Battlestar Galactica: A Break in the Action
by Fran Severn <fsevern@mindspring.com>
All Feedback is HIGHLY encouraged!

     Brie Roland crouched low and studied the undercarriage of her Viper. The
ground crew had polished it to a dull gleam. No trace of dirt, oil or carbon
scoring marred the smooth metal. 
     Rising, she ran her fingers along the top of the fins and the engine
nacelles. She closed her eyes and let her fingertips search for any flaw in
the ship's skin. She could hear her flight instructor's litany, "Don't look;
your eyes will tell you everything's fine. But your hands will give you the
real story." She stretched up on her tip-toes to finish her pre-flight. It
annoyed her, being so short. It seemed undignified for a fighter pilot.
Another sign that she was probably out of her league.      
     She glanced across the fighter bay, where her flight leader was finishing
his own pre-flight. Lt. Starbuck moved with a casual confidence of someone who
was totally in his element. He caressed the sides of his Viper, eager to fly,
and said something to his crew chief, Jenny. She nodded and flipped the hatch
of the starboard engine nacelle. They peered inside, Starbuck reaching past
her to fuss with something out of sight. Jenny answered a question or two,
then locked down the hatch. Starbuck said something else, and Jenny laughed.
     "Everything ok?" Her crew chief, Magness, had materialized next to her.
     "Seems to be," Brie answered. "Anything I should know about?"
     Magness shook his head. A tall, gangly man, he seemed thin and wiry
enough to slip himself into any niche of the engine compartment. The best 
crew chiefs think of the planes as extensions of themselves and take the 
condition of the craft as a personal statement, Brie knew. Magness was 
one of the best. Brie liked the way he fussed with the Viper, even 
vacuuming the cockpit after flights. Back home, you could buy paper 
cut-outs impregnated with various scents and hang them in personal 
vehicles to freshen the air. Brie bet Magness would've hung one in her 
Viper. If he could have found one. If there was a place in the Viper to 
hang it. She sighed. It wasn't the big things she missed since the 
destruction of the Colonies by the Cylons. It was the little things.
Like stupid paper air fresheners.
     "All set?"
     Brie whipped around, startled out of her reverie. Starbuck was standing
the rear of the Viper, eyebrows raised in question.
     "Yep." She scrambled up the loading ramp to the cockpit.
     "Now remember," Starbuck said. "Just relax. All you have to do to make
this baby respond is think about what you want to do."
     Brie nodded as she pulled on her helmet. She'd heard this lecture from
Starbuck at least a dozen times. It never seemed to help.
     "I know. I know," she said. 
     "Good." He slapped her on the shoulder. "See you outside."
     Brie shut her eyes as she waited for Starbuck to strap in and signal the
bridge that the patrol was ready for launch. What was she doing in the cockpit
of a fighter craft anyway? She was a shuttle pilot, and a damn good one, too,
dammit. She'd only been drafted for fighter duty because the fleet was so
desperately short of experienced pilots of any type. That she could handle a
shuttle and land it on the deck of a battlestar or smaller ship was an
irresistible asset, as far as Col. Tigh was concerned. He'd waved her protests
away with a lecture on the desperate situation of the fleet. She had all the
skills needed to be a Viper pilot, he'd said, and he couldn't them let go
untapped.
     Brie didn't share the Colonel's high regard for her talents. Every time
she headed out on patrol, she was painfully aware of her inexperience. The
flight leaders were patient with her, as they were with all of the green
pilots, but she suspected that they discussed her in less-than-glowing terms
when she wasn't around.
     It might not matter much longer, anyway. The Cylons might never win in a
direct battle, but the constant skirmishes were giving them the edge in the
war of attrition. The number of Viper pilots and the number of Vipers
themselves were shrinking, and not so slowly. The Cylons could rearm and
replace their lost fighters apparently at will. The Colonists, on the run,
weren't so fortunate. There were plenty of people willing to train as fighter
pilots, and they could qualify -- in simulators.
     The problem was getting the planes. The foundry ship could turn out
Vipers, shuttles and most anything else the fleet needed, but the raw
material, the metals the foundry required, wasn't available. Every square inch
of every ship in the fleet had been scoured and there simply was no more scrap
metal to be found. There was nothing with which to build more planes.
     Once the numbers dropped low enough, the Cylons could move in at will. 
     
     "Transferring control to Viper craft." Bridge Officer Rigel's calm voice
came through her helmet. "Launch when ready." Brie hit the three switches that
primed her engines. As their familiar whine grew, the panel instruments
confirmed that they were generating power. In her peripheral vision, she saw
Starbuck give the thumbs up to Jenny. The crew chief returned the signal and
swung her arm into a salute. Starbuck hit his thrusters and his Viper blasted
out of sight down the launch tube. As soon as he disappeared, Brie and Magness
repeated the motions, and she hit the middle switch of her control stick.
     Her head slapped the back of her seat as the Viper shot forward. The
walls of the launch tube blurred as the craft gained speed, the whine of 
the engines spooling higher as they fully engaged. Then she was out of 
the protective walls of the battlestar and into the cool darkness of space.
      "You with me?" Starbuck asked.
     "I've got you," she answered. She swung the stick in the direction of
Starbuck's Viper. Immediately, she knew she had over-controlled. Her ship
arced steeply away from Starbuck's trajectory.
     "Easy, easy!" she told herself. She relaxed her grip on the stick and
found Starbuck's plane weaving out of sight behind a tired-looking freighter.
That ship held some portion of the surviving remnants of humanity. She was
duty bound, honor bound to protect them. Brie shuttered despite herself. If
she had to learn every trick Starbuck knew, she would. The alternative was too
frightening to consider. She pointed the nose of her Viper toward the
vanishing glow of Starbuck's afterburner.

     "Patrol launched, Commander." Rigel glanced up from her panel. 
     From his command seat, Adama surveyed the display panels across the
bridge. All stations read normal. He allowed himself the rare moment of
relaxation. 
     "Very good," he answered. It was too good to last, he knew, but for the
moment, things were quiet. No Cylons were breathing down his neck. The fleet
was tucked into a quadrant blessed with enough debris from some ancient
planetary breakup to mislead Cylon probes and discourage patrols. That was
buying him some much-needed time. Part of him wondered what devilment Baltar
and the Cylon Empire were plotting, but he was taking advantage of the lull to
tend to the fleet.
     "Tigh." He signaled to his Vice-Commander. "What is the status of the
Borion and the Shuler?"
     Colonel Tigh studied his ever-present report pads as he mounted the steps
to Adama's chair. "Not good. The Shuler can probably be repaired, but the
condition of the Borion is dismal." He touched the readout of his pad. "She
was in dry dock when the Colonies were destroyed, scheduled to be scrapped.
She's nearly 80 yarens old. She shouldn't be beyond a planetary atmosphere,
much less trying to make light-speed jumps."
     "How many passengers are on board?"
     "One hundred forty two. We can move them to other ships."
     "The other ships are crowded as it is."
     "We'll manage that, sir."
     Adama smiled. He knew Tigh viewed his job as taking care of the details,
freeing Adama to concentrate on more pressing things, like strategy, tactics
and puzzling out where Earth might be. No doubt the Colonel already had a plan
for evacuating the Borion and knew exactly where those one hundred forty two
souls would be moved.
     If Tigh tried to spare Adama needless details, he could also bury the
Commander with them when he thought it was necessary. This was one of those
times.
     "The big loss, Commander, is that, well, the Borion is one of our largest
hydroponics ships. We'll lose a lot of food-making capability when we lose
her."
     That was something Adama hadn't wanted to hear. There were grow tanks,
potted vegetable plants, and forced sproutings all over the fleet. Artificial
lighting allowed crops of one sort or another to grow in the most unlikely
places. He hadn't personally checked it out, but he'd even heard of pots
mounted on the higher walls of the head of an interstellar tanker. 
     Even with that, food was precious and rationed. There was enough to go
around -- just. He hated artificial compounds, but the fleet dietitians had
concocted protein bars. They supplied the proper nutrients, but looked and
tasted like something developed in a laboratory. They were standard issue in
the Viper survival packs, but otherwise, weren't generally used. He hoped they
never had to be.
     Adama sighed. Another setback to be dealt with. Another problem to be
solved. He rubbed his temples. He was tired of thinking, of planning, of
trying to outwit Baltar and the Cylons, of dealing with the constant
infighting of the Council of Twelve. When had that august body mutated from a
panel of leaders to a gaggle of sycophants? Where were the statesmen? 
     He closed his eyes. What he'd give for a day, just one day, of no
decisions, no demands, no responsibilities. What celestial body had he so
deeply offended that his penance was the eternal purgatory of Cylons and the
care of the fleet?
     "Commander?" Tigh's voice cut through Adama's musing.
     "Hmmm?" The trouble with being the Commander was that you lived on the
bridge, and there's no privacy on a bridge. You have to be a leader all of the
time.
     "Might I suggest that this will also be a good time to handle repairs on
some of the other ships, sir? A lot of minor complaints have been ignored
lately. As long as things are quiet..."
     A trap, a trap. Adama's internal warning system went off. He remembered a
bit of graffiti he'd seen once on a side street of the arts district of
Caprica. "Just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they aren't out to get
you."
     "Very good, Tigh. Just make sure were aren't so over-extended that we
can't button up and move quickly if we need to."
     Tigh tilted his head in understanding and moved to the control panel.
     "You look tired."
     Adama swiveled in his seat. Apollo, his son, frowned at him. As always,
looking at the face of his first-born reminded him of Ila, his wife, lost to
the Cylons. Apollo had inherited his mother's high cheekbones and broad mouth.
Even at her most serious, that feature made her look as though she was always
close to smiling. For Apollo, it gave him the appearance of confidence, no
matter the situation. A useful trait for a squadron leader.
     "I don't know which is worse: knowing when Baltar is on the move or
wondering what he's up to when he's not."
     Apollo's smile was genuine now. "Oh, that's all."
     Adama returned the grin. "That's all."
     "I just wanted to tell you Starbuck's patrol is on its way."
     Adama motioned toward Rigel's station. "I know. When do you expect to
hear from them?"
     He checked the monitors. "Hard to tell. Starbuck's Viper has all of the
new sensors on it. He'll want to try out everything before he contacts us."
     "Like a kid at Solstice." 
     "Absolutely. Open all the presents under the icon and play with all the
toys."
     "What about the other plane?"
     "Brie's his wingman. Her Viper has standard gear. We figured we should
send one Viper out unmodified, until we know the new equipment works."
     Tigh rejoined them. "If it works as advertised, it will give us a real
edge over the Cylons. Better sensors and a superb positioning system."
     "Dr. Wilker says the positioning system increases our range by 80%. Think
what that means for our patrols," Apollo said gleefully.
     "And the  sensors are much more sophisticated," Tigh added. "They still
aren't as good as those on the Galactica, but they're much more capable of
giving accurate initial composition analysis."
     Their enthusiasm was catching. Adama felt his gloomy mood receding. "And
where did you send Starbuck to play with his new toys?"
     Apollo moved to the plotting board behind Adama's seat. "There's a solar
system out here that long-range scans indicated might have some Omega-class
bodies. We could never risk sending a patrol out that far without the new
positioning system."
     "But you aren't sure it will work," Adama said.
     "Starbuck will stay ahead of his wingman," Tigh said from behind him.
"Just within her tracking range. If the positioning system doesn't work, it
will fade out before Brie loses her fix on the fleet...or Starbuck."
     "And if it does work?
     "It's Starbuck's call," Apollo said. "He can leave Brie to act as a
beacon if he's not real comfortable with the performance of the 
equipment, or they can finish the survey together."

     "You want to try some maneuvers?" Starbuck asked.
     Brie jumped. She was concentrating so hard on maintaining her formation
with her patrol leader that she'd blocked out everything else.
     "Maneuvers?" she asked shakily.
     "Yeah. We're clear of the fleet and that debris, so we don't have to
follow all the operational rules. No speed limits. No restricted maneuvers.
Out here, we can have fun."
     She could see Starbuck grinning at her from his Viper. 
     "I never thought of a dogfight as fun," she said.
     "Only when you're winning them," Starbuck agreed. "But there're aren't
any Cylons out here. Just your Viper and all the empty space you can 
imagine. Go on," he urged. "Give me a snap roll."
     Brie felt herself tense. She hated precision moves. Straight and level
was what she enjoyed. Predictable, formatted. She could fly any approach 
by the numbers, no matter how arcane, but improvisation scared her.
     "Shouldn't we be heading for the system?" she asked.
     "Plenty of time," Starbuck assured her. "You need to work on your
maneuvers," he added, as if she didn't know that. His voice lost some of its
lightness. "Come on, snap roll to the right on my count. Three, two, one,
now!"
     Obediently, Brie pushed the stick to the right. The Viper rolled on its
horizontal axis, but too quickly. The nose dropped and Brie felt the plane
start to tumble.
     "Center your stick!" Starbuck yelled over the headset.
     The Viper nosed down, but stopped rolling. Brie gently eased back on the
controls and the plane returned to level flight.
     "Sorry," she mumbled.
     "It works better when you keep an eye on the artificial horizon,"
Starbuck said. "Gently, gently. You've got the bank indicators all around 
the perimeter of the instrument. Use them. Just nudge the stick until 
you're where you want to be. Try it again."
     Taking a deep breath, Brie focused on the artificial horizon. She forced
herself to rest only her fingertips on the stick and barely nudged the control
to the right. The Viper happily rolled while Brie applied just the lightest
pressure to keep the nose of the plane on the white line marking the horizon. 
     "That's the way," she heard Starbuck say. Her mouth was dry and tasted
metallic.
     Halfway there. Atmospherics would be trying to force the nose down, but
in the void of zero-G, there was nothing that wouldn't allow her to roll 
over and over and over. Her pressure on the stick was all that controlled 
the pitch.
     Then she was through the roll and leveling out.
     "Beautiful!" Starbuck said. 
     "Yeah!" Brie said.  She swallowed and released the breath she'd been
holding for too long. "I finally got it," she said shakily.
     "Now we can finish the survey," Starbuck told her. 

     It was an easy enough mission, try out some new equipment, check out some
unexplored planets. The sort of thing Starbuck usually found boring. By
rights, he should be using the lull in the fighting to relax and rest up. The
Cylons would be back soon enough.
     But where in the hell do you go to relax on a battlestar that's on
permanent combat status? Visit another ship? They were all crowded with
refugees, not all of whom thought of Colonial Warriors as saviors or heroes.
When things were going well, that was one thing. But let there be some little
glitch in their lives -- the Cylons scoring a hit on one of the passenger
ships, for instance, or the Commander tightening up on the rationing system --
then they were the scum that allowed the destruction of their homes. 
     He was tired of crowds. He tried to remember the last time he'd had a
place totally to himself. Maybe when he was a little kid, back on Umbra,
before the Cylons attacked his colony. Maybe he'd had a room of his own. But
the Cylons had attacked, whatever home he'd had was wiped out, and he was
shipped off to an orphanage, sleeping in a dormitory room with a dozen kids
his age, then another dorm at the Academy, and now the wardroom on the
Galactica. Chances were if he did find a solitary spot, he wouldn't be able to
stand it.
     "Ok, here's the drill," he radioed to Brie. "You let me know when your
fix on the Galactica is at maximum range."
     "We're about there already," she answered.
     "Really?" Starbuck studied his instruments. He'd been musing for longer
than he thought. "Wow. My signal couldn't be stronger if I was still in the
launch bay."
     "So do I stay here?"
     Starbuck chewed that over. Always cautious, Col. Tigh wanted him to press
on alone, but if the positioning system was this powerful, there was no reason
Brie couldn't stay with him.
     "You come with me."
     "What if your system fails?"
     "Run the numbers."
     "Huh?"
     "We keep track of all turns, our speed, and our vectors. If we have to,
we just do it all in reverse. It's just a matter of keeping track of the
numbers."
     "Is that the secret of your success at Pyramid?"
     "Don't tell," Starbuck laughed. "Flying, gambling. It's all just running
the numbers. After a while, it's not even conscious effort. With cards, you
feel what the hand'll be. With flying, the plane tells you what it'll do for
you."
     "I don't know that I'll ever get to that point."
     "Your problem is that you think too much. Don't do the math, just let it
become instinctive."
     
     "Report, Centurion."
     "By your command. Our sensors show no sign of Galactica or its fleet.
Patrols have not detected any signs of Colonial warrior fighter craft in any
sector which would be a logical vector from Galactica's last known
coordinates."
     Seated on his throne high above the audience chamber, Baltar scowled.
That was simply not right. There was no possible way that Adama and his 
pitiful fleet could have vanished so totally.
     "Then check the illogical vectors!" he snapped at the Centurion. He
fervently wished the Cylons had human faces, so he could savor the abashed
expression a human underling would wear at his rebuke. 
     Unfortunately, not only did the Cylons have no expression, they had no
emotions. The Centurion merely bowed and repeated, "By your command" as it
left.
     "By your command; by your command," Baltar mimicked. "My command is that
you find and destroy the Galactica!" he cried at the departing Cylon's silver
back.
     Damn Adama and his infernal luck. His fighters had tricked him, of that
Baltar was certain. Heading off in the wrong direction, sending signals and
radio messages from half a dozen different points, totally confusing their
Cylon hunters. Then, nothing. Total radio silence. No fighter patrols. It was
as if Adama's fleet had shut down and gone into space dry dock. Was there such
a thing? Baltar wondered. His experience was in purchase and sales, not
shipping. His goods were cubits and prestige, not cargo.
      He spun his throne in a slow circle. "I don't know what you're up to,
Adama, but you can't hide forever," he whispered. "I'll find you. All of you.
Then my Centurions will follow my command to its fullest."

     In his quarters, Adama traced a finger along the orbits of a drawing 
Boxey had done. It was a solar system Adama half-remembered from the ancient
writings of the Lords of Kobol. Boxey labored hard on the drawing, presenting
it to Apollo as a gift. It was at a dinner celebrating the return of Apollo,
Starbuck and Boomer after a long mission. Starbuck had studied the drawing
closely. He'd seen a similar drawing on the walls of a building he'd been in
while on the mission, he said, but one of the planets was in a different
position. 
     Adama had grilled the Lieutenant about it and the other drawings he'd
seen. There wasn't much more information for Starbuck to tell. Cylons attacked
shortly after he saw the drawing and the building was destroyed in the battle.

     Adama was aware of Starbuck's ability to embellish a story, but not this
time. The Lieutenant knew better than most how important every morsel of
information about the trail of the 13th Colony was to them all. Besides, Boxey
was proud of his handiwork, and Starbuck was sensitive not to hurt the child's
feelings by criticizing him.
     The door chimed softly.
     "Enter," he said.
     Tigh came in, his hands full of report pads and his face full of worry.
     "Surely it can't be that bad," Adama said.
     "There are a lot more ships that need work than I thought," Tigh said. He
dropped the pads on Adama's desk. They scattered across the workspace, a few
tumbling to the floor.
     Tigh ducked down to retrieve them. "I sent out a message to the fleet,
asking all captains to inform me of any needed repairs."
     "Be careful what you ask for, Colonel. You may get it."
     "Tell me about it," he said from the floor. He surfaced with the pads in
his hand. "A lot of people have been patching up things on their own and not
telling me about it. Either that, or I'm getting a wish list to repair every
rust spot or stripped screw in the fleet."
     "Probably somewhere in between."
     "Probably," Tigh agreed. "I have them in some sort of priority. Those
that effect vessel integrity have the highest priority, then engine 
efficiency, then mission effectiveness. You know, can the ship do 
whatever task we've assigned it? Lastly is passenger comfort, although a 
lot of the requests deal with that first."
     "Of course," Adama said. "So what is the status?"
     "We'll be able to evacuate the Borion's passengers and about half of its
hydroponics tanks within the next 48 hours. Most importantly, I've had the
engineers and salvage crews survey the ship. They think we'll be able to scrap
her and turn all of the metal over to the foundry ship!" Tigh fairly glowed. 
     "That's wonderful news!" The freighter was big. There was enough metal in
her to cast dozens of Vipers, create repair plates for other ships, build a
new shuttle or two. 
     "It gets better," Tigh added. He thoroughly enjoyed bringing Adama good
news. He didn't get to do it often enough, and he felt irrationally guilty
when circumstances forced him to pass on yet another gloomy report or piece of
bad news.
     The Commander raised an eyebrow, waiting for Tigh to continue.
     "The debris field creates a good screen for the operations of the foundry
ship. The heat registration it gives off is immense. It dissipates rapidly, of
course, but it's there to be detected. Rigel has run some simulations and
tells me that the registration is similar to that caused by colliding debris.
It doesn't hold up to close analysis, but a casual scan would write it off."
     "Very good."
     "Which leads me to another suggestion." Tigh was less cheerful now. "I'd
like to suggest that we consolidate several of the older, less stable ships.
As long as we are here, we can scrap them and give the foundry even more raw
materials."
     "Move more of our people into the remaining ships? Tigh, they're crowded
enough as it is."
     "I know that, sir." He held up one of the pads. "But it's only a matter
of time when we'll have to do it. I'd rather shift people now, when 
things are quiet, than to lose a ship in the middle of a Cylon action or 
have a reactor go critical at a critical time and send a beacon to the 
Cylons, telling them where we are."
     The trouble with Tigh was that his thinking, while often pessimistic, was
usually effective for contingency planning.     
     "Let's move one ship at a time," Adama said. "Finish with the Borion --
that means everything -- evacuation and salvage. When that's completely done,
we'll review the situation."
     Tigh nodded. "Very well." He motioned toward the drawing spread open on
Adama's desk. "You'll have a new course by then?"
     He and Tigh had known each other too long for Adama to maintain airs. "I
don't know," he admitted. "One reason we stopped here is because I don't know
where to go next. Tigh, I've followed up every lead and poured through the
ship's library -- not just the Galactica's, but every volume in every vessel.
I'm coming up cold. I'm holding the present course because I have no 
reason to alter it."
     "Rally rules," Tigh said.
     "What?"
     "Back home, on Caprica, we used to have a contest with our personal
vehicles. Someone would lay out a course, usually through the countryside.
They'd give you a collection of vague directions and tricky clues, and you'd
try to follow the trail to its end. It was all along back roads and places
where you'd never been. 
     "One of the first rules was to never alter your course unless you had a
reason to do so. You might pass a half a dozen perfectly good turns, but if
the clues didn't specifically tell you to deviate, you stayed on your existing
course."
     "It worked?" Adama asked.
     Tigh looked smug. "I was considered one of the best rallyists around."
     "Rally rules it is then, Colonel."

     "What do your sensors show?"
     "Not much. It's a moon, and there's not much atmosphere, and there're
some mineral deposits. Kind of like most moons in the galaxy. How about you?"
     "This is really amazing." Starbuck's disembodied voice held an element of
awe. "What atmosphere there is is really bad. You'd need breathing and
survival gear to be on the surface. But those mineral deposits look like
Tylium."
     "Hot damn!"
     "I'll second that. Not high grade, but looks like it's useable. Anyway,
this is one to take back home."
     "Think they'll send out a survey team?"
     "You can bet on that. If there's a way to mine any of this, it'll be a
gift from the gods for the fleet."
     Brie relaxed a little. This was going well. Starbuck reported that his
positioning system was practically purring, and now the sensors were living up
to their promise.
     It was a small system, only three planets, one with a moon. The outermost
planet was barren of anything they needed and with an atmosphere swarming with
noxious gasses stirred by tornadic winds. The next was merely a frozen,
ice-encrusted rock. Starbuck wondered if it might not be a dying comet caught
in the gravitational pull of the sun. This moon was good, though, if the
mining teams could find a way to work in the bad atmosphere. 
     "Ok," Starbuck said. "Let's check out the planet."
     Brie adjusted her instruments to focus on the planet. "Good atmosphere.
Water, foliage. Omega class, for sure."
     "I've got a lot of life signs, but nothing indicating any settlements."
     She shrugged. Her sensors wouldn't give that information, just whether
she could breath if she had to land there.
     "Let's go down," Starbuck said. "Remember, you're about to transition to
an atmospheric craft. You haven't done that with a Viper before, have you?"
     "Only in the simulator."
     "Well, it's a little different in the real world. Just think your way
through it, ok?"
     The familiar tenseness returned. "Yes, sir."
     She followed Starbuck at a distance. As he'd warned, her Viper bucked and
trembled as the atmospheric forces began to play on it. The outside
temperature gauges registered positive heat for the first time since leaving
the Galactica. The fuselage temp gauges also kicked into action, letting her
know that her descent was properly angled to prevent a destructive buildup of
heat that could melt her wings.
     "How're you doing?" Starbuck asked from somewhere up ahead.
     "I think I'm fine. At least, all the instruments seem happy."
     "Good. Level off at 10,000 feet. We'll make a pass along the equator, see
if my sensors pick up anything interesting."
     "Roger."
     Leveling off, Brie added power until she was in the proper position,
slightly behind and level with Starbuck. She glanced out the cockpit to the
vista below and almost cried.
     Rich, green forests; broad, open fields, rivers, lakes. It looked like
home.
     "Oh," she said softly.
     "You ok?" Starbuck asked.
     "Just homesick." She felt like a fool.
     "Me, too," Starbuck said, equally softly. "The scanners aren't showing
any signs of settlements or civili...Well, maybe they are."
     Brie looked over her instruments. "I'm not getting anything."
     "Forty-five degrees off my port wing. There's a big lake but the terrain
breaks off abruptly."
     "Artificially?"
     "I don't know. Maybe it was an earthquake. Or an explosion. Let's check
it out." He dropped down and banked toward the lake. Brie followed. They
descended to a few thousand feet above the ground. The cliffs and lake seemed
natural enough from this altitude, and Starbuck admitted it was probably just
a quirk of nature.
     "I want to get a sample of that water, though," he said. "If we can fill
some tankers with fresh water..."
     He let the sentence hang unfinished. Brie knew exactly what he meant.
Conservation and recycling were two of the buzz words of the fleet. A drink of
fresh water was a fantasy.
     "You land first," Starbuck was saying. "There's an open field between the
lake and the cliffs. Be careful," he warned. "You'll probably pick up some
squirrely crosswinds and wind shear when you drop below those cliffs."
     "Gotcha." Brie concentrated on her landing pattern. Silly, since they
were alone in the sky, but she followed the pattern she'd been taught, 
adjusting power and pitch at each point. 
     Sure enough, the Viper rocked with crosswinds as she came level with the
cliffs. She cut power to compensate. As she dropped below the cliffs, the
winds ceased abruptly -- the wind shear Starbuck had warned her about. She
jammed the throttle forward as the Viper sank toward the field, then chopped
it back as the plane responded too eagerly. She bounced across the rough
field, then stopped.
     She had the cockpit open and her helmet off as Starbuck coasted in for a
smooth landing.
     "Whew!" He pulled off his helmet. "Not a bad landing, considering."
     "That wind shear caught me."
     "I thought it might." He rummaged around in the Viper's tiny storage
area, emerging with a small pack that contained test kits and sample bottles.
"That's why I let you land first, so I could see how bad it was."
     "Thanks a lot!"
     "I could always say it was so that if you totally lost control, there
wasn't any danger of you taking out my plane, too."
     A very real possibility, too, she thought. She sighed as she retrieved
her kit and slid across the fuselage to the ground. "I'll get a water 
sample," she said. 
     "Ok, I'll start with the plants."
     Starbuck watched her march determinedly toward the lake. She'd be a good
fighter pilot, once she learned to trust herself and her plane.
     He leaned back and sucked in great mouthfuls of clean, fresh air. He was
so tired of the stale, recycled air on the ships. Each breath carried the
lingering odors of sweat, old cigars (well, there were worse things, he
rationalized), long-forgotten meals, fuel, too-worn clothing, and the
less-tangible aromas of fright, despair, and occasional hope. 
     He felt the warm sun on his face and fought back the urge to peel off his
tunic and sprawl in the grass. As the Viper's gyros wound down and its engine
cooled, buzzing insects, the rustle of the winds and the distant murmur of
water were the only sounds. Had he really thought he'd find the absence of
throbbing engines, chattering flight crews, and the thousand noises of a
shipful of people hard to take? 
     Where to start with the plants? The test kits were part of the standard
survival gear for the Vipers. They'd let pilots know if the native vegetation
was eatable and the water drinkable. On survey flights, the kits were expanded
to include bags and flasks for samples. If the basic tests were positive, then
the labs on the Galactica could run detailed nutritional analyses and decide
if it was worth the effort to harvest anything.
     He found a pair of gloves in the test kit and slipped them on. No point
in running the risk of absorbing some poisonous chemical through his skin or
taking back some exotic ailment transmitted via plant life. He picked stems
from likely-looking plants and carefully ran the sap against a test strip.
Each strip turned green, the indicator that the plants were not poisonous. 
     Breaking a leaf in half, he sniffed it. Clean. Nothing pungent or acrid.
He nibbled on one of the halves. It was crunchy, but didn't have much flavor.
Oh, well. He reached for a different leaf when the first surprised him with a
mellow aftertaste. He tried the other half. Same thing.
     Smiling, he tried the other leaves. Some were bland, two were minty, and
one -- while testing negative for poisonous content -- was so foul smelling
that he hesitated about keeping a sample. Each sample was put into a separate
placticine bag. He scribbled notes about the flavor and texture on the bags,
in case their composition changed before the labs got them. He pulled up a few
of the smaller plants by their roots and stowed them in larger bags. If they
tested well, the food crews could be growing new vegetables for the fleet in a
few days. Who could tell, they might even name a new salad dressing after him.
     Sealing the last bag, he carefully loaded the samples into the kit,
stowed them in the Viper,  then went looking for Brie. After the long 
flight and pushing through the foliage, he felt gritty. He studied the 
sky as he waded through the high grasses. It was well past planetary 
midday. The sunlight was angling through the trees on the far side of the 
field, and the breeze held just a hint of a chill. Late summer on 
Caprica, he thought. 
     He found Brie sitting cross-legged on the edge of the lake. She was
holding a cup full of water, sipping it with obvious relish.
     "It's ok?" he asked.
     She held the cup for him. "Better than the finest ambrosa."
     He dipped his own cup and swallowed the cold, fresh water. "You're
right." He drank again, savoring the mouthful this time. There was no hint of
purification chemicals or the flat taste of too-often-recycled liquid.
     "What about the plants?" she asked.
     He swept his arm toward the grasses. "Help yourself. But watch out for
the plant with the green berries. I'm not eating anything that smells 
that bad."
     "We've got to get this to the fleet," Brie said. 
     "Absolutely."
     "But," she said, climbing to her feet, "I want to check out something by
the cliffs first."
     They followed the lakefront to the small river that fed it. They were
moving through the trees now, using their scanners as they moved farther into
the dim coolness. Small creatures scurried away in the undergrowth. They found
a faint trail that looked like it was made by animals going to the river. As
they followed it, they could hear a growing sound of rapidly rushing water. 
     "What are you looking for?" Starbuck asked. "We don't have a whole lot of
time before it gets dark, and I'm not eager to go wandering through the woods
at night. Just because our scanners say this place is docile, that doesn't
mean that a whole new set of critters doesn't come out when the sun goes
down." He didn't like the idea of something large, strong, and probably not
too friendly batting at his Viper
     "Now who's thinking too much?" Brie chided him. "The river flows from the
cliffs, right?"
     "It seems to."
     "Then..." the trail angled sharply and Brie stopped short, Starbuck
almost crashing into her from behind.
     "Then this is what you'll find," she said.
     Starbuck had expected the rushing water to be a rapids. Brie knew better.
They were facing a waterfall, the spot where the river cascaded from the cliff
tops.
     "Wow," Starbuck said. 
     Brie rubbed her hand against the back of her neck. "Are we really in that
much of a hurry? I don't know about you, Lieutenant, but I'm real tired of
three-micron, lukewarm showers."
     "Yeah, me, too," Starbuck agreed. There was a delicate matter of decorum.
Why couldn't Boomer have been on this patrol with him? He studied the sky
again. They still had an hour or so before twilight. "Look, uh, you go on and,
uh, shower. I'll see where this trail goes. Maybe find some more plant
samples." 
     Brie knew Starbuck's reputation too well to believe he was really
embarrassed. Probably part of his act, she thought. If he thought she'd fall
for it, he was wrong.
     "Thanks!" she said quickly. "Come back in about 30 microns, ok?"
     "Right." She watched until he was out of sight and listened for a moment
longer. The Lieutenant moved quietly, but he was clearly continuing along the
animal trail, as he'd said. Brie grunted softly in surprise. Maybe he was more
of a gentleman than people gave him credit for.
     She turned back to the waterfall. 

     She heard Starbuck returning as she pulled her tunic over her head. It
was still damp from the soaking she'd given it in the river. 
     "Your turn," she greeted him.
     Starbuck looked longingly at the waterfall and shook his head. "Later,"
he said. He helped her to her feet. "Wait 'til you see what I found."

      "I don't want to hear that it's a necessity. I don't believe you for a
micron. You just want to move us out of here to make it easier for yourselves.
Well, you can tell Adama and the Council and anyone else that they're all
liars and daggit-droppings."
     Lieutenant Boomer kept his face impassive as the woman raged on. There
might have been a time when she was pretty and her voice wasn't so shrill, but
that was long ago. The destruction of the colonies and the exodus had taken
their toll. 
     She turned away and re-entered her makeshift cabin, muttering something
Boomer didn't quite catch. Piscean wasn't the easiest language for
off-worlders to learn, and she was speaking some kind of rural dialect. He
sighed and tried again.
     "It's not a matter of choice, ma'am. This ship is being scrapped. In
another few days, there won't be any ship for you to stay on." 
     The brightly-colored tapestry that served as a door was pulled shut
sharply in his face.
     "Having fun?" a deep, soft, female voice asked.
     Boomer turned wearily. Cassiopeia regarded him with an expression of
half-amusement and half-sympathy. 
     "No. I'm not," he said.
     "Me, either." She moved down the narrow corridor. Despite the defiance
the last woman had shown, most of the passengers on the Borion accepted 
the news that they were being evacuated stoically. Boxes of belongings 
were beginning to be piled by cabin entrances. A ship's officer worked 
his way slowly down the line, checking each box against a manifest and 
marking its destination.
     "Excuse me," someone said from behind Boomer and Cassiopeia. A
worried-looking man approached them. He looked a decade older than Boomer and
wore the remnants of what had once been an expensive-looking leisure outfit.
The faded trademark was still visible on the much-washed pocket. He rested a
smooth, well-manicured hand on Boomer's arm. "I'm wondering if you can help
me."
     Boomer nodded. "If we can." He shifted away from the man's grip. With
tensions running high, he wasn't about to become part of a hostage situation.
     "My name's Histerith." He paused for a reaction. Boomer stared at him
blankly. "I was part of Histerith and Associates on Pisces. Nason City, to be
exact. Not just part of it; I was the senior partner."
     "Is there a problem, Mr. Histerith?" Boomer asked politely.	
     "It's the move, you see. I've found that my family is supposed to be
transferred to the same ship as, well, another family we know quite well.
Name's Magra."
     "We're trying to avoid splitting up the passengers any more than we have
to," Boomer said, struggling with the language.
     "It's a small passenger compliment. We thought most of you would want to
stay together." Although a Gemmon, Cassiopeia spoke Piscean almost like a
native. The man paused and stared at her. Piscean women were uniformly dark
and sultry. Cassiopeia's blonde hair and easy smile marked her as an
off-worlder. If he was surprised at her command of his language, he recovered
quickly.
     "In most cases, yes. But not in this one. You see," he dropped his voice
and glanced behind him. "It's my son. He's a good boy. Smart, ambitious. Back
home, he'd have joined the family firm by now. He's just marking time until we
land someplace and he can establish himself. He's not going to spend his
future crewing on a merchant vessel or" -- he ducked his head in Boomer's
direction -- "nothing personal, but being a Viper pilot. Our family moves in
-- different -- career fields."
     "I'm not sure I understand," Boomer said truthfully. He was having
trouble
following both the words and their meaning. 
     "There's another family, just two cabins from ours. Their daughter is,
well," he looked desperately from one to the other. "Do either of you have
children?"
     "You think she's a bad influence?" Cassiopeia guessed.
     The man looked relieved. "You understand! I'll tell you, on Piscea, she
wouldn't be allowed in our back door to sweep our floors. But now... Lord, the
common-ness of what we have to deal with."
     A commotion from further down the corridor distracted them. A loud, angry
voice was coming toward them. Boomer smoothly put himself between Cassiopeia
and the disturbance.
     "Histerith! What lies are you telling now?" 
     Another man, younger, in crew garb, stormed toward them. Magra, Boomer
guessed. He looked as though he'd come straight from the engine room. His
jumpsuit was soiled and rumpled, and he carried a heavy wrench in one hand.
     "You just stay back," Histerith cried. He turned toward Boomer. "You see
what he's like?"
     Boomer didn't have a chance to answer.
     "What is he saying about my daughter? Claiming she's not good enough for
his son?" He was almost on top of them. "Listen," he said, jamming a finger in
the first man's face, "my girl, me, everyone else in my cabin, everyone else
on this ship, we all work and work damn hard to keep it running. You don't
want to get your hands dirty and you get away with it, fine." He scowled at
Boomer. "Way I figure it, if you don't work, you shouldn't eat. Shove his lazy
ass out the nearest airlock; there'd be more food and room for the rest of
us." He turned back to Histerith. "If your boy is finding the value of good,
honest work, so much the better."
     "My son is not a day laborer!"
     "You're right; he's not. He's becoming a competent engine mechanic."
     "He's not spending his life crawling around like a grease-grabber. If it
weren't for your trashy daughter flirting with him all the time, he'd set
higher goals."
     "She's not trash!"
     Boomer hadn't followed most of the exchange, but he didn't need to be
fluent in any language to see how angry the two men were becoming. He sensed
Magra's arm starting its swing before he saw it. He jerked Histerith backward
and lunged at the mechanic. Shoving him against the bulkhead, Boomer caught
Magra's wrist and slammed it against the wall. The wrench clattered to the
ground.
     "That's enough!" Boomer yelled. Piscean be damned; he reverted back 
to his native Caprican. Magra may not have spoken it, but he understood 
body language just fine.
     "You see? You see?" Histerith had retreated to cower behind Cassiopeia. 
     "I won't have my daughter slandered by him!" Magra reached past Boomer to
point at the other man.
     "Then don't act as though it's true." Cassiopeia spoke quietly and
calmly.
Magra stared at her. "When you act this way, it makes people wonder what
Histerith knows that you'd rather others didn't." She turned to face the older
man. "As for you, if your son is old enough to join the family firm, he's old
enough to decide for himself what he wants to do with his time, and his life.
If you want us to reassign you to another ship, fine. But shuttles travel
throughout the fleet all the time. If your son wants to see his daughter,
he'll do so. Now why don't you settle this like adults?"
     Her calmness seemed to dissipate the tension. For the first time, Boomer
was aware of the faces peering out from darkened cabins. He released Magra's
arm and picked up the fallen wrench. "Come on," he said, gripping Cassiopeia's
arm. He handed the wrench to the crewman who'd been working on the inventory.
     "What should I do with them?" the crewman asked. 
     "Let them tell you," Boomer called over his shoulder.
     He didn't stop moving until they were outside the passenger compartment.
He leaned against the bulkhead and willed his hands to stop shaking.
     "I'd rather deal with a battle phalanx of Cylons than go back in there,"
he said. He opened his eyes and looked at Cassiopeia. "That was turning too
ugly, too fast. Are you ok?"
     She looked a little pale herself. "I'm fine. They're scared, that's all.
Every time they life takes on some kind of familiar routine, they're expected
to make another sacrifice." She motioned at the hatch. "This isn't much, but
it's home, you know?"
     "I guess so." He pushed himself away from the bulkhead. "You handled that
beautifully. Thanks."
     "A lot of my schooling was understanding human motivations."
     Boomer wasn't sure how to answer that. Cassiopeia had been a socialator
on Gemmon. He knew there was a lot of study involved in the training, but the
exact practices of the profession were something of a mystery to Capricans.
All Starbuck had ever told him was that the misconceptions about the
socialators' morals were enormous. He could get very defensive when someone
made a snide remark about the women, particularly if Cassiopeia was the object
of the remark.
     From Boomer's point of view, Cassiopeia was as elegant, intelligent and
educated a woman as he'd ever known. She could have easily snagged any
unattached man in the fleet. Probably most of the attached, too, for that
matter. She didn't need to be a med tech on the Galactica. Instead of sharing
quarters with other crewwomen on a military vessel, she could have wrangled a
relationship that would have given her as much luxury as the fleet allowed.
That she chose to refocus her knowledge to help the fleet said a lot about
her.
     "Where'd you learn Piscean?"
     "In school," she said. "I'm pretty good with all twelve of the mother
tongues." She graced him with a sidelong glance and a wry grin. "Part of my
training." She was well aware of the confusion Caprican men had about her
former profession and enjoyed teasing those she knew. "You have to be able to
communicate with your customers, you know." 
     Boomer didn't disappoint her. "For a minute there, I would have been
happier if Starbuck had been with me," he said, a little flustered.
     "If you two didn't start a shipwide brawl, he'd have started a ship-wide
game of Pyramid and told everyone that they'd be reassigned based on their
winnings, then fidget the game just enough so that everyone thought they got
just what they wanted."
     "Starbuck willingly lose a game of Pyramid? You've been working too long,
lady."
     "He understands human nature very well, Boomer. That's why he's good at
cards." 
     "I hope Starbuck appreciates you," Boomer told her as they strapped in on
the shuttle.
     "He'd better," she said. 
     For the first time, she let herself give in to her weariness. She rested
her head against the back of her chair and rubbed her eyes. She'd have to find
a quiet spot and run through her relaxation techniques when they got back to
the Galactica. "Any word from his patrol?"
     "Nothing, but that's to be expected. He's maintaining radio silence."
     "When do I start to worry?"
     "I'll let you know. Not for another couple of days, at least."
     She nodded, eyes still closed.
     Not for the first time, Boomer was glad she'd been assigned to work with
him on the Borion.  He couldn't think of too many other members of the fleet
-- military or civilian -- who possessed the presence Cassiopeia did. People
listened to her. They wanted to listen to her. If she ever decided to run for
the Council of Twelve, she'd win by a landslide. 

     The engines were still spooling down when Starbuck popped his canopy. He
practically bounced out of the cockpit.
     "Wait until you see what we've got!" he crowed at Apollo. 
     Brie approached from the other side of the landing bay, holding her test
kit and its precious flasks of water tightly. She carefully placed them in the
decontamination cooler beside Starbuck's plant kit.
     Apollo looked from one grinning face to the other.
     "I take it everything went well?"
     "Beyond well," Starbuck told him. "The scanners, the positioning
equipment
-- they're unbelievable! I had a fix on the Galactica practically from the
time we left the system." 
     "The system is unbelievable, too!" Brie joined in. 
     "There's Tylium on one of the moons..."
     "And fresh water..."
     "And vegetation ready for harvesting."
     Apollo laughed and held up his hands in defense. "Stop! Slow down! You're
both going at light speed! Report to the bridge after you finish
decontamination."
     Starbuck stopped in front of the decontamination bays, his smiling face
turning more serious. "We found something else, Apollo. Ruins."

     "Back against the cliff face, there were some holes that didn't look like
natural phenomena. They were well up the wall, though." Starbuck said. 
     He had quite an audience. Any bridge officer who wasn't absorbed in
pressing duties was trying to edge close enough to hear his report. For once,
he didn't seem to notice or care. He wasn't playing to the crowd. With this
information, he didn't need to. 
     "Go on," Commander Adama said.
     "I got to working my way through the brush and found rough steps cut into
the rock.. So I climbed up to take a look and found --" he spread his hands as
he tried to describe it -- "rooms. You go in through one hole and it's
honeycombed inside. Maybe, what?" He turned to Brie. "Access to about a
half-dozen rooms each time?"
     "That's about right," she agreed. She tentatively stepped closer to the
Lieutenant. He might be used to addressing the Commander, but she felt very
much the most junior person on the bridge. "Each hole opens into a different
set of rooms."
     "They're not interconnected?" Adama asked.
     "Didn't seem to be, sir," she said. She worried that she was wrong. She
and Starbuck had looked for common passageways, but maybe they had missed
something. "It looks like each complex of rooms was independent."
     "More defensible that way," Tigh said.
     "The whole complex is defensible," Starbuck said. "Those steps weren't
designed for easy access."
     "At least not if the users were built like us," Brie added. She bit her
lip, thinking she'd spoken out of turn. 
     Adama waited for her to continue. She glanced at Starbuck, who gave her a
small, encouraging nod.
     "They're very steep and very rough. If they were used by the people
living in the cliff, then those people were taller than we are."
     "Were the rooms larger than we would use?" Adama asked.
     She thought a moment, then shook her head. "No."
     "Then why would they cut steps that size?" Tigh asked.
     "We found remains of wooden ladders in a couple of the chambers,"
Starbuck said. "My guess is that they laid ramps over the steps when 
things were quiet, and maybe put rocks or wooden steps by the entrances 
themselves. When they were threatened, they pulled them up and used the 
ladders. The steepness of the steps breaks your natural rhythm, so you 
can't move fast. You're a sitting sarpide for anyone above you."
     That seemed to satisfy everyone. Brie edged back, feeling like a fool.
Leave it to her to come up with some stupid idea the first time she gave a
report to the Commander. 
     If he thought her foolish, at least he wasn't showing it publicly. "What
about these drawings?" he asked.
     "They were all in one set of chambers, the farthest up the cliff,"
Starbuck said. 
     "Its entrance is higher than the others, too," Brie said. "And larger."
     "A ceremonial area, perhaps?" Adama asked.
     "I don't know," Starbuck said. "There were pictographs, scenes. Some
looked like hunting parties. Big animals, people with spears. Then there were
some that -- well, these were primitive drawings, so they're not much on
detail, but -- I could swear that some of those people were carrying laser
pistols." He paused, aware of how incongruous that sounded.
     "Those were in a back chamber, along with what looks like star maps," he
continued.
     Adama leaned forward. "Describe them."
     Starbuck blew out a long breath. "There were five of them. One looked a
lot like that drawing Boxey did. The planets seemed to be spaced the same, but
they were in different positions. The others seemed to be sequential. I don't
know why. Maybe it was the way they were placed, but I had the feeling that if
you reached the edge of one map, you'd be close to the beginning of the next."
He shrugged. 
     "Your instincts are usually pretty good," Adama said. "What about you,
Ensign?" he asked Brie. "Anything to add?"
     "I'm not an expert on star maps, sir, but the first of the series sure
seemed a lot like this quadrant. If those maps are centuries old, that could
explain the different positions things are in now."
     There was silence on the bridge. Adama absently rubbed his finger tips
together. Tigh and Apollo both knew that was a sign he was puzzling through a
problem and developing a solution.
     "I need to see these maps," he said. "I'll join the survey and collection
teams when they return to the planet. Apollo, I want you to be in charge of
the operations on that moon. Get some ore samples and start mining as quickly
as possible. Col. Tigh, you'll continue the repairs on the fleet."
     "Commander, you can't be serious," Tigh immediately objected. "The survey
teams will be gone for several days at the very least. You shouldn't be away
for that long."
     Adama silenced his objections with a raised hand. "I'll leave with the
last shuttle and return with the first."
     "That's still a lot of time, Father," Apollo said. He leaned close and
dropped his voice. "What was it you told me? About knowing Baltar is up to
something, but just not knowing when he's going to try it?"
     "I appreciate your concerns, but I need to see those drawings."
     "Hey, Apollo," Starbuck said. The Captain gave Starbuck a sharp look. On
the bridge, their friendship had limits.
     "Captain," he began again. "I have an idea. Why don't we use one of the
two-seat trainers? They're not as powerful as the combat Vipers, but Jenny can
doctor the engines to give me more output. She can install the new sensors and
positioning systems at the same time. I can take the Commander. We can go
there and be back before the survey teams. It's a lot faster than using the
shuttles."
     "Well?" Adama asked. He looked between Tigh and his son. "I don't hear
any objections."
     "Give me time," Apollo said, a little sourly.
     "I want you to get those mining teams to the moon right away," Adama
said. "I want them mining that Tylium as soon as possible. See to it that 
the new positioning equipment is installed on all the vessels that will 
be part of this operation." 
     Tigh frowned. There was no talking Adama out of his journey. At least
Starbuck had come up with a way to make the Commander's absence as short as
possible.
     "What about the shuttles to the planet?" he asked, conceding defeat. 
     "Assemble a survey team. Once they've had a chance to see what's on the
surface, we'll know what equipment and ships to send."
     "Aye, sir."
     "Ensign Brie?"
     The attention had moved so far from her that she though she'd been
forgotten, which was just as well. Now she jumped as the Commander addressed
her.
     "Sir?"
     "Your background is shuttles, is it not?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "Good. I want you in charge of bringing in the first agricultural team.
You've been to the planet; you have the best idea of what sort of things
they'll be looking at and looking for. Often, the experts believe they have
all the answers. Make sure they use you as a resource." 
     His steady look let her know he was counting on her and expected her to
succeed. She smiled back. "Yes, sir."

     "Of all the hair-brained suggestions!" Apollo snapped at Starbuck as soon
as the bridge doors closed behind them. "You couldn't think of a reason to
make him stay here?"
     "Apollo. Captain. Once your father heard about those star maps, there was
no way he wasn't going to that planet. You know that. Even if we came back
with holophotos he could reach out and touch, he wouldn't be satisfied."
     "So you two are going to jump into a Viper and go off exploring? At least
if there was a delay here, maybe things would develop in a way that he
couldn't leave."
     "What could develop? A Cylon attack? That'd be great!"
     "We don't know what Baltar is up to right now."
     "All the more reason for the Commander to move fast."
     Apollo shook his head. Starbuck had good intentions, but sometimes he
stubbornly refused to see the bigger picture.
     "There's another reason for doing it this way, Apollo, besides just
getting your father out there and back quickly."
     "What's that?"
     "Even a training Viper is armed. Shuttles aren't."

     Apollo dropped onto his bunk and rested his arm against his forehead. He
savored the momentary quiet. Since leaving Starbuck, he'd been working with
the mining experts on the Galactica. Some of those he needed to see were on
other ships. He'd catch a few hours of sleep, then shuttle over to meet with
them. He wished he could break radio silence and have a group conference. It'd
sure make life easier.
     He'd almost drifted to sleep when his chime sounded. He thought he might
have locked Boxey out by accident, but the chronometer on his desk showed that
the boy should still be in school. 
     He rubbed his head, pushing the hair out of his eyes as he sat up. "Come
in."
     The door slid back and Ensign Brie stepped inside. "I'm sorry to bother
you in your quarters, sir, but I know you'll be leaving with the mining teams
soon, and I wanted to speak with you before then."
     "That's all right, Ensign. What's the problem?"
     Apollo could see she was nervous. She stood ram-rod straight and took a
deep breath before she spoke.
     "I want to return to shuttles, sir."
     "Leave Blue Squadron?"
     "Not the squadron. I want to leave fighters altogether. I'm not a Viper
pilot. I never was. I got drafted because the fleet was short-handed."
     "We still are."
     She swallowed. "Not like before. I keep trying to learn to handle that
plane, but it's just not there. You can ask Lt. Starbuck. He's been trying to
work with me."
     "I know. That's why I'm surprised you're here."
     "Sir?"
     Apollo stood, arching his back and willing the tightness in his shoulders
to go away. "Starbuck doesn't spend a lot of time with pilots he thinks can't
make it. He'd rather see someone wash out of flight training than be fried by
a Cylon because he -- or she -- wasn't coming along fast enough."
     "Sir, I've worked as hard as I know how and it's just not there. I'm not
up to Starbuck or Boomer, or you, sir."
     Apollo laughed. "Thanks, but the three of us have yarens more experience
than you do. Look, will you please relax? Standing there at attention, you're
making me nervous."
     Brie forced herself to drop her shoulders. 
     "As far as Starbuck and Boomer are concerned, you're dealing with two
natural pilots. They were both born with control sticks in their hands. I'm a
pretty good pilot myself, and I'm nowhere near as good as they are."
     "Yes, sir."
     "As far as you are concerned, I try to keep up with everyone's training.
All of the  instructors brief me. Maybe not as thoroughly as I'd like, but at
least I have an idea of how people are working out."
     "May I ask what Lt. Starbuck says about me?"
     "He told me that you were wasted in shuttles."
     For the first time, the Ensign let her military composure slip. She
stared at Apollo. "Really?"
     "Yes, really." He reached for the data pads on his desk. "I'll take your
request, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't make a decision until I can talk
to Lt. Starbuck."
     "That'd be fine, sir."
     Apollo sighed deeply as he watched her go. He stifled a yawn, and glanced
at his chronometer. Still time for a nap. He flopped back onto his bunk,
asleep before his head hit the pillow.


     It might not be a vacation, Adama decided, but it was surely the next
best thing.
     He stretched in the warm sunlight, letting the heat work its way into his
shoulders. The splash of the waterfall and the music of water playing against
the rocks lulled him into a doze. Star maps drawn on rough stone walls with
natural pigments floated into a dream. He let his mind drift to follow the
arcs and whorls. 
     Five maps and a star system. None of them matched anything Adama could
remember seeing, but there were many maps in the ship's computers, too many to
memorize. Maybe they'd correspond to something that was already there.
     But they don't, his subconscious told him. They lead to somewhere new.
     Earth? He half-wondered in his stupor. Another civilization? Creatures
unknown? 

     This planet, at any rate, was a paradise. The reality of Starbuck's and
Brie's description had lived up to any imagined embellishment. When they
entered the atmosphere, Adama had been momentarily speechless. 
     "Caprica!" he whispered after a moment.
     "Yeah," Starbuck answered. "Even more so on the surface."

     They landed in the same field Brie and Starbuck had first surveyed. The
grasses crushed by the two Vipers were still somewhat trampled. Starbuck
examined the area, returning to the plane with a satisfied look.
     "What are you hunting for?" Adama asked..
     "Just wanted to see if anyone was curious about us after we left. Doesn't
look like it." 
     He climbed carefully from the Viper, letting Starbuck spot him as he
dropped to the ground. It wasn't as easy as it had been a few yarens ago
     Starbuck popped the hatch of the storage compartment and removed their
equipment. Two days' worth of supplies and basic camping gear, plus recording
and holocam equipment. Apollo had wanted them to take more supplies, but
Starbuck had won that debate. It was going to be on his back, he'd pointed
out, and the holocam gear was heavy enough. Besides, if they only had two
days' worth of supplies, then the Commander would have to be ready to return
by then.
     Apollo had given in on that point. He'd won on some others, particularly
on when Adama and Starbuck should leave. The critical nature of the Tylium
mining dictated that Adama should stand by until the survey crews could
determine if the moon could by mined. 
     Adama had agreed with that, although he was hungry to examine the cliff
dwellings for himself. He spent the several days after Apollo's departure
prowling the ship's corridors with nervous energy, running drills of every
nature, and memorizing any possibly relevant map that might match the ones on
the planet. 
     When the first freighter returned laden with mid-grade ore and a report
that the operation was under way, Adama was packed and ready to go. The
agricultural shuttle and its fighter escort would rendezvous with Starbuck and
Adama in two days' time. Passing the moon, they'd use a pre-determined,
discrete, scrambled frequency to get an update from Apollo. Other than that,
they'd continue to remain out of contact with each other and the fleet.

     Starbuck checked the shock cords and adjusted his backpack. He handed
Adama a smaller day pack with the Commander's personal gear. 
     "Ready?" he asked.
     "Lead the way," Adama said.

     It was hiking in the Mooreen Hills near Caprica City. The dark woods were
cool and refreshing. They moved quickly and quietly. Starbuck froze once and
motioned forward. Three shoulder-high, grayish-green quadrupeds were frozen
into position themselves a hundred feet ahead. 
     Adama edged forward to stand beside him.
     "They're beautiful," he whispered.
     "Yeah," Starbuck answered. "Wonder how you field-dress 'em?"
     Either the animals caught the alien scent of the humans or they heard
Starbuck's carnivorous comment, but they flashed out of sight into the trees.
The two men could hear them crashing through the brush. 
     They said little else until they reached the cliffs. Adama scrambled
after Starbuck, who seemed to have no trouble keeping his balance despite the
backpack. 
     They bypassed the other apartments and went immediately to the one
containing the map room.  The entrance was several feet above the level of the
stairs. Starbuck slid his pack to the ground with a grunt and unstrapped a
collapsible ladder. 
     "A large rock would do just as well," Adama suggested. 
     Starbuck shrugged and looked around. "There's enough of those available,"
he said. He carried one from the side of the steps. "Wonder why this is so
much higher than the other entrances?"
     "Hard to tell," Adama said. "It could have been to discourage people from
entering on a casual basis. Perhaps they had a ceremonial set of steps they
used only on special occasions."

     The drawings, too, were everything Adama had hoped. They were carefully
created, with a precision that belied their primitive setting, in a chamber
that was larger than most. Adama was attracted to a long, deep ledge cut into
the side wall. It was slightly angled, and there was a slight depression at
the bottom of the outer edge. There were indentations on the wall that could
have held torches. As it was, their lanterns fit nicely. The room glowed as
Starbuck adjusted the holocam equipment and carefully made images of each map
and the drawings.
     Adama ran his hand across the ledge. It was surprisingly smooth. "This
doesn't feel man-made," he'd said. "More like it was cut and polished by
machine."
     Starbuck joined him and examined the ledge. "You're right. What would
they use it for?"
     "It's as though they could rest a document here," Adama said. 
     "Like what?" 
     "A scroll, possibly. Or a map. Angled like this, it would be easier to
study."
     Starbuck looked around the empty room. "They sure cleaned out everything
when they left." 
     Adama agreed. There were stray furnishings in some of the rooms, what
might once have been chairs, some pottery, remnants of woven mats. The map
room was larger than most, but was empty of any of the debris.
     "I wonder what happened to them," Starbuck said.
     "So do I. Were they following these maps to a new destination or leaving
them behind to guide others?"
     There was no obvious answer to that question. 

     Reluctantly rousing himself, Adama rolled over. He stood, brushing bits
of grass from his chest and reached for his tunic. 
     The waterfall shower had been a great surprise. He'd refrained from
asking
Starbuck about his first visit to the spot with the young, female Ensign. 
     He strolled back to the cliff dwellings. They would spend the night in
the map room, then explore the other chambers in the morning and be at the
rendezvous when the shuttle arrived. Adama felt better than he had in months.
Fresh water, fresh food, Tylium. The gods were smiling on the fleet.
     Starbuck had unrolled the sleeping bags and unloaded the food supplies,
such as they were.
     "Protein bars," the Lieutenant said. He sat cross-legged on his own
sleeping bag. "Fresh from the culinary test kitchens of the Galactica's
chemistry labs."
     Adama settled onto his sleeping bag and reached for one of the bars. They
were fine, he told himself. Standard issue in the survival kits of all fleet
shuttles and fighters. Each one contained enough nutritional requirements to
keep you going for at least a day. That they had all the taste of discarded
packing material was something you had to accept. For a moment, he wished he'd
pulled rank and seen them supplied with better food. But he couldn't ask his
pilots to eat something he wouldn't.
     "Just a minute," Starbuck said. He rummaged through a side pocket of the
pack. "Ah. Here it is." He tossed Adama a small container. "Pour some of this
over the protein bar. It helps a lot."
     It was a small packet of Aquarian honey. Rare enough before the
destruction of the colonies, an unheard of luxury now.
     "Where did you get this?" he demanded. No doubt Starbuck had won it in
one of his infernal card games or scams. Warrior or no, he couldn't allow 
one of his officers, especially not a member of his personal strike 
squadron, to be hoarding food, especially a delicacy like this! 
     Starbuck looked up from his meal, startled. "Sir?"
     "This honey. Where did it come from?"
     "Compliments of Sire Uri."
     "Pardon me?"
     "I have a friend on board the Rising Star, one of the waiters. He keeps
me up-to-date on things." 
     "Can I guess what kind of things?"
     "Nothing illegal," Starbuck assured him.
     "Just the occasional high-stakes game of Pyramid?"
     "Not high-stakes. Not usually, anyway."
     Adama rolled his eyes. "Go on."
     "My friend doesn't like Sire Uri any more than the rest of us. He
discovered the Uri has quite a store of personal items stashed in a locked bay
on the Rising Star. There's a lot of nice stuff in there -- ambrosa, prepared
foods --" He held up the honey.  "Things like this."
     "That information should have been given to me or Colonel Tigh. That food
should be distributed among the fleet."
     "We thought about that," Starbuck said.
     "We? You and your waiter friend, you mean?"
     "And some other people."
     "Like who?"
     Starbuck looked uncomfortable. "People I thought should know about it."
     "Stop being evasive, Lieutenant. Who else is part of this scam of yours?"
     The Lieutenant's shoulders drooped. "Boomer, Apollo and Colonel Tigh."
     Adama leaned against the wall.
     "It's not a scam, Commander." Starbuck leaned forward. "Look, there's not
enough of Uri's supplies to make a dent in the food needs. So we, uh, liberate
the occasional case of something nice."
     "And keep it for yourselves?" Adama felt his fury rising. 
     "No!" Starbuck objected. Adama held up his container in silent
accusation. "All right, yes, we put a couple of these in all of the 
survival packs. The
way we figure it, if any pilot ever finds himself relying on his survival
pack, he's earned a little creature comfort."
     "Fair enough," Adama admitted. "What about the rest?"
     "It gets around. Sometimes to a school group, or someone who's having a
rough time. My waiter friend hears news from all over the fleet."
     Adama took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. "Your intentions
are commendable, Lieutenant, but sooner or later, Sire Uri will realize 
that his personal supplies are disappearing. If he ever discovers that 
Warriors are involved, especially Warriors I know personally, there will 
be hell to pay."
     "That's the beauty of it, sir. Even if he finds out, there's nothing he
can do about it."
     Adama raised an eyebrow in question. His temper was still simmering, but
he'd hear Starbuck out.
     Starbuck evaded the Commander's stare. He ran a hand through his hair.
"We, uh, we kind of let on that it comes from you."
     "What!?"
     "The usual line is that the stuff was found recently and, since it's such
a small amount, you want to make sure it goes someplace special."
     "Oh, Lord," Adama said.
     "Now what's Sire Uri going to do, announce that it's really his stuff and
that he's been hoarding it?"
     It was beautiful, Adama had to admit. "Oh, Lord," he said again and began
to laugh.
     Relieved, Starbuck finished his meal, then pulled a towel from the pack.
"I'm finally going to try out that waterfall," he said.
     "Finally?"
     "Yeah. I found these rooms while Brie was washing up and thought we
should get back right away." He climbed nimbly through the entrance. 
"I'll be back before dark," he promised.
     Adama poured the honey over the protein bar. "Thank you, Sire Uri," he
said, raising the container in salute. He finished the bar slowly, savoring
every sweet bite.

     "I'm not happy about being back here," Boomer said. He peered out the
shuttle window at the too-rapidly approaching shape of the Borion. 
     "Me either." Cassiopeia leaned closer to look out the window beside him.
     "You didn't have to come."
     She shrugged. "It gets boring in the Life Station. You can only treat so
many cuts and sprains. I'd rather be doing something like this."
     Dealing with angry refugees was not what Boomer would choose for a
diversion from boredom.
     "You handle their anger so well. How do you do that?" He held up a finger
before she could speak. "Don't just tell me it was part of your training. That
might get me asking questions that could be embarrassing."
     Cassiopeia chuckled. "Starbuck's asked. You two don't talk?"
     "I don't pry," Boomer said stiffly. 
     She laughed again and guided him to a seat. "Mostly it's just a matter of
listening. Let them vent. Pay attention. Don't pass judgment. Don't take
anything they say as a personal attack. They aren't angry at you. It's the
uniform, what it represents."
     She slid easily into the seat beside him. "If you don't react, then they
eventually run out of energy. It's hard work to stay angry. Once they think
you've heard them out, then they'll listen to you."
     The shuttle pilot announced they were beginning their approach. Boomer
reached for his seat belt and strapped himself in. "I'll try to remember
that."
     Cassiopeia grinned at him mischievously. "Better watch it, Boomer, before
I teach you everything I know. There were male socialators, too, you know."
     He felt himself blushing. He concentrated on thinking about what they had
to accomplish in the next few hours. 
     As usual, Col. Tigh had everything organized to the last detail. With the
fleet under radio silence, everything was being done according to a
tightly-planned schedule delivered to each involved ship by shuttle. The first
transplants from the Borion were to be ready to start embarking as soon as the
shuttle shut down. As soon as it launched, the next shuttle would arrive. The
ships were landing and departing by light signals. A lot of pilots were
refreshing their emergency communication skills. 
     If they stayed on schedule, something Boomer knew would never happen
where civilians were concerned, the entire one hundred forty two 
passengers would be settling into their new quarters within 8 hours. The 
crew would be moved as soon as the reactors were cool. The shutdown 
process was already under way. Then the salvage teams could move in. The 
foundry ship was ready to start processing the scrap as soon as it 
arrived. Tigh's goal was to have the Borion gutted before Commander Adama 
returned with the agricultural shuttle. 
     A group of people stood waiting in a corner of the landing bay as Boomer
and Cassiopeia stepped off the shuttle. Even if he hadn't known, Boomer would
have pegged them as refugees. Huddled, with haunted eyes, they gripped the
hands of their children and what belongings were not in boxes at their feet
with desperation.
     "Damn, I hate this," he told Cassi.
     She patted his arm. "You're supposed to check in on the bridge, right?"
     "Yeah, Tigh wants me to make sure everything's on schedule there."
     "Go on, then. I'll take care of things here."
     "You sure? Those guys the other day..."
     "Look at them, Boomer. They're defeated." The pain in her voice was
unmistakable. "I'll be fine." She drew in a deep breath, then moved towards
the sad-looking group, stopping beside a frail-looking woman and taking her
bag. "Here," she said gently, "please let me help you."

     Boomer had not spent much time on merchant vessels. Even so, he was
surprised at the sparseness of the bridge of the Borion. He knew that much of
the equipment had been removed when the old ship had been in dry dock, but
what was left barely told him position and heading. He was spoiled by the
complexity and modern equipment the Galactica crew took for granted.
     Aside from the Captain and two crewmen, the bridge was deserted. The
ship's captain, Keinon, greeted Boomer with a nod. "Col. Tigh said you'd be
along." He waved an arm around the bridge. "Whatever you need to do, go
ahead."
     His voice was pure gravel, the sound of years of experience laced with
tabac, caffeine and more than a few nights at dockside bars.
     "I'm not here to take over," Boomer said. "The Colonel wanted me to see
if there was anything you needed."
     "A new ship, maybe," Keinon said. Small and wiry, he looked like someone
who'd spent his life guiding holds full of vital, but unimpressive-sounding
cargo to every backwash of a space dock in the Colonies and beyond. "Come on.
The caffe's hot in my cabin."
     "It might seem funny to you, but this was my command, even if it was a
corroded-out piece of junk," he said when they reached the cabin. It was
already stripped. A few boxes waited by the hatch. Merchant seamen, military
pilots, they traveled light.  "I don't think any captain likes seeing his ship
scrapped, no matter what shape she's in."
     "I've seen the logs," Boomer said. "I'm impressed you kept her going this
long."
     Keinon sipped his caffe. "You're probably lying through your teeth, but
thanks."
     "So how is the shutdown going?"
     "Fine. You can let Col. Tigh know we might even finish ahead of
schedule," he added a little smugly.
     Boomer liked this man. "Where are you going from here?" 
     Keinon made a face. "Got a berth on the Pallasade. Damn mid-range,
intra-system, overnight ferry. Don't have a thing for me to do when I get
there, either." He shrugged. "Maybe you need an instructor on the Galactica?
Navigation, propulsion, loading... I know more than half this fleet, including
those on the bridge of a lot of other ships."
     "I don't doubt it," Boomer said. Of all the displaced passengers, this
one would have the hardest time adjusting. He made a mental note to check 
into his offer. His experience was too good to lose. Tigh would know 
where he could be useful.
     Without warning, there was a dull, muffled boom from deep within the
ship. It vibrated through the hull and deck plates, growing deeper and 
louder.
     "What the hell?" Boomer's caffe spilled from his cup to splatter on the
floor.
     Keinon was already running out the door toward the bridge. Boomer
followed on his heels.
     "Mayday! Mayday!" They could hear the cry before they reached the bridge.
"This is the Borion. We're in trouble! Something's wrong in the engine room!"
     A frightened-looking crewman was leaning over the communications console,
screaming into the mike. Boomer glanced at the readout even as he ran to hit
the board and cut the transmission. The distress call had gone out wide-band,
long-range, and unscrambled. 
     "You frack-headed idiot!" Keinon yelled at the crewman. "We're
maintaining total radio silence! Why didn't you just send a beacon to 
Baltar direct?"
     The man pointed at the controls. "I didn't know what was happening! It
sounded like we were blowing up."
     "Oh, frack!" Keinon said. "These are old, old engines!" he yelled at the
man. "The pressure starts fluctuating when you start playing with the power
demands." He traced a callused finger along two or three of the instruments.
"One of the compressors blew. With the ship mostly empty, it magnified the
effects and the noise." 
     Boomer forced himself to keep his voice neutral and turned to the
crewman. "How long were you broadcasting before we got here?"
     "I don't know," the man stammered. "I hit the mike right after the ship
started shaking."
     Boomer thought. He and Keinon didn't have far to run. Still, he guessed
it was a good ten to twelve seconds before he'd cut the transmission. 
Keinon was right; the Cylons could get a good fix on them from that.
      Keinon frowned at Boomer. "What do we do now? Send out an all-clear?"
     "No," Boomer said. "Maintain radio silence. Maybe if we're lucky, the
Cylons will miss that transmission."
     "More chance of keeping your feet clean tap-dancing through a bovine
pasture," Keinon said. "What about letting the Galactica know there's no
problem?"
     "Can't do it," Boomer said, shaking his head. "Tigh will just have to
trust that whatever the crisis, you've got it under control. I'll leave with
the next shuttle and have it divert to the Galactica. It's the best I can do."
     He left Keinon on the bridge of his dying ship, angry and embarrassed for
the man.

     "Report, Centurion."
     "There has been a transmission received from a ship in the human's
fleet." The metal warrior delivered his news in the flat, mechanical 
voice. Baltar was annoyed. Such wonderful news should be delivered in a 
tone of triumph or elation. At least with satisfaction that so much 
searching and patience had been rewarded. He should investigate adjusting 
the speech mechanisms of the creatures.
     "Go on."
     "There was a brief distress call from a ship. It appears there was an
explosion in their engine room."
     "An explosion!" Baltar rubbed his palms together. "How nice. Where are
they?"
     "The quadrant where the signal was detected is filled with asteroid and
other debris. It is impossible to get a definite fix on the transmission."
     "But we can head in that direction, yes?"
     The Cylon did not answer immediately. It was programmed to consider
alternatives and present them to its master. "There have been no other
indications that the Galactica is anywhere else."
     "Fine. Move us to that quadrant with your best speed. Assume they are
just inside the debris field and stay just outside their scanner range. I 
don't want them to have any chance of spotting us first." 
     The Centurion bowed and walked stiffly from the room. Baltar swung his
chair in glee. "Very clever, Adama. Hide and wait me out. Almost worked, too."
He swiveled to face the back wall of his audience chamber and resumed his
meditations. Soon, he would find Adama and destroy him. Then he would be
recognized as an asset to the Cylon empire. He would be the one human who
would be allowed to survive, to continue to work and to serve. And to collect
and use any resource or treasure the Cylons didn't want. Considering that they
were mostly machines, there was a lot for him to collect.

     Hours later, a Centurion approached. Whether it was the same one who'd
delivered the news of the radio transmission, Baltar couldn't tell. It didn't
matter. He wasn't planing to spend an evening in deep conversation with any of
them.
     "What is it, Centurion?" 
     "A long-range patrol spotted a craft headed toward the quadrant where we
believe the Galactica is located."
     "What kind of craft?"
     "It appears to be an ore freighter."
     "Is it carrying cargo?"
     "Scanners indicate it may have a cargo of Tylium. It had an escort. A
Colonial Viper."
     "Oh?" Baltar leaned forward. "Where is this freighter coming from?"
     "We are uncertain. Should we attack?"
     "No!" Baltar said quickly. "No. Keep them under surveillance. They'll
lead us to the fleet. You must also scan behind the freighter, try to 
determine where it came from. Report back to me as soon as you have any 
information."
     The Centurion bowed and left.
     Adama must have found a source for Tylium and decided to hide and refuel.
"Very clever," Baltar whispered. He would probe -- oh so gently -- until he
found the fleet, then send his raiders swarming over them. That freighter full
of Tylium would be in the center of the fleet, Baltar guessed, protected by
the other ships. He'd instruct his fighters to give that freighter special
attention. When its hold full of Tylium blew, it would take out anything
within a dozen hectares with it. 
     There was a game played in the colonies, a board game of strategy and
calculated maneuvering. The masters of the game were those who were most
patient, planning each move in the light of their opponent's possible
responses. Baltar had never been particularly good at it. He preferred quick
action and quicker solutions. Chasing after Adama had forced him to learn to
start thinking like a strategist. The Galactica's commander had unwittingly
been an excellent teacher. There would be a particular satisfaction in finally
destroying him.
     
     Apollo leaned against the wall of the temporary shelter. Outside, howling
winds drove clouds of sand and dust across the landscape. The strength of the
winds made the walls of the shelter move in and out slowly. The technicians
assured him that the shelter could withstand far greater gusts than they'd
seen, but -- if they were wrong -- they weren't there to handle the problem.
He'd be happy when he didn't have to depend on the thin walls.
     A large, transparent board hung near the door. It was covered with a grid
showing the progress of the mining operation. Red checks marked the tasks
still undone, green ones showed what was completed. 
     He studied the board with satisfaction. It was almost completely green.
When the mining teams arrived, they found that most of the ore was near the
surface. Lower-grade Tylium tended to be that way, they told him. That speeded
up the operation considerably. So did the conditions. Faced with living in
shelters that made the cabins within the fleet seem luxurious by comparison,
the miners had willingly pulled long shifts. The freighter pilots wanted to
get back to the safety of the fleet as quickly as possible. One solitary Viper
escort couldn't do much against a Cylon attack patrol. 
     The freighters had enough Tylium to keep the fleet going for months.
There wasn't much to do now but pack up, shut down, and head home. He'd 
probably pass the agricultural shuttle on its way to the planet. Good. No 
matter how smoothly things were going, he wanted his father back on the 
Galactica.
     That gave him an idea. Why not rendezvous with his father and Starbuck on
the planet? The plan was for the shuttle to wait planetside for a few hours
while the agri teams decided what they wanted from the fleet, then return to
pass on the information. He could catch up with them and fly escort on the
return journey. 
     Even better. He'd switch planes with Starbuck, and he and Adama could fly
back together. That would get his father back to the fleet even sooner.
Besides, they had precious little time alone. It would be fun to fly together,
like when he was a child and Adama had given him his first flying lessons. 
     He doubted Starbuck would object. His friend was probably straining from
the effort to behave properly in the presence of his commanding officer for so
long. 
     Apollo smiled to himself as he began packing supplies. This was turning
into a good break after all.

     Brie ran through her pre-flight checklist with a slight frown. Time was,
she could run the check almost from memory, although any pilot with a gram of
sense knew better than to trust that they wouldn't forget anything. Even one
slip could lead to a shuttle and its passengers stranded from a docking site
or splattered on a landing strip. Hard to explain to the boss.
     After spending so many months in the Vipers, she stared at the checklist
as though it was her first flight. She grumbled as she settled into her seat
and began flipping switches. That was Starbuck's fault. He and the other
cross-trained pilots spent hours in the simulators, keeping their skills honed
for each craft they flew. He hadn't allowed her to do that, saying she needed
to concentrate on the Viper before returning to her more familiar vessel.
     But as the instruments began to report the condition of the shuttle, Brie
found herself falling into her familiar routine, and her mood improved.
Preparations for the mission were going smoothly. The agri teams were
arriving, laden with equipment and chattering about what they expected to
find. Starbuck's samples were already being force-grown, and the prospect of
an even quicker harvest put everyone into a good mood. 
     As Commander Adama had predicted, Brie's first-hand knowledge of the
planet had initially been brushed off by the experts. She'd quietly stood her
ground when they announced they would conduct their own surveys, implying that
she and Starbuck hadn't chosen the right landing site and suggesting that
there were even richer areas to be explored. Backed up by the sensor readings
they'd taken on the way in and out, her explanation that there could only be
one rendezvous site, and, finally, that she was in command of the mission by
Commander Adama's order, they began to pay attention to the young Ensign. 
     "Ready?" Lt. Giles slid into the co-pilot's seat beside her. 
     "Yeah. Everything loaded?"
     "Just about. Waiting for a couple of stragglers." He looked over his
shoulder at the team members. They were settling in, stowing their smaller
bags of gear and personal belongings in side compartments, and pulling out the
materials they'd use to keep themselves occupied during the flight.
     Giles shook his head. "I had some friends who flew cross-planet passenger
ships. Said it was great. They'd only be gone a couple of days at a time,
money was good, real easy flights." He cocked his head toward their
passengers. "I always thought it sounded like driving a bus." 
     Brie nodded absently. She studied her departure plate on the navigational
readout. Because of all of the debris in the quadrant, ships were severely
limited in their speeds and courses. With the Viper, it was easy to maneuver
around floating chunks of rock and frozen ice, but the shuttle was bigger and
slower. She had no desire to prove the adage that the pilot is always the
first at the scene of the accident.
     Giles adjusted his headset and began working through his checklist. It
mostly duplicated hers, a fail-safe against forgotten procedures or missed
warnings. Satisfied, he tighened his seat belt.
     "Check in with Viper control," Brie said. "See if our escort is ready to
launch."
     "Jolly's set," Giles told her after a moment.
     "Ok." She looked back at her passengers, double-checked that the hatch
was secure, and gave a final look at her instruments. "Launch control, 
this is Shuttle One. Ready to launch."

     Colonel Tigh gritted his teeth. Some days, he wished he had obeyed his
father's desires and studied business. He could have had a comfortable,
profitable life. Instead, he'd chosen the Colonial Forces, eager for the
responsibility of defending the Colonies. 
     Now, he was more responsible than he had ever dreamed of being. He had to
decide what action to take in light of the Borion's distress call. The wrong
decision could mean being responsible for wiping out the remnants of humanity.
     Lt. Boomer had returned from the crippled freighter with the story of
what had happened. 
     "There's no chance the Cylons didn't pick up that signal," Tigh said.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit!" He slammed his fist into the side of Adama's command
chair. He could not make himself sit there, even though he was in command of
the fleet in Adama's absence. 
     Omega and Boomer waited for Tigh's orders. 
     "How long before all of the passengers are off?"
     Boomer checked his chronometer. "Another couple of hours."
     "And the salvage crews are going in right after that?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "How long will it take to fix a tow to the Borion?"
     "A tow, sir?"
     "That's what I said, Omega. I want to tow the Borion away from the fleet,
as far away as we can get her." He pointed at Boomer. "Find someplace that the
Cylons will accept as the ship's original location. There's enough distortion
from this debris that they might not have pinpointed the exact source of the
distress call."
     "It'll take a few hours at least, sir."
     "Make it fast, Lieutenant. Time is not on our side. Omega, get the
salvage crews onto the Borion now. Have them remove as much internal 
material as they can, even while the passengers are being moved. I want 
you to set up a steady convoy of shuttles onto that ship so there's no 
delay in gutting her." 
     "And when the tow is ready, sir?"
     "I want charges places inside her. Then we'll tow her to your location,
Boomer, and blow her up. The Cylons should be attracted to that area. They
might think that the fleet left the damaged ship behind, and they'll search in
the wrong direction."
     "We won't be able to complete the salvage, sir."
     "I know that," Tigh said. "We'll get something. But the safety of the
fleet takes precedence over anything else."
     "What about the repairs to the other ships?" Omega asked.
     "Work on the Shuler is almost finished," Tigh said. "The other ships will
just have to wait. I want everyone buttoned up and ready to move in case the
Cylons don't fall for this."
     Omega and Boomer left to carry out their orders. Tigh scanned the bridge,
hoping he was displaying much more confidence than he felt. 

     "By your command."
     The Centurion stood at attention, waiting for Baltar to recognize his
presence. 
     Baltar scowled at the machine. They always stood at attention. He
wondered if he could reprogram one of them to dance. Perhaps a 
sophisticated quadrille. Or a whirlish. He tried to imagine Cylons 
performing a traditional line dance from any number of cultures. It would 
probably look like a military drill. 
     "Report," Baltar said.
     "Our long-range scanners have detected a small moon in a distant system.
There are signs of a Tylium mining operation there."
     Oh, Adama, have I found you? Baltar thought. "And the Galactica is
nearby?"
     "No. There are no signs of the Galactica anywhere within its scanner
range."
     "What of the ore freighter and the Colonial Viper you found earlier?"
     "The distortion from the debris in that quandrant does not allow for
tracking."
     "That's impossible," Baltar snapped. "The ore freighters have to have a
fix on the Galactica in order to navigate. They can't be beyond their scanning
range." He sat back in his throne and fumed. "How can the Galactica extend her
range and that of the ships?"
     "I do not know," the Centurion said.
     "Of course you don't," Baltar said. "I get so tired of having to do all
of the thinking around her myself."
     "The moon is orbiting a small planet," the Centurion said. "It appears to
be habitable for humans."
     "Are there settlements on this planet?"
     "Sensors show many life forms."
     Baltar groaned in irritation. "Than go there and scout the surface. Bring
me any humans you find."
     The Centurion performed his ritual bow, but Baltar didn't notice. He'd
already swiveled away to meditate without interruption.


     Starbuck climbed through the entrance as dusk settled around them. Adama
was absorbed in studying the star maps. He looked like an ancient patriarch in
the soft light of his lantern. 
     Quietly, so as not to disturb his commander, Starbuck stowed his towel
and moved his sleeping bag nearer to the entrance. He studied the 
landscape in the rapidly-fading light. No reason to expect trouble, but 
no reason not to, either. Night changes the texture and activity of a 
place. His Warrior's instincts and training put him on alert.
     "It is beautiful here." 
     Starbuck jumped. Adama had come up behind him so quietly, he hadn't heard
him approach. Sometimes it was hard to remember that the Commander was a
Warrior, too.
     "Too bad we can't bring the whole fleet here for a little R&R," Starbuck
said.
     "I've been thinking that myself," Adama admitted. 
     "'Course, once they got here, they wouldn't want to leave. And a week
after they unpacked, they'd be complaining that the accommodations weren't
good enough and it could really be a little warmer. Or cooler." He sat on his
sleeping bag and slipped a cigar from his sleeve. 
     "You've been spending too much time around Col. Tigh. That sounds like
his cynicism."
     Starbuck produced a second cigar and offered it silently to Adama. To his
surprise, the Commander accepted it. Adama stood near the entrance, staring
into the darkness, deep in thought.
     "Do the maps help?" Starbuck asked finally.
     "They certainly aren't like anything I've seen before. I'll compare them
to the data we have back on the Galactica, but they don't appear familiar." He
absently flicked a bit of ash as he studied the night sky. "You were right, I
think, about the maps being sequential. I can't explain why, either."
     "You think they'll lead to Earth?"
     "They lead somewhere," Adama said. "We'll compare those maps to the
surrounding area, see if anything matches. I'll use the ancient writings to
see if there are any references that might apply."
     "I keep hoping that someday we'll find a floating sign with an arrow
saying, 'Earth: This way.'"
     "That'd be helpful." 
     Starbuck rested his head against the smooth wall of the chamber.
"Commander, do you ever wonder why the thirteenth tribe went off its own way?"
     "The writings are vague on that, at best."
     "What if..." he waved the thought away.
     "What if what?" Adama asked.
     Starbuck blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "What if they didn't
leave voluntarily? What if they were exiled? What if the other tribes didn't
want them around? You know, Commander, we could be trying to find a bunch of
bad characters."
     "That thought has occured to me, Lieutenant. I don't have an answer.
Maybe we'll need a bunch of bad characters to turn on the Cylons and 
defeat them." He turned from the entrance. "You're planning to stay on 
guard all night?"
     "Yes, sir." Starbuck patted the pocket of his flight jacket. "I've got a
supply of Dr. Paye's patented stim-tabs. Guaranteed to keep you awake and
wired indefinitely."
     "You don't have to take them," Adama said. "I want to spend more time
with the maps. Why don't you get some sleep? I'll wake you when I turn in."

     Whatever secrets the maps held, they were refusing to give them up. Adama
rubbed his eyes and lifted the lantern from its wall bracket. Yawning, he left
the map room. Maybe one of the other chambers held clues that Starbuck and
Brie had missed the first time. He desperately wished they had more time to
spend on the planet.  There might be other dwellings and other drawings. If
the gods continued to smile on them and Baltar stayed away, they could explore
the planet more thoroughly. 
     Starbuck was asleep by the front entrance. His holstered blaster was
beside him, ready to be grabbed in an instant. Adama dimmed his lantern to
gaze at the sky. It was later than he realized. The moon was edging below the
horizon. He wondered how the mining operation was coming. It would be good to
hear from Apollo tomorrow, even for the briefest of transmissions. 
     He listened to the night sounds -- insects chirping, the cry of a raptor,
the distant tumble of the waterfall. 
     Something else was carried on the night Brieze. A level whine, the
back-and-forth whirr of the red dot of a scanner.
     Adama dropped to his knees, switching off the lantern as he did so. He
strained to catch the sound again, praying he was imagining it.
     But there it was again, the Cylon whine. He heard several now, and the
heavy footfalls of the mechanical warriors.
     Moving silently, he crawled to Starbuck. Simultaneously, he grabbed the
lieutenant's wrist and clamped a hand over his mouth.
     Starbuck woke instantly and struggled to move. Adama pushed down harder,
hoping enough moon- and starlight filtered into the chamber for Starbuck to
see who was holding him. 
     The younger man eased back. Adama let go of his wrist and motioned him to
be silent, then touched his ear. Starbuck's eyes widened as he heard the
Cylons. He nodded slowly, and Adama removed his hand from Starbuck's mouth.
     Quietly, Starbuck rolled onto his stomach and edged to the entrance. He
peered out, ducking back after a moment, and returned to Adama. The Commander
followed as the Lieutenant moved to the map room.
     "How many are there?" Adama whispered.
     "Looks like a patrol." Starbuck strapped on his holster. "Where did they
come from? I don't believe we're unlucky enough to land next door to Baltar's
base ship."
     "The important thing right now is to stay out of their sight."
     "The important thing right now is to try to get you back to the
Galactica," Starbuck told him. "No telling what trouble the fleet is in." 
     He opened the holocam and slipped out several small discs. The images of
the star maps were on them. He handed them to Adama, who put them in his tunic
pocket. 
     "Wait here," Starbuck said. He stepped toward the entrance.
     When he returned, he was carrying the pack and the sleeping bags. 
     "The patrol's moved on. It's a good thing they can't climb too well. They
looked inside some of the other apartments," he said. "We'll leave everything
back here. Maybe they won't search these rooms for a while."
     "You have a plan?" Adama asked.
     "We've got to get to the Viper."
     "Surely the Cylons have discovered it by now."
     "That's probably why they're searching this area," Starbuck agreed. "But
that's the only way out of here that I know of."
     "It's also undoubtedly guarded. You're planning to get us both past the
guards, climb into the plane, fire up the engines and take off, evade their
fighters and get us back to the fleet -- without being shot up, shot down or
followed? That's a long shot, even for you, Lieutenant."
     "Yeah." The expression on his face showed that he was short of other
ideas. "We can't stay here."
     "Agreed," Adama said. "Let's work our way back to the Viper and see what
the situation is there."

     The situation was as gloomy as Adama had expected. There were four Cylons
forming a grid around the Viper. Two Cylon fighters were parked nearby,
covered with grasses and branches. 
     "You think they know about the shuttle?" Starbuck whispered.
     They were huddled in high grasses across the field from the Viper and the
fighters. The Cylons seemed content to stay by the aircraft. 
     "Possibly. They might have picked it up on their scanners," Adama
answered. "More likely, they assume that other Warriors or someone from the
fleet will be along." He glanced toward the horizon. The moon had totally
disappeared, leaving only starlight for them to see by. Had the Cylons found
the mining operation? he wondered. The shelters Apollo was using wouldn't
stand up to any kind of an attack. Adama knew the Warrior escort  his son had
taken along wasn't large enough to repel a sizeable strike, either. 
     He caught Starbuck watching him and knew he was having the same thoughts.
The lieutenant looked away to concentrate on the Cylons.
     "Two fighters. That's a crew of three each. They can carry three other
centurions as passengers. That makes twelve. Four by the Viper, so we have
eight to worry about."
     "Two patrols."
     "Right." 
     "I think we have to wait until the shuttle arrives."
     "If it arrives." Starbuck shifted uncomfortably on the hard ground.
"Either way, the Cylons can't keep the Viper. It's got all of the new
equipment on board. Baltar gets a good look at that, and we lose the advantage
it gave us."
     "If you can't steal it back, what are you going to do? Blow it up?"
     "Sure," he said lightly. "It's no problem to configure the engines to
overload. I need about ten seconds in the cockpit, then about a minute to run
like hell so I don't get caught in the blast myself."
     "Can the shuttle get in and out that fast?"
     "It'll have to. Whether it can land long enough for us to get aboard is
another story."
     Adama watched the Cylons standing their silent, unmoving sentinel by the
Viper. "You were right when you said I had to try to get back to the
Galactica. That might not be possible. The fleet is my first responsibility --
whether I am there to command or not. I'm a prize Baltar cannot have,
Lieutenant."
     He glanced sideways at Starbuck. The young Lieutenant stared at the
ground, his shoulders tense. He finally raised his head and met Adama's look.
"Yes, sir."

     Baltar could not believe the report this latest centurion was giving.
Yes, there was a mining operation on the moon. It appeared to be shut down,
however. The machinery was not working, and there were no signs of ore
carriers coming or going. 
     The planet was another story. A Viper had been found. It was a two-seated
version, the sort used for training. The must have had some engine trouble and
had to land. Now they were waiting for rescue. 
     As a matter of course, the Centurions had patrolled the area. They found
ruins of a human settlement nearby. It appeared to be ancient and
long-abandoned, so the first patrol had spent very little time there. When the
Viper crew had not been found, the Centurions returned to the area and
conducted a more thorough search. This time, they found equipment and gear
that must have come from the Viper. 
     "What sort of equipment?" Baltar asked.
     He expected to hear the usual sort of thing -- food, survival kits. News
of a medical kit would be nice. That would mean one of them was injured. But
the Centurion was telling him about a pack full of holocam equipment found in
a room with walls covered with paintings of star maps.
     "What?" Baltar perched on the edge of his seat. "Just that?"
     "There were personal belongings, as well," the Centurion said. "It
appears the Warriors abandoned the area in haste."
     "Of course they did, you fool. They knew you were looking for them." A
wild thought teased him. 
     "Did your Centurions keep the things they found?"
     "Yes."
     "I want to see them. Have the images transmitted to me at once."
     Despite Baltar's command, it took nearly an hour for the transmission to
arrive. Baltar squinted at the screen, not daring to trust his eyes. 
     With their usual thoroughness, the Cylons had collected everything in all
of the rooms. The pack and equipment were unremarkable. Baltar was intrigued
at the sight of the butt ends of two cigars. At any other time, having Lt.
Starbuck in his hands would be a treat. But even that delightful prospect was
eclipsed when Baltar closely examined the image of the day pack and its
contents. A bulky note pad, with several pages torn from it, answered his
deepest dreams. The cover of the pad was emblazoned with the command insignia
of the Galactica. Adama's notebook. 
     It all fit: a two-seat Viper, the holocam equipment, star maps, the
presence of one of his personal strike squadron.
     Adama was on the planet.
     "Centurion, you are to find and capture the members of that Viper crew. I
want them alive. Do you understand?"
     "By your command," the Centurion said.
     Baltar stood by the transmission screen, gazing in joyous disbelief at
the image. Adama was his. Not in the abstract sense of losing the final
battle and being blow into a million disjointed atoms with his precious 
ship, but in the reality of being Baltar's captive, his prisoner to 
question, to torture, to humiliate and, finally, to execute.
     There would be no reason to chase after the fleet once Adama was his
prisoner. It could not survive without a strong leader, and there was no one
to fill that void. Not the Council, not Tigh, not even his martinet son,
Apollo. They would drift aimlessly. Some ships would break away and find
habitable worlds, where the Cylons would be waiting. They would run out of
food and fuel. They would finally be exterminated.
     He drew a deep breath of satisfaction. Sometimes, life was so good!

     The heavy winds rocked the Viper, threatening to turn her nose when she
lifted off. Apollo adjusted the power settings to compensate, a little more
thrust for the engine away from the wind. Steady power from the tail. 
     The ship signaled that it was ready to take off. "As eager to get out of
here as I am, huh?" Apollo asked it. 
     He looked out the cockpit to scan the landscape one last time. The
shuttle with the last of the personnel and mining equipment had left the 
night before, along with the fighter escort. He'd stayed behind so he 
could rendezvous with the agri shuttle on the planet. Aside from some 
scars on the barren surface and the temporary shelter, there was no sign 
that humans had ever been here. The cuts in the ground were already 
filling with sand. As for the shelter, Apollo watched as strong gusts of 
wind finally began to tear at the walls. In a few hours, that would be 
gone, too.
     He lifted off, looking forward to seeing if Starbuck's description of the
planet lived up to its promise. Once he picked up the shuttle on his sensors,
he'd send a short message on the discrete frequency and join the party at the
rendezvous. 

     Brie was smiling as she prepared to enter orbit at the planet. She'd been
smiling most of the flight. It felt good to be back at the shuttle controls.
The craft responded to her easily. She found herself knowing what it would do
almost before she asked. As good a shuttle pilot as she had been when she'd
been drafted into fighters, she was even better now. 
     Beside her, Giles sat back and enjoyed the flight. He played with the new
instruments and sensors, trying every capability the designers boasted were
included. 
     "I can't wait until they install this in my plane," he said for about the
thousandth time. "Look at this -- it's giving us an ETA based on fleet
settings and the planetary time, too!"
     A light flashed on the communications panel. "Incoming message," Brie
said.
     Giles tapped a button on the panel and intercepted the message. "It's
Captain Apollo," he said when he'd unscrambled and played it back. "He's going
to join on us when we enter the atmosphere and land at the rendezvous."
     Brie looked out her screen to the Viper flying alongside. She waited
until Lt. Jolly looked her way and tapped her ear. He gave her a 
thumbs-up. "Jolly got it, too," she said. 
     "We're almost there, folks," she called over her shoulder. "Anybody want
to take a look?"
     The agri crew crowded behind her. The first reaction was a unified gasp,
followed by a moment of awed silence. Then everyone started talking at once,
pointing at features of the landscape and arguing over what they were seeing.
     Giles picked up the readout of the Viper on the surface. Brie shooed the
survey team to their seats as she and Giles ran through their checklists. On
schedule, Apollo's Viper pulled into position beside the shuttle. 
     "One pass to let them know we're here?" Giles asked.
     "Yep, then a standard landing pattern. Jolly and Apollo should stay in
trail until we're on final, then break for their own landing."
     "Quite a show for the Commander."
     "We should be able to touch down right beside their Viper. Be ready to
compensate for some nasty wind shear when we drop behind those cliffs."
     The Viper sat on the edge of the field, its tail gleaming in the bright,
midday sun. She checked quickly, but saw no sign of the Commander or Starbuck.
She turned her attention back to the plane. First job is to fly the airplane,
she chided herself. She didn't want to make a student landing in front of
Adama.

     "Here they come," Starbuck said.
     Adama roused himself. Despite the danger that the Cylons would find them,
he'd been crouched in the warm sunlight so long that he'd begun to doze. He
slowly straightened his legs, willing the numbness to go away. 
     They'd been lucky. The Cylons did not consider the possibility that the
humans from the Viper would hide within the sound of their scanners. The
patrols had remained near the lake and the cliffs where the cover was better.
     They saw the gear they'd hidden in the map room carried into one of the
Cylon fighters. The Centurions that emerged an hour or so later moved with
what seemed like even greater single-mindedness than before. Adama wondered
what they had been told. Find the holder of the star maps and exterminate him
before the information could reach the fleet, he guessed. That would be
Baltar's first reaction. Then return the maps to his base ship, so he could
use them to plan action against the Galactica. 
     Since then, it had been a matter of simply waiting. Each minute passing
with interminable slowness, the two of them feeling each passing second. 
     They could hear the engines of the shuttle and its escort coming closer.
Adama shielded his eyes to look in the direction of the sound. "Two Vipers,"
he said. 
     "That helps." Starbuck shifted to give himself a better view. 
     The shuttle made a low, clearing pass, then banked to the left. The
Vipers flew high cover above her. 
     "Setting up a standard landing pattern," he said. "Good girl." 
     Adama touched his arm. "The Cylons by the Viper. They've taken cover."
     "Frack. Too bad they weren't spotted on the flyby." He kept watching as
the shuttle flew downwind. "When she turns from her base leg to final
approach, I'm going to start shooting. I'll try to set fire to the grass
covering the Cylon fighters, but I'm going to concentrate on those guards
around the Viper."
     "The escort Vipers should be able to take out those Cylon fighters."
     "That's what I'm hoping. If we're really lucky, they'll never get
airborne." Brie was turning onto her base leg, perpendicular to her final
approach. "I'm going to move closer to the ships. As soon as Brie touches
down, you get to the shuttle. Once I rig those engines, we'll only have about
a minute before they overload and explode."
     They watched as Brie cleanly made her turn and began her final descent.
Behind her, the two Vipers began their turns. Starbuck could hear how far back
they'd cut their throttles to stay behind the slower-flying shuttle.
     "Wish me luck," he whispered. He crouched low and sprinted through the
grass. Pause; check Brie's approach. It was time.
     He rose and aimed at the nearest Cylon ship. The blast hit the ship above
its main hatch, sparking brilliantly in the light. The first shot did not
ignite the dry grasses, but the second did. Cylons tumbled from the vessel,
firing randomly in Starbuck's direction. 
     He had already moved on, circling behind the first Cylon fighter and
moving closer toward his Viper.

     Brie's hand rested on the throttle, her attention shifting between her
airspeed, the distance between the shuttle and the cliffs, and the rapidly
approaching ground. Everything looked good.
     "What the hell?" she said suddenly. "Somebody's shooting down there!"
     Giles looked up from his instruments. There were blaster bolts lacing the
field. 
     "Go around!" Giles yelled.
     Brie hesitated. None of the fire seemed aimed at her.
     "No!" she yelled back. She continued on final. "Get back to the hatch and
be ready to open up and start firing as soon as I touch down. Hell, as soon as
I flare!" 
     
     Apollo thought the first flash of the blaster was just the sunlight
sparking off Starbuck's Viper. He concentrated on dropping behind Jolly and
adjusting his power to set up for a controlled approach.
     The second flash caught his eye, then Jolly was on the comm channel.
"Trouble, Captain!"
     "I see it! Escort to shuttle."
     "We see it." Ensign Brie's voice sounded tight, but determined. "Give me
some air cover, guys. Giles is taking care of cover on the ground."
     "Roger that. Break left, Jolly. I'll take right. Circle for a strafing
run. I'll stay behind you. Try not to hit the Viper. If Brie can't land, that
might be their only way out."
     "Copy." 
     The two Vipers smoothly banked into their respective turns. The Cylons on
the ground shifted their attention from the hidden attacker on the ground to
the visible threat approaching from the sky. They aimed at the shuttle that
was bearing down at them, barely slowing enough to land.
     Apollo concentrated on his strafing run, trying hard not to let himself
look for signs of his father or Starbuck on the ground. The first flash had
come from high grasses beyond the Viper. He took that to be a signal of where
to fire. 
     Sure enough, he was rewarded with a satisfying flare of an explosion.
Debris scattered across the field. "Oh, Lord! Don't let it hit the shuttle!"
He turned to look behind him, relieved that Brie was still far enough out to
be safe.

     Adama had inched as close as he dared to Bre's touchdown point. He saw
the Vipers assume their attack formation. They began their strafing run 
as Brie began to flare for landing.
     The hatch opened before the shuttle touched down. Adama could see a
Warrior in the open hatch, firing at the Cylons that were now moving into the
open.     
     Pulling himself up, Adama began to run for the open shuttle door.

     So far, so good. Starbuck was behind his Viper. The Cylons were
concentrating on the shuttle and the Vipers swooping down with their deadly
rain of blaster bolts. 
     He sprinted to the fighter, jumping high to get a handhold on the rim of
the cockpit and pulling himself up and inside with one leap. He was priming
the engine and hitting the settings before he landed. 
     "Come on, baby," he coaxed. He glanced outside. His luck was still
holding. The Cylons were ignoring him. He saw the shuttle touch down. The
hatch was on the other side. Good for the Commander, but bad for him. He'd
have to cut around behind the shuttle and jump on board. 
     He barely heard the whine of the engines over that of the blasters. But
it was there, growing louder and more shrill. A warning indicator began 
flashing on the console.
     That's what he was waiting for. He had barely one minute to get to the
shuttle and for it to get airborne.
     His mental clock began counting down as he vaulted from the Viper and
ran.

     He wheeled behind the shuttle, ducking below the hot gasses that poured
from the rear exhaust. Commander Adama was almost at the hatch. Giles was
providing good cover, taking out or holding down the Cylons that still
remained.
     His mental countdown continued. 30 feet, 40 seconds. Piece of cake. 
     The blast hit him below his right shoulder, the impact knocking him to
the ground. A spasm of searing pain shot through his right side. His 
blaster flew from his hand. He landed hard, air knocked from his lungs, 
and unable to draw a breath.
     He heard Giles yell his name, saw Adama stop at the hatch and look back.
     "Go! Go!" he heard himself yelling. He pulled himself forward, enough to
wave at them with his good arm. "Get out!"
     Adama was running toward him. "Go back!" Starbuck yelled. "There's no
time!" 
     Adama had him under the arms and was pulling him up. All his years of
command were in his voice as he gave Starbuck a one-word order. "Move!"
     Somehow, Starbuck found his feet under him. Then they were at the hatch,
Giles reaching down and pulling him up, half throwing him onto the deck. 
     More yelling. "Let's go!!" The hatch slamming shut. Blaster bolts
ricocheting off the shuttle skin. The engines revving far too fast. Brie
calling, "Hold on!" The pull of too many g's of a too-steep departure. A dull,
distant boom of an explosion. The shuttle rocking from the concussion.
     Someone was turning him onto his side. He couldn't move his right arm. He
could smell burned skin -- his skin. 
     "Hold still." Adama gripped his left arm, keeping him from clawing at his
tunic, as if tearing it off would stop the pain.
     "That was a stupid thing to do!" Starbuck cried at Adama. "Sir!" He
groaned as darkness tried to crowd into his consciousness. 
     Finger probed at the burn. He let the darkness win.

     "We're airborne, escort! Finish them off!"
     The Vipers wheeled to make another pass. This time, there was no reason
to be careful. But their caution during the first run had given the 
Cylons time to power up and launch the second ship.
     "Frack!" Jolly griped through the headset. "He's right behind her."
     "Not for long," Apollo said. He pulled the Viper's nose up and jammed the
throttles to the firewall. Jolly was right beside him. They were still
atmospheric. He had to be careful not to ask too much of the Viper until they
broke clean of the planet's gravity. 
     Brie had a head start on the Cylon fighter, but she knew the shuttle was
no match for the alien ship's speed and maneuverability. Not to mention the
fact that the Cylon was armed and she was not. 
     Giles dropped into his co-pilot's seat. 
     "How's the Commander?" she asked.
     "He's fine. Starbuck's hit bad. They're working on him." He checked the
instruments, forcing himself to concentrate on their main job, flying the
shuttle. "Why are we on this heading? The Galactica's behind us."
     "That's right. I'm trying to lead the Cylons away from the fleet." She
checked her readout. "Apollo and Jolly will take him out, and his last
transmission will have us headed on this course. We'd be crazy to be
red-lining this shuttle if we weren't heading home, right?"
     "That's a hell of a bluff. You been playing cards with Starbuck?"
     She tapped a finger on the scanner. "If they don't hurry up, it'll be a
moot point."
     The Cylon was glowing red on Brie's scanner. It was still too far away to
start firing, but he was drawing closer. Apollo and Jolly were on her screen
now, but too far away.
     "Never make it," Giles was muttering.
     "Ok, switch to plan B. I'm going to stay on this course for another 10
seconds, then cut power, cut everything, even life support. A second before I
do that, I'm banking off this course. I don't really care about the heading.
We'll coast like an ice skid on a ski slope. But as far as the Cylon is
concerned, we'll have vanished like a ghost. No energy signatures at all."
     "How long will we stay dark?"
     "Two minutes. We won't feel the loss of life support before that."
     "What if Apollo and Jolly haven't gotten the Cylon by then?"
     "We switch to plan C."
     "What's that?"
     Brie shrugged. "I haven't thought that far ahead."
     Giles quickly warned the others to strap down and hold on. At the back of
the shuttle, he saw Adama and an agri tech shift until they could find
handholds while still bracing Starbuck. 
     "Here we go!" Brie called out. 
     Even though she was expecting it, the sudden silence and darkness
startled her. The maneuver was no good for the engines. Shock-cooled so 
severely, they might not refire. She prayed the shuttle crew chief was as 
talented as Magness. 
     She rose against the seat straps as the gravity condensers shut down and
weightlessness took over. Any other time, she'd enjoy the sensation.
     Not now. She looked at the blank screen of the scanner, wondering what
she would see if it was turned on. At least I won't see it coming if he's 
still behind us, she thought philosophically.
     The seconds ticked off on her wrist chronometer. 
     "There!" Giles said, pointing.
     Far away, the sky was lit by a small, bright explosion. "Think that was
him?" Giles asked.
     She mentally plotted the Cylon's course and speed. "Think so," she said.
"We've got 23 seconds left to go. We'll wait."
     The engines fired back up without hesitation. Brie said a silent prayer
of thanksgiving to the gods. The positioning system came on line, giving 
her a beacon to the Galactica. She altered course to intercept and added 
power. She might even beat the Vipers home.

     "They did what?" Baltar screamed.
     "The humans escaped. One of them created a diversion that alerted the
approaching craft of our presence. Our efforts at disabling their shuttle
craft and capturing the Viper crew failed."
     "Of all the stupid..." he let the sentence go unfinished. "What about the
distress call? Have you tracked that down?"
     "Yes, leader. The vessel was found derelict and partially exploded."
     "The rest of the fleet?"
     "The vessel had been abandoned. It appears the Galactica moved on without
it. The last report from the Cylon fighters sent to the surface of the planet
had them following the shuttle with the escaped humans on a heading away from
the course of the ore freighters we discovered."
     "They are not in the debris field?"
     "The abandoned vessel was close to the field, but not in it. It appears
the Galactica altered course after the distress call was made." 
     The elation Baltar had felt earlier turned to vinegar, like cheap ambrosa
left out in the sun. He was not a religious man, but Adama's unending luck
made him wonder if the Galactica's commander didn't have a special
relationship with the gods. 
     "What are you still doing here?" Baltar demanded of the Centurion. 
     "Awaiting you command," the Cylon answered.
     "Get lost!"
     It bowed its silver head. "By your command."

     Dr. Paye assured him that Starbuck would recover. In fact, that he was
doing fine, but Adama wasn't entirely convinced. He stood by the Lieutenant's
bed in the Life Station. Starbuck's left forearm was encased in a bio-sleeve
that was administering medication and monitoring his vital signs. He was pale;
his sandy hair looked dark against the pillow. And he was lying too damn
still. 
     Adama touched his right hand tentatively.
     Starbuck's eyes opened. He smiled as he recognized Adama.
     "Hey, Commander," he said, a little weakly. "Looks like we made it."
     "It does, indeed. How are you feeling?"
     "I'm ok. They've got me pumped full of painkillers. I'm just kind of
floating in and out. Mostly out, I think."
     "Dr. Paye says you'll have to miss your Triad games for a while."
     "Boomer needs to win a few, anyway." He seemed to drift for a moment.
Adama moved to leave, but he stirred again. "Commander?"
     "Yes?"
     Starbuck frowned, as if trying to catch hold of a thought. "Did I really
yell at you in the shuttle?"
     "Absolutely. I haven't been addressed in that tone of  voice since I was
a plebe at the academy, being dressed down by an upperclassman."
     "Uh-oh."
     "If it hadn't been so totally deserved, you'd be in a great deal of
trouble. You were right; my first responsibility was to board the shuttle and
escape." He held Starbuck's wrist lightly. "I don't regret the lapse at all."
     "Me either. Thanks." Starbuck could feel his eyes growing too heavy. You
don't fall asleep when the Commander is talking to you, part of his brain
screamed at him. He fought to obey it.
     "He really needs to sleep, sir." Cassiopeia peeked around the doorway.
She smoothed the blanket around Starbuck and checked the readings on the
bio-sleeve.
     "Of course. Starbuck?"
     "Hmmm?" 
     "You do whatever this young woman says. That's a direct order. If I hear
you've disobeyed, I'll seriously reconsider my response to your
insubordination on the shuttle."
     "Yes, sir." He drifted away.
     "Anything?" Cassiopeia asked. "Not just medical?"
     "I don't think I put any limitations on that order, did I?"
     "I didn't hear any, sir." 
     He squeezed her shoulders fondly. "Then I guess he's stuck."

     Brie leaned against the wall of the landing bay and studied her Viper. It
sat in semi-darkness, pinpoints of light winking at her. She felt good.
Better; she felt proud. Bringing the shuttle home, she'd violated all of Col.
Tigh's rules for speed and maneuvering within the debris field, sailing
through the fleet and its protective mantel like an snitrat dodging a nobilus.
Her escort Vipers found her, but only because the new sensors were so refined.
She'd flashed the situation to them on the discrete channel and the three
ships had raced home. 
     They wouldn't get the water, but they had the fuel, and the agri types
told her the samples they had on hand would provide enough seed to give a
respectable crop in a few weeks instead of an immediate harvest now. Two out
of three would have to do.
     The Galactica's ship-wide timer chimed. She ran her hand along the smooth
side of her plane as she walked toward the hatch, her steps sounding loud on
the metal floor. Nearly curfew for Blue Squadron. They had the patrol rotation
in the morning. 
     She was ready.      

The End