Battlestar Galactica: Operation: Adama
Virtual Season 4, Episode 1
May 17, 2014

Prologue
 
     "You're going to be okay, Commander," said a voice. "Can you hear 
me? Commander Adama? You're going to be okay now."
     Adama slowly opened his eyes. After a few microns of meaningless 
blur, he could focus them. Sort of. The person before him was ugly, like 
all of them, and obviously a female. One of the medical staff, no doubt.
     But the voice was…familiar. He tried to remember, but a sharp 
sensation in his arm momentarily interrupted him. Hades Hole, he was 
being injected again. Lords, what this time?
     "I…" he tried to say, but only a rough croak came out.
     "You should be able to think in a centon, Commander," said the 
other. "This should clear your system out."
    It dimly dawned on him that the words were Colonial Standard, and 
not electronically produced. What…
     "What all have they shot him full of?" asked another voice, this 
one also familiar, and laced with anger. 
     "Not sure," said the woman, taking an ampoule of blood, and 
inserting it into the analyzer she held. "Holy frack! A veritable drug 
cabinet full of Lords know what's in his system."
     "Who…" he tried to say, as his head slowly cleared. 
     "We're here to get you out, Father," said the male, and Adama 
looked at him more closely. The face…the face was like all the other 
faces around here. Ribbed, pleated, and ugly by Human standards. But the 
eyes…no way in Hades he could not know those eyes.
     "Ap…Apollo?" he croaked, trying to raise his head, his throat dry 
and tight.
     "Here," said the other, and Adama found a straw passed between his 
lips. Instinctually, he drew, feeling the cool, sweet water fill his 
mouth. He swallowed, and tried again.
     "Apollo?" His voice had gone from croak to rasp, and he squeezed 
his eyes, still feeling as if they were filled with sand.
     "Yes, Father."
     "What…how…"
     "We'll have time for that later," said the other, her voice now 
clearly that of Cassiopeia, eyes still on her instruments. "Maybe."
     "How is he?" asked Apollo.
     "Not too bad, but we need to clear all these alien drugs out of his 
system as quickly as possible," she answered, loosening one of the 
straps that bound the Commander to the bed. "God knows what they've 
already done to him. His electrolytes are…"
     "What are you doing?" a voice demanded, cutting through the air. 
They turned, to see a man, in the open doorway, dressed in some sort of 
drab-colored uniform, glaring at them. He wore a leather belt, with a 
strap over one shoulder, with a holster at his waist. He was reaching 
for it…
     "The alien is being transferred!" said Apollo, turning around to 
fully face the other, his voice at once taking on an aire of command. 
"He is being taken to the Capital at once, for further interrogation."
     "But I have no orders regarding any…"
     "Here, Captain," said Apollo, shoving a sheaf of documents at the 
other. "As you can see, the alien is being transferred to our custody, 
and Lieutenant Borsev and myself will be taking him in hand."
     "But…"
     "Are you questioning me? You have your orders, Captain!"
     "Colonel, with all due respect, standard procedure…"
     "Is there a problem here?" asked another voice, and they turned as 
the door opened again. Another man, somewhat taller, entered, the 
decorations on his uniform more elaborate, and wearing an overcoat.
     "General…I was merely attempting to confirm the orders regarding 
the alien's removal. I have had no notification…"
     "This is a directive from State Security Headquarters, Captain," 
barked the other. "Above your level. Now, if you will excuse us."
     "Hold it right there!" the Captain said, backing up and drawing his 
weapon with surprising swiftness. He leveled it at them. "I do not know 
who you are," he said, "but you are not General Kark!"
     "Captain…"
     "I happen to know the General, and you are an imposter!" He backed 
up more, reaching for the alarm. 
     "One little mistake!" growled the "General", as the gun was cocked 
. There was a sudden clatter, as something crashed onto the floor. The 
gunman turned…
     And had the pistol kicked out of his hand, and then a roundhouse 
kick to the back. He gasped, stumbled, and almost too fast to follow, 
had the "General's" boot in the gut, followed by a hard chop to the 
neck, and he went down.
     "That's what we get for skimping on the research. Starbuck's ready. 
Come on, let's get moving!"
     Moving out into the corridor, Adama's view, after noticing that the 
guards at his door were nowhere in evidence, was quickly obscured by the 
sheet tossed over him. From what he could hear, however, and what his 
muddy mind could process, this was going off like a well-choreographed 
play. The gurney rolled down the corridor for some time, until they were 
stopped. He could pick out words like "autopsy", and "transferred", but 
there was a great deal of extraneous noise. Perhaps they were near the 
machinery room? 
     "This is a hospital!" said "Kark". "Not an atomic plant! Do not 
interfere in a matter of national security, Doctor. Not if you know 
what's good for you."
     In an elevator, down somewhere, along another corridor. A long one. 
Bumping into something, then more rolling. Lords of Kobol, what was 
happening?
     He could really use a bedpan, about now.
     "Starbuck has the ambulance ready," said "Kark". "I just hope he 
can drive one of their jalopies." 
     "You should have seen him on Brylon V," chuckled Cassie.
     "Yeah, I always miss the good stuff."
     Adama felt himself bumped, then slid into, what was, he was told, 
an ambulance, "borrowed" from it's rightful owners. He felt the vehicle 
pull away, it's vibration different and unusual to him. 
     "Commander?" asked a voice, and it was Starbuck's. Cassie pulled 
the sheet back, and Adama blinked in the bright interior lights. 
     "Starbuck?" He looked at the other, behind a wheel of some sort, 
and as frankly hideous as the rest. 
     "Yes, sir. Tis' the one and only me! I know I'm out of uniform. I 
can put myself on report later, but the tailor shop was all out of 
Colonial duds."
     "Quick," said Apollo, "before he's missed."
     Almost at once, they heard a siren blare out, and Starbuck swore. 
     "Looks like you've been missed," he quipped.
     "Damn. Okay, we transfer to the other truck, at the bend in the 
road," said "Kark". It's a blind spot, from up above."
     "I hope so," said Starbuck. 
     Adama looked up, and still feeling somewhat confused from all the 
drugs he'd been given, watched a bizarre transformation. Taking off his 
cap, the "Colonel" began removing parts of his face. Slowly, he peeled 
away his chin, his cheeks, and parts of his forehead. In a few moments, 
he found himself looking at his own son.
     "Apollo? What…"
     "We'll have more time, later, Commander," said "Kark", whose voice 
Adama now recognized as that of Kevin Byrne, late of the planet Earth. 
Suddenly, the vehicle pulled up abruptly, and Adama was hustled from the 
ambulance, into another vehicle, this one painted a dull gray color.
     "This is the best you could do?" asked Apollo, as they slid inside 
the other, some sort of transport truck, and both looking and smelling 
filthy.
     "We didn't have time to steal anything better," said another voice, 
and Adama at once recognized Sheba's. "We just got a signal from Allen 
and Boomer. The shuttle is just entering the atmosphere, and will be at 
the runway when we get there."
     "Hope so," said Byrne. "I don't think these suckers will validate 
my parking ticket."
     "We all in?" asked Sheba. Without waiting for answers, she slammed 
the pedal to the floor, and they screamed off down the road. 
     "We've got company!" said Apollo, looking out the back window. 
Behind them, another vehicle, an official one from the flashing lights, 
was coming closer. A few microns later, something pinged off the side of 
the vehicle.
     "Some people," growled Byrne, and slid open one of the back panels 
of the truck. He fired something, there was a flash of light, and the 
pursuing vehicle was hit dead on, and flipped over, to land upside down, 
then roll off the edge of the road.
     "Good shooting," said Starbuck.
     "That'll teach ‘em to send in their census form late!" said Byrne, 
then fired again, at another pursuer. This time, the road exploded in 
front of them, the fireball engulfing the vehicle. It exploded as well, 
flinging pieces, and bodies, in all directions. "How far to the 
airport?"
     "At least another five thousand or so metrons," replied Sheba, not 
turning as she replied. Then…"There!"
     They looked up, and could see something streaking across the sky, 
heading towards the airport. Sheba poured it on, and they crashed though 
one roadblock, Colonial lasers blasting, then along a single-lane road, 
towards a wide-open area, filled with lights and overlooked by a tower. 
They roared towards it, the truck bouncing like a landram with a broken 
track, when suddenly, Sheba began to slow.
     In front of them, drawing closer by the micron, were more trucks.
     Filled with soldiers.
         "Okay, this sucks," said Byrne.

Chapter One

     "Will you look at that," said Bojay, turning slightly in his 
cockpit, eyes devouring the sight of the blue planet directly ahead. 
"Gorgeous. Totally gorgeous."
     "Planet is third from it's sun. A typical iron-nickel-silicate 
body, with an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere containing large quantities of 
water vapor," began his patrol-mate, Centurion Arcadius. As he listened, 
the Cylon droned on with data regarding the planet. Mass, gravity, 
chemical make-up, land-to-water ratio, magnetic field, ad nauseum. 
     "It's still beautiful," interjected Bojay at last, just as his 
patrol-mate was about to launch into a report on the planet's moons. "It 
reminds me a lot of home."
     "A similarity to your home world," said Arcadius. "I see."
     Do you? Do you really? I wonder if you guys ever get misty for 
Cylon? Can you, even?
     "Actually," began Bojay, when one of his instruments beeped. 
"Picking up a signal. From the planet."
     "Confirmed," replied the other. "Primitive amplitude modulation 
carrier wave. Low power. Gamma frequency. Video content."
     "Right. Let's ease into orbit, and have ourselves a closer look."
     "Agreed," said Arcadius. 
     The two craft slipped into orbit, Bojay's equatorial, Arcadius' 
polar, and began to scan, precessing with each circuit. Soon, they had a 
fair idea of what they had discovered, and were sending their data off 
in real time to the Fleet.
     This world was like Caprica, both in size and environment. And, it 
was inhabited, with scans showing many large cities spread across the 
major continental landmasses. The oceans were alive with moving craft, 
as were the skies above the cities. In orbits of varying altitudes, from 
low orbit up to geosynchronous, satellites, most relaying signals to and 
from ground stations.  Even one of the moons sported satellites. 
Obviously, this was not some primitive, Stone-Age backwater, but a world 
of considerable technological development. 
     But, it was not a Human world, much to Bojay's disappointment. The 
scans from below, containing video data, showed a species that, while 
outwardly Humanoid, was most definitely not Human, having a very alien 
physiognomy. Bojay sighed, his inward, unspoken hope that this might, 
just might, be Earth, dashed yet again. 
     Earth it might not be, but one very Human thing it did have was 
war. As they watched, images of fighting, involving aircraft and land 
vehicles, filled one screen. Scenes of infantry, fighting in what looked 
like an urban setting, replaced it. Blood, rubble, and corpses aplenty.
     "Looks like they have some sort of local war going on down there," 
observed Bojay. 
     "Confirmed," replied the other. "However, no indications as yet of 
outside contact."
     "Agreed. Well, let's leave them to it, shall we? Let's rendezvous, 
and head back to the Fleet."
     "By your command," replied Arcadius, and broke orbit, bringing his 
craft about, to rendezvous with Bojay's Viper.
     And was observed as he did so.
     "Under attack…." Bojay heard, over his commlink. He turned to look 
at the Raider. "Arm weap…" Then, in a burst of static, the telemetry 
link to Arcadius' ship went down, followed by the Raider coming apart. 
     "Arcadius?"
     Crumpwham!
     "What the…" he began, as something slammed into his ship. He tried 
activating his attack computer. Nothing. He tried hitting the auto-
distress to the Fleet, as out his canopy, he saw that he was spinning, 
the forward right nose of his ship spewing something. He felt his ship 
flipping over, and begin to tumble. At once, several alarms began 
sounding, and something sparked.
     "Galactica, this is Bojay. We are under attack, repeat, under 
attack. Attacker unknown."
     As he tried to get control, his scanner beeped again. About five-
thousand metrons ahead, each time his nose spun that way, there was a 
target. His scanner told him that it had painted him with some kind of 
tracking device. He hit his ECM, and tried to lock onto it. He fired. 
Nothing. No response from his guns. He fired again, and this time he got 
one beam. Then, something exploded just above the planet's limb. He 
repeated his distress call, but so far, there was no response. He took 
stock of his ship, and cursed.
     Whatever it was, it had landed several chunks of debris in his 
forward right fuselage. He was leaking hydraulic fluid, as well as a 
fair amount of fuel. One engine had taken a direct hit, and was down, 
and he had no control of the surfaces on his right wing. He tried to 
fire her up…
     And got nowhere. He cursed loudly, and tried to come up with a 
plan. He might be able to reset the engine control circuits, maybe 
bridge some of the damaged systems, but he'd need to set down to do 
that. As he looked at his instruments, he could see that he was 
beginning to drift, his altitude above the planet beginning to drop. He 
still had control of some of his maneuvering thrusters…if he could make 
it to a controlled landing, and try and get her going again…
     He sent out another message to the Fleet, and dropped a tiny 
message capsule, in case they came looking for him. Slowly tweaking his 
maneuvering jets as best he could, he at last righted her, and tried to 
ease her into a non-lethal descent. His speed was dropping, provided he 
could trust the gauge, but would it be enough? 
     Time would tell.

     "Nothing since?" asked Adama, on the bridge of the Galactica. He'd 
gotten the call about Bojay's patrol, just as he was logging on for 
duty. It had been fifteen centons since Bojay's last message. The 
Cylon's channel was dead also. Telemetry indicated total destruct. As to 
Bojay's Viper…
     "Nothing, sir," replied Omega. "No response from Bojay on any 
channel. Continuing attempts, as well as scans."
     "Colonel Tigh, what do we have on that planet?"
     "So far, just what the patrol sent back, sir. The system is too far 
out to be anything more than a blur on our scanners." 
     "Concentrated scan. Helm, alter course for that system." Adama 
frowned, as he read Bojay's telemetry. Obviously, they'd tripped over 
someone's alarm. Not unheard of in the history of space exploration, but 
he had a bad feeling about this one. From what he was looking at, the 
culture on the planet was depressingly reminiscent of Terra, and the 
jack-booted thugs who ran the Eastern Alliance. But, given what little 
they had on the natives, this was not an offshoot of Humanity.
     "Course plotted, Commander," reported Omega. "ETA four centars, 
nineteen centons, current speed."
     "As soon as possible, go to flank. Inform the Fleet."
     "Sir."
     "And," sighed Adama, straightening up, "get me Baltar, on the Fleet 
comm.-line."
     "Yes, sir."

                                            
     This just was not turning out to be Bojay's day. Coming down, in a 
crippled ship, into a pond near an urban area was bad enough. But why 
did it have to be full of people?
     And why, please O Lords of Kobol, did it have to be upside down? I 
thought this sort of thing only happened to Starbuck!
     The maneuvering power left to him had, barely, allowed him to kill 
enough forward velocity to keep from burning up on descent through the 
planet's atmosphere. He'd broken through cloud cover over a vast 
continent, dotted with cities, one of which was on his current vector. 
Try as he might, he couldn't get his ship to veer much, right of left, 
and could barely keep her nose up. As he drew closer to the surface, his 
scanner beeped; a native aircraft was moving in, and after a few 
microns, he could see it out his canopy, on his right. He reached for 
the ejection release…
     And nothing. The circuit was fried. He cursed, realizing he was now 
too close to the ground to eject, even if he could use the mechanical 
backup. Over the city he screamed, some sort of greensward or park dead 
ahead. He fired his forward jets, or hoped they fired, and braced for 
impact, activating his locator beacon. He clipped a tree, rolled, and 
hit dirt. His Viper slid along for some distance, at last stopped with 
brutal abruptness, in water.
     Upside down!
     With fingers practiced from much training, he sought the canopy 
release. The Lords must be smiling, it worked! He cut loose from the 
seat, and pushed away from his settling ship. After a few disoriented 
moments, he broke the surface, and could breathe. As his vision cleared, 
he pushed away from the Viper, towards what looked like solid ground, 
and felt something solid under his boots. He got his balance, and walked 
up, out of the water. He looked up, and saw a long gully, where he had 
slid in. Behind him, his still-steaming Viper was almost fully belly-up, 
and settling by the tail. He heard voices, and turned back to see people 
approaching. He was wearing his weapon, but had no desire to start a 
fight if he didn't need to.
     He wasn't sure it would work, anyway.
     He reached for his Languatron, hoping it was as waterproof as the 
manufacturer promised, and switched it on. A small person came up to 
him, obviously a child, and spoke. At first he got gibberish, but the 
machine was sound, and soon he heard what sounded like a question. Was 
he alright?
     "I think so," he replied, when a louder voice barked something, and 
he looked up. A man in a uniform, big and nasty-looking, was pointing a 
weapon at him, and indicating that he must raise his hands. He did so, 
as soon as the Languatron did it's work, and within moments, was 
surrounded by more men with guns. Swiftly, with practiced ease, he was 
disarmed, dis-Languatroned, and shackled. He tried to speak, eliciting a 
puzzled look from one of the aliens as his words spilled out of the 
translator, but he was told to be silent, as a call was placed to 
somewhere on a field radio of some kind. Within centons, a ground 
vehicle pulled up, he was shoved in, and they were off.
     He was a prisoner.

Chapter Two

     The Galactica dropped out of lightspeed, the planet directly ahead, 
the size of a coin, at least from the crew's perspective. As she moved 
closer, they scanned all frequencies, hoping for more from Bojay. 
Nothing.
    "Commander," said Omega, "picking up several large satellites, and a 
large orbital facility." 
     "Have they scanned us, at all?"
     "Yes, sir. We have been repeatedly swept by some sort of scanning 
device since…fifty-four microns after dropping out of lightspeed."
     "That was fast," observed Tigh.
     "Scan them back," said Adama. "And hail Bojay. All channels."
     "Picking up traces of debris in orbit, Commander," said Omega.
     "Identity?"
     "No biological traces. It's the Cylon craft, sir."
     "I see,' said Adama. The loss of the Cylon fighter was an 
undesirable development. How would the Cylons react? Instinctively, he 
was concerned they might just react in the old-fashioned way, and want 
to pulse-blast the whole planet into cinders. A Cylon lesson in 
obedience. If this was all just some sort of accident, or an innocent 
misunderstanding between two peoples meeting for the first time, having 
it end in an apocalypse must be avoided.
     From the radio and vid scans coming through, it seemed that this 
planet resembled Terra, the home of the Eastern Alliance, in many ways. 
Though technologically developed, it was behind the Colonials by, it 
looked, several centi-yahrens. It also was an armed camp, with weapons 
and combat in evidence in almost every set of images.
     My God. I hope Bojay is alright.
     "Any response, Omega?" Adama asked, after several centons.
     "No, sir. Noth…wait. I'm getting a signal. It's on a gamma channel, 
Commander." Omega worked the equipment. "It's coming from the space 
station ahead, sir. Relayed from a ground source." 
     "Translation?"
     "On-line and ready, sir." He listened a moment. 
     "Put us in orbit one thousand metrons behind the station, and match 
speed. Let them see us."
     "Sir." Omega made the adjustments, then: "Commander, they are 
calling for you by name."
     "Me?"
     "Yes, sir. Specifically."
     "Put the message on," said the Commander.
     "On now, sir."
     The screens to Omega's left snowed, then resolved into the image of 
a …person. Wearing a garish uniform of some sort, they commlined a 
savage military flare. 
     "Is this Adama Commander of the Colonial Fleet Galactica ship?"
     "Yes, this is Commander Adama," replied Adama. "Who am I speaking 
with?"
     "I am General Kark, of the People's Revolutionary General 
Headquarters."
     "General," Adama replied.
     "Who are you people, and why have you attacked our installations?"
     "Excuse me, General? Attacked? We have…"
     "Do not attempt to deceive us! Your craft opened fire upon one of 
our orbital satellites, destroying it! Had we not responded, who knows 
what more might have happened?"
     "General…Kark," began Adama, "I can assure you, the vessels you 
detected were probe craft, and not here on any sort of aggressive 
mission. In fact, our telemetry…"
     "They attacked our satellites without provocation, alien!" the 
other shouted, pounding a fist on the table in front of him. "Naturally 
we responded, and destroyed the attackers!"
     Great! thought Adama. All Moray and the rest need to hear!
     "General, there has clearly been a misunderstanding. We had no idea 
that your planet was inhabited. We had no idea your solar system even 
existed until a few centars ago, nor do we have any designs on you or 
your world. I would like to speak with our pilot, however."
     "That is not possible at present," Kark insisted, shaking his head 
and leaning back. "Your man is in custody, currently undergoing 
interrogation."
     "Holy mong!" whispered Tigh. 
     "General, I expect that our man be treated with the utmost humanity 
and respect."
     "Respect?" shouted the alien. "We know how to show respect to spies 
and aggressors!"
     "General, with all due respect…" began Adama, trying to keep his 
composure in the face of the other's rudeness.
     "Stand by, Galactica ship," puffed Kark. "We shall contact you 
presently."
     "Gen…" began Adama , but the alien clicked off, his image replace 
by some kind of symbol on the screen. It resembled the talons of a large 
raptor, ripping a body apart, and surrounded by images of weapons. 
     "Transmission cut off, Commander," said Omega. 
     "Hail them back," said the Commander. Omega did so, but there was 
no answer from below. His scans, however, showed that they were still 
being tracked by the space station.
     "Opinion?" asked Adama, turning to Tigh. 
     "They sent the signal by relay. Obviously they don't want us to 
know where their headquarters are." 
     "No problem there, Colonel. I traced their signal back to the 
source." He brought up a scan of the planet's surface up on one screen. 
"There's a city here, on the northern continent. The signal came from a 
ground source there, sir."
     "I see. Keep hailing, Omega."
     "Sir."
     "Colonel, have our senior Warriors and Doctor Wilker gather in the 
Ward Room, in fifteen centons."
     "Yes, sir."
     

     "And your name is?" said the uniformed man, sitting across a dirty 
table from Bojay. Standing over him, a hulking bruiser was adjusting a 
heavy black glove on one hand, the room lit only by a single, old-
fashioned light bulb hanging from a frayed cord. He was seated in a 
wooden chair, with his hands tied behind him. 
     "I told you!" said Bojay, finding it hard to focus on the other 
with one eye swollen. "My name is Bojay, Lieutenant, Colonial Military, 
serial number 48175…"
     "Stop lying!" ordered the other, and at a gesture, the hulk plowed 
a meaty fist into the pilot's face. "We know you are a spy, in 
collaboration with reactionary Republican forces. Just admit it.'
     "What? I don't even know…"
     Whack!
     "Do not lie to me. We know you are a spy, in collaboration with 
reactionary Republican forces."  
     "Your scanner diode must be stuck, pal. I told you, I don't even 
know who or what you or these reaction…"
     Whack!
     "Just sign this," said the other, calmly, as one who had been 
through it all, many times before. "It will go easier for you."
    "Look, I'm not…"
     Crunch!
     "He's passed out, sir," reported the Hulk. The interrogator just 
waved a hand, and a bucket of water was tossed over Bojay's head. He 
jerked, coming around, and took a sharp breath.
     "Now, shall we continue? We know you are in collaboration with 
reactionary Republican forces," repeated the interrogator. "Sign this 
confession."
     "Lords of Kobol, how many times do I have to tell you! I am…"
     Whack!
     "We know you are a spy, in collaboration with reactionary 
Republican forces. Sign this confession…"
     Knock, knock.
    "See who it is," ordered the interrogator, with a sigh.
      
    "Commander?" called a voice. Adama, about to enter the ward Room, 
turned. It was Gayla, he recalled after a moment. A tech from the Agro 
Ship, and Chief Twilly's ex.
     One of them. And Bojay's current…
     "Yes?"
     "I just heard, Commander. Bojay's crashed on some alien planet?"
     I don't need this right now!
     "Yes, Gayla. We're about to have a…"
     "Is he alive?"
     "As far as we know. If I may ask, what are you doing aboard the 
Galactica?"
     "I was here to meet Bojay," she replied, stiffly. "We finally had 
some furlon time together, and I got here just before his patrol was 
supposed to return."
     "I'll contact you as soon as we have any information," replied 
Adama. "Please, wait for word, but this is a security area. Civilians 
are not cleared. The Officer's Club." 
     "But…"
     "Now!" He ordered, a bit more sternly then he had meant to, then 
entered the Ward Room.
     "But Com…Damn! What the Hades Hole is going on??"
     

     Much to his surprise, instead of another beating, Bojay found 
himself drug from the dreary room, and dumped in another dreary room, 
obviously a cell. With cot, dripping faucet and weak light, it was not 
going to be an exemplar for prison reform. As he lay there, fighting the 
pain, he tried to sort this all out. He'd crashed, and been taken 
prisoner. The locals had obviously taken his Languatron, and made good 
use of it, and seemed to think he was a spy. A spy for the "reactionary 
republican forces", whoever they might be. Being informed that he was no 
such thing didn't seem to sit well with them, hence the in-depth 
interview just past. They also had his sidearm, and whatever was left of 
his Viper, certainly enough to show them that they were dealing with a 
technically advanced race.
     Then, just as he was expecting more of their special "reactionary" 
brand of Tender Loving Care, they had broken off the welcoming 
ceremonies, and dumped him here, without explanation. Bojay was well-
trained enough to grasp that something had changed the dynamics of the 
situation. But in what way? Was he going to be released? Executed? 
Experimented on? Lords alone knew, and as usual, they weren't taking him 
into their confidences.
     "Mong! Days like this make a guy think he should have just stayed 
in bed. I feel terrible."
     Sounds like something Starbuck would say! I gotta stop hanging 
around him so much!

     "We have received another message from the planet below," said 
Adama, in the Ward Room. Next to him, a holographic image of General 
Kark hovered, data scrolling up. "It seems that Bojay's ship crashed, in 
the center of their capital city." 
     "Who are they, precisely, Commander?" asked Sheba.
     "The planet is called Kradina, and is fairly evenly split, between 
two powers."
     "Oh Lords, not again," said Apollo, almost in a groan.
     "I'm afraid so," said Adama. "The hegemony or alliance represented 
by this General Kark is called the People's Social Democratic Alliance, 
while the other is called the Republican Union, as best we can translate 
it. They are in a permanent state of Cold War, it seems, and highly 
hostile to each other."
     "I don't recognize this species," said Apollo.
     "Nor does our database," said Adama. "There is nothing in ours or 
the Cylon data banks on them. Obviously, they are of an Humanoid type, 
but there our information ends."
     "What about Bojay?" pressed Sheba.
     "They claim that he is alive."
     "When do we get him back? Can we at least speak to him?"
     "They claim it is not possible at this time, Sheba. He was, 
according to this General Kark, injured in the crash of his Viper, and 
is hospitalized."
     "Lords. How badly?" pressed Sheba.
     "Hospitalized?" asked Boomer. "What's their level of medicine?"
     "Yeah," interjected Starbuck. "From the look of the rest of their 
stuff, it can't be anything as advanced as what we have."
     "We've got to help him," Sheba went on.
     "I intend…"
     Beep
    "Bridge to Commander." 
     "Adama here."
     "Another message from the planet, sir."
     "Put it on."
     The image of Kark went from static holograph to live. Sheba was 
struck at how cruel the alien leader looked. The sort that would knife 
you for no reason at all.
     "Commander Adama," said the other.
     "General Kark. You have news?"
     "Yes, but first, allow me to make amends for my earlier 
brusqueness. You will appreciate that tensions are high here, and we 
have had no contact before with sentient beings from beyond our world."
     "Of course."
     "Your man was injured in the crash of his vehicle, and while our 
doctors are doing what they can, your species is new to us."
     "And you would like assistance."
     "Simply put, yes," said the other, as if it hurt to have to admit 
it. "We would appreciate it if someone from your ship could come down, 
and be of assistance."
     "I see. We can transport Bojay back to the Galactica for medical 
treatment."
     "Of course, but our doctors feel he is too injured to be moved at 
present. It would put him at considerable risk, and obviously any future 
relations between our peoples would be jeopardized if something was to 
unintentionally happen to him at this tenuous point in our relationship. 
If your people could perhaps work with ours, here?"
     "Doctor?" Adama asked, looking to Salik.
     "My only concern is with the life of our man, Commander," replied 
the CMO. "It is their planet. Their rules, I suppose."
     "So it would seem."
     "But I'm not comfortable about it," added Salik.
     "Nor I," muttered Sheba.
     "Very well, General," said Adama, returning his attention to the 
alien officer. "We shall make preparations to come down."
     "Excellent, Commander. You will be accompanying your party, of 
course?" 
     "Well, it isn't standard procedure, General."
     "My government…insists, Commander. That, and your man has repeated 
requested to see you. By name." He waited a beat. "We wish to do our 
best for him." Something in Kark's tone told Adama that Bojay's return 
home depended on how he responded now. Something…
     "Very well, General. I accept your…invitation."
     "Excellent. Soon, then, to our meeting face to face." And the image 
faded.
     "Commander, he's lying," said Starbuck, interjecting himself ahead 
of everyone. 
     "You're sure?"
     "Commander, I've played enough pyramid hands to know when even an 
alien is pulling something. And he is."
     "But what?" asked Tigh.


     "So," said Kark, in the transmission booth on the planet below, as 
he lifted his finger from the "transmit" button.
     "Well done,' said the man to his left.
     "Will it work, though, Comrade Premiere?" asked Kark. 
     "I am taking a terrible gamble, here. We had all better hope that 
it does," said the other. "For all our sakes."

Chapter Three
  
     Captain Byrne rolled sharply left, and saw the blue pencils of 
light scream past his right wing. Hitting his thrust reversers, he also 
snapped the ship around, and opened fire. All his shots went wild of the 
target…
     Except one. A single bolt of laser energy ripped directly into the 
left engine cowling of the Cylon Raider, sending sparks and debris 
belching out the back. The fighter began to roll, then spin, as the 
whole left side flared up and blew apart, sending the rest of the craft 
spinning off into oblivion, to explode a few moments later. 
     "Got him!" shouted Byrne, as he sped past the cooling debris of the 
enemy machine. 
      "Sure did, and nicely done, too," said Barton, over his headset.
     "How many does that make, so far?"
     "Six," replied Barton. Byrne looked ahead, and saw the Galactica 
growing larger. Then, Barton obscured his view, as he stood over Byrne's 
cockpit. The stars disappeared, and his canopy popped. "Very good."
     "Had you any doubts?" asked Byrne, slipping off his helmet, and 
getting out of the simulator. He stepped down the ladder, and onto the 
deck. "So."
     "So?"
     "When do I get to take my qualifying flight? Not just a simulator, 
but the real McCoy?"
     "Real….uh, yes. Well, that's up to Captain Apollo, as Senior Strike 
Leader. But, based on these marks, I'm sure he'll approve it, soon." 
     "Good. One thing I have missed is flying, Barton. I mean real 
flying. Just you, and only you, in the cockpit of your own machine. By 
the way, how'd you manage to pull this duty? I thought Starbuck was 
supposed to be running the sims, this afternoon, while he's between 
stints on the BaseShip."
     "Well, he was, sir, but I made a serious tactical error."
     "Which was?"
     "I played pyramid with him."
     "Ah," smiled Byrne. Obviously, Starbuck was being Starbuck again, 
and doing whatever he needed to get out of the less glamorous duties. He 
shook his head, chuckling. If only his old flight instructor…
     Beep.
     "Well," said Byrne, suddenly going somber.
     "Sir?"
     "It's Colonel Tigh. He wants to see me. Now."


     "He's what?" said Byrne, almost bellowing. "What in God's…"
     "Commander Adama has been abducted," said Tigh, looking like he 
wished he were almost anywhere else.
     "How?" asked Allen, next to Byrne in the Ward Room. The Adelaide 
had just returned from a tactical exercise, and Allen was scheduled to 
be debriefed, along with Betz, from the Century. When he had heard the 
news, he had called his old friend. 
     "The Commander had agreed to meet with them, in order to get Bojay 
back. Supposedly, Bojay asked for Adama specifically."
     "Asked for him?" asked Byrne. "As in Bojay wanted Adama to come 
down to the planet?"
     "So they said."
     "And Adama went for it?" Byrne couldn't believe it. Adama couldn't 
be that easily taken in.
     "He had no choice, really," said Tigh. "There were…diplomatic 
concerns."
     "Diplomatic? How so?"
     "The local defenses, although primitive by our standards, destroyed 
the Cylon fighter that was flying patrol with Bojay." Tigh shook his 
head, as if he couldn't believe what he was saying. "Baltar informed us 
that Command Centurion Moray wants to pulse blast the entire planet into 
cinders, in retaliation."
     "Oh great," groaned Allen. "Just what we bloody need."
     "However," said Tigh, holding up a hand, "after some discussions, 
it was agreed that the Cylons would forego their usual response, if 
Adama accepted the invitation, and used diplomacy to smooth things 
over."
     "And?" asked Byrne.
     "And,' said Tigh, "the arrangements were made, and Adama, Doctor 
Salik, and Cassiopeia, shuttled down to the rendezvous. Only it was a 
trap."
     Really! Byrne said to himself. No shit, Sherlock.
     "Is he alive?" asked Allen.
     "Yes, as are the rest. We had a video scan from them just after it 
happened." Tigh replayed the scan, showing Adama and his party 
surrounded by guards, but apparently alright. So far. 
     "What are their demands?" asked Byrne. 
     "Military aid," replied Tigh. 
     "Military aid? As in technology transfer?"
     "As in help in their war with their opposition. The ‘Republican 
Union', or whatever it's called. From what we can determine, it isn't 
going well. They have fought each other to a stalemate, and have been in 
a sort of Cold War for a number of yahrens."
     "And these arseholes want the wherewithal to deliver a knockout 
blow, and win their war once and for all," said Allen. "And if they 
don't get it?"
     "Yes. The hostages will suffer for it."
     Allen looked at Byrne, then Tigh. "Any idea where they are being 
held?"
     "Only that it's near their capital, somewhere. We haven't been able 
to locate them on scanners, yet." The Galactica's XO looked at them 
both. "You have an idea? Either of you?"
     "We need information, Colonel," said Byrne, "and we don't have time 
to play anthropologist." He fell silent a few moments. "Colonel, what 
happened to the shuttle?"
     "It's still down there. At their airfield facility."
     "Remote fly her back, and have her scanners sweep the city as she 
does so. We need information, and this will at least give us some."
     "It'll also keep her out of the hands of those scum," said Allen. 
"What kind of aircraft do they have?"
     "Atmospheric pulse jets, as near as we can tell." He put up an 
image, captured by the shuttle on the way down, of their "escort". It 
was a jet, sleek, armed to the teeth.
     "Looks similar to an old MiG-21," said Byrne. Tigh raised an 
eyebrow. "An old Soviet fighter, from back home. A bit before my time, 
I'll admit."
     "Formidable?"
     "Against a Viper? Not a chance."
 

     "WHAT?" bellowed General Kark, as he got the news. "How is this 
possible?"
     "The alien craft, Comrade General. It just powered up by itself, 
and flew off."
     "Fools! Incompetent fools! You shall all pay for this!" He got on 
the telecom, and bellowed orders. "Shoot it down! Now!" Then, with a 
growl of rage, he slammed the instrument down. Obviously, the shuttle 
was beyond capture. He looked around the empty hangar, then at the 
technicians. "Spies! Republican spies! You shall all pay for this!" He 
motioned to the soldiers with him.


     "What have they said?" asked Apollo, outside the brig, with Tigh.
     "Nothing, so far. They insist they are prisoners of war, and refuse 
to talk."
     "Of all the…" Apollo snarled, and fell silent. He looked through 
the barrier, at the aliens. When the shuttle was activated to return, 
two of the alien technicians had been aboard, examining the craft. Now, 
they were "guests" of the Colonials.
     "We don't have time for niceties," said Starbuck, next to his 
friend. "We need to wring the truth out of them."
     "What do you suggest, Lieutenant? Torture them?"
     "No," said Starbuck, but it was quite clear he'd like to have a 
crack at the aliens. "Truth drug.  The Commander's in serious danger, 
and like Captain Byrne said, we need information, and time is a luxury."
     "I hate the idea," said Tigh.
     "I don't," replied Apollo.


     "Now, this will just get us the truth," said the alien, standing 
over Adama, with an old-fashioned syringe in his hands, filing it from 
and equally old-fashioned vial. 
     "I told you," said Adama, clad only in a grayish gown, and strapped 
to a bed, "I am here at the invitation of your…"
     "Yes, of course," said the man, as if he were addressing a 
troublesome child. "Now, Commander…" He selected a spot on one arm, and 
injected Adama with the drug, and then slowly set the syringe down. 
Then, he turned back to his "patient", and smiled, just as the muffled 
sound of a woman's scream came from close by. From Adama's eyes, it was 
clear that the drug was already taking effect. "How about you and I have 
a little chat, eh?"


     It did not take long to convince Colonel Tigh to use truth drugs. 
It was either that, or some of what Byrne and Allen referred to as "the 
old fashioned methods" of getting their guests to "cooperate". Tigh 
wondered about reaching and settling on Earth, but gave in.
     The aliens did not. They resisted being interrogated in any way, 
but a stun blast from the cell's security system, and a quick trip to 
LifeStation, removed their objections. Soon, they were scanned, 
processed, and the most compatible drug selected. Within a few centons, 
the chemicals of cooperation were coursing through their bodies.
     Apollo was short, and none too sweet with them. Plainly, where was 
Adama, and what did Kark really want him for? Where, and with what sort 
of security? While it seemed unlikely that a couple of low-level techs 
would know such things, Apollo was leaving no barrel bottom unscraped. 


     Cassie looked around her cell, cold and damp, and could see no 
cameras or other sensing devices in evidence. While she knew that these 
people's technology was far behind their own, they were far from a bunch 
of mud-brick primitives. Given their paranoia, the cell could easily be 
wired to the hilt. She sat up, furious at discovering that she had been 
stripped naked, and left with only a thin gown to put on. 
     Borays! Probably watching! Sick pukes!
     She dressed (Mong! Couldn't they find a clean one?), and looked 
around. All she could recall was being snatched as they had stepped off 
the shuttle, then herded into a vehicle of some sort. She was unloaded 
at some sort of official-looking facility, and when she resisted, poked 
with something like an old-style bovine prod. She screamed with the 
pain, then was punctured with a hypo. Then…blackness.
     Rattle clank clank.
     The guard, or whomever, entered the cell. Huh. The alien was still 
out. Oh well, who cared? Just get her prepped and… say, she's not bad-
looking. Considering she's an…uuhhh……..
     He never saw Cassie leap from the bunk, one foot arcing up to land 
a heel square in his face. There was a crunch, then she was on top of 
him. In a blur, her hands were around his throat. She twisted as hard as 
she could, and the alien fell in a twitching heap. 
     "Now what?" she muttered.


     "Colonel!" cried Rigel, from down in the "pit". The ship's XO 
turned to regard her. "A signal, sir!"
     "From?"
     "I…I think it's from Cassiopeia, sir!"
     "Cass…transfer up her, Rigel."
     "Sir."
     The data flowed to the higher station, and Athena began running it 
through the BTD. Sure enough, there was a signal of some sort. Weak, and 
on an old-fashioned gamma channel. And it carried a voice.
     "Can you get a fix?" asked Tigh.
     "It's right behind us, on the surface, Colonel," said Athena. We've 
just passed over their capital city." She superimposed the signal 
position, with a map of the city below. There, near a large complex of 
buildings, was a flashing dot. 
     "Can you open a channel? We need to reply." Tigh looked up at 
another officer. "Get me Captain Apollo." 


     "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all," muttered Cassie, as 
she tried again to make contact with the Galactica. Huddled in a storage 
closet or whatever, behind some concrete pillars somewhere in the bowels 
of the detention facility, she had slipped from her cell after taking 
out the guard, or whatever he'd been. His uniform fit her, badly, and 
the old-fashioned ring of metal keys on his belt was simple enough. 
These folks had a penchant for color-coding things, it seemed, and 
finding which key fit what turned out to be less troublesome than she 
had thought. 
     But the primitive commlink he'd worn, bulky and with a long antenna 
and lots of knobs and buttons, was proving to be more of a poser. While 
she had grown up surrounded by often antiquated machinery, she'd never 
seen anything like this…except, yeah. That school field trip to a museon 
once, as a kid. History of Radio, or whatever it had been. Lords, she 
had been so bored! Back when it was all big batteries and glass tubes 
and coils of wire the size of chair legs. This one was a bit less 
ancient, but…
    Click.
     "Galactica, this is Cassiopeia. I am being held prisoner by the 
natives of this planet. Can you hear me?" sizzzzzzzzzzzzle crackkkkkle 
"This is Cassiopeia. Can you hear me?"
     "Who is this? Identify!" demanded a voice suddenly, though she did 
not understand the words. "Identify, user!"
     "Damn!" she muttered, and turned one of the knobs. A higher 
frequency. She hoped.
     A siren suddenly broke the silence.


     "Dead?" asked Kark, standing in Cassie's cell. On the floor was the 
guard.
     "Yes, sir. Neck broken," said the medical orderly. "One blow, I'd 
say."
     "How in…She can't have gotten far! Search…Yes?" he said irritably, 
as another officer entered. "WHAT?"
     "It just showed up on the detectors, General. Power levels indicate 
it could be the guard's missing unit."
     "A transmission? Begin to triangulate! Find the source! At once! I 
want that alien found! Do you hear me???" 

Chapter Four

     Bojay had no idea what had happened, but it was obvious that 
something had upset his hosts. Instead of more rounds with their 
heavyweight champion, or yet another hypo full of whatever it was, he 
was taken to a grim, dirty detention cell, tossed roughly onto a bunk, 
and locked in. No answers to his queries, nothing. A few centons later, 
something resembling food was slid in on a tray through a slot in the 
door, but that was all. Despite his shouts and poundings on the door, 
the guard made no reply.
     Somewhere in the background, he could hear what sounded like a 
siren, or claxon of some sort. He wondered if someone had managed to 
escape from this Hades hole. Or perhaps these "Republic" enemies had 
attacked? From what he had gathered during his interrogation, these 
folks were in a seemingly constant state of war.
     What in the Lords was the Galactica doing?
     Were they doing anything?


     "Understood, sir," said Dorado, on the Constellation's bridge.  
"I'll handle it myself, sir." He looked at the helmsman. "Comply, helm."
     "Sir."
     "Engineering," he called into the IC. "I'll need everything that 
you can give me."
     "You'll have it, sir."

     Cassie was growing frustrated, not to mention more than a little 
scared. She'd been fiddling with the alien commlink for almost a full 
centar. Sure, she was out of her cell, the guard's uniform having done 
the trick, but that hadn't gotten her very far.  Out of the portable 
food prepper, into the induction coil! She knew she'd end up getting 
caught again if she just stayed put, but she had no idea as to the 
layout of the building, so strolling about looking for an exit was 
hardly an option, either. Especially when she was the alien!  
     And she was cold! Was it winter, here? Or maybe these guys didn't 
believe in central heating! Lords knew her cell had been chill enough. 
Then again, either they operated on a lower thermostat than female 
Humans, or they were purposely trying to keep her uncomfortable.  She 
could believe as much, not feeling particularly generous in her opinions  
just now.  She'd slipped on something she'd found hanging in here, a 
long heavy coat, cut for someone much bulkier and taller than she, and a 
pair of boots, but she was still cold. She called again, hoping someone 
would hear her up above, and wondered about battery life, when she heard 
the sound of a latch being lifted.
     "Felcercarb!"


     "General!" cried a subordinate, bursting into the room. 
     "Yes, what is it, Sergeant?' snapped an annoyed Kark. 
     "Alien craft has penetrated our airspace!"
     "Wh…like before?"
     "No, General. Much larger! Larger in size than a battleship, sir!" 
He handed the other a paper hardcopy. 
     "When?"
     "It just appeared, sir! Radar could track no approach vector!"
     "General!" cried another, bursting in. "We have it!"


      Cassie had steeled herself against whatever was to come, and sure 
enough, large, beefy forms burst into her hiding place. Then, she felt 
dizzy, the images before her fuzzing in and out…
     Then she felt strong arms about her, and there was a cacophony of 
shouts, and the sound of a weapon discharging. After a few microns, the 
blizzard slowed down, and she could take stock.
     "Cassie? You okay?" said a voice.


     "And?" asked Tigh, in the Galactica's Ward Room.
     "They fired on us, sir," said Dorado, "but that was no problem. We 
had her and were out of the atmosphere before any more of them could 
lock onto us."
     "Very good." The XO looked at Byrne. "And good idea, Captain."
     "Thank you, Colonel. I guess that transport machine came in useful 
after all." He looked to Paye, but Tigh spoke first.
     "How is she, Doctor?"
     "Not bad, considering. She's been smacked around pretty good. A 
loose tooth and black eyes, and she had no food or liquids during her 
incarceration, but nothing beyond that, fortunately, in the physical 
sense. The remains of whatever drug they had medicated her with is being 
analyzed now."
     "But she's alright, now?"
     "Yes. She's resilient, and is bouncing back fast, Colonel."
     "That's good,' said Tigh, obviously relieved.  He nodded for her to 
be brought in. They all winced at her appearance. She looked like she'd 
played several Triad matches. As the ball.
     Cassie was unable, sadly, to tell them much about things below, 
beyond the obvious. The folks there ran a jack-booted militaristic 
dictatorship, with strict controls everywhere. She had been held in a 
high-security installation, and judged her own escape to be a fluke.
     "Maybe not," said Allen. They looked to him. "A society as 
controlled and as rigid as this one would be used to things always 
working as planned. Especially their security setup. After a while, 
they'd get complacent. They underestimated Cassie, and so she was able 
to use that to get out."
     "But we can't count on that being the case from now on," offered 
Apollo. "Whatever defects she may have found will be corrected."
     "Yeah," said Byrne. "I've seen stuff like this before. They won't 
make the same mistake twice."
     "Any clues as to where Commander Adama might be?" asked Tigh. 
     "No, Colonel," replied Cassie. "I was separated from the rest, and 
never saw him again. That prison complex was huge, and they didn't 
exactly give me a tour." She turned, as an holographic scan of the 
facility was put up. A flashing red dot showed the location where she 
and a guard had been transported from. The entire complex was sprawling, 
covering an area as big as the Galactica. Surrounded by thick walls, 
towers, and fitted with cameras, gun emplacements, radio jamming 
equipment, radar arrays, and constantly patrolled, it looked 
impregnable. 
     The technology of paranoia.
     "Can't we just scan for Human biosigns?" asked Starbuck. "I mean 
our electronic felcercarb  has got to be better than theirs. Sir."
     "We are trying," said Tigh. "But these beings and Humans read as 
very similar. There is also a lot of interference from their electronic 
equipment, plus the distance."
     "Not to mention that, given what's happened, they may have moved 
them,' said Apollo. "They have no idea the extent of our technology, and 
will try and conceal their prisoners even more securely now."
     "He's right,' said Allen. "These dingos will have Adama locked up 
tighter than a bull's arse at fly time. But we can bet we'll hear from 
them in short order."


     They did, but not as quickly as Allen had assumed. It was almost 
three centars after the rescue of Cassie that they were once more hailed 
from below. As before, it was General Kark calling.
     "This is an act of war!" shouted Kark, almost frothing in rage. The 
Languatron found parts hard to follow, but the overall sense was quite 
clear. Kark was once again accusing them of being in league with the 
"reactionary imperialist" Republic forces, and there would be "grave 
consequences" for both the Commander and the rest, if demands were not 
met. 
     "Sir," said Rigel, to Tigh. "Please try and keep him on the line as 
long as possible." She pointed to her board. Tigh wasn't sure what she 
had in mind, but she'd come up with some innovative ideas in the past. 
He nodded. 
     "General," said Tigh, "must I remind you that it was you who 
abducted our Commander and his party, as well as holding our pilot, with 
whom we still have not been allowed to speak, I must add. Yet in all 
this, it is you who accuse us of committing acts of war? It is quite 
plain that blame here lies elsewhere."
      "I see where blame lies!" growled Kark. "You have come from space, 
and made common cause with the enemies of the people, in order to take 
control of our planet! It is manifestly obvious!"
     Tigh tried to keep his composure. Adar and his naiveté are sounding 
better all the time, he mused. I wonder what the Cylons make of all this 
daggit drivel. He spared a look over at Rigel, but she was still buried 
in whatever it was she was doing. 
     "What is manifestly obvious, General," resumed Tigh, the strained 
patience in his voice clear, "is that if we were here to conquer your 
world, we could have just started blasting when we showed up, and you 
could have done nothing to stop us. We have no designs on you, your 
planet, nor any interest whatsoever in your dispute with these 
Republican enemies of yours."
     "So you say!" sneered the General. "Mark this!" he hissed, pointing 
at Tigh. "Any further interference, and it will not go well for your 
people. When next I call, I expect acquiescence to our demands. This 
transmission ends, now."
     "Gen…" began Tigh, but the screen went blank. He looked over at 
Rigel. The woman looked back with a smile, thumb up. It seemed she had 
something positive to report. Lords, he could use some good news about 
now.  

     "Give me that again, please,' said Tigh, in the War Room. While he 
had graduated with high marks from the Academy, incessant and convoluted 
technobabble always left him feeling like he was about five light-
yahrens behind the task force. 
     "We networked, Colonel," she replied. "As you know, their space 
station has been tracking us since we assumed orbit. Satellites and a 
similar station, belonging to these Republic forces have also been 
tracking us. I might add that their scanning systems are, by our 
standards, very primitive." She put a holographic image of the area up. 
"By networking the scanners of the Galactica, the Century, 
Constellation, Adelaide, and the BaseShip, I was able to use their own 
scans, here," she pointed out the enemy sweeps, highlighted in red, 
"against them."
     "How?" asked Apollo.
     "As the scan energy reflected back, towards their origins, we 
porcine-backed along with it. By carefully modulating our signals to 
simulate theirs, we were able to gain more data concerning the 
facilities from which the scans originated."
     "And?"
     "We have enough data now, to engineer a complete remote shutdown of 
their defensive network, sir. And, we have a much clearer set of scans 
of the building Cassiopeia was rescued from. And, on top of that, while 
plugged into their system, I was able to tap their data banks. Again, 
very primitive in comparison to what we have. In fact, I'd hardly grace 
it with the term computron, but it has given us extensive data on their 
history and the state of their technology."
     "All well and good, but how does that help us get our people back?" 
asked Tigh. 
     "We have found where the Commander is being held, Colonel. In this 
building, here." She swept her hands over the holograph, and the images 
zoomed in. "A vast military fortress/palace  complex, from which this 
part of the planet is ruled."
     "Like the Kremlin, back home," Allen said to Byrne. 
     "Or the Forbidden City, in Peking," Byrne replied. He looked to 
Tigh. "If I may. Sergeant Rigel, have you been able to locate the 
Commander precisely, along with the rest, in all this sprawl?"
     "Not yet," she replied. "As you may know, we and these aliens have 
many biosigns in common, which makes precise identification and 
isolation a problem at this distance. That, and it appears that they are 
moving them around."
     She showed a scan in realtime. From time to time, a red dot would 
flash, indicative of the one of the prisoners. Then it would fade, only 
to turn up in another part of the complex. The aliens obviously 
appreciated the Colonial's ability to snatch people from a distance, and 
were doing their best to try and negate it.
     "Can we lock on with the transport device, and grab them, like we 
did with Cassie, when they do appear?" asked Starbuck.
     "I doubt it," said Rigel. "The contacts are short, and hard to get 
a precise focus on, surrounded by so many other life forms. That, and 
the whole complex is filled with very old-fashioned electrical systems. 
Crude single-phase generators, as well as the extensive use of equally 
crude scanners around it, could scramble the transport lock. We might 
get them, or we might get nothing. Rescuing Cassie was a very near 
thing." She looked crestfallen. 
     "Can you refine the sims, any? Modify the system at our end?" asked 
Tigh.
     "We can try, sir. But I can't guarantee success. After all, it's a 
technology still new to us."
     "Well, try, Sergeant," said Tigh. "We don't have a lot of time."
     "No, we don't," said Byrne, scowling at the holo of the prison 
complex. He seemed to study it, till Allen broke in.
     "I know that look, Old Man," he said. "As sure as there's cold crap 
in a dead kangaroo, you've got an idea. You look like you did right 
before you slugged that guard on Krylamic."
     "Uh huh," said Byrne, slowly smiling. "But I was thinking of 
something else. Our last leave, before we left Earth."
     "Yeah, when we were in Hawaii."
     "I remember."
     "Uh huh. That dump, in Honolulu, on Hotel Street."
     "Oh yeah," said Allen. "Wait a minute, I got shot in the arse."
     "Didn't say it was perfect. 

Chapter Five 

     "Give that to me again, please?" Colonel Tigh asked.
     "Simply put, Colonel," said Byrne, "since time is running thin, and 
we can hardly expect General Sweetiepie to just hand over our people, we 
have to go down and get them. Now, I know they aren't going to just let 
us waltz in…"
     "Matilda," inserted Allen, a finger raised.
     Byrne paused, shook his head at his friend, and then continued in 
stride, ". . . and take, them, so we have to use deceit."
     "How?" asked the XO after a moment's consideration. 
     "The only way open to us in the short time we have. We go down 
there in disguise, and take them from the fortress."
     "You are kidding," said Starbuck. "Please, tell me you are."
     "No, he ain't,' said Allen. "Trust me."
     "I remember Apollo telling me about how you went under a disguise, 
to catch some crooks on the Rising Star a while back. And how Apollo had 
his appearance altered, as part of the whole thing."
     "Yeah. Samuels, and his ‘Association'. They were extorting money 
from shop owners. Killed one, too."
     "Right. So, we use the same method, here. We disguise ourselves as 
natives, go down, and get our people." Byrne looked at the rest. "The 
only other option, as I see it, is to let Moray and his crew turn the 
planet into glass. There's no reason billions of innocent people should 
die, just because of this prick Kark, or whoever it is he answers to."
     "But it's an awful risk," said Cassie. "That place is a complete 
maze, believe me, Captain Byrne."
     "And doing nothing is an even greater risk," replied Allen. "These 
dingos mean what they say. If we wait too long, they are liable to send 
Adama back on a blotter."
     "A lot like the old Soviet Union back home, I'm ashamed to say,' 
said Byrne. "But we can turn that authoritarian setup against them."
     "How so?" asked Sheba. 
     "These people are trained to instantly obey a superior. They know 
what will likely happen to them if they don't. This is a system that 
largely runs on fear. If we go in there, and we work this right, people 
will be reluctant, at least at first, to question any orders from a 
superior. It's built into systems like that. We have to seize and use 
that to our advantage."
     "And just who is to go down?" asked Tigh.
     "Well, it was my idea," said Byrne.


     "Pop, are you crazy?" asked Jena, back in their guest quarters 
aboard the Galactica. "Going down there?" She jerked her thumb in the 
direction on the viewport. The planet spun serenely below them, 
deceptively peaceful-looking.
     "Your mother often asked me that, Jen." He sat at a dressing table, 
screen captures of the alien General Kark before him. Open on the table 
was a wide variety of make-up articles. "More than once."
     "Well, maybe she was on to something there. Going down there, and 
infiltrating their capital city? What's next on your list? Stealing the 
jewels from Morgoth's crown?"
     "No, I have to go and raise the Titanic, first," he replied, with a 
mix of sarcasm and weariness. "Or maybe find the Holy Grail? If I have 
time."
     "Ha ha. You ever think of going on IFB, maybe, with your act?" 
     "Jena, it's got to be done. That's that."
     "Yeah, but why you? Huh?"
     "Look, Adama and his people went out of their way to save our butts 
when that planet got it's ticket punched. He's given us a place, a 
purpose, and a way home. We owe him, big time, girl. I'm not going to 
just leave him and the doc to the tender mercies of the local KGB, when 
I have at least a glimmer of a chance to do something about it."
     "Well…isn't there someone younger who could do this?" Byrne turned 
to her, as she said this. He looked faintly frightening, with his make-
up incomplete. "I mean hey, get real. You aren't exactly a spring 
chicken, Pop."
     "Jena, I haven't the moral right to suggest a dangerous plan, then 
expect someone else to do it. It's like when I was CAG. If you fly the 
missions with the guys, if you lead from the front, then they know that 
you mean it. It's part of the whole ethos of leadership. If I shirk out, 
what does that say about me?"
     "And what about me?"
     "Don't worry. The Secretary will disavow any knowledge of my 
actions."
     "Oh, please."
     "So help me Martin Landau."
     "Aarrgh!" She threw a sock at him.
     "Besides, I'm a similar height to this General Kark," he replied, 
more seriously, and ignoring her question, and ducking, "so it saves 
time looking for someone else. And if there's anything we are short on, 
it is time, kid." She watched in morbid fascination, as another 
prosthetic piece went into place, transforming her father into the alien 
General. It was both strange, and frightening at the same time.
     "You are impossible!" Jen hrumphhed, and left the room.
     "Just like your mother," Byrne said, to the empty room.


     "Man, you are uglier than a sack full of arse holes," said Allen, 
as he got his first look at his old friend, in costume.
     "Used or unused?" Byrne shot back.
     "In use, mate." Allen looked him over. "Man, these folks are ugly."
     "I'll bet they said the same thing about us, Ced."
     "You think it'll do the trick?"
     "Well, we have some live specimens to study, so with some of that 
renowned implant magic from the folks in Sick Bay, and a few external 
touches, we should manage it. At least long enough to find our people 
and pull this off."
     "Bloody well hope so, Kev. These dingos need takin' down a peg or 
three." He looked at Byrne. "What about the uniform?"
     "Well, I was going to use the ones those guards were wearing as a 
template, but we don't have time to accurately reproduce all the ribbons 
and egg salad. At least not in minute detail. We'll transport down, into 
that closet we rescued Cassie from, and avail ourselves of something in 
there, and hope our fake jewelry passes muster long enough that it 
doesn't matter."
     "That's not a lot to fall back on, Kev. One sharp-eyed guard or 
whatever…"
     "Like we have a choice, Ced."
     "That's what you said, in Honolulu."
     "Yeah. Remind me."
     "Anyway, I hope Adama and that doctor are okay, Kev. These bastards 
don't mess around."
     "Yeah. He won't show it, but Apollo's worried sick."
     "Can hardly blame him."


     "Yes?" said Kark, as an underling disturbed him. He looked up, with 
irritation.
     "The medial reports you asked for, sir," said the other. He handed 
Kark a set of folders. "The captives."
     "I see. Dismissed." The other saluted, and Kark turned to the 
papers in hand.  The one on the female was incomplete, but it seemed 
that this species was, indeed, not of this world. They were, as they 
claimed, from somewhere else in space, and not from anyplace known to 
them, and not agents of the Republican reactionary forces. He snorted. 
That would have made things so much easier.
      As to form and function, they had the same basic sexual dimorphism 
as his own species. He cursed again at the thought of the alien woman's 
escape. If the guard were not already dead, he would have seen to the 
idiot's immediate execution. Obviously, the female had received some 
measure of personal combat training. Even through his contempt, he could 
not help but feel some grudging measure of respect for her. It had been 
a very long time since anyone had escaped from the Citadel.
     The alien pilot, despite his…injuries, seemed fit. Fairly young, 
assuming the two species progressed the same. Internal layout of 
skeleton, organs and various tissues was basically the same, with just a 
few intriguing variations. Their blood chemistry was quite different, 
however, being based solely upon iron, instead of the iron/copper mix, 
of his own kind. There were also considerable differences in physiology, 
which the doctors were still assessing. Despite all his… injuries, the 
doctors expected that this Bojay would recover.
     "If he lives that long," smiled Kark. 
     The alien doctor was interesting. Bulky yet not obese, examination 
of him gave every indication of him once having been much like the one 
called Bojay. Thinner, and fit. Perhaps a warrior, once, when younger? 
He said that his name was Salik, and that he was the chief medical 
officer aboard this Galactica. If true, and from the contents of the kit 
seized from him upon capture it appeared to be so, what secrets of 
medicine could they perhaps obtain from him? How many of their own 
fighting personnel could be put right, and returned to the fight, with 
the advanced knowledge of this alien physician? Their bacteriological 
warfare program could leap ahead immensely, bringing closer the day of 
ultimate victory. 
     He smiled, setting aside that file, and looked at the report on the 
one called Adama. Like the rest, he was not of their species, and was 
manifestly older. From the X-rays and other work, it was clear he had 
led an active and at times dangerous life. Being older, the doctors 
advised caution, in interrogating him. There was evidence of cardiac 
surgery at one time, and he had reacted badly to one of the drugs 
administered. Kark shook his head. Amazing that someone this old was 
still on active military service. But then, perhaps for this race, that 
was normal?
     He next turned to the reports on the devices found with the aliens. 
What had obviously been a sidearm of some kind had proven to be most 
potent. At the State Technical Laboratory, a discharge from one of them 
had resulted in two deaths, a small fire, and some menial scientists 
being sent to a labor camp. Nonetheless, the weapons were directed 
energy devices of some sort, and one of the (remaining) scientists had 
determined that it was similar to the theoretical discharge of modified 
light, which some speculated might one day revolutionize all weaponry, 
making solid projectiles as obsolete as smoke signals.
     The other device seemed to have the ability to translate languages, 
but how the scientists were unable to say. Like the sidearms, much of 
the internal workings were composed of unidentifiable electrical 
components, unlike any ever seen before. Still, since they knew what was 
good for them, the technicians continued their investigations. 
     Obviously, these people must be vastly more advanced than their own 
planet, which disturbed Kark. According the theories of the great 
thinker and philosopher Arl Grax, upon which the Revolution had been 
built, no greater level of achievement was possible than that which they 
themselves had produced. Since sentient life upon other worlds was 
manifestly impossible, it could be no other way. This was a conundrum, 
and Kark hated those. He preferred simpler approaches to reality. See 
it, blast it out of existence, problem solved. It generally worked so 
well.
     He closed the files, poured himself a drink, and got up. The 
pressure was on, from upstairs. Results were expected, patience was 
thinning perceptibly, and as with the lower echelons, the spur of terror 
was never far away. He would go and speak with this Commander Adama once 
again.


     "Okay, here it is," said Byrne, in the Battlestar's Ward Room. On 
the holoprojector was the fortress wherein the prisoners had been held, 
and from which Cassie had escaped. It was a veritable lepon warren of 
rooms, hallways, levels, and towers, but intensive scans had laid it all 
bare to the Colonials. Built on a long-extinct plug of volcanic rock, it 
was a formidable proposition. 
     "Their technology certainly seems a weird mix," said Cassie. "They 
have space stations, yet in other ways, it all seems so backwards."
     "Yes," said Hummer. "Near as we can tell, they put a lot of their 
abilities into space flight once rockets became possible, to the neglect 
of other things. Some things they just haven't invented, or at least 
used extensively, yet."  
     "Kind of like what Skylab was like, back home," said Allen. "Or 
some of the earlier designs, if they'd gotten off the drawing board."
     "They obviously had different priorities, here," replied Starbuck. 
"Okay, next?" Byrne looked to Hummer.
     "We've been intercepting and decoding their transmissions since the 
crisis began. They also have a computron network," Hummer winced, as if 
dignifying what was below with the term computron actually hurt, "and we 
have been able to hack it. We have assembled a list of the personnel at 
the Citadel, their photos and rank, as well as duty stations. That being 
the case, we have made a few…alterations."
     "Won't they detect it?" asked Apollo.
     "Not likely, sir. What they have is like the capacities of a pocket 
calcutron compared to our mainframe."
     "Now, here," said Byrne, zooming in on part of the scan, "the main 
road down from the citadel runs alongside the cliff. What that shows us 
is that at two points from above, there are blind spots." He zoomed in 
again. "Fortunately for us, they don't have the road wired with security 
cameras and motion sensors, but are relying on patrols and searchlights. 
And the patrols are at regular intervals. Every thirty-four centons, by 
Colonial reckoning."
     "Exploitable," said Apollo. "Similar to the Cylons."
     "Regimented societies tend to run along similar lines, Captain. 
Now, since they keep moving our people around, it's hard to localize 
them even with the Galactica's scanners, so we have to fall back on the 
old-fashioned methods."
     "There's another potential problem," said Twilly. "Parts of the 
rock that citadel is built on is strongly magnetic. It tends to throw 
off our scan lock on the teleporter. We can set you down, just about 
anywhere, outside the fortress, but once inside, if you have to keep 
moving, it could become very dicey."
     "What about some kind of tracker?" asked Sheba. "Implanted, maybe?"
     "That can be done," said Hummer, "but without testing, we have no 
idea how well they would work inside all that." He pointed to the 
fortress. "That, and the Commander and the others have none, and they 
would need to be implanted surgically."
     Starbuck frowned.  "Couldn't they just swallow it . . . or . . ."
     "Or?" Hummer asked.
     "Shove into some other receptive . . . well, uh . . ." 
     "Orifice," Cassie finished for him, understanding instantly.
     "Thanks," the Warrior said, obviously happy not to have to finish 
the thought.
     "Interesting." Tigh nodded approvingly.  "You work on it, Hummer," 
said Colonel Tigh. "We cannot let any potential avenue go unexploited."
     "Sir."
     "Anyway," said Byrne, "according to scans, there is something like 
a civilian hospital, on the way into town, below the fortress. Starbuck, 
your team needs to steal an ambulance. Two if possible."
     "How come I always get the fun jobs?" asked Starbuck, his smile 
contradicting his words.
     "It's your classy looks, and the smell of java that does it," said 
Allen. 
     "Huh?"
     "Okay, we use one of the ambulances to get into the fortress, then 
show all the phony IDs we print up, and present some papers, saying the 
prisoners are to be transferred."
     "Man. That is reaching," said Apollo. "Risky."
     "That's the beauty of it," said Allen. "They'd never expect it. 
With no fast computer tie-ins or modern scanning, they'll have to try 
and confirm things in person, or by telephone. We can override that. And 
it isn't like we have loads of time. If we want to rescue the Commander 
and the rest, before Moray blowtorches the planet, we gotta move."
     "What about language?" asked Cassie. "A Languatron will kind of 
stand out."
     "Ear plugs, and Languatrons hidden under the uniforms. Best we can 
do given the time frame, Cassie."
     "Maybe you should just keep your mouth shut," quipped Allen. Byrne 
just "ha ha'd" at him.
     "Okay, once we have them, we head down the road, to this blind 
spot, here," said Byrne, pointing. "Starbuck, that's where you're 
waiting with the second ambulance. We transfer, and scream down the road 
like a bat out of hell for the airstrip, here." He ran his finger along 
the road. 
     "And that's where I come in," said Allen. 
     "Right-o," said Byrne. "As soon as we transfer to the second 
vehicle, we signal you, and you scream down in one of the Adelaide's 
shuttles. Once we get to the airstrip, we transfer to the shuttle, and 
wave bye-bye to this resort."
     "Captain…do you have any idea how many uncertainties there are in 
this plan?" asked Tigh. "Just being able to pass for a native is 
uncertain at best, and that's just for starters."
     "I agree, Colonel," said Byrne. "But we don't have time for much 
else. God knows what they are doing to Adama and the rest. And there are 
two billion innocent people at risk. We have to move, like it or not."
     "I know, but…'
     "Colonel," interjected Apollo. "He's right. We don't have much 
choice."
     "Alright," sighed Tigh. "It's a go." 

Chapter Six

     "I have to admit, I wish I was going," said Lauren Wagner, the 
Constellation's Master-at-Arms, and another refugee from Earth cast 
adrift in the wilderness of space. 
     "And I'm sure we could use you, Sergeant, but the fewer who go 
down, the better the chances of success."
     "Makes sense, I know, but you know me. I guess I'm the itching-for-
action sort." She watched as he adjusted his alien uniform. Right now, 
with the implants and makeup, she was sure his own mother wouldn't have 
recognized him. "Man, these guys are coyote ugly."
     "I'll bet they say the same about us, Sergeant." He pulled two data 
chips from his pocket. "Here."
     "Sir?"
     "One contains a personal message to Jen. The other one is my will. 
If anything happens, I want you to see that she gets it. Dante tells me 
that such things are supposed to be filed with the legal authorities, 
but there's no time for that just now. If…well, I'd like you to see that 
my will gets to Sire Solon's office, for the proper legal whatevers. All 
the ‘I's dotted, and the ‘t's crossed, just to be on the safe side. And 
the message gets to Jen."
     "You'll make it, sir."
     "Well, I certainly intend to, but nothing is carved in stone, 
Sergeant. Sadly. So, please."
     "You can count on me, sir. I'll…take care of things."
     "Good." He looked up as the door slid open. It was Colonel Tigh. 
"Yes?"
     "We'll be over the citadel site in just under twenty centons, 
Captain Byrne. Local sunset is in fourteen, and Chief Twilly says the 
system lock is working fine for the moment."
     "Excellent, Colonel. One my way."
     "Good luck, sir," said Wagner.
     "Thanks, Sergeant." 


     In a swirl of sparkling energy, the rescuers solidified in the 
twilight. As hoped, they were behind a long hedge, bordering a dingy 
street, poorly illuminated. Byrne reached into one pocket, and pressed a 
button on his commlink. A beep, up on the Galactica, let them know the 
rescue party had arrived, as expected.
     "There's the medical facility," said Starbuck, pointing. Above, the 
horizon was still aglow with the sunset. At the hospital, vehicles were 
coming and going. "Time for stage one."
     "Go get ‘em, Frappacino," said Byrne.
     "One of these days, you're going to have to explain that to me," 
sighed Starbuck, shaking his head. He motioned to Sheba, and she slunk 
off with him into the gloom. 
     "Hope he can pull it off," muttered Byrne. 
     "You should have seen him as a cadet," said Apollo.
     "Really?"
     "Oh yeah. I could tell you stories," smiled Apollo.
     They watched as the two moved closer to the facility, keeping close 
to the shadows. Fortunately, many of the streetlights either were 
flickering badly, or had gone permanently dark. Basic city services were 
not top priority here, it seemed. They reached the gate, just as a 
vehicle drew close. As it stopped at the gate, presumably for an ID 
check, the figures slipped by on the opposite side, unseen. 
     "Okay, they're in," said Byrne.
     They waited, concealed by shrubbery, as the sky grew utterly black. 
Byrne was beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong, but no alarms 
sounded. Cassie was getting fidgety, when a vehicle, marked with 
"ambulance" insignia, at last emerged from the gate. But, after a moment 
or two, it turned the other way, heading off towards the city. Byrne 
cursed softly, and they sank deeper into the shrubs. Just as he was 
debating whether or not to go himself, one of the vehicles came from 
behind, and bathed them in headlights. They all reached for their 
weapons, but it stopped, and Starbuck leaned out. 
     "Hey hot stuff," he said, to Cassie. "You lookin' fer a good time?"
     "Show off," she hissed, and they moved closer. He quickly got out, 
and showed Byrne the basics of the controls. Alien machine it might be, 
but a car is a car, he decided.
     "God, gotta drive on the bloody British side!" said Byrne." 
     "Huh?" said Cassie.
     "Later."
     "Where's the other one?" asked Apollo.
     "What, you want miracles?" asked Starbuck. "The incredible takes a 
while. The impossible takes a bit longer." 
     "Spoken like a true philosopher," said Apollo. "Sheba?" Starbuck 
jerked a thumb towards the yard. "Let's hope they don't miss this thing 
too quickly."
     "Shouldn't," said Starbuck. "I stole it out of their garage. Looks 
like some kind of repair shop, on the premises. It was shut down for the 
night, I guess." 
     "Garage?" asked Byrne. "Uhh…you did check to see if it had been 
fixed?"
     "Starbuck?" asked Apollo.
     "Well, no." He saw a reply coming. "Hey, they'd be more likely to 
miss them after they've been fixed," replied the Lieutenant. 
     "Bloody hell," sighed Byrne.
     "Besides, I can't read their lingo all that much. How could you 
tell?"
     "No time now," said Cassie.
     "Exactly my point," grinned Starbuck.
     "Right. Okay, let's go," said Byrne, and Apollo and Cassie piled in 
next to him. He decided that comfort was not a priority for the seat 
designers of alien vehicles. He reached down for the shifter, and the 
whole thing lurched backwards.
     "Why did I know that was going to happen?" said Apollo.
     "You've been watching too many Earth videos." crunch grind grind 
strip "Toasted clutch plate, anyone? If this thing breaks down, Starbuck 
is so getting the towing bill. Okay, here we go."
     
     "Sir," said Omega, on the Galactica's bridge. "Signal received from 
our landing party. They have arrived."
     "Lords of Kobol help them," muttered Tigh.
     

     They pulled up at the gate of the citadel, and the guard leaned out 
of the booth to check their identities. Handing over the documents, they 
crossed their fingers, and gripped their weapons, hoping. As it turned 
out, either someone was smiling on them, or this guy was about as 
vigilant as an avocado, for rather than telecomming someone inside, he 
grunted, returned the documents, and passed them on in, with a salute. 
Byrne returned it, and they drove up the main path, towards the 
facility. 
     "Stage one," breathed Cassie, as they left the booth behind them.
     "Yeah," said Byrne. "And about fifty more to go."
     "Remind me to not to invite you to my next party," said Apollo.
     "Too late," said Byrne. "Chameleon has me booked." Cassie just 
shook her head.
     They parked the vehicle in a spot between other transports, partly 
bordered by shrubbery, and headed for the main entrance. As hoped, the 
guards on duty snapped to attention upon seeing "General Kark", and, 
like the first, passed them in after a quick scan of their papers.
     Now came the crunch. While they had a good basic knowledge of the 
layout of the place, many small, and no doubt important details, had 
escaped notice so far. They split up, Cassie and Apollo heading to find 
Adama, while Byrne went to try and spring Bojay and Salik.
     Having come from a place where surveillance cameras were almost 
ubiquitous, and then finding much the same among the Colonials, Byrne 
was taken back a moment by the lack of them, here. There were a few, 
yes, but they were big, bulky, much like an old-style television studio 
cam, and few in number, most mounted on stands at the ends of hallways, 
needing to be repositioned manually. Plenty of blind spots he told 
himself, as he moved about. He wondered if these people were up to their 
equivalent of videotape, at this point.
     As expected, the people here were obedient almost to the point of 
being obsequious. It was both gratifying, and a bit sickening, at the 
same time. Obviously, these folks had scant concept of liberty. This 
General Kark, he told himself, must be one seriously bad dude, from the 
looks in the eyes of some. While they saluted, answered his questions, 
et al, he could see the fear. Indeed, some were just barely able to 
conceal their loathing. Obviously, Kark was not in the running for Time 
Magazine's Man of the Year award. Hopefully, this can be done fast, and 
they could…
     "The alien pilot has been transferred, General," said the guard at 
one station. "As ordered."
     Oh shit!
     "Let me see the papers," Byrne barked. The guard seemed to hesitate 
a moment. "What?"
     "Sir, I…"
     "This is a military base, Sergeant, not an atomic plant!" he 
reached out a hand, and the other handed him a clipboard. Damn alien 
scrawl! "Very well. Take me there. Now."
     "Sir!" 
     Something's up. Careful, Kevin.
     Byrne slapped the clipboard down on the desk, and followed the 
guard. Maybe, just maybe, if they were just going to take him to Bojay 
and Salik, then…
     They arrived at a short corridor, with a single guard at a desk, 
outside several cell doors. The two guards exchanged words, some of 
which Byrne could not catch, and the other got up, and moved to open the 
cell door to the right. Byrne ordered them both in, and there was Bojay, 
in what could only loosely be called a hospital bed by modern standards, 
wearing only what remained of his pants, barefoot, and shirtless. 
Bruised and wearing a few sloppy bandages, he looked as if he had gone 
several rounds with Hulk Hogan. 
     "Get him up. And then other one, too. They are being transferred to 
Staff Headquarters."
     "Yes, sir," said the second guard, and Bojay was roughly roused 
from his sleep. He made some comment, and one guard slapped him hard 
across the face, telling him to be silent, as he was roughly jerked to 
his feet, and the manacle unlocked. Byrne wanted to return the favor to 
the guard, but held back. The vermin. In the distance, he could hear a 
scream, as no doubt someone else was "encouraged" to tell what they knew 
about whatever. God, it's like Saddam's torture cells! 
      In the next cell, Salik was sitting up on the filthy bunk, looking 
only slightly less battered than the pilot, and wearing about the same. 
"Kark" ordered them taken to a room near the entrance, and left there. 
Salik looked up at him, a puzzled look on his bruised and swollen face. 
Byrne winked at him quickly. 


     "Well?" asked Apollo, of Cassie, as she scanned the space around 
her. She was, as before ensconced in a janitor's closet, running scans 
of the area.
     "Picking up Human life signs, Apollo. Down this corridor, and to 
the left. Trying to get a precise fix. All this damned magnetic…"
     "I wish there was some way we could get one of the elevators 
clear."
     "How about this?" she asked. Behind them was a sign, next to some 
mop buckets and bottles, which the Languatron translated as "Out of 
Order."
     "Great. Let's hope it does the trick."
     "Hope is meaningless without luck, Apollo. And in this case, I 
think we have to make our own luck."
     Apollo grinned.  "You've been hanging out with Starbuck too long. 
And, even though this isn't a pyramid table on the Rising Star, maybe in 
this case…" He picked up, then set back down one of the bottles, then 
looked down as her scanner beeped.
     "Got a fix on him, Apollo."
     "Okay, let's go."
     
   
     "Uh, General…" one guard began to ask, as Salik and Bojay were 
strapped down.
     "We have information of a possible reactionary Republican Forces 
plan to kidnap them," replied Byrne, sharply, hoping that would end the 
questions. "These beings are too valuable to the State to permit that to 
happen. Do I make myself clear?"
     "Sir!" saluted one, and left the cell, returning a moment or two 
later with gurneys. Dirty, rusty, and with more dents than any vehicle 
driven recently by Starbuck. Each man was put on one, and then a sheet 
was placed over them. Byrne ordered them taken, and one of the guards 
hastened to his beckoning. As he left the corridor, the other guard 
suddenly drew his weapon, pointing it at Byrne.
     "You are not General Kark!" he declared, moving towards the alarm.
     Damn!  

Chapter Seven
     
     The elevator door slid open, loudly, clearly needing a serious lube 
job, or even an overhaul, and they stepped out into a quiet corridor. 
Cassie nodded towards the left, and they came to a room. Naturally, it 
was guarded. They snapped to attention, and the sight of senior 
officers, with official-looking documents, was enough to get them 
inside. They motioned the man inside, and after his back was turned, 
Apollo stunned the guard, and stuffed him in the closet. Cassie held her 
breath when she saw Adama. 
     Unconscious and ashen, he had a tube down his throat, breathing for 
him, as primitive and unfamiliar equipment monitored his vital 
functions.  Beneath a stark white sheet, he looked thin and fragile, 
older than his yahrens. Even given the alien devices, it was clear he 
was slipping.  
     "Father!" Apollo cried, moving to his side.
     Cassie ran her biomonitor over the Commander. She shook her head, 
even as she assured Apollo that he was going to be alright. 
Simultaneously, she injected a medication into an existing intravenous 
line.  Within microns, Adama stirred, his eyes fluttering open, his 
limbs straining beneath the thin sheet covering him.
     "What..."
     "Trying to bring him out of their sedatives." She scowled. 
"Commander, it's Cassie and Apollo," she reassured him, pulling back the 
sheet to see wide leather straps securing him to the table.  "You're 
safe."
     It wasn't necessarily true, but it was what the older man needed to 
hear.  He visibly relaxed, trying to speak. Impeded by the tube boring 
down his throat, once again he tensed.
     "I'm going to take the tube out," Cassie reassured him, squeezing 
his hand to bring his attention back to her.  She manipulated the tubes 
connected to the larger one. "Commander Adama, I'm going to start by 
suctioning your oropharynx . . . the back of your throat. Here we go."  
     Apollo started releasing the restraints as the abrasive sound of 
suction filled the air.
    "Now I'm going to remove the tube," Cassie coached, deftly and 
gently pulling it out of his throat, a softly inflated balloon leading 
the way.  "All done.  Well done, Commander."
     Adama cleared his throat, which clearly hurt, as Cassie elevated 
the head of the bed.  She took a small container of fluid from under her 
coat, and slipped the straw between his lips. He drank, and slowly, his 
vitals began edging back towards normal.
     "How bad is he?" asked Apollo.
     "Not too bad, considering, but we need to clear all these alien 
drugs out of his system as quickly as possible," she answered, loosening 
one of the straps that bound the Commander to the bed. She motioned for 
Apollo to do the same with the other one. "God knows what they've 
already done to him," she hissed, taking in the bruising on his torso, 
neck, and upper arms. "His red cell count is almost twenty percent below 
normal, his electrolytes are…"
     "What are you doing?" a voice demanded, cutting through the air. 
They turned, to see a man, dressed in military uniform, glaring at them. 
He wore a leather belt, with a strap over one shoulder, with a holstered 
pistol at his waist. He was reaching for it…
     "The alien is being transferred!" said Apollo, turning around to 
fully face the other, his voice at once taking on an aire of command. 
"He is being taken to the Capital at once, for further interrogation."
     "But I have no orders regarding any…"
     "Need to know. And you didn't need to know."
     "I see," said the other.
     "Here, Captain," said Apollo, shoving a sheaf of documents at the 
other. "As you can see, the alien is being transferred to our custody, 
and Lieutenant Borsev and myself will be taking him in hand."
     "But…"
     "Are you questioning me? You have your orders, Captain!"
     

     Byrne had acted swiftly. A round-house kick sent the guard' weapon 
flying, and he was quickly stunned by a laser shot before he could press 
the alarm switch. Byrne drug him into the cell, placed him under the 
blanket on the bunk, and shut the door. Unsure of whether the oversized 
security camera at the end of the corridor had caught any of this, or 
whether anyone was watching, he re-set his weapon, and sent a shot 
directly into the lens. The whole thing erupted in a muffled roar, and 
smoke poured from the interior. 
     He looked at his watch. This had taken longer than expected. Time 
was critical, and if they got too far out of sync…
     He pressed the button on his commlink, hoping Cassie or Apollo 
heard it. 
     "Okay. Two down, one to go."

Chapter Eight
     
     "Starbuck's ready," said Byrne, after disposing of the over-alert 
guard. After baffling the doctor in the hall with overripe mong, they 
made it to the ground floor, picked up the other two, ensconced in a 
darkened machinery room, and they were out. Once in the ambulance, they 
were off. Non-challantly, until they were past the guard's post. Almost 
at once, a loud klaxon began shrieking.
     They had been missed.
     Byrne opened his commlink, and pressed in a code. He hit send...
     And in the janitor's closet, the small incendiary charge he had 
attached to a bottle burst into life. The toxic, flammable cleaning 
chemicals caught fire as well, and the entire closet burst into violent 
flames. Within seconds, the room, and the hallway, were completely 
afire. Dozens of troops and personnel turned their attention to this 
emergency...
     "That should divert their attention for a while," he said. 
     Then, lights began going out, all across the rescuer's field of 
vision. The klaxon stopped, and various lighted areas ahead went dark.
     "The Galactica must have fried their defense net," said Byrne. 
"Right on time!"
     They made it down to one of the blind spots, and switched vehicles. 
It was greasy and smelly, but it ran. The back panel opened, and Byrne 
fired something. Behind them, one of the pursuing vehicles of soldiers 
went up like a bomb.
     "Good shooting," said Starbuck.
     "That'll teach ‘em to send in their census form late!" said Byrne, 
then fired again, at another pursuer. This time, the road exploded in 
front of them, the fireball engulfing the vehicle. It exploded as well, 
flinging pieces, and bodies, in all directions. "How far to the 
airport?"
     "At least another five thousand or so metrons," replied Sheba, not 
turning as she replied. Then… "There!"
     They looked up, and could see something streaking across the sky, 
heading towards the airport. Sheba poured it on, and they crashed though 
one roadblock, Colonial lasers blasting, then along a single-lane road, 
towards a wide-open area, filled with lights, some coming back up, and 
overlooked by a tower. They roared towards it, the truck bouncing like a 
landram with a broken track, when suddenly, Sheba began to slow.
     In front of them, drawing closer by the micron, were more trucks.
     Filled with soldiers.
     "Okay, this sucks," said Byrne.
     "To Hades Hole with this," snarled Apollo, and pointed his laser 
out the window. He fired, and the searchlight, along with it's operator, 
went dark. Another truck full of troops flipped as it's tires blew open. 
Sheba drove even faster, skimming the rolling vehicle as they passed, 
and ducking the bullets that crashed through the windshield. Apollo laid 
down more fire, joined by Starbuck and Sheba, with laser in one hand, 
the other on the wheel. One truck swerved to avoid them, hitting another 
one. They clipped it going past, and Starbuck fired into it as they 
screamed by, blowing out both it's searchlight, and one of the crew.
     "Ah!" they heard Sheba cry out. "Fracking....Lords..." Apollo moved 
closer. Her shoulder had turned red.
     "Baby!!"
     "I'm okay!" she insisted.
     Ahead, the airport runway lay, inviting and dangerous. In the far 
distance, they could see yet another vehicle approaching. Then, there 
was a growing roar, and the shuttle from the Adelaide screamed into 
view, directly ahead. It was barely down when Sheba slammed on the 
brakes, and they hurriedly moved towards it, precious cargo in tow. 
Allen taxied her around, dropping the hatch, while Boomer helped them 
inside. Starbuck laid down a covering fire until the last micron, then 
the hatch moved back into place.
     "Hold on!" shouted Allen, as he throttled her up, and headed down 
the runway. They could hear bullets pinging off the hull, but soon were 
airborne, clawing for air as the soldiers behind them kept up their 
fire. 
     Adama faded out again, his strength spent.
     Then they were free.


     "How do you feel, Commander?" asked Cassie, back in uniform, in 
LifeStation. 
     "Better. Stiff and sore, but better."
     "That's to be expected, for a while. All those…interrogations, 
along with the drugs, had you in a bad way, Commander."
     "How is Bojay?" Adama asked.
     "He'll be alright," said Doctor Paye, suddenly over him. "He took 
some serious beatings, sir. A hairline fracture of the jaw, and he came 
very close to losing one eye. But he'll pull through. He's asleep, now."
     "And Doctor Salik?"
     "A broken rib, and some loose teeth. Also, the alien drugs, but 
he'll make it, as well."
     "Lords be praised," said Adama. "And the rest?"
     "Lieutenant Sheba took a grazing shot from a slug in the left 
shoulder, but otherwise the rescue party is intact and well." 
     "Very good." As he spoke, the door slid open, and Tigh entered. 
"Status, Colonel?"
     "All is well, sir," reported the XO. "We've left orbit, and the 
Fleet has resumed our journey. I for one am glad to see that world 
astern."
     "And the guards you inadvertently captured?"
     "Returned to the planet. Interestingly, once they understood the 
situation, all but one asked if it were possible to be put down in the 
territory of this Republican Union, rather than their own."
     "That says something about their own government, doesn't it?" 
observed Cassie.
     "It does indeed," said Adama. "I hope they don't suffer for mere 
happenstance."
     "So do I. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, is 
all. At least Kark and his people didn't get what they wanted from us."
     "Well, they still have the wreck of Bojay's Viper, sadly," said 
Tigh. "And both his pistol, as well as the instruments our people went 
down with. We weren't able to retrieve them."
     "It's better than the alternative, Colonel. Hopefully, it will take 
them along time to back-engineer whatever they have. Or perhaps the gap 
is too large, and they never will."
     "Maybe this will cause a change," said Tigh. "The political 
fallout. from the failure of their plan. Maybe it will bring their 
regime down."
     "We can hope, Commander," said Cassie. "We can hope."

     "I'm glad you're alright,' said Gayla, next to Bojay's bed. "I was 
so worried."
     "Well, I should be out of here in a day or so, and then we can 
celebrate," replied Bojay. He reached up, and took her hand. "I'm sure 
I've got some furlon time coming, after this. And I know this little 
place, over on the Rising Star. We can spend some real time together."
     "It's a miracle you came back," Gayla went on. "When I think how 
easily I could have lost…"
     "Hey, it's all part of the job, Gayla. I can't worry about it. If I 
did, I couldn't function."
     "Well I do. I…Bojay?"
     "Yeah?"
     "Apollo and Sheba had the right idea."
     "Huh?"
     "So did Athena and Boomer. We could lose one another, at any 
moment. I think..."
     "What do you mean?"
     "Let's get sealed."
     "Gayla? You…"
     "That's what I said. The past is the past. Let's leave it there." 
She leaned down and kissed him.
     The biomonitor squealed. 

Addendum

     Aboard the BaseShip, Command Centurion Moray reviewed the logs on 
the incident just past. In depth. Again. The Human Commander and his 
party had been retrieved, would survive, and they were once more on 
their way. All seemed well.
     But it was not. Somehow, somewhere, deep inside the Command 
Centurion's altered, or evolved, programming, it...well, in a Human, one 
would say that it rankled. These people, without the slightest 
provocation, had attacked and destroyed a Raider, resulting in the loss 
of both fighter and crew. Through what the Humans referred to as 
"diplomacy", and, he gathered, no small amount of deception and 
intrigue, the matter had been resolved, and the aliens had not gotten 
what they had wanted.
     But a Cylon flight crew was still destroyed, and those responsible 
were still…undealt with. Alright, perhaps the entire planet's population 
was not to blame, as Lieutenant Starbuck had explained, but these rulers 
were. They had paid no penalty. Moray found this state of affairs to 
be…unsettling.                        
     Unsymmetrical. 
     Wrong. 
     So it was that he came at last to a decision. A decision worthy of 
Humans.
     Certainly worthy of a certain Human, of his acquaintance.
     Ping.
     "Enter"
     The door opened, and a Centurion entered.
     "By your command."
     "Speak."
     "The Humans are all now in the stand-by mode they call sleep. 
Lieutenant Starbuck did not retire for some time, but is now asleep as 
well."
     "Excellent. Contact the Galactica, and have the crews stand by."
     "By your command."

     "Well," muttered Petty Officer Wu, on the bridge, as the message 
came through. The BaseShip was stopping, to tend a minor problem that 
had arisen in one of her auxiliary reactor cores. They needed to power 
down to deal with it, but the engineers estimated that it should not 
take long to repair, and they would catch up with the Fleet soon. No 
assistance was required. Wu acknowledged the message, and watched as the 
Cylon ship slowed to a dead stop, and began to fall behind them. 
     I guess it even happens to Cylons. They'll catch up, Wu reflected, 
and returned to the night bridge routine.

     The crack of rifle shots rang out across the Citadel, as a row of 
figures was cut down. Within a few centons, another line replaced them, 
and the firing squad took aim once more. Even as the bodies were dragged 
away, General, now former General, Kark, looked at the man on his left.
     "Well, Comrade Premiere," he said, almost mockingly, as they walked 
past a burned-out wing of the fortress, "it would appear that your great 
risk has not worked out so well after all, has it?" The two were 
handcuffed, and formed part of a long line of prisoners, being led 
towards a wall in the courtyard.
     "Shut up, you fool!" spat the now-overthrown dictator. In the 
aftermath of the contact with the aliens, and the rescue of the 
prisoners from the Citadel itself, forces looking for an advantage had 
made their move, and the old regime was overthrown in a bloody coup. 
Kark, the deposed Premiere, many Politcollegium members, and at least a 
hundred other officers and functionaries from all branches of 
government, as well as their families and associates, were being purged, 
even as their Republican foes went on alert.
     With prejudice.
     "Shut up? Or you will do what might I ask, Comrade ex-Premiere? 
Have me shot?" sneered Kark. "You fool! Trying to involve the aliens in 
our war. Any idiot could have told you it would not work! And see, we 
have…"
     He stopped, as a klaxon sounded. Various officers began running to 
and fro, and someone's radio crackled to life. He overheard the frenzied 
exchanges. One of the alien vessels had reappeared suddenly, and blown 
their orbital stations to scrap. He and the ex-Premiere exchanged looks, 
when suddenly, a massive explosion rocked the entire Citadel. The nearby 
military airfield had gone up in a huge fireball, shattering windows, 
cracking walls, and knocking everyone to the ground. Opening his eyes 
and shaking his head, Kark looked up, dazed, barely in time to see a 
massive blue beam of light stab down onto the Citadel itself. He did not 
even have time to laugh at the irony of it all, before he, the Citadel, 
and the former Comrade Premiere, were turned to superheated dust.
 
=================
     Fleeing from the Cylon tyranny, the last Battlestar, Galactica, 
leads a rag-tag fugitive fleet, on a lonely quest. A shining planet, 
known as Earth.