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THE BEAUTIFUL GALACTIC GAME

PROLOGUE

Juan Carlos Arena Vega took a long, deep breath of the chilled night 
air as he gazed into the depths of Milky Way.  He stood at the edge of 
the drop-off at the base of the main observatory dome.  Only a small 
guardrail separated him from the plunge of nearly a thousand feet.  
The black night, peppered with a myriad of pinpoint stars and painted 
with great celestial clouds seemed to envelop him, lifting him from the 
face of the Earth. He could imagine himself flying, soaring through the 
universe, reaching out.  
Reaching out to find the others.  Whoever they were, whatever they 
were, they had to be out there, somewhere.  He could not accept that 
Humans were the sole inhabitants of Universe.  
No.  Impossible. /Es imposible./
Growing up in Santiago, Chile, the stars had been faint flickers through 
the city’s haze -- of no consequence to a young boy who cared only 
about his friends and beating them at a good game of /futbol/.  
Soccer, in fact, had been his life and his passion.  he followed his 
favorite teams and cheered the Chilean National Team, la Roja, in all 
of its competitions.  And he vowed that, he too, one day, would feel 
the roar of the crowd as they cheered on their team. 
Stars, faint lights in a hazy evening sky, meant nothing to him.  until, 
that is, he took a hiking trip with his father when he was seven.  
They drove to the Andean foothills and hiked straight up into 
Universe.  He remembered it as if it were yesterday.  They had driven 
into the national preserve in the midmorning, set up camp in a clearing 
that looked to the east, towards Argentina.  They had hiked and 
explored until, tired from the altitude and excitement, he had slipped 
into his tent to sleep for several hours.  
When he awoke, it was night, but not the obscure darkness like back 
in Santiago, where lights from the city traffic forever filled his 
bedroom.  No, it was black.  For a brief moment, he panicked, 
screaming, crying frantically for his father.  /Papi/ had rushed into the 
tent, not bothering to locate a flashlight, to grab his son and comfort 
him, to remind him of where they were.
“Ven,” he had said quietly, “Mira el Cielo.”  /Come.  Look at the 
Heavens./
Holding his father’s hand, he had slipped out of the tent and into a 
world he had never know existed.  Stars, millions and millions of them, 
swarming across the black skies.  
At that instant in his life a new passion gipped him -- the desire to 
explore those vast Heavens and to reach out into the universe.  Years 
later, after an injured knee ended for certain any true dream of being 
a “footballer,” he had focused on his other dream and had earned his 
masters in physics and astronomy. 
Now, he worked as one of the scientists at the La Silla Observatory.  
Their projects included a wide variety of objectives, including the 
search for earth-like planets around other stars.  It was that concept 
that fascinated him the most.  He knew, he just /knew,/ that there had 
to be intelligent life out there, somewhere.   Somewhere.
So, as a personal project and as a diversion, he had built his own radio 
telescope, but not with the intention of listening for signals.  No, he 
had another idea.  Just for amusement.  He created a short digital 
recording, and every evening, he aimed his radio telescope at a 
different location in the sky to transmit his recording out into space.  
He chose his coordinates at random, sometimes letting his computer 
choose or using numbers related to nonsensical things, such as the 
birth dates of Chilean Footballers.  It as all just for fun, anyway.  A 
joke, really, among the astronomers and scientists, because while he 
had included about three minutes of serious, scientific footage to 
describe the Earth, the majority of the recording consisted of 
highlights from the Chilean National Team’s victory over France in the 
2010 World Cup quarter finals and ended with the words, “Viva la 
Roja!”  
***



 




PART ONE  
 
“I don’t think . . .”  
 
Sheba held a finger to Apollo’s lips, then cupped his face in her hands.  “The duty roster 
can wait.  Boxey’s already spending the night with a friend.  We don’t get many chances 
like this.”  As she spoke, she leaned in to lightly kiss his lips, then stepped back.  “Well, 
if you don’t want to go, I’ll just go alone.  I could use a some peace and quiet.”  She 
turned to walk away, the smile on her lips hidden.  
 
“Wait!”  Apollo fell into step beside her.  “Since you put it that way . . .”  
 
Sheba said nothing but flashed him a grin as she quickened her pace.  Apollo was sweet 
and dependable -- and predictable.  And had he not been exhausted, from long-range 
patrols, training sessions with the cadets, and a high-energy round of triad, she knew he 
would have thought of visiting the Celestial Dome on his own.  Sometimes, the captain 
just needed a little subtle prompting.  “Come on, fly boy,” she murmured as she broke 
into a jog.  
 
*****  
 
Apollo let the huge hatch drop into place, and the roar of the Galactica’s engines abruptly 
vanished.  Sliding off his ear protectors, he watched as Sheba shook her hair free after 
removing her own.  Even in the dim emergency lighting, her eyes sparkled.  He felt his 
heartbeat quicken as he watched her.  Lords, but it /had/ been too long since they had 
come here, so long that it had not even occurred to him this evening. Life had become too 
routine, yet filled with responsibilities to where it drained him just to think about it: 
taking care of Boxey, managing the squadrons, coordinating cadet training, and more.  
 
Triad was his one his escape, outside of monotonous patrols.  Sitting in a cockpit for 
centars on end, however, did not compare to the release he felt when playing triad.  For 
the 50 centons in which he and Starbuck were on the court, he could lose himself in the 
thrill of the adrenaline rush and the chance to just let go.      And there was a reason that 
the two were the long-standing champions.  When on the court, he and Starbuck could 
simply /connect./ They could sense each other’s intentions and intended movements as if 
reading minds.  The sensation was euphoric, almost, and playing hard, losing himself in 
the sport and pushing himself to his limits did more than anything else to cleanse his 
mind and spirit.  
 
Well, almost anything else . . . Apollo stared as Sheba took a step towards him, a sly 
smile on her lips.  The ear protectors clattered to the floor as he reached out to pull her 
against him.  
 
“Don’t you want to open the dome,”  Sheba whispered, breathing deeply as Apollo 
pressed his lips against her throat.  
 
“Maybe later . . .”  He buried his face in her hair against her cheek and pulled her tight, 
arms wrapped around her.  For several microns, he held the embrace, inhaling her sweet 
scent, savoring it.  Slowly, slowly, he kissed her throat, her chin.  
 
“Lords of Kobol . . .” Sheba took in another deep breath and ran her fingers through his 
hair, pulling him even closer.  
 
Finally, Apollo pulled back, but only enough to slip his hands inside her flight jacket and 
slide it smoothly off her shoulders.  Sheba finished the movement for him and  tossed the 
jacket aside with a flirting flourish.  Taking another step back, she grinned and ran her 
fingers through her hair as she twirled slowly as if to a silent rhythm, rotating her hips in 
a movement that set Apollo’s heart pounding against his chest.    The captain reached out 
to grab her hand and joined the dance.  With the only sound that of their boots against the 
steel floor, the two flowed to the silent music.  
 
For several centons, they danced, bodies swaying together, Sheba’s cheek pressed against 
Apollo’s, moving as one slowly around the console that stood in the center of the 
Celestial Dome.  As they reached the far side, Apollo, still rocking from side to side to 
the imagined beat, pulled back to arms length to gaze into her face, still beautiful even in 
the dark red glow of the emergency lighting.  
 
“Sheba,” the captain began, then broke off.  For the first time, he noticed the blinking 
yellow pulse coming from behind the lieutenant.  Apollo froze.  
 
“What?” Sheba asked, perplexed by the captain’s sudden change in demeanor -- and just 
when things were getting interesting.  “Apollo!” she said, with more than a hint of 
exasperation in he voice.  
 
“Look,” Apollo said in a whisper, pointing to the console behind her.  
 
Sheba turned to stare.  It took slightly longer than a micron for her to realize what it 
meant.  “That’s signal interceptor, isn’t it?’  she said quietly, taking a slow breath.  
 
“Yeah . . .” Apollo said, his voice trailing off as he moved towards the console.  Several 
sectars previously, the captain had, by chance, picked up a signal of unknown origins 
while playing around with the old navigational instruments.  Given the discovery, soon 
afterwards, of a Base Ship, most had thought the signal a Cylon decoy.  But Apollo had 
not believed that.  To him, it had been too sophisticated of a ploy for the Cylons.  No, he 
was had been convinced a that it had been a signal from a source in the direction of their 
current heading.  As such, with Boomer’s help, he had set up a recorder that would 
activate should any further signals be detected.  
 
And so he had gone to check the device daily, then every few days, then every secton, 
then  . . . once in a while.  Always, the recorder had remained silent, with no evidence of 
activity.  
 
Until now.