Battlestar Galactica: Transformations
Virtual Season 3, Episode 17
October 27, 2013
     
Previously, in Confessions:

     "Cassiopeia told me that Sheba had come to her, the day of the
battle, but she can't tell me anything more than that. She hasn't been
back to LifeStation since then."
     "I see. What I was thinking was perhaps some sort of psychological
help. What about Tarnia?"
     "I have thought about it, but I wasn't sure how she'd take it,
Father."
     "I think you need to consult Tarnia, Apollo, on behalf of both of
you."
     Apollo looked up sharply.
     "You too need support through this, son. Sheba isn't the only one
who has been affected by this. Tarnia can be counted on for
confidentiality. Try and get Sheba to see the need for therapy. If she
agrees, all the better. If not..."
     "You'll relieve her?"
     "I may have to, Apollo. Any lapse, whatever the reason, at a
critical moment, could endanger both her, and the rest of us."
     "God, I hope it doesn't come to that."
     "And I, as well. And I."

     And now...

     And for a time, it seemed as if it would not. Much to his relief,
given the whole upheaval of the Il Fadim and other incidents, Apollo
found that Sheba had, of her own volition, sought out the services of
Tarnia, the Fleet's only trained and experienced therapist, and begun
talking to her. While he dutifully attended his own sessions between
missions, with some fair bit of skepticism, he was surprised to find that
verbalizing his memories of what Iblis had done was not as difficult as
he'd expected it to be. That was because Tarnia, from the outset, had
made it clear that her duty was to be objective and totally
non-judgmental in how she listened to them and what either said to her.
So Apollo didn't have to feel any sense of embarrassment in describing
what had happened and could instead let Tarnia help him explore and
validate the deep feelings of loss and deception associated with the
events and come to terms with things now. There was one rule where Tarnia
was strict with him above all others: Do not prod Sheba into revealing
details from her own sessions. If his wife felt willing to volunteer
information, that was another thing, but of the utmost importance was to
let Sheba's recovery continue at the pace she was most comfortable with.
      As it turned out, while he did not ask specifics, Sheba would
indeed from time to time relate "how it went" with the therapist. Some
days seemed good, and Sheba would act more her old self, actually
smiling, and even interacting with Boxey much as she had before. Other
days were not so positive, with Sheba going into a quiet funk, and
communicating little outside of duty. But those days gradually seemed to
become fewer. The one scar that remained most enduring from the whole
experience was that after all this time, she still could not bring
herself to make love with him. Apollo understood. The whole trauma had
violated their conception of what healthy marital relations were about,
and Apollo feared that Sheba's battered psyche could easily come crashing
down once again if renewed sexual relations opened up painful memories of
things she had cherished so much that had turned out to be a diseased
joke. And Apollo loved his wife too much to ever run the risk of putting
her through that again. That meant never showing that he felt troubled by
their lack of intimacy. It also meant keeping his appearance clean-shaven
all this time for her sake, lest the sight of him bearded reopen the old
wounds. Those wounds would take time to heal. Even so, Apollo began to
hope, dared to hope, that the worst was over. That Starbuck, the original
"Been There, Done That, Don't Need the Certificate" and Fleet therapist
without degree, was wrong about Iblis "yanking their chains" from afar,
and that he and Sheba had truly weathered the storm.



     "Galactica core control, this is Alpha Patrol leader, one centon to
outer marker and requesting clearance, Alpha Bay."
     "Alpha Patrol leader, this is Core Command. You are cleared to land
in Alpha Bay," Rigel said with her usual smooth efficiency.
     "Acknowledged." Apollo leaned back and sighed as he maneuvered his
Viper into the straight-on heading toward the beckoning landing lights of
the Galactica. It had been just a nice, ordinary routine patrol, the
first one since the marooning of Sire Galerius and his band of murderous
criminals and fanatics a secton ago. Ordinarily, such patrols could be
times for introspection or times for restless boredom, but in this case,
it had meant the former for Apollo since the routineness, coming after
the crisis, conveyed a sense of calm in general that he yearned to see
more of in his life. A lot more. And above all, in Sheba's. Even his
Cylon opposite number hadn't been overly chatty, which only added to the
good feelings, coursing through his...
     Beep
     "Alpha Patrol Leader, this is Colonel Tigh," his headset came to
life again, only this time on the secure channel. The Raider flying with
him could not hear. "Upon landing in Alpha Bay, please skip the usual
debrief, and report immediately to the Ward Room."
     Apollo immediately frowned, "The...?"
     "You heard me, Apollo," the XO voice was noticeably grim. Urgent,
even. "I can't explain. Your fath---, the Commander will be there. But
just get there immediately." 
     As Apollo came forward and made sure his final approach was steady,
he could feel the calm introspection provided by this patrol seep away,
his gut beginning to knot up. He touched down, checked in, and then
fairly ran to meet the Commander, every nerve screaming. He knew...he
somehow was certain...


     There, he found a Security team, led by Sergeant Komma and two
others, Cassiopeia, and a trembling Sheba, in one corner of the room. In
a chair sat a cadet, face bloody, being tended to by Med Tech Wahib. 
     "What in Kobol happened?" he demanded, taking it all in, quickly.
     "She went off," said Komma to Apollo. "Attacked Cadet Garrick,
Captain. Really tore into him." Almost at once, the doors slid open, and
Commander Adama entered, Colonel Tigh not far behind. Apollo turned to
his wife, balled up and shaking in the corner, seemingly oblivious to
everything and everyone around her. Her eyes were like a terrified
animal, utterly irrational. Apollo reached out to her, but she batted him
away, like a frightened felon, her cry incoherent.
     "We need to get her to LifeStation right away," said Cassie,
scanning her.
     "Cassie?" asked Adama.
     "Her blood pressure is over two-hundred systolic. Her pulse is
practically at light-speed." She managed to get her hand close, as Wahib
distracted Sheba's gaze, and gave the shaken Warrior an injection of
something. "If this continues, she'll either pass out or have a massive
cerebral vascular event."
     "A what?" asked Tigh.
     "A stroke, Colonel. A blood vessel in the brain hemorrhages."
     Sheba made an incoherent cry, almost a snarl, and tried to pull even
further into the wall, kicking with both feet at them. But even as she
did so, her muscles visibly began to relax, her breathing to slow.
Whatever Cassie had given her was taking effect.
      "Very well," said Adama. "Have her put in the isolation ward. And
I'll want a full report immediately." He turned to Tigh. "Lieutenant
Sheba is hereby relieved of duty, as of this date, Colonel. Make the
necessary roster adjustments."
     "Understood, sir."
    Adama nodded as he slowly made his way over to his son, who stood
there, mouth open slightly in shock as if he'd been delivered a massive
punch to the side of the head. Slowly, the Commander put his hand on
Apollo's shoulder, as he continued to stare in horror at his wife.
Meanwhile Cassiopeia kept hold of her arm, stroking it reassuringly,
waiting for the drugs to fully take effect.
.     "It'll be okay, son," Adama said simply, and hoped he sounded
convincing.
      "Gone! Gone!" Sheba wailed, as the drugs took over. "Can't...all
gone..." Apollo doubled his fists and shook in anger and despair, but
said nothing. 
     And then, it was like seeing a light abruptly go off as Sheba
collapsed, totally unconscious now. Her body was so limp it gave the
illusion of being boneless, or like a puddle. Nothing else was said by
anyone in the room as Komma and Wahib lifted her up and placed her on the
gurney. But when Apollo followed the stretcher out the door, Adama had
time to see his son clench his fist and pound it angrily against the
bulkhead. 
    

     "Dying?" said Apollo, trying to keep it in. "How can she be dying?"
Apollo, Salik, and Adama were looking down at Sheba, unconscious in a
support chamber, next ship's "morning".
     "Simply put, she has lost the will to live, Captain," replied the
physician. "Now, I don't know all the particulars, although rumors about
her have been circulating for some time, and I make it a policy to ignore
those, naturally. But something has so traumatized Sheba, deep inside,
that she just cannot live with it any longer. Now, I've called Tarnia,
and since Sheba is not competent at present to give consent, you'll have
to Captain, as her closest relative, so I can be let in on the
specifics."
     "No problem, Doctor. I'll tell you everything. But what in God's
name happened in the Ward Room?"
     "According to Cadet Garrick," said Adama, "he had just finished his
debriefing, after a patrol, and she was discussing his upcoming
performance eval. He said that Sheba had seemed detached through much of
it, as if she was having trouble concentrating."
     "She was fine, this morning," said Apollo. "Better than I've seen
her for days. She helped Boxey finish off some homework, and got him
ready for instructional period. She was fine."
     "Well, we will get to the bottom of this, but according to the
Cadet, he said something about how tired she looked, and wondered if
taking care of a child, along with active duty as a pilot, wasn't wearing
her down. Then, she looked at him with a shocked expression, then glared
at him angrily, then just started screaming, and attacked him. Clawed at
his face, and screamed obscenities. He fought back and broke away, and
she retreated into a corner, and was as we saw her."
     "Why would a comment about Boxey trigger a reaction like that?"
asked Salik. 
     "Well," Apollo began.
     "Where is Boxey, Apollo?" 
     "He's with Athena, Father. They and the twins are on an outing to
the Agro Dome Park while Boomer is on long-range patrol. I thought it
best for the moment." Adama nodded in agreement.
     "How long does she have?" asked Adama, looking down at his
daughter-in-law.
     "No way to tell, Commander," replied the Chief Life Officer. "The
functions of her vital organs are slowly declining, despite the total
absence of any form of toxin or disease that I can find. No bacteria,
viruses, nothing. Parts of her brain have already virtually ceased to
function, according to the scans, while others are showing activity I've
never seen before. It could be days, or it could be a few centons.
There's really no way to determine, medically." He turned, as the hatch
opened. "Oh, Tarnia. Thanks for coming so quickly."


     Salik was silent, as the story was told to him. While Sheba's
current condition was something he could monitor and scan, the underlying
cause was outside of his expertise. Mystical, spiritual, all these were
unknown quantities to him. Yet, he could not deny that very often, they
seemed to affect patients as much as any drug or surgery.
     "Incredible is all I can say," he finally ventured. "That venom she
was splashed with...I wish I had some to analyze. It might give us a
clue."
     "Be thankful you don't, Doctor," replied Apollo. "That venom
eventually reduces everyone to utter slaves of Iblis." Images of the
enslaved souls aboard Iblis' derelict flashed momentarily across his
memory. Even now, it gave him chills of fear.
     "So, what is to be done?" asked Cassie. Starbuck stood silently
behind her, lending moral support.
     "I honestly don't know," said Salik. "All this is beyond my
competence. I'm a doctor, not a priest."
     "Sheba's psychosis," said Tarnia, "is deeper than merely the loss of
her children. Countless women have weathered that storm, including her
own mother, plus the fact that these children never truly existed. It
goes far deeper. Perhaps this...this venom accentuated it, but it seems
as if the actions of Iblis, in essentially destroying everything she held
dear, and then taunting her over it, has with it destroyed a part of her
mind. It seems as if he deliberately used her desire for a family, as
well as freedom from the War, to find a way into her mind. To...well, to
try and seize control. Control of her inner persona. I can't define it
any better than that. I'm sorry. And because I can't define it precisely,
what I can do is seriously limited."
     "Then there's no hope?" asked Apollo, trying to keep the fear out of
his voice, as he was choked with a suffocating sense of d‚j… vu. 
     "There's always hope, Captain," said Salik. "I have no intention of
giving up without a fight, of course. I don't let go of patients so
easily." He was quiet a moment. "But you must prepare yourself for the
worst."
     Adama looked at his son, and recognized the signs. It was like
Serina all over again, only worse. He wondered if Apollo could handle
another loss like this. He felt his own hatred of Iblis rise, even as he
felt compassion for his son. 
     What do I do? Oh God, what course do I take?


     Late that night, in what would have been the cold centar before dawn
at the Adama home on Caprica, Sheba went onto full life support, as her
brain stem, for no discernible medical reason, just ceased to function.
The machines took over the functions of her heart and respiration, but
she remained completely insensate.
     Next to her support tube, Apollo remained, heedless of the centar.
He was dimly aware when Boxey joined him, but said scarcely a word to the
boy. For his part, Boxey remained, like a soldier on guard, at Apollo's
side, holding vigil. 
     What do I do? I know what happened. Iblis poisoned everything she's
tried to do towards recovery since we returned. That has to be it. She
was doing so well, until...
     Take me! Take me instead.
     So lost in his own pain was Apollo, that he was unaware of Starbuck,
in the room. He spoke, but Apollo either would not or could not hear him,
so lost was he in his own personal Hades. As he sat, trying to give what
moral support he could, Starbuck could not help but think of another
time, when it had been Apollo in the jaws of death, then, as now, thanks
to the vile devices of Iblis. And of how, he had offered himself in
Apollo's place.
     Sheba was mother, daughter, friend, colleague, and the only
remaining Human female in the known universe wilful and stubborn enough
to be a match for Apollo, in the gym, across the gameboard, tankards in
hand, or in a Viper. It had been a blessing when these near-critical
pieces of nuclear material had finally come together, and it had been
heartening to see his best friend finally begin to move on at a personal
level after the tragedy of Serina's murder. The fact was that Apollo
needed to have someone to keep him grounded. He needed the stability of
family behind him when he invested everything he had left into protecting
the Fleet. He was selfless, courageous, intuitive, fashioned for
greatness, and destined to be a leader possibly even greater than his
father. He was their future. But what would this do to him? Could he
survive the loss of a second wife, knowing that this time Iblis had as
good as taken her, and laughed in his face while doing so?  Would it
destroy Apollo completely?  
     Starbuck simply could not, would not, let that happen.
     The pyramid-loving Viper pilot looked at himself in the mirror
across the room, and mused. He had made the offer, freely, and had meant
it at the time, but had to admit that he was relieved when the mysterious
beings who had come to their aid had declined to take him up on it. Now,
once more, his best friend was in trouble. A trouble as deep as the death
he had once faced, now compounded by what was happening to Sheba. And it
was a no-brainer that Boxey wasn't going to handle this too well either.
If only he could change the odds, filch some capstones, find some way to
stick it to Iblis along the way. 
     C'mon, Buckers. You've built a life on getting around things, making
the odds work for you. How about now? Would it matter to the universe at
large if...
     Did he dare to even think it?
     "Yes," he said aloud to the room, breath catching as he spoke. "Yes,
I will." He wondered if anyone was listening, and he wasn't just being a
sentimental fool. Well, more so than usual, anyway. "Yes! Do you hear me?
I will. If you will spare my friends, I will..."
     He stopped, as a groan escaped Apollo. A deep, almost guttural
sound, as the Strike Captain poured out his own agonies over the form of
his dying wife. Instinctively, even as the door opened and Cassie
entered, Starbuck moved to put a hand on his shoulder...
     But he never made it.
     Almost before he was even aware of it, the room seemed to fill with
a powerful radiance. It came from behind him, yet in front as well. It
came from all around him, suffusing and penetrating everything and
everyone. Within microns, Starbuck had to cover his eyes, so intense was
the light. It seemed to grow brighter, yet there was no pain, only a
wonderful sense of well-being, as the light seemed to penetrate and
suffuse every part, every cell, of his being. Utter peace, a feeling he
had to take a few moments to identify, seemed to wash over and through
him...
     As his vision returned, and he could see where he was. Around him
were myriads of robed figures, only their eyes visible as they gazed upon
him. He looked about, and after a few microns of confusion, knew where he
was.
     "Welcome, Lieutenant," said a voice. Starbuck did not recognize it,
but that wasn't foremost in his mind. He looked around, and saw, on the
raised platform where once it had been Apollo, Sheba now lay. Dressed
from neck to toes in a glistening-white robe, that almost seemed to
radiate it's own light, she looked as if she were carved out of living
stone, so utterly still was she.
     "What..." he began, then realized he wasn't exactly sure what to
say. Next to Sheba stood Apollo, and even more surprisingly, Boxey, his
small hand in Apollo's. Like her, their clothes had turned white.
     "Yes," said another voice, and Starbuck recognized this one. He
turned, and saw John, the courtly "gentleman" who had guided them during
the Terra incident. "Yes, you are once more aboard the Ship of Lights,
Lieutenant."
     A thrill of fear shot through Starbuck, as he realized that they had
indeed been listening. Every word he had spoken, aloud or otherwise, had
been noted by these...people. Did that mean...they were...?
     "Going to take you up on your offer?" asked John, smiling.
     "How did...yes. You're right. Yes." Starbuck straightened up,
manfully looking at the ascended being. "Yes. Are you?"
     "Offer?" said Cassie, and Starbuck for the first time noticed that
his lover was here. "What offer? Starbuck, what does he mean? Where in
Kobol are we?"
     "Fear not," John said to Cassie. "Such is not for us to decide," he
said, putting a hand on Starbuck's shoulder. 
     "Although," said another voice, and Starbuck turned to see who it
was, "the fact you have offered yourself speaks well of you, Lieutenant."
The speaker was a man, about Starbuck's height or a bit more, with black
hair, and wearing a suit much like John's. Although he had never seen him
before, Starbuck immediately recognized him as the military sort. The
aura about the fellow was unmistakable.
     "Thanks, uh, whoever you are."
     "I am, was, Colonel Delambre, Lieutenant, formerly Executive Officer
of the Battlestar Callisto."
     "The Col...you're the one who appeared to Apollo in that place. That
phony world they were stuck in. Helped him overcome Iblis."
     "Yes, such was permitted to me," replied the former Colonial
Warrior. "Such as it is permitted to me now, to bring you all here, at
this point most crucial." He raised a hand, and bid Starbuck follow. 
     "Colonel," said Apollo, as the one-time prisoner of Iblis mounted
the platform.
     "What are you going to do?" asked Boxey, hand still in Apollo. 
     "Have faith, Boxey," said Delambre, leaning down somewhat to meet
Boxey's gaze.
     "Are you God?" asked the boy.
     Colonel Delambre smiled, and laughed. Not a mocking, but a warm,
kind, restoring kind of laugh, and took one of Boxey's hands. "No, Boxey.
I am not. I am merely one who has endured, and is sent forth to minister
to those still in the midst of their mortal walk."
     "Can you save her?" Boxey asked back. He eyes were pleading, and he
looked as if the slightest pressure would crush him. 
     "Be strong, Little One. Be brave."
     "Colonel..." began Apollo, but Delambre looked at him. He rose to
his full height, and looked down at Sheba.
     "There is little time," said Delambre. "Count Iblis does not sleep,
nor rest from evil. That which he worked upon Sheba, both aboard the
Derelict, and more recently, works still."
     "What can you do?" asked Apollo.
     "Who are you people?" asked Cassie aloud.
     "Sheba is beyond the reach of any medicine, any therapy, that you
possess," said Delambre. "Even here, now, her time runs to it's end, and
soon even we will be powerless." He looked at Starbuck. "Did you mean it?
You would give yourself, for her?'
     "Starbuck?" asked Cassie, clearly shocked. "Would someone please
tell me..."
     "Yes, I...I did," replied Starbuck. "I did."
     "No, Starbuck," said Apollo. "Take me, instead, Colonel. My life for
hers."
     "But..." said Boxey.
     "Boxey, please. I'm ready, Colonel."
     Without a word, Colonel Delambre, John, and myriad other of the
shadowy figures moved closer, until the Colonials were hemmed in by the
ethereal beings. While they scarcely seemed to move, it felt as if they
had all somehow joined. 
     "Mom..." Boxey rasped out, then his voice was lost in a vast rising
sound. Like a wind, it was also like an endless legion of voices, all in
harmony through endless themes of music, yet all holding upon a single
note. Rising ever higher, like a roar of waters, it was concomitant with
an ever-increasing brightness. The "floor" under there feet seemed to
rumble, light and air cracked, and Starbuck once more had to squeeze his
eyes shut, trying to imagine what "it" was going to be like, and whether
it was going to hurt.
     Much.
     Noble.
     Beautiful!   
     No! No! She is mine!
     Loose her! She is not yours!
     Apollo!
     Mom!
     Mine! She belongs to me, fool!
     My life for hers!
     Give her to me! She is mine! I will not yield her!
     Go! Be gone!
     The very air seemed to shake, and Starbuck felt dimly aware of a
struggle around them. As if the very elements were locked in combat, as
if reality itself were under siege by unbelievable, unutterable hate. 
     She is mine!
     Arise, Daughter!
     MINE!!
     Arise, Sheba!
     Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinee!!!!!!!!
     ARISE!
     Stop! Stop! I command it! 
     Sto.........pp! 
     Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!
     She has passed the test.
     She has passed the test.
     Yessss!
     Oh Lord!
     I say unto thee, arise!
     Arise!
     The sounds, the music, the light, reached a crescendo, then all
began to fade, slowly. There was a blast, as of the very stench of death,
then, bit by bit, Starbuck's vision returned to him. The cloud of beings
about them had dispersed, and he found himself riveted upon the sight of
Sheba. Upon the platform, her breast rose and fell with deep breaths, and
she opened her eyes. She lifted her head...
     "MOM!" shouted Boxey, and leaped to embrace her. Apollo followed
suit, and she was quickly upon her feet, her white garment still seeming
to blaze with an inner radiance. 
     "Boxey! Apollo!" Sheba embraced them in return, then seemed to
realize where she was for the first time. 
     "Welcome back," said Colonel Delambre, looking at her. He extended a
hand, smiling.
     "C...Colonel Delambre?"
     "Yes, Sheba. I was Colonel Delambre. Welcome back."
     "What happened?" asked Cassie, utterly agog. "Apollo? Sheba?
Somebody?"
     "I...I'm not sure," said Sheba. "I remember being in the Ward Room,
then it was like..." She stopped a moment, shuddering. "He was there."
     "Who?" asked Cassie.
     "Iblis. That Cadet. It was like he changed...becoming Iblis."
     "Yes," said Delambre. "He put an image of himself into your mind,
Sheba, to try and bring down what you had achieved, recovering."
     "How do you feel?" asked Apollo. 
     "I..." Sheba stopped a moment, taking stock of herself. "I feel
great. It's...the pain is gone! Apollo..."
     "Yes," said Delambre. "Your pain, Sheba. The evil sewn in your mind
and soul by Iblis has been scoured away. Your brain tissue and other
cells damaged by his venom have been restored. While you will always
remember what happened, the wounds he inflicted upon you have been
healed."
     "Thank you," said Boxey, looking up at the Colonel. "Thanks. You
saved my mom."
     "No, Boxey. I did not. It was faith. The faith of others, others
willing to intercede for her, to the ultimate degree, who have done so.
The power is not my own." He looked upwards a moment. He looked to the
adults. "Yes, my friends. As I said, within a few more centars, and there
would have been no more of Sheba left, so deep had Iblis' evil bitten.
Even so, it was only by a...special dispensation, shall we say, that this
thing has been done."
     "But why?" asked Sheba. "I mean, yes, I'm grateful, but what makes
me so special?"
     "Some things, Sheba, I am not permitted to tell. Others are beyond
even my expanded perceptions. All I can say is that you and Apollo have a
destiny. A great destiny, and one which Count Iblis cannot be permitted
to interfere with, desperate though he may be."
     "You gave me my mom back," said Boxey. He looked up at Delambre, and
the Colonel looked back. It seemed for some moments as if the two were
just staring at each other, and then finally, Boxey nodded. "I
understand." Delambre smiled. Almost at once, he turned to Cassie, and
for almost a centon, it was the same, as if they were communing on a
level apart from mere speech. She, in her turn, nodded, and turned away.
     "Soon, you must return," said Delambre. 
     "How can I ever thank you?" asked Apollo, almost a whisper, tears
running down his face. "You've given me my life back. My..."
     "There are more things unseen than seen, Captain," said Delambre,
and Apollo's brows rose. His father had said that very thing... "Use well
the life which you are given, Captain." Delambre guided Sheba down to the
same level as the rest. "And now, while I understand, you must go, my
friends."
     "Where..?" began Sheba, as she noticed that Starbuck wasn't there.
He was across the "room", apparently deep in conversation with John.
"Starbuck?"
     "Go," said John, as Starbuck looked to his friends. "It is time."
     And it was. Before he could even breath, Starbuck felt the beautiful
light suffuse him, like a furnace of cool, joyous beauty, once again, and
his senses were engulfed...
 
     
     "My God," he heard Cassie say, as the LifeStation faded back into
existence around him. They were standing next to the now-empty support
chamber, their clothes back to their usual colors, Sheba still in the
white robe from the Ship of Lights, though now it just seemed to be of 
normal cloth. She looked at them all, her gaze finally settling on
Apollo. She moved to embrace him, but he spoke to Starbuck.
     "You're here. But how? If you offered yourself..."
     "I don't know," replied Starbuck. "I guess they didn't want me after
all. Always a bridesmaid..." He tried to sound his usual brash self, but
it sounded hollow, and they knew it. Then the door opened, and Salik
entered...
     "Cassie, I need..." He stopped, mouth agape. "What in heaven's
name?"
     But nobody answered. Apollo and Sheba were too busy embracing, with
Boxey doing an impromptu jig around the room. Starbuck and Cassie just
didn't hear him.


     The change was tremendous, and immediately noticed. After seeking
out Cadet Garrick, and both explaining and apologizing profusely (the
Cadet told her he would not be pressing charges), Sheba was, after a full
physical, returned to duty. Salik could not explain it, but her physical
state was superlative. All her organs were functioning exactly as they
should, along with all brain centers. Classic textbook responses, in all
areas. It was as if she had never been ill at all. 
     "This is extraordinary, Sheba," said Salik, looking at the readouts.
"Even the healthiest are generally off on some reading, however minor."
     "Well, as long as I'm fit to go back on duty," she replied, feeling
like a bundle of energy, a raceequine straining to be let go. "You know
how much I hate being cooped up."
     "Of course," he smiled, and patted her on the shoulder. "So... Get
into your uniform and get back to work, Lieutenant. Consider that a
medical order."
     "Aye, aye, Doctor!" she smiled, saluted, and left the room. Salik
watched her go, and shook his head. He certainly couldn't take credit for
her condition. Sheba had been on the very cusp of death, all the advances
of modern medicine notwithstanding. And useless. What had happened to
her, some mystical procedure, or event, or whatever, was outside his
competence. Drugs, laser scalpels, bioscanners. These were the weapons of
Salik's calling. Beings of Light? Mysterious vessels filled with
"angels"? 
     He shook his head, and turned away.
 
     
     Apollo felt inexpressibly better after what had happened, and even
to those who did not know him well, it showed. Not only was his life with
Sheba back on track once more, but even their relationship with Boxey was
happier. After the decline in recent sectons, his marks in instructional
period were back up, and even a bit higher than before, and his teachers
noticed. Even Commander Allen, who had been asked to address the students
in Boxey's class on the state of Earth's nuclear engineering science,
noticed how much more involved the boy was, much to his parent's delight.
After Sheba was officially back on the duty roster, thanks to Dr. Salik's
report, there was a family dinner in Adama's quarters, followed by a
service of thanksgiving, for the return of his son and daughter-in-law,
from the dark tragedy they had been through. Sheba could now speak of it
without the utter agony and despair rising up to choke her. While she
would always be angry at what Iblis had done to them, and more wary of
his tricks than ever before, she would never again feel as she had.
     "Well, I'm glad of that," said Starbuck, who had, much to everyone's
surprise, had both accepted the invitation, and stayed for the spiritual
part, afterwards. "I for one am happy if that piece of garbage got a
black eye over this."
     "Apollo, did the Beings of Light say what penalty Iblis had to
suffer this time?"
     "No, Father. As usual, they seem to be pretty cryptic about the
details." Of course, Apollo knew that they had not been the only ones
cryptic about some of the details of what had gone on. He spared a quick
look at Starbuck. Whatever his friend had been discussing with John
before their return, he had yet to open up about it. Neither had Boxey,
about that strange few moments when he had seemed to be held by
Delambre's gaze, and said "I understand". Boxey would, he was sure, speak
of it in his own time.
     "Perhaps that is for the best," said Athena. "The less we even think
about that...person, the better." She looked over at Cassie, who seemed
unusually introspective. For her part, Cassie had been outcoming to her
one-time rival about her own encounter. Her latent trauma, from her
near-lethal experience in the Ovion hives, terrifyingly brought back by
the more recent Otaligim incident, was likewise gone. She remembered it
all, yes. Every moment. But the utter horror, the mind-crushing fear, was
gone. Whatever the mysterious Beings had done to Sheba, it seemed that
some of it had spilled over, as it were, onto her.
     Thanks be to all the Lords.
     "Here, here!" said Boomer, raising his glass. "Let's keep this a
night of thanksgiving." He looked at Apollo and Sheba. "I know I don't
seem much the effusive type, Apollo, Sheba, but I can't begin to tell you
how relieved I am to see you both back to normal. I admit, I was worried.
A lot. And so were a lot of the other pilots."
     "Thanks, Boomer," said Apollo, smiling gently. "I know that all the
concerns and prayers of those around us made all the difference. 
     "They sure did," added Sheba. "God in heaven, they sure did." 
     "If there's one thing that kept me going, it's all the concerns and
prayers from all of you," continued Apollo. Our friends and family, and
those who will always mean the most to us. And before all the Lords of
Kobol, we both know, Sheba and I, that we'll always make sure that just
as you've shown your concerns and prayers for us, so too will we always
remember to do the same for all of you." 
     "To which I can only add, a hearty Amen," added Sheba. "We'll never
forget all that you've done for us."
Adama then silently raised his chalice and as if on cue, they all did so
and drank in solemn gratitude to the Lords for answered prayers.....and
so much more.
     
     
     Now that Sheba had been pronounced fit for duty, she had wasted no
time asking to be assigned for a deep patrol. Like the child who had been
thrown from an equine who wasted no time getting back on it, Sheba was
determined to throw herself back into her responsibilities and prove that
her alertness and her willingness to do anything that was expected of her
as a warrior was back and better than ever. Adama was happy to oblige his
daughter-in-law and personally handed her her flight helmet, for the
mission tomorrow. Apollo, confident that his wife didn't need him
watching her during that time, would stay behind and spend a day doing
administrative duties.
     He awoke the next morning and saw his wife, already up and pulling
her boots on and anxious to get started. Her tone was bright and full of
enthusiasm as she said goodbye to him and set off her for long day's
work. Able to take his time because he had a day of dull matters to deal
with, everything from performance evals to uniform laundry reports,
Apollo entered the turbowash to get himself ready. By force of habit, he
reached for his sonic razor and prepared himself for the task he'd
resumed doing several sectars ago and switched the device on. But before
he applied its blades to his skin, he caught sight of himself in the
mirror and took a long hard look at himself. And the longer he looked,
the more Apollo didn't like at all what he saw.
     But the question is, what would Sheba think after all this time? Is
it too soon, yet? Should I take the risk?
     He decided it was safe to take a chance. He shut the razor off and
quietly put it away. After all, he told himself, best to find out sooner,
than later. When Sheba returned that evening from her patrol, Apollo was
waiting for her in the bedroom with the lights kept purposefully dim.
Hoping that she wouldn't notice.....yet.
     "How was patrol?" he asked as he looked over at her. "First day
back."
     His wife smiled, "It was eight centars of terminal emptiness looking
at a scanner, and I loved every micron of it," she shook her head.
     "Who'd you pull?"
     "I had Hunley with me, and Flight Leader Arcadius."
     "How was it?"
     "Hunley was glad to be flying again, and Arcadius was a complete
chatterbox." Apollo raised an eyebrow. "He spoke seven words that had
nothing to do with flight ops! Seven whole words!" She grinned, and they
both laughed. "But Apollo, it..." she looked up at the ceiling. "I really
felt a sense of just being....alive again out there. With the whole
beauty of space around me, it was like.....knowing I was safe from
whatever unknown danger there might be."
     "I'm glad," he rose and came up to her, "And....I'm glad you're okay
now."
     They stood close to each other, feeling the electricity in the air
between them. It had been so long since they'd last intimately touched
one another, and now, instead of letting the many sectars of pent-up
longing explode, they seemed to want to make sure all was right before
either made the first move. Apollo was cautious. After all, was it too
soon? He might come across as a total boray, if he let his pent-up...
     Finally, it was Sheba who got the glacier moving. She took a step
toward him with her mouth lifted up and he pulled her tight to him. They
came together in a long, sustained kiss and embrace. Their first one in
so long. As Apollo held her in his arms, he wondered how long it would be
before she'd notice. It didn't take long.
     "Mmmmm," Sheba's lips brushed against his chin and cheek. "What is
this?" She ran a finger along his jawline. "Someone didn't shave."
     "I know," Apollo said with just the slightest trepidation, "Do
you.....approve?"
     She took a step back from him and looked at him long and hard. Then,
she went over and turned on the side light. Now, the dark shadow of a
day's worth of growth was more visible. Sheba came back up to him and her
clinical expression then dissolved into a mischievous, wicked grin,
     "I most definitely approve," she said, "The sooner I see those sexy
whiskers covering your whole face again, the better! I've missed seeing
you bearded."
     Immediately, Apollo felt a wave of relief come over him as he
realized that Sheba's cure was now truly complete. And now that he knew
the danger had passed for Sheba on that point, Apollo could let himself
revel in the fact that he'd never be clean-shaven again....ever.
     I'm going to smash that razor into a million pieces and flush it out
the turbo-lock tomorrow!
     They came together again in another kiss and soon their hands were
reaching for the other's clothing in a blur. And then, for the first time
since the nightmare Iblis had subjected them to, they collapsed onto the
bed and forgot all about time or weariness.
    

     As the days following Sheba's restoration went by, Apollo's beard
began to take shape once again, and he marvelled at how his rate of
growth seemed accelerated from before. Within a matter of a secton, his
whiskers had almost thickened to the point where it was as if he had
never been shaving at all over the last several. It almost made him
wonder if the Lords were granting him some grace to get back to the look
he wanted as quickly as possible, not to mention enhancing the physical
pleasure it brought to Sheba and his married life once again.
     Praise be to the Lords for that! I've felt practically naked without
it!
     But unlike the first time, Apollo now felt a determination to
justify his new look beyond the simple fact that Sheba found it so damned
hot. More and more, almost without a conscious decision to do so, he
found himself drawn to reading the early histories, and the ancient texts
of the great sages, rulers, and warriors of Kobol, what survived of them,
and each time he was struck by how they were not only almost always
heavily bearded, but also sported long equitails as well, always hanging
to about midway down the back. At first it seemed barely worth noticing.
But, as he went on, there was literally no exception to the rule that he
could find in the admittedly scant surviving data, and he had noticed
that it had carried over to the early periods of settlement in the
Colonies. Only after about a centa-yahren or two, as more advanced
technology and social organization slowly and painfully reintroduced
themselves into the twelve worlds, did warriors and other prominent
figures gradually adopt beardless looks with shorter hair. 
     Somehow it's as if that look personified the warrior of a nobler
period, he thought. That's the point I need to emphasize!  This isn't
really about rebelling against razors, it's about becoming the essence of
what a warrior......and what a man, really is! Or am I just rationalizing
an excuse for stopping something I dislike so much?

    The first time he'd dumped the razor, Apollo had seen growing a beard
as a way of manifesting the part of him underneath, the part that, in an
ideal world, without the Cylon War, would never have become a Warrior at
all. He'd also, on a more mundane level, seen it as a waste of time and
resources, and patted himself on the back for being both logical and
thrifty. But now, he was beginning to consider the idea that the Lords
had meant for him to be one from his conception, and that he needed to
stop pondering paths in life that could never be taken. Not unless or
until a safe haven were found on Earth, and the tasks of a Warrior done,
and then it could be possible to live the life of peaceful ease in
pastoral surroundings as he and Sheba had secretly dreamed, and which
Count Iblis had so sadistically exploited. The hair and beard had been
more of trying to find a way to symbolize their ideal scenario of escape
from reality. But now, Apollo wanted it to represent something different.
He wanted it to represent the essence of what he felt that he, as a
person, really was, and what kind of Warrior he was capable of being. And
he was increasingly convinced that growing his hair long, and having an
equitail in addition to the beard, would make that statement in a way
that the beard alone couldn't.
     And so, just as he noted the progression of his whiskers with each
passing day, so too did he note the increasing length of his hair,
wondering when the day would come when he could finally try shaping it
into an equitail. He wasn't going to try until the equitail would be just
the right length, like those of the ancients. A small one would never
suffice from his standpoint.
     Another part of this new experience that he preferred to the first
one, was that this time, no one was stopping to ask him questions why.
Perhaps it was because he'd been so cold and blunt when they'd first
asked him why he'd shaved again, that this time they weren't going to
risk asking again. But even those he'd expected to ask, like Boomer, or
his father, or the eternally respectful and deferential Starbuck, who
knew he wouldn't cut them down with any angry remarks were holding their
tongues, had not. And Apollo couldn't help but wonder if it was because
even they sensed that the change in appearance was something that more
suited Apollo's evolving persona. 
     A change inside the man. An outward and visible sign of an inward
and, well, spiritual transformation.
 
     
     As it turned out, the first person to say as much as word one about
his hair and its increasing length (although Starbuck was clearly having
trouble keeping his quips to himself, at times), was the one person he
had, somehow, suspected would immediately understand since he too sported
a massive beard and had an equitail of his own that hung down his back.
Lieutenant, formerly Sub-Commander, Sargamesh, late of the Imperial
Zohrloch Starfleet.
     "Captain," the Zohrloch asked as they were both finishing up a
briefing on the readiness of the new cadets in the Ward Room. He waited
until they were alone.
     "Yes?"     "
     "Would you deem it amiss, were I ask a... personal question of you?"
     "Sure," Apollo said, feeling a sense of anticipation over it,
certain he knew what the question would be. He gestured towards the
Officer's Club.
     "Forgive what may seem an odd interrogative, but are you consciously
choosing to emulate our people?" he asked, indicating Apollo's sartorial
changes, as they reached the lift.
     The Captain laughed. "Only by coincidence, I think, Sargamesh, not
by design. It was not a conscious thing."
     "I only ask because it seems that you are very close to duplicating
your ancestors." He was silent a moment, looking at the Captain. "The
ones who gave us our example."
     "Your ex..." Apollo frowned. "Wait a centon, Sargamesh, are you
talking about the ancient people of Kobol? Before the Exodus to the
Twelve Colonies?"
     "I believe so, Captain. I have been reading extensively the history
files of your worlds in your library banks, especially what little
survived from before that event, and I now realize that they, the
Kobolites, are almost certainly the ones who inspired us so many
thousands of year...yahrens ago." The lift stopped, and they exited the
car. Apollo stopped, looking at Sargamesh's retreating back. "Inspired
you?"
"I believe so, Captain. I have been reading extensively the history files
of your worlds in your library banks, especially what little survived
from before that event, and I now realize that they, the Kobolites, are
almost certainly the ones who inspired us so many thousands of
year...yahrens ago." The lift stopped, and they exited the car. Apollo
stopped, looking at Sargamesh's retreating back.
     "Inspired you?"
     The Zohrloch stopped and looked back at Apollo, "Yes. In fact, they
were, in a way, I am now convinced, our creators. If you have time, I
would be glad to explain some more." Sargamesh smiled that non-smile his
people so often sported. Yeah, he knew he had Apollo's full attention.
     "I do indeed," inside Apollo felt as if he'd stumbled onto something
significant. And he found himself hoping that nothing was going to come
up to cut short this chat with Sargamesh.


     Apollo opened his mouth slowly, then, with only the tiniest
hesitation, as if weighing his next words; "Has anyone from another race
ever undergone this ritual?" 
     "Not to my knowledge, Captain. In fact, no one has ever even asked
about such things, before, that I know of."
     "Is it possible for a non-Zohrloch to undergo this rite of passage?
Would that be accepted?"
     "Ordinarily no," Sargamesh said, after a moment, seemingly not too
surprised. "To my knowledge, it has never been performed on an
Outworlder, before, as I said. We encountered alien races rather late in
our history, and by that time, our society had become...quite xenophobic.
And, sadly, the ancient traditions had, for many, become but a shadow,
and empty act." He was silent a moment, as if in regret over some memory.
"But I think in your case, and in the case of any other Colonial male, we
would not take offence. We are, after all, now citizens like yourselves."
He stroked his beard a few moments, thinking. "In fact, I think we would
be honored to bestow our gift upon the sons of those whom our fathers
chose to emulate in designing this ritual."
     The Captain then smiled, "Then in that case, Sargamesh, you can
start sizing me up for one of those bands."
     "I am glad to hear you say this," smiled the other. He signalled for
a refill, and Freeman moved their way, obliging. "But understand, this
means your equitail will be permanent. Are you willing to commit to
having one for the rest of your life?"
     Apollo nodded vigorously, "Yes I am!" 
     "You are sure of this?"  Sagramesh asked again. "I only ask because
I have noticed how many of you Colonials seem to prefer changing your
appearance from time to time. Such as women's fashions and
accoutrements." 
     "Like me with my beard, recently?" Apollo smiled with mirth. "Not a
problem in my case, Sagramesh. I think what I've been trying to find is a
look that can really define what I...well, represent inside of myself.
And the more I learn about my ancestors, the more I become convinced that
how they looked more truly manifests the essence of what I want to be for
the rest of my life. I would regard adopting that appearance permanently
like......well it would almost be like taking a solemn vow and being able
to express my devotion to the code of what being a Warrior truly and
properly represents. Or at least should. Almost like a monk, in a
monastery."
      Sagramesh was impressed. "A most interesting insight, Captain. One
that would not have occurred to me, I admit. And, one that leaves me the
more convinced that you would be worthy of undergoing our ceremony."
      Apollo sipped his ambrosia. "Which of you would perform it?'
     "Normally, it is performed by the seniormost man in the immediate
family. My father died when I was a boy, so when the time came, it was
performed by my mother's elder brother. If no blood relative is
available, some male of close association may perform it. In extremis,
one may seek out a priest to act the part."
     "Yourself? I mean, could you do this?"
     "That could fall within the bounds of tradition, yes. Seeing as we
both serve in the same military body, and have seen action."
     "Good. I wish to honor tradition."
     The Zohrloch smiled (really smiled), "Well done." He downed his
tankard in a mighty quaff. "Well, shall we?"
     "Yes?"
     "Off to the hereka. What you call the...uh... gymnasion. One must
keep fit, after all!"
     "Yeah," said Apollo. Both men were off-duty for the rest of the
cycle. 


     As the next few sectons passed, Apollo found himself doing more than
just paying attention to the increasing length of his hair. It had become
a time of study for him that was even greater than any Exam preparation
at the Academy had been. Studying not just the ancient Kobollian texts
and legends, as his duties permitted, but immersing himself more in the
finer points of Zohrloch tradition and ritual. Apollo recognized that if
this ceremony were to have true meaning for himself, and, hopefully, for
Colonial society as a whole, he needed to recognize that a part of him
had to regard this experience as a joining, or perhaps re-joining, of
cultures in permanent brotherhood as much as it represented his
connecting with his ancient ancestors. He knew from Sagramesh that some
of his fellow Zohrlochs had expressed misgivings about the
appropriateness of an outsider undergoing something they valued so much
in their own culture. The key then, as Apollo saw it, was to show a
sincere desire to embrace Zohrloch tradition as an equal part of the
ancient Kobollian tradition.
 
     
     "Still at it, Captain?" asked Komma, coming back from break, to the
Galactica's main computer center. 
     "Yes," replied Apollo, bent over the terminal, numerous java cups at
both elbows. As a student, even in primary instruction, Apollo had always
prided himself on being a swift reader. It had just come naturally, and
had stood him in good stead, both at the Academy, and here. Not only had
he absorbed every relevant part of The Book Of The Word, but several
obscure commentaries, as well as Apocryphal additions and recensions,
that Adama had pointed him towards. Even the documents found and scanned
on Boron-Din did not escape his reach.

     It seemed, according to what materials had managed to survive from
the distant past, the Kobollians, at their peak, had traversed vast
stretches of the Star System, far beyond any regions know today. Even to
other Systems, countless mega-light-yahrens across endless chasms of
empty space. When it came to the sciences, both theoretical and
practical, they had no equals, able to remake whole worlds to their
liking, and, yes, they played as gods with the very stuff of life itself.
From the fragments of data that had survived the ages (and Apollo was
lucky there was this much left. In their pious rush to destroy all the
technology that had come with them from Kobol, many early settlers had
destroyed records, too. Books, pictures, recordings, the lot. What had
survived was but a tiny fraction of what there once had been.), it seemed
that the Colonies had not been the only worlds they had travelled to.
That, along with old lore Sargamesh related to him, made him surer than
ever that Eridu, a world over 30,000 light-yahrens from the Colonial
Frontier (as well as Harkaelis, Commander Allen's wife Kalysha's
homeworld), was one of many visited in that distant past. 
     But why? Why would a world of Humans, however advanced, go about
turning other species into near-Human forms? 
     He could find no answers, here, but remained hopeful, as he left, to
catch a shuttle to the Libran Academic, a ship that was as much museon as
it was refugee transport. With one of the Academicians in tow, he was
granted access to the salvaged material. With resources and personnel so
often tight, little of the surviving material had been scanned into the
computer banks. But, like Adama, Apollo had spent a great deal of time,
since Kobol, learning to read the old scripts from the past. And, while
the quaint grammar was a bit of a challenge, the sense was plain.
     
     "...fearing that the failing of life would overcome them all, some
sought to preserve Mankind through the mingling of...and man, blended as
if one..."


     "Mong," he muttered, as the old parchment rendered up lacuna after
lacuna. "But, blended. Like what? Like ambrosia?" He shook his head,
reading on as best he could, trying to make sense of it all. The Ancients
had "blended" something, seemingly Humans, in order to keep Mankind
alive. But with what? Perhaps, if the Zohrlochs and Harkaelians were the
product of some incredible experiment, this was part of the attempt to
"preserve"? Still unclear on many things, Apollo asked to once more see
the material salvaged from the Zohrloch warship, Nem 'Lach. Unable to
make much sense of the cuneiform script of the Eridese language, plus
most of the words being unpronounceable by Human tongues, Apollo relied
upon a computer scanner/translator, and when needful, Malik, one of the
survivors. The material seemed more complete than that from ancient
Kobol, somewhat to Apollo's surprise. It was filled with legends,
fabulous tales of long-gone days, much of it from Eridu's "Heroic Age". 
After allowing himself to become lost for a time in battles, romances,
the plots and schemes of kings, slaves, wizards and sorceresses, and a
thousand intrigues from long ago, Apollo finally got to what he was
hoping to find.


     "Something bothering you, Adama?" 
      The Commander looked up from his book at Tigh and smiled thinly,
"No, nothing bothering me, old friend. I'm just.....reading up a bit more
on what Apollo's been putting himself through lately in preparation for
this.....ceremony he plans to undergo."
     "He's really going to go through with it?" the Galactica's Executive
Officer was amazed. "He's got more gumption than I realized."
     "I think courage might be a more apropos word, Tigh," Adama gently
put the folder down on his desk. "What Apollo's doing it......it really
represents two things, as far as I can see. For him, it's part of a way
of finding himself in a way he's never been able to before, for all the
guidance Ila and I tried to give him, and for the rest of us,
it's.......perhaps bridging the gap between what we are now, and what we
were then, long ago before the Colonies even existed. A light has been
shone upon how great, and advanced, and also how noble our distant
ancestors were in a way perhaps only mystics and divines ever truly
understood before, and Apollo wants to let that guide him from this point
on." He smiled thinly. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised to see more of our
Warriors read up on this, and perhaps soon follow his example over time."
       Tigh sat down on the couch under the viewport, and shook his head
in disbelief, "You mean pretty soon every male Warrior is going to be
bearded and equitailed just like Apollo?"
       "Not everyone, Tigh. Certainly not everyone from our generation."
Adama ran a hand over his chin. "Kobol knows it's too late for me to
consider changing my own appearance because I've always been comfortable
with how I look." He smiled. "Well, resigned, anyway. And yet, I can't
help but think of how what Apollo's doing might represent a new beginning
for the long-term. Especially if this whole ritualistic training and this
rite of passage initiation leads to this deeper......transformation of
the inner self that Apollo seems to think it will. If that's the case,
incorporating something like this for future generations of Warriors may
very well allow our Warriors to reach the full potential of their talents
and gifts. And if that were to happen....." he shook his head in amazed
awe. "Then we have very good reason to be hopeful for our long-term
future as a people, Tigh. Because we'll know that our Warriors will be
living by the codes of greatness that made our ancestors on Kobol a great
people in their Golden Age."
     The Colonel picked up one of Adama's books, the ancient scriptures
called The Book of the Word. Opening the well-worn volume, he found a
passage, and began to read:
     "And Theron turned his face from the angel, and said 'Behold, we are
little amongst the Houses of Shinar, and I am the least of my brethren.
Wherefore doest thou come to me?' 'Rise up, O Mighty Man of valor.
Behold, thy Lord is with thee, O Theron, and thine honor and thine
integrity hath come up, even unto Heaven. And behold, He shall guide thy
hand in all thy doings. In thy going out and thy coming in, and He shall
strengthen thy hand to the battle.' Whereupon Theron did bow himself down
to the ground, and swore to do all that he was commanded. And rising up,
he slew the bovines, and offered them upon the altar for a burnt
offering, and worshipped." 
     "One can almost see it," said the Commander.
     "Yes, almost. What Apollo is doing...it's almost like...like one of
the ancient heroes, from The Book of the Word, come to life, Adama.
Leaping off the page, as it were, like a holovid" opined Tigh, indicating
the book in his hand.
     "Well put, Tigh," smiled Adama. "Very well put."
     "On the other hand, only a warrior searching for a certain level of
spiritual refinement . . . or maybe development would be a better word .
. ." he mused, "would follow such a path."
     "No, admittedly, it isn't for everybody," Adama agreed.
     "But if he does," said Tigh, looking reflective, "will he still be
the man we've always known? In a sense, will he still be Apollo? Will he
just...become more of what he already is and always has been, or will he
become something...else. I don't know." The XO shook his head. This was
getting far too mystical for him.
     "Time will tell, old friend," said Adama. "Time will tell."


    Then, finally, the day came for Apollo three sectars later when, at
last, he felt the time was right. He had reached the limits, based upon
what remained, of how far his studies could take him and was convinced
that in his heart, he would be equal in his devotion to both the
Kobollian, and Eridese aspects, of the ritual.
     Lords of Kobol, let me be right!
      There was also the fact that his hair was, by this point, well down
past his shoulders, and he had been awkwardly keeping it out of the way
when he had to, not wanting to do any temporary equitail styling in the
meantime since he wanted this moment to be the special moment for him.
The occasional teasing, either by Starbuck, or even his sister, no longer
fazed him, and he laughed good-naturedly at their jests. Even Starbuck's
conjecture about whether this crisis should be considered post-pubescent
or pre-midlife, or perhaps an exorcism might help, didn't nettle him.
When he at last came to Sargamesh, the Zohrloch said it would clearly be
ready and that he would be glad to perform the ritual on Apollo,
personally. At the appointed time, they met in the gymnasion, the room
darkened, a few salvaged items of Eridese cultural significance set up
around them. Friends and family, even his wife and sister, were at the
very back of the room, permitted to watch, but, being women, at a
respectful distance. For those that could not be here, photographs were
substituted, held by stand-ins. On both Kobol and Eridu, he had
discovered, at important ceremonies, the deceased or one's ancestors were
often represented by stand-ins, wearing masks fashioned in the likeness
of the departed. Yet another mysterious similarity, he told himself. 
     Apollo stood by himself, wearing but a simple robe, showing only his
head and hands, all the surviving Zohrlochs surrounding him and swathed
in heavy robes.
     "Who is he who woulds't wear the mark of the Warrior?" asked the
assembled Eridese, as one voice. 
     "It is I," said Apollo.
     "Come you forward, and be known." Sargamesh beckoned him to step
forward, and Apollo did so, till he stood about ten paces from Sargamesh.
Slowly, Apollo extended his arms, and the robe fell away. Beneath, he
wore nothing save a breechclout. Sheba could scarce take her eyes off her
husband, her expression somewhere between pride, and pure desire.
     "Breathe, Sheba," said Cassie, leaning over to quietly whisper in
her ear. "Breathe!"
     "Speak," said all the Zohrlochs but Sargamesh. "Of what lineage art
thou come? Of what House dost thou spring?"
     "I am Apollo, son of Adama, son of Noah, of the Tribe of Caprica, of
the House of Kobol," said Apollo, complying.
     "Who is he that standeth for him?" asked the voices.
     "I, Sargamesh kor Tog, son of Kassa, son of Ubal't, of the Clan Zab,
of the House of Eridu, do stand for him." 
     The hooded figures nodded in unison. Then Sargamesh spoke-
     "Apollo, son of Adama, son of Noah, of the Tribe of Caprica, of the
House of Kobol, approach." He did so, and knelt upon a raised plinth,
head bent down as Sargamesh took his hair and pulled it back tightly so
that none of it fell over his forehead any longer. He could feel the
Zohrloch's hands, styling it like that of a master craftsman who had done
this many times before. As this was done, no one spoke.
     A centon later, Sargamesh broke the silence: "And now, the
ceremonial band." He extended his hand, and the metal ring was placed in
it by Malik. Composed of skilfully alloyed metals, among them gold,
copper, mercury, platinum, and silver, the band had taken a while, until
the precise ingredients could be obtained in the exact proportions, and
mingled according to the ancient formula. He held up the band, so that it
caught the light of the torches. "Behold, the Warrior's Band. Behold the
symbol of a suppliant's rite of passage, a rite by which, today, for the
first time, we give back to those who showed us the way."
     Sargamesh fastened the band to Apollo's hair and then slowly brought
it down to the back of Apollo's neck. Apollo could feel the band make
contact with the skin and then..... he felt the strange sensation, almost
as if the thing were welding itself to him. It was a totally painless
sensation, leaving just a cool tingle that felt strangely exhilarating
where it touched his naked skin. As if at that moment, Apollo could sense
an inner change within himself. A change that represented liberation from
what he had been to what he was now and would, God willing, be always.
     And inside, he also felt a mischievous, wicked thought go through
him. The thought of how in having his hair done this way, in a fashion
that went totally against the outer trappings of Colonial Warrior culture
he'd been used to from the beginning, he could now stick it,
metaphorically, to his old Academy drill instructor who had made him
undergo a buzz cut with all the cadets his first day of basic training.
      "You may look up now, Apollo Warrior," said Sargamesh. 
     Apollo lifted his head and saw himself in the mirror, a thin,
polished sheet of bronze. His equitail hung about a third of the way down
his back and combined with his beard, he now realized that but for his
current attire, he looked exactly like one of the ancient warriors of
Kobol. As he got to his feet, Korl and Malik began to dress him, putting
a tunic, a shirt of ancient mail upon him, a girdle, greaves, and boots.
Then, Korl buckled a sword-belt about his waist, and handed him a small
bowl of water, from which each man drank. Then, Sargamesh turned him to
face everyone, and the assembled Zohrlochs shouted, "Eznati! Eznati!"
"Welcome! Welcome!", and patted him on the back, greeting him like a
brother. As Apollo studied himself in the mirror, a contemplative look
came over him as he took it in.
     "Well, Captain?"
     Apollo gently fingered his equitail, "Sargamesh," he said quietly,
"Thank you."
     "I am glad you approve."
     "It's more than that," Apollo turned to face him, "You've just done
something else for me. Something more important."
    "Indeed," said the Zohrloch, and led him to the small table, where
the simple ritual meal was laid out. In keeping with tradition, most of
what was offered were bowls of water, it being Eridu's most highly-prized
resource. "And what would that be?"
     Apollo took a breath, "All my life, I've always felt that my being a
Warrior was something that I became just out of a sense of duty and the
curse of being born in a time of war and conflict. And into a military
family. That I did it because I had to, and that if I'd been born in
another time, I could have been something else altogether that I might
have been more suited for, but that duty would not let me be."  He looked
himself over carefully again, "But now. For the first time, I really feel
like I was truly born to be a Warrior, and that is was destiny. That this
is what I was meant to be and it represents the best of my God-given
abilities and talents. That I don't have to feel like my being a Warrior
is an accident of blind Fate any longer. It represents what I really,
truly, am."  He pointed to his heart. "Inside." He touched his equitail
again: "I just needed to see myself this way to finally realize that once
and for all. To realize that inside me is a desire to be like the great
warriors of Kobol who represented our people at their finest." He shook
his head. "Short hair and a shaved face just kept that realization hidden
from me all these yahrens."
     "I am pleased and honored that I was permitted to help you finish
that personal journey, Captain. But the one who began it is the man
within." He looked at Apollo. "It becomes you, though I can't take full
credit obviously, since the thought began within your own mind." He
smiled slightly. "And, you took it upon yourself to grow your beard
first."
     "And even I can't take full credit for that," Apollo smiled thinly,
looking over to where his family stood. "I need to thank the person who
really got me started."
     "Wow, Dad!" said Boxey, rushing to his father. "You look so cool!"
     "Thanks, Boxey. So do you," he smiled back. Boxey was wearing a blue
dress uniform, cut to his size.
     "I can't wait to have one just like it!"
     He patted his son on the shoulder, "Just wait a few yahrens and you
will, son."
     Apollo turned, to accept the congratulations of his nearest and
dearest. Adama took his hand, his expression radiating pride. Athena
likewise.
     "Looks good on you," said Starbuck, of the antique war gear. "You're
gonna start a new fashion trend. Heck, the Cylons may get jealous."
     "Ya never know," said Apollo. His wife on his arm, he moved to
sample some of the bakemeats.
     His father squeezed his hand.  "Apollo, it takes a lot of courage to
be the first who tries to bring the spirit of our people back to the days
of our ancient greatness. Not to mention reaching out to a brother tribe
to let them know how much their traditions belong among our own too."
     "Thank you, Father."
     "Your mother would be proud of you, son," said Adama. "Zac, too." 
     "I wish they could have been here," said Apollo, nodding. He turned
his attention to the rest, never seeing, never suspecting, the presences,
unseen, in the corner of the room.
 

     The festive air of celebration lingered for more than a centar
before things finally began to break up and everyone went their separate
ways, either to duty, or to sleep. For all of those who had witnessed it,
it was something they would always remember.
     As Cassiopeia felt Starbuck lead her to the Officer's Club for a
late drink, she cast one idle glance at her man's clean-shaven appearance
and then said to herself. A beard and equitail suits Apollo just fine,
but if you ever follow his lead, Starbuck, I will KILL you!
     With a set of barber's shears!
     Athena and Boomer had volunteered to take charge of Boxey for the
evening, seeing how much time Apollo and Sheba would be spending
afterwards, first with the Zohrlochs, and then she was certain, by
themselves.
     That look on Sheba's face really shows how much she wants to be
alone with him, tonight! Athena told herself. Boomer just smiled, and
offered to buy everyone a round.
     Jolly could drink to that.
     For the moment, Apollo and Sheba didn't rush things, letting the
ambiance and beauty of the evening linger a bit yet. Apollo in fact,
enjoyed lingering with Sagramesh, Korl and Malik, because for the first
time since their arrival, he felt a true sense of fraternal kinship with
the Zohrlochs, a people who did not open up easily.
     "Before you and your good wife leave us, Captain," Sagramesh said,
handing a cup of water to Sheba, "may we thank you deeply for what you've
done?  It means as much to us as what we hope that this ceremony has
meant to you."
     Apollo felt sure he knew what the Zohrloch meant but nodded his
head, indicating that he go on.   
     "By volunteering yourself to be part of so solemn a ritual, and to
above all, honor and respect our ways in undergoing it, you make us aware
of how we Zohrlochs can see you Colonials as our brothers in every sense
of the word. Not just from the distant past, or by how much DNA we have
in common, but something now, after long ages sundered, met again. That
is something we can never forget for as long as we breathe."
     "I'm glad to know that, Sagramesh," Apollo said, "Truly. From this
day on, I consider a part of me to be a Zohrloch in the same way you
think of yourselves as Colonials." 
     As they turned to go, Sheba looked back, and mouthed "thank-you" to
the rest. Sargamesh smiled.
     Really.


     Another centar later (Apollo had forgotten to sign something in his
office, and had to make a reluctant detour), after Apollo and Sheba had
retired to their quarters, and quietly locked the door behind them, the
two of them stood motionless looking at each other for a long while.
Apollo only allowed himself a faint smile as he watched Sheba look him
over carefully, trying so hard to maintain all of her composure. It was a
look that made him feel as if he understood the point of view of the
choice cut of meat at the butcher's. But all he needed to see was the
repeated deep breaths, her chest rising and falling rapidly, up and down,
her gown, sleeveless with a single strap over the left shoulder,
straining like an over-pressurized space suit, to know just how ready she
was to explode with more passion than ever before. 
     "My feeding time is 0800," he smiled.
     "Apollo!"
     "Well?" he finally teased, unable to keep the smile off his face.
     His wife surprised him by exhaling slowly and keeping her composure.
"Perfection," she said simply, "Absolute perfection." Her voice was low,
rough with need.
     Perfection? Part of him, a small part, standing there, wearing
ancient armor from a solar system God knew how far away, felt he looked
totally ludicrous.
     But, given Sheba 's expression, the other part of him didn't give a
damn!
     "Well, I hope that means from this day forward it isn't a slow
downhill ride for us." He marvelled at how she was acting so restrained.
Restrained? Chimes of Hades Hole, her feet must be bolted to the deck!
But he just let her look, knowing that she wanted to savor the occasion
for herself.
     "It never can," she came up to him, covering the space in two
strides, and embracing with a long kiss, her lips nuzzling his beard over
and over, and then, her hand reaching back and playfully tugging at his
equitail over and over, stroking it's length, a suggestive gleam in her
eyes. "Not if we were a hundred yahrens older." Apollo meanwhile, ran his
fingers through her own luxuriant locks, then slowly undid the clasp on
the shoulder of Sheba 's sheer gown, made from the "dress" given her by
the Beings of Light, so that it fell away from her body to her feet,
leaving her totally naked except for her feminine briefs. She lazily
kicked it aside, then kicked off her silver slippers, and the rest, and
began to remove Apollo's Zohrloch attire. First, the swordbelt clanged to
the floor, then the leather cinches of his mail shirt were undone.
     "Careful," he quipped as she unfastened the chain mail. "I don't
think that's insured. You'll set back relations with the Zohrlochs by
eons if we damage this."
     "So spank me!' she purred, her voice throaty and low, as the mail
shirt fell from him.
     With a grin, he did precisely that. 
     She let out a throaty laugh as the two of them together removed the
rest, so that now he was down to the breechclout. For a moment, the sight
of him, bearded, equitailed, wearing only the barest essential of a
garment made Sheba 's mind flash back to a time that had represented
perfection to her in another sense, only to see it exposed as a cruel and
hideous lie. But no...! No, rather than let herself be overwhelmed by
that thought, and have a sea of pain return to her, Sheba could pull away
the last shred of raiment, and now look at her husband's naked form, and
feel grateful over how she didn't need to let her mind wander to the
realm of fantasy to find both  pleasure and relief. The reality she'd
been blessed with was more than sufficient.
     Now, Sheba let the animal side of herself out, if she could ever
have kept it in, and leapt into her husband's arms, kissing him wildly
over and over, growling, running her hands over his taut, muscled form.
Sectons of ruthless workouts in the gymnasion had allowed him to bulk up,
giving him the highly athletic physique she was feasting her eyes, and
fingers, upon. His thick arms, his shoulders, his wonderfully sculpted
chest, all was a feast for her senses. She teased him, first with her
fingers, then her teeth, then her tongue, as she took her fill, driving
him wild as she could plainly see.
     " Sheba , baby..."
     "Quiet, lover. This is our ceremony, and tonight, I'm the
priestess..." she rasped, barely coherent, running her hands down his
splendidly-defined form, at last paying homage to his wonderful hardness.
A work of art! were among the last coherent words that flitted across
what was left of her mind, as she sent him reeling into bliss. After
several centons of steadily increasing worship, he growled, and taking
hold of her in his powerful arms, he raised her to his lips, kissed hers
deeply, then slowly stroked her breasts as she arched her back, first
with his hands, then with his beard, revelling in the choked gasps the
rose from her throat as he did so. 
     "Ap...p...."
     He answered her not, as he replaced his beard with his lips. Sheba
gasped in joyous delight, as he took first one, then the other, of her
supremely lovely breasts, between his lips, and let the pleasure flow
into her. Neither had any idea how long this continued, nor cared, but
before long, tears were streaming down her face, and her hands were
gripping his thick hair. 
     He pulled back, gazing for a moment down on her beautiful, almost
angelic face, eyes half-slits, lips parted, breath coming in gasps, and
carried her to the bed. Rather than set her down, Apollo preferred to
just let them both fall on it at once, so as not to interrupt their
sensual momentum. Flying on autocontrol now, Sheba powerfully pressed her
lips to his, and took deep, sweet pleasure of them, before raising
herself up, and like an equuswoman in the saddle, took command of him.
     She almost shrieked as she joined herself to her husband, barely
hearing his own loud groan of delight as they forged themselves into one
flesh. There was nothing soft or gentle about her pursuit of her need,
moving in perfect harmony to his own motion, the two like the swelling of
the waves on the shore. She felt herself climb higher and higher, the
pleasure seemingly bottomless, when her loins exploded in pure delight,
her head thrown back, her cries deep and rumbling.
     But Apollo was not spent, nor was she, as her delight began to
build, again and again, Apollo never stopping. He rolled them over, his
lips seeking out sweetness after sweetness, as he moved into her,
seeking, his thrusts deep and strong. Again, she felt her body tear
itself apart, as their mutual love and desire sought out her soul. 
     So great was their mutual passion, now unleashed as never before,
that it took more than four centars for it to fully expend itself. And
when all was over, at least for now, Sheba found herself, pillow behind
her back, bedding demolished, resting against the headboard, looking over
at her now-sleeping husband, with total awe.
     My Mighty Lord of Kobol! she thought, both with pride and utter
satisfaction, as she reached over and twirled her finger around his
equitail, not wanting to let go of it, and glad that she could play with
it without disturbing him. She giggled, as she ran her fingers up and
down the heavy lock of hair, stopping to savor the sensation of the cool
metal of the ring, running it along her cheek, eyes closing as she took
in the scent of him. She did so, for a long time, revelling in the
lovemaking just past, and already growing eager for the next time. 
     She let her mind wander, back to when she had first met Apollo, then
just a blip on her Viper's scanner, and the adventures they had shared
since. Battles, both open and covert. Myriad sorties against the enemy.
Saving the Galactica from a terrible fire. Arguments, snapping quarrels,
and the final open declaration of their true feelings, with she at last
daring to speak of his deceased wife. Her growing love and desire for
this man, in spite of herself, in spite of him, his very being coming to
consume her thoughts, waking and sleeping. Their open declaration of
their intent to seal, and the stumblingblocks thrown in their path by...
     No! No, she would not even think that accursed name! Not tonight.
Not when she and Apollo were, at last, truly back on vector. Their
careers, their marriage, her mind. All right where they should be, Lords
of Kobol be praised. She smiled, sighing in utter contentment, and leaned
back against the pillow, turning down the light in their chamber to bare
minimum. Now, at peace both within and without, she could truly look
forward to finding Earth. Once there, and, Lords willing, the Cylon
threat forever at an end, the two of them could truly relax, casting
aside all need of weapons and fighting, and just...be. Live as men and
women should, and raise whatever children came to them in tranquillity
and peace. She sighed, feeling completeness, and pure bliss, and the
warmth of her husband's love sweet within her. She began to feel a slow
languor move over her, as sleep gradually beckoned. She stretched...
     As she did so, she felt another warm sensation gradually fill her,
only slowly making itself known. A sensation that reminded her of.....
     Her blissful reverie stopped when she realized that it was a
sensation which she could recall having felt before; three times, in
vivid detail, in a place that had not been real. An inner signal that
somehow.....something special and momentous had just taken place. Even
though it would be at least sectons before the inner hunch could be
validated, she had always remembered how each time the hunch had been
proved right.
     "Yes!" she whispered, leaning back and closing her eyes, as she
focused her mind upon the feeling within her, the tiny spark that reached
out to her, even as she herself reached in. She smiled, and laughed
softly, her mirth a silver chime in the dim light. After a long moment,
she opened her eyes, and looked into the dark, and gently laid her right
hand upon her belly. She gently caressed it, reaching out to the
sensation within. She smiled again.    
     "Let it be so," she whispered softly and prayerfully, as slumber
took her. "Lords of Kobol, let it be so."

Addendum
 
     Giles looked at his scanner. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing, for
him to have missed Apollo big bash. That ritual thing with the Zohrlochs.
Still, someone had to fly the patrols, and when your name is up...
     He looked over at Cree, who was undoubtedly as miffed at missing the
party as he was. The system they were just entering, beyond the limit of
the Galactica's scanners, looked very unpromising. Four planets, no sign
of any civilization whatsoever, past or present, the sole living world
orbiting this binary star covered in jungles and swamps. If their Cylon
wingmen could be bored, they'd have rusted to death by now. So...
     Beep
     "Sir?" said Cree.
     "Yeah, I see it, said Giles, looking at his scanner. Metal, dead
ahead, no sign of any power, above the second planet. He checked his
display. The Cylons were off, sweeping the outer system. No sense calling
them.
     "Looks like debris, sir," said Cree. "Metal fragments."
     "Yeah," said Giles, as they eased closer to the contacts. Almost as
soon as the second planet filled his canopy, something flew by, his
collision alarm giving him plenty of time. "That was close. Uh huh, Cree.
Metal wreckage. Not much, though. Not enough to be a ship."
     "I'm reading some good mineral signs below, sir," said Cree. "Traces
of copper, iridium, even some tylium."
     "Well, if it's enough, maybe we could grab ourselves some..."
     "Sir?"
     "I'm picking up something below. Six degrees above the equator. More
metal. Wreckage."
     "Me, too, sir. Shall we?"
     "Yeah. Let's let our wingmen know."
 
     "Wow," said Cree, looking at the wreck before them. "This thing must
have hit pretty hard."
     "Yeah. Deep gulley. Trees ripped out. But she burned, Cree. Not much
left of her."
     The wreck before them was of respectable size, perhaps a bit smaller
than the Celestra. It had come down, in the jungle, and come at last to
rest against a ledge of rock, then burned out. Now overgrown by countless
yahrens of creeping rainforest, little more than the frame, crumpled
thruster bells, and some internal compartmentalization remained.
     "Think the crew got off, sir?" asked Cree, as they moved along the
hull. No paint, script, or other identification remained on the
vegetation-covered wreck. 
     "Uh, no," said Giles, as they came to what remained of the flight
deck. There, still in their seat, were two skeletons, likewise entangled
in the creeping green.  "I'll bet the crash killed 'em."
     "They look Human, sir. But how..."
     "Not quite, Cree. Look."
     "Holy Lords!"
 
 
     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.

Here endeth the 3rd Season