both Face and B.A. 
were giving him.  “They were the best of friends, but one 
day, Sam died, and Larry was heartbroken.  So heartbroken, 
in fact, that he died of it himself just a few weeks later.”
	“That’s too bad,” Face said, looking out the window.  
“They get reunited, and live happily ever after.”
	“Upon his death, Larry dashed up the stairs of Heaven 
to the pearly gates where he was fitted out with his wings, 
halo and harp.  He asked Saint Peter, ‘Oh, Saint Peter, I 
have to see Sam again.  It’s been too long and I miss him 
terribly.  Can you tell me where to find him?’
	“So Peter goes to the computers and starts looking, but 
he doesn’t find anything.  He starts going through the old, 
hand-written books, but he finally closes the oldest one -- 
the one that says ‘Adam’ -- and says to Larry, ‘It looks 
like Sam went to hell.’”
	“So they get reunited and the story’s over?” Face 
repeated optimistically.
	“Let him finish,” Hannibal instructed, looking 
interested.  “Go on, Murdock.”
	“Thank you.  Larry says to him, ‘Oh, but I’ve got to 
see him again!”  Peter tells me, ‘Okay, you can visit him in 
hell, but only for twelve hours.  After that you must return 
to heaven or be damned forever.’”
	“Like you’ll be,” B.A. muttered.
	“Larry went down to see Sam in the Hellevator.”
	“Oh, that’s bad!” Face moaned.  “I hate puns!”
	Murdock smiled mysteriously before continuing.  “He 
finds Sam in hell inside a building painted entirely black, 
with neon lights around the door and ‘Club 666’ noted in 
brilliant letters.  He’s at the back, and there’s a 
wonderful reunion.”
	“Happily ever after?” Face said again.
	“They reminisced for hours, and then Larry suddenly 
looked at his watch and he saw that he had only ten minutes 
to get back to heaven.  He hugged Sam good-bye, grabbed his 
stuff, and ran up the stairs to heaven.
	“At heaven’s gates, Larry gasped to Saint Peter, ‘Did I 
make it?’  Saint Peter said, ‘Yes, with almost nine seconds 
to spare.  But there’s something not quite right about you.  
I’m not sure I can let you in, but if I know what it is, I 
might be able to fix it for you.’
	“So Larry checks himself over very carefully.  He’s got 
his wings, and he’s got his halo.  Finally, he figures it 
out.  ‘I’ve got it!’ he said to St. Peter.  ‘I left my harp 
in Sam Clam’s disco!’”
	“That’s even worse than the Hellevator!” Face moaned, 
covering his face with his hands.  “That’s horrible!  Get me 
out of here.”
	Murdock gave Face a wounded look that, for all the 
blond man knew, appeared to be sincere.  “I was only trying 
to get into the spirit of the occasion.  We’re going to San 
Francisco, right?”
	“Yeah, well...”  Face sighed.  “I suppose it could have 
been worse.  Just don’t think of one that is!”
	“Why are we goin’ up to ‘Frisco, anyway?” B.A. asked, 
keeping his eyes on the road ahead of them.  The cool mid-
September weather had caused a light fog to come in-land, 
and he was finding that he had to be extra careful with his 
beloved black van, lest it be damaged.
	“That’s San Francisco, B.A.,” Hannibal corrected.  “The 
natives get restless when they hear someone calling their 
city ‘Frisco.”
	“‘Frisco, disco,” Face added.  “What’s the job?”
	“Face, how much do you know about antiques?”
	“Uh... not much.  The older they are, the more 
expensive they are?”
	Hannibal gave him an indulgent look.  “Good try, Face.  
Antiques make nice heirlooms, and that’s what the job’s 
about.  A family named Cartwright is in trouble.  It seems 
that their house was robbed while they were away on 
vacation.  Over one million dollars worth of antiques and 
other valuables were stolen.”
	“So we’ve got to look for something that might lead to 
a dead end?” Face pouted.
	“No, not quite.  Half of the heirlooms were tracked 
down in New York a few weeks back, and everything points to 
the rest of it being in the San Francisco area.”
	“If they’ve been tracked down, why are they comin’ to 
us?” B.A. asked.
	“The San Francisco Police have been working on the 
case, but they’ve come up with nothing after several months.  
The Cartwrights are hoping that we’ll be able to succeed 
where they haven’t.”
	“I don’t like this,” Face stated.  “It’s always the 
case.  The local authorities get wind of us being there, and 
then they call in you-know-who.”
	“Decker?” Murdock offered.
	“Of course, Decker,” Face snapped.  “Who else but him?  
Ever since the Army put him on our case instead of Colonel 
Lynch, Decker and that little dweeb Crane have been getting 
a little too close for my liking.”
	“Mine, too,” B.A. agreed.
	“Ah, but you see,” Hannibal said, grinning smugly, 
“that’s why we haven’t taken the job just yet.  We’re going 
up to check it out.”
	“Oh?  Well, in that case,” the A-Team’s second said, 
sitting back in his seat, “are we there yet?”
	Face couldn’t help but grin at the dirty look B.A. gave 
him through the rear-view mirror.

	It was a slow day at the SFPD, but Daniel Robbins 
didn’t mind the change in pace.  There’d been a period of 
frenzied activity in the past few months where Robbins and 
the other detectives in the homicide department were facing 
an incredible outbreak of murders related to the drug trade 
in the city, so he felt that the slower pace of things was 
well deserved.
	Giving a satisfied sigh as he realized with 
satisfaction that there wasn’t much paperwork on his desk, 
either, Robbins leaned back into his chair, running his 
hands through his dark brown hair.  It occurred to him that 
the quiet might get irritating after a few hours, but he had 
a feeling that it wouldn’t last.
	Robbins had changed in the ten years since he graduated 
from the police academy and joined the SFPD.  Back then, 
he’d been impulsive and eager to learn, much to the 
irritation of his senior partner, Detective Mike Stone, who 
at first had been resentful of having to train yet another 
eager recruit to the homicide division.  Especially since 
his last partner, Steve Keller, had resigned from the 
department in favor of a teaching position.  Robbins and 
Stone had worked together until the younger man had finally 
achieved the promotion to full detective, and until 1979, 
when Stone had finally retired from the force in favor of 
spending more time with his family, especially with his 
daughter Jean and his new grandson, John Michael.
	A wry smile came onto Robbins’ lips at the thought of 
his old partner.  Retirement hadn’t meant that Stone would 
be completely out of the picture at the homicide department.  
He often came in, sometimes more than once a week, to see 
“how things were going.”  At first, it had irritated Robbins 
more than a little, especially since he felt that Stone was 
treading onto his territory.  Now, nearly five years after 
Stone’s retirement, the man’s bulbous face and warm smile 
was a welcomed sight.
	Reaching for his coffee mug, Robbins frowned as he 
realized that it was nearly empty.  Suppressing a sigh, he 
reluctantly got out of his chair to fetch himself some more.  
The coffee wasn’t spectacular in the homicide department, 
but held just enough caffeine to keep Robbins going through 
the day.
	The department’s coffee dispenser was located in the 
midst of what Robbins had come to think of as a common area.  
It was where the staff of the department who didn’t have 
their own separate offices like Robbins spent their work 
days, and the common area was almost a gathering place where 
they came to fetch coffee and whatever donuts might be 
available that day.  It was also there that they chatted.
	Gossiped was more the word that Robbins had in mind.  
Snatches of information about the different departments were 
exchanged along with details of current investigations, 
personal lives and anything other items of interest.  
Everyone was a possible topic of discussion, and Robbins 
knew that even he hadn’t been spared.  The process of the 
breakup with his last girlfriend had been particularly 
messy, and from what he knew, had also been discussed for 
more than a week.
	There were a few gossipers gathered when Robbins 
reached the coffee dispenser, and gauging by the way they 
didn’t clam up when he approached meant that he wasn’t a 
topic of the day.  He listened with half an ear to the 
discussion as he refilled his mug.
	“They’re getting nowhere,” he heard one say.  “From 
what I heard, they had enough informants in New York to pin 
the criminals down within a week.  Here, they’re not sure 
where to look.”
	“Who are these folks, anyway?” a second asked.
	“Some powerful family from some state like Nevada or 
something.  Their great-great-great grandfather or some 
relation like that founded a huge ranch.  Very successful, 
and they’re now more than a little wealthy.”
	“So what got stolen?”
	“Lots of stuff.  Antiques, old paintings, you name it 
along with some newer things like televisions, tape decks, 
and the like.  The family was gone on holidays or some such, 
and when they came back, found half their things missing.”
	“And who’s on the case?” a third asked.
	“Uh, Parker, I think.”
	Robbins raised an eyebrow in amusement as he finished 
getting the coffee.  No wonder they weren’t getting 
anywhere, he mused silently, if Parker was on the case.  
Jack Parker was infamous for being more than a little inept 
with cases.  It was frankly a wonder the man was still 
employed at the department, but due to having a well 
connected relative higher up in the ranks who would be more 
than a little irate should Parker be fired, the man 
remained.  To make up for his lack of ability, he was 
usually assigned the easier cases, and obviously this case 
should have been solved in a quarter of the time it was 
taking Parker.
	Shaking his head, Robbins returned to his office, 
walking past the bulletin board of notices that were 
regularly updated.  There was one piece of paper there that 
had been there for a year or more, and he rarely give it a 
second look now.  The picture that had been duplicated was 
that of four men dressed in military fatigues.  One was 
older with white hair, and the three others were younger.  
Written in bold letter were the descriptions of the four 
men, followed by the warning, “Extremely dangerous.  Contact 
US military police immediately should they be spotted.”  
There hadn’t been a sighting of the so-called A-Team since 
the notice had been posted, and Robbins barely gave it a 
second glance now.
	With a sigh, Robbins headed back to his desk.  During 
his absence, someone had entered with some files, and left 
them in a spot that begged to be read.  Taking a large gulp 
of the coffee, he sat down to go through them.

	There was too much humidity in the air, and it was 
making the fall air colder, almost penetrating to the bone.  
It wasn’t the kind of weather Virginia “Ginny” Cartwright 
liked, and she was determined that once she had everything 
she had come to this wretched place for, she’d head back to 
the Ponderosa and never, ever complain about the weather 
they had there.
	Fog and rain was the usual weather that she, her 
brother and her cousin had experienced since coming to San 
Francisco a few days before.  It had stunned them, since 
they’d only brought clothes that were suitable for sunny 
California’s fall weather.  They weren’t expecting to take a 
side trip up to rainy Seattle, as Gracie joked.
	Ginny wished that they’d never had to come here.  It 
had been a horrible discovery a few months back when they’d 
come home to their family’s ranch to discover that they’d 
been robbed.  Family possessions dating back to the 1860’s 
and later were gone.  It hadn’t taken long for the items to 
be tracked to New York, but Ginny remembered the 
disappointment she’d felt when only half was recovered.  The 
rest, she was told, looked like it was in San Francisco, 
likely to be sold on the black market into private 
collections.  The local police department would handle it, 
she was told, and that she shouldn’t worry.
	Well, she was damn well worried, and the detective in 
charge of the case, a numskull named Parker, was getting 
nowhere.  Ginny had horrible visions of their heirlooms 
being scattered around the county as Parker puttered around, 
and those visions were quickly followed of fantasies of her 
cheerfully throttling Parker.  No, she had something much 
more fun in mind.  She’d take her horse, Misty, whose sire 
was descended from the same horse her great-great-great 
grandfather had ridden, and would proceed to tie a rope to 
the back of Misty’s saddle.  The rope would, of course, be 
attached to Parker’s leg, and she’d give the command for 
Misty to gallop.
	Grinning, Ginny shook her head.  Fantasy or not, it 
wasn’t going to get them anywhere.  Parker was obviously 
inept, and that’s where their next move lay.
	It had been her idea to contact the A-Team.  She forgot 
now how exactly she’d come into possession of the 
information, but it was something like a friend of a cousin 
of friend of the roommate of an acquaintance had been helped 
by the A-Team, and had passed the information on.  And so 
here they were now, in the middle of the San Francisco Zoo, 
waiting for someone to meet them in front of the Australian 
animals exhibit.
	Sighing impatiently, Ginny looked about them.  The only 
other humans beside her group were some zookeepers not too 
far away.  The only other visitors to the zoo were heading 
away the exhibit, while a lone man was taking in a long look 
at the wallabies.
	“Are you sure they’re coming?” Joseph, her brother, 
asked for what must have been the fifth time in the past ten 
minutes.  Just leaving his teens, Joseph was attempting to 
shrug off the shorter form of his name, Joe, which had been 
in the family for generations.  He had the same lanky but 
well built figure that most of the men in their family 
possessed, but he had an annoying tendency to sometimes 
slouch slightly, which made him look shorter than he 
actually was.
	“Yes, Joseph.”  Ginny couldn't keep the annoyance out 
of her voice.  "They said they'd be here at about two 
o'clock.  What time is it now?"
	“Three minutes to the hour,” he said after consulting 
with his watch.
	“Exactly.  Three minutes before they're late.”
	Resuming her survey of the area, Ginny noticed one of 
the zookeepers heading over in their direction.  Despite the 
gloomy weather, he was whistling loudly, and wore a large 
hat that would have normally protected him from the sun -- 
had there been any.  White hair peered from underneath its 
brim.  He was followed by another man, this time with blond 
hair, who seemed to be hanging onto every word the older 
zookeeper was saying.  As they approached, Ginny could hear 
that they both were using heavy Australian accents.
	"I'm telling you, the animals’ll be in good company if 
and when those koalas arrive,” the white haired man was 
saying.  His accent made the a’s sound stretched, and Ginny 
had a bit of difficulty understanding his rapid syllables.  
“I hear they’ll be arriving just after everything is 
finished.”
	“If they finish on-time, that is,” the other returned, 
a frown on his handsome face.  “If not, we’ll be right 
bloody screwed if the animals don’t have a home.”
	The older zookeeper nodded, then turned his attention 
to the visitors that were loitering about.  “G’day, misses 
and sir.  Lovely weather we’re havin’, isn’t it?”
	Ginny gave him a slight smile.  “It’s horrible 
weather.”
	“Ah, but that’s what makes San Francisco its colorful 
character,” he continued, not put off by her negative 
response.  “Anyway, what d’ya think of the koala space?”
	Exchanging a glance with Gracie, who was still keeping 
her eye out for the A-Team representative, Ginny felt her 
smile grow a little stretched.  “It’s nice, I suppose.”
	“Nice?” a voice scoffed, and she turned to see the man 
who had been watching the wallabies coming up to him.  He 
was taller than both Joseph and the two zookeepers, with a 
partially balding thatch of brown hair.  Two intense brown 
eyes loomed out from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.  
“Keep those animals where they belong -- in Australia!”
	The two zookeepers glanced at each other, almost 
rolling their eyes, before the older one spoke.  “Mister 
Fenton, I presume?”
	The man straightened, giving a beaming smile before 
frowning.  “George Fenton, that’s right.  University of 
Brisbane, Queensland, Australia.  Ph.D, M.D., KPD.”
	“KPD?” Joseph repeated.
	“Aye,” came the reply.  “Koala Protection Department.  
My dear young American friends, the koalas are an endangered 
species, with the risk of extinction looming over their 
heads!  Humans have no right to move these animals to a land 
that isn’t their home!  How would you like to suddenly be 
taken millions of miles away from your home against your 
will?”
	Joseph flashed a grin at his sister.  “I can only 
wonder.”
	“Ah, I see you understand!” Fenton replied, bending 
down to reach into the small bag he’d been holding.  He 
pulled out a clipboard that was thick with paper.  Reaching 
into a jacket pocket, he pulled out a grubby pen and handed 
it to Ginny.  “I’ve got a petition to fight this inhumane 
treatment of those poor creatures.  I’d be eternally 
grateful if you would scratch your lovely name down on it.”
	Gracie, still at her post, giggled; it wasn’t every man 
who had the guts to flirt with Virginia Benjamina 
Cartwright.  Smiling slightly, Ginny accepted the board and 
pen from Fenton, then read over the first few lines on the 
paper.
	“Name?” was all that was written.  Raising an eyebrow, 
Ginny looked up at Fenton.
	“There’s more than one page to the petition,” he said 
apologetically.  “Bureaucrats, what can you expect?”
	Carefully, she printed out her name, then flipped to 
the next page.  “Birth date?”
	“What kind of survey is that?” Joseph asked.
	“A detailed one,” she mused, quickly writing in July 
5th, 1960.  Turning to the third page, she saw two more 
questions.  “A very, very detailed one....”
	They asked for a social security number, and their 
mother’s maiden name.  Ginny filled them out, then found 
that she was at the end of the so-called survey.  Smiling, 
she handed the clipboard back to Fenton, who fussed over the 
sheets one they were in his hands.
	“Ten minutes after,” Gracie notified her.  Punctuality 
was a quality that had been drilled into them from 
childhood, and if someone were late, it didn’t bode well for 
the rest of the individual’s character.  “They’re officially 
late.”
	“Damn,” Ginny muttered, then shook her head.  “Well, I 
guess that means we’re stuck with Parker.  It was worth a 
shot.”
	“Just a minute,” Fenton called before they could leave.  
He thrust out a piece of paper at her.  “Read it, please?”
	She obliged, and to her astonishment, the words, 
“Congratulations, you have hired the A-Team,” were scrawled 
out in large block letters.  Ginny looked up at Fenton, then 
noticed the two grinning zookeepers.
	“You’re the A-Team?” she asked, looking from one face 
to the next.
	“Yes, ma’am,” the older zookeeper said, dropping all 
hints of his accent as he pulled his hat off, then made a 
slight bow.  “Most of us, anyway.  Hannibal Smith at your 
service, and if I may suggest, there’s a lovely cafe not too 
far away, where we could discuss business.”
	A relieved smile appeared on Ginny’s face.  “I’d be 
delighted.”