Battlestar Galactica: Period Of Adjustment
Virtual Season 3 - Episode 3
By Eric Paddon

Posted: February, 2009
From The Adama Journals

     It's been nearly three sectans now since the incredible turn of
events that saw Baltar and his entire baseship full of Cylons defect to
our ranks, and collaborate in the destruction of the other ship in his
task force.  And since then...what we as a people have been forced to
endure is the greatest exercise in adjustment that we've faced since the
initial days following the Destruction and our Exodus from the Colonies. 
Now, we must acclimate to the idea that a fully operational Cylon
baseship, and an entire crew of Cylon centurions, and commanded by the
very man whose treachery sent us into our plight, is now an integrated
part of our Fleet. Needless to say, this period of adjustment,
distasteful as it is, is easier for some people than it is for others. 
And even for those of us who recognize the necessity of adjustment, and
are learning to acclimate...we do so with a large measure of reluctance. 
Or maybe reluctance isn't the right word, because certainly all of us
aren't fool enough to think that a better option would have been trying
to destroy two baseships all by ourselves and put our entire existence at
risk.  Resentment, perhaps, best describes things.  We resent the idea
that members of a race who have sought our Destruction for a thousand
yahrens are now part of our ranks.  We resent the idea that mankind's
greatest traitor now effectively has a clean slate and a position of
great authority and prominence in our ranks.  We resent the idea that
we...the victims of destruction, devastation and persecution at the hands
of the Cylons...must now be forced to adjust our whole outlook on life
for the sake of accommodating these objects of our hate and mistrust. 
     But...great as that resentment is for some of us, we haven't seen
anything happen that could threaten to disrupt this necessary alliance of
convenience.  Our pilots, who will be expected to one day learn how to
fly patrols with Cylon fighters, are getting a constant disciplining from
Apollo and other squadron leaders about how they must submerge all of
their old feelings for Cylons, or at least learn the art of separating
their feelings for Cylons in general from *this* group of Cylons.  After
all, these are Cylons who in the end were willing to destroy their fellow
Cylons for their own purposes.  We were *glad* to accept their help when
it was presented to us like a seeming gift from Heaven, so shouldn't that
sense of gratitude carry over just a little into this period of
adjustment?  That is my prayer for wisdom. 
     My view of the Cylon Empire as the greatest force of Evil that has
ever existed in the known Universe will never change.  But this
experience is forcing me to recognize for the first time that the
stratified nature of that Empire, where centurions have long been forced
to perform all of what we would call the "dirty work" in fulfilling the
goals of the Empire could easily produce resentment if you applied that
same structure to a race of sentient beings.  The only thing that makes
this so different and so much harder to grasp is that this independence
comes from machines that were carefully programmed to never show such
characteristics. The advanced class of Cylons, to the best of our
knowledge, were robots programmed by sentient minds to *have* these
qualities from the outset.  Advanced knowledge and the ability to think
independently didn't evolve organically in those robots over time. What
accounts for it in this class, the lowest level of the Cylon race?  
     But answering the why and how regarding this strain of Cylon
independence is ultimately the least of our questions. The most important
question that faces us, is *what* do these Cylons ultimately want? 
*Will* they be satisfied with the idea long-term of becoming an
integrated part of our Fleet?  And *can* we maintain a delicate balance
of detente with these Cylons to preserve good relations, and at the same
time remain watchful and mindful of their behavior, and on the alert for
signs that they might choose to turn on us again?
     On this basis, Baltar's presence as their Commander has to be seen
as something more in our favor then it might seem at first glance.  I am
convinced that Baltar, underneath that calculating, self-centered
exterior of his, really has no desire to find reason to turn against us. 
He *knows* he is now living in the best possible arrangement he could
have hoped to have achieved, with freedom from the looming specter of
eventual death at the hands of the Cylon Empire, and absolution from
Colonial Justice.  And the fact that he's received the unexpected
dividend of reunion with his wife, Ayesha, I'm sure has only reinforced
that in his mind.  Combine that with the fact that for now, he still has
the trust of his crew, and they are willing to follow his lead because he
was the instrument of their liberation, as it were, from serving the
interests of the Cylon High Command, and the results have to be seen as
the scenario that works best to our advantage.  However much I find the
idea of working with Baltar distasteful, it would be far more difficult
if I found myself dealing with a renegade Cylon commander.  Baltar at
least, is not an unknown quantity. 
     As for Ayesha herself, she has made five reports to me in the last
three sectans since she volunteered to go back to her husband, and give
up the happiness she might have continued to know as Claudia.  She
insists that she has no regrets about her decision, because while it
isn't what she wanted to do, the more time she spends with Baltar, the
more she is convinced that her presence is making a difference in keeping
Baltar in line, as it were.  I pray God she is correct. 
     Her observations of the centurions indicates that for now there is
nothing but satisfaction in them with their present state.  They enjoy
the fact that they are performing tasks aimed not for the benefit of a
hated class of advanced Cylons.  But she can't offer any insight yet on
whether they've expressed any long-term goals or aspirations. She can
only confirm that Baltar isn't encouraging any kinds of delusions of
grandeur in them, and is just keeping what he says to them in generic
promises of being more "equal" than they have been before. 
     If that then, is the hope that these renegade Cylons are resting
their futures on, then it becomes more imperative for us to keep
fostering this spirit of detente and making it work. Since there's only
so much we can do regarding the Cylons, and Ayesha is the only one who
can do anything with regard to watching Baltar, our task is to keep sure
our own people stay in line and do their part. For the potential is there
for just one person with a deep sense of bitterness to do something rash. 
And I shudder to think of what the consequences might then be. 

Chapter One

     As Squadron Commander, Apollo often had many days where, barring a
full-scale attack, he knew he didn't even have to think about going near
his Viper.  Handling the more mundane matters of patrols came less
frequently for him as it did for the junior pilots in his group, since
the job also carried with it, important administrative duties. Checking
the fitness reports on all of his pilots. Making sure that all
maintenance work and repair jobs on vipers were proceeding on schedule. 
Then cross-checking matters of the Fleet's course heading, so he could
then plot out the matter of which pilots would draw forward patrol
sweeps, and which would handle rear-guard patrol action.  Debriefing
pilots returning from patrol.  Disciplinary actions, when necessary. 
Conferences with other squadron leaders like Boomer, and making sure they
were up to speed on all of the jobs they had to perform.  Typically,
Apollo could find himself spending upwards of six centars handling all of
these tasks in a given day, and getting a reminder of why so many pilots
often lacked the desire to become Squadron Commanders since they didn't
like the idea of all the extra duties that had nothing to do with actual
flying. 
     Fortunately for Apollo, doing paper work never bothered him too
much.  He found that he'd often had an instinct for performing
administrative tasks, and going over reports in fine detail that few
other warriors did.  He often felt that was a sign that if he'd never
become a warrior, he would have preferred the quiet life of a scholarly
academic like his maternal grandfather, burying himself in documents and
organizing them into a detailed archive, and mixing that with exploratory
missions, studying distant planets and taking observations. 
     If only there'd never been a war, maybe I would have done all that,
he absently mused as he approached the Operations Center for yet another
one of his regular tasks, and the one that always came first in the day,
the daily briefing of all Blue Squadron pilots.  This had only become a
mandatory feature in the last three sectans, since the day the Colonials
found themselves in the awkward set-up of working with Cylons now. And
Apollo felt that with discipline in the ranks the highest priority now, a
regular briefing to keep drilling the need to submerge or let go of old
prejudices was more important than ever. 
     He reached the door and idly touched his face, which was covered in
the thick growth of a full beard he had started to grow the day after the
battle, three sectans ago.  More than once, Sheba had commented on how
much she thought he looked more ruggedly handsome when he skipped shaving
during a furlon, and he had decided to test the waters by asking Adama to
rescind the regulation prohibiting pilots from wearing beards.  To his
relief, Adama had said it was fine by him if he found that growing one
wouldn't cause a complication caused by wearing a full face helmet. 
Adama had already modified the rule to allow an outsider like Lieutenant
Sargamesh, the Zohrloch cum Colonial pilot to retain his elaborate beard
(though his fellow Zohrloch, Korl had taken immediately to the concept of
shaving and been grateful to get rid of his) and with that precedent
established, the commander knew it didn't make much sense to keep the
rule in place for everyone else on flight status.  
     Being a naturally fast grower, it hadn't taken Apollo long to
overcome the initial itching feeling of getting used to it, and realize
that it caused no complications or discomfort whatsoever while flying. 
The only question then was whether he felt confident enough of his own
appearance long-term to keep it.  But any moments of doubt that made him
contemplate shaving again, only required another playful reminder from
Sheba about how much she found it a turn-on (and their love life since
then had more than borne that out), to keep persevering.  Now, after
three sectans, he'd  reached the point where his confidence and comfort
was complete, and he considered his beard a permanent appendage for the
rest of his life. With no more need for a razor, he'd given his to  Boxey
as a gift for his son to use when he was old enough.  But Boxey had been
so fascinated by the sight of Apollo's whiskers growing thicker every
day, and never missing a chance to touch them during moments of play,
that already his son was making open boasts that when he grew up, he'd
have a beard just like his. 
     Like father, like son, he thought amusingly as he entered the
Operations Center.  The twenty pilots of Blue Squadron were gathered,
with Sheba, as Deputy Leader, standing off to one side, her face buried
in a data pad. . The rest of them were grouped by seniority with the
squadron, as opposed to their actual rank. The instant he entered the
room, Sheba looked up from her data pad, and the other pilots all
straightened in their chairs.  Apollo had long ago refused to throw his
weight by having a "ten hut" ritual with everyone rising to their feet at
rigid attention and waiting for an "at ease" before they could sit down
again.  That was a privilege only the likes of Adama or Tigh were
entitled to, by his reckoning. And so, they remained seated, waiting for
him to reach the podium and begin. 
     "Good morning," he said, "First, a reminder to those of you waiting
for your turn to have your vipers overhauled by the Celestra.  We got
word back from them yesterday that the jobs they're doing on Red
Squadron's vipers had a minor setback, because they had to dispatch some
technicians to repair some hull plates on a couple civilian ships. It'll
be at least a minimum of three cycles before they think they'll be
finished and then our group can go. Official word will come during one of
these briefings, so don't bother making any inquiries to them on your
own."
     He then turned the page of his briefing memo, which Sheba had made
sure was placed on the podium, ready and waiting for him. 
     "Second, it's going to be our turn to handle training exercises for
new recruit pilots, so that means two of you need to volunteer to spend
three cycles leading recruits out on their first short-range patrol,
followed by a war games test utilizing small asteroid particles as your
targets.  Now I'm going to open the floor to see who's willing to be the
brave volunteers, right now."
     Five microns passed and everyone remained seated.  Apollo smiled
thinly and leaned forward, "I don't think any of you are going to like it
if I have to start resorting to forced conscription, so what say you do
your squadron leader a favor and let him off the hook?"
     Finally, Giles somewhat reluctantly got to his feet. Two microns
later, another pilot, Sergeant Call, who'd been an active pilot for only
five sectars, did likewise. 
     "Thank you, Sergeant Giles, Sergeant Call," Apollo maintained his
smile, "Lieutenant Sheba will give you a full briefing on the recruits
you'll be handling, later today.  Learning their dossiers in full, is
going to be your principal homework over the next two cycles."
     "We'd better get campaign ribbons for this," Giles grunted as he
resumed his seat.  At the far end of the row, old Croad let out a snort. 
The one-time Proteus Enforcer was by far the oldest of pilots, but he had
shown his ability more than once in his old Sixth Millennium fighter, and
Apollo had agreed to include him in the briefings as a "special
observer."  He was somewhat glad this new status for Croad had come after
Starbuck's departure from Blue Squadron.  Even though Starbuck held no
hard feelings toward Croad for having once thrown him into a cell on
Proteus at gunpoint, that experience would always be a barrier to them
having any feelings of warm camaraderie toward each other. 
     "Well, given what it costs to design and make a new campaign ribbon,
Giles, I think that would only mean you and Call having to buy three
rounds for all of us, if you're that determined to have one."  Some mild
laughter went up from the rest of the pilots, and Apollo was glad that
for now, everyone seemed to be a bit looser because of that.  It made
this the opportune time to get to what he had to say next. 
     "Okay," his tone now grew serious, "Now we get to the big news of
the day. After three sectans of this new arrangement, we are now about to
engage in our first major test of an integrated relationship with our
new...for want of a better term, colleagues."
     Some guffaws went up from several pilots.  Apollo stared out with
only the slightest edge, indicating this was something he'd let pass, but
didn't want to hear again. 
     "A long-term goal of ours is to have integrated patrols involving
our ships and their ships," he said, "This will be done with a minimum of
two of our pilots matched with two of their patrol ships. Our telemetry
settings will be identical, each set to receive the other's data, and to
be transmitted direct to the Galactica and the baseship.  Our
communication circuits will also be standardized, allowing for constant
contact with our counterparts. In short, the idea is to see to it that we
build a sense of working together as if we were interacting with other
pilots in our ranks."
     Apollo then stepped out in front of the podium and began to pace in
front of them.  As Squadron Leader it was his duty to set an example for
his men, and he was doing it now, "Now, I'm not going to bother asking
for volunteers for the first of these integrated patrols, nor do I intend
to draft anyone. The first patrol will be in two days from now, and
Lieutenant Sheba and I will be flying it.  At a briefing next sectan, we
will be giving you a full rundown of our experience in this, what is was
like, and above all," he raised the inflection of his voice and paused
for a brief instant, "Above all, we'll try as pilots to give you a sense
of what the right approach is to handle oneself in going on these
patrols. To give you a blueprint that you can then use to apply to your
own experiences when you find yourself in one of these situations. 
Because believe me, sooner or later, your turn for one of these patrols
will come up. And you'll have to use this discipline I've hoped to see
developed in all of you these last three sectans, come to full fruition."
     He let his words hang in the air, and then softened his posture,
"Okay, that's all.  Check the duty roster to see if any of you have
received detached assignment in any other part of the Fleet covering
today and the next three cycles.  Any questions?"
     "Yes, sir," said Sheldrake, sitting next to Call, and a newly-minted
Flight Sergeant, whose baptism of fire had been the engagement just past. 
"If we should ever encounter other Cylons, while flying with these
new...well," he stopped, looking down at the floor.  "How will we tell
them apart, in combat?  Blowing them away by mistake might not go over
too well." A few raised eyebrows and a soft laugh rippled across the
room.  
     "We're working on that," Apollo said in a cryptic way that was meant
to be sound funny, but he saw it was getting no reaction.  He then
quickly moved on.  "Lieutenant Boomer of Red Group, some time ago,
developed a device during the infiltration mission Lieutenant Starbuck
and I performed on the previous baseship we destroyed.  Dr.  Wilker is
perfecting it so it can be installed long-term in all of your vipers. 
Ultimately, in a worst-case scenario, all enemy craft will be equipped
with an identification transmitter, which will create a red dot in the
middle of your Viper's attack scanner screen.  That way, you will be able
to discriminate between friend and foe."
     Apollo and Sheba then heard a slight mumble go up from somewhere in
the middle of the group.  It was indistinct, but he knew that someone had
made a gallows humor type remark. 
     "I don't believe I heard that, so will the person who spoke it,
repeat it?" Apollo suddenly barked. Immediately, he saw five pilots in
the second row suddenly flush slightly with embarrassment which at least
told him where the comment had come from. He fixed a cold stare at the
group, and then decided he wouldn't make a public example of them.  He
was already sure they'd gotten the message. 
     "Okay, never mind then," his tone softened.  "Dismissed."
     The pilots all rose and slowly filed out. , none of them daring to
make a sound after what had just happened. From the side of the room,
Sheba made her way up to her husband. 
     "The mood seems about the same," his wife noted. 
     "Pretty much," he nodded.  "I should probably stop using the
euphemisms like 'colleagues' and 'counterparts. '    It's as if I'm
trying to sweet-talk the whole thing by not using the term 'Cylons' if I
can avoid it.  But that's not going to change what they are, they have to
get used to it."
     "Do you think we're used to it?" she looked him in the eye as they
headed to the door.  "Hades, most of the time, I think I'm still living
in a universe turned upside-down."
     "No, I guess we aren't," he admitted, "But I do think we're ahead of
the rest of them in terms of understanding why this is so damned
important and necessary.  That's why we have to be the first ones who do
this integrated patrol and give them a firsthand report."
     They stepped out of the Operations Center, and were surprised to see
a single pilot standing there, clearly waiting for them.  It was Sergeant
Mattoon, a decorated veteran pilot of the enlisted ranks who had been
among the few surviving pilots from the Battlestar Solaria during the
Destruction. He was a darkly handsome man in his late twenties with a
full moustache he'd grown in recent sectans.  Apollo had wondered if his
own facial growth would start trends with the other pilots, but so far,
Mattoon was the only one who'd made any change, and only the limited one.

     "Something I can do for you, Mattoon?" Apollo asked. 
     "Ah, yes sir.  I ah, didn't want to ask this in front of the rest of
the squadron, Captain, Lieutenant, but..." he seemed somewhat apologetic.

     "Yes?" Apollo pressed, wishing the sergeant would get to the point. 
     "Well it's about this integrated patrol, sir," Mattoon said, "I
really would like to take part in it."
     Apollo and Sheba both frowned slightly, not having expected this. 
     "Any particular reason why you'd want to do this, Sergeant?"  Sheba
asked. 
     "Well yes," Mattoon said, "You see...with all due respect, I think
it would help the rest of the squadron a good deal if...well," he
stopped, seemingly unsure of whether he should proceed. 
     "Permission to speak freely, granted, Sergeant," Apollo tried not to
sound exasperated. 
     "Thank you," Mattoon sounded relieved, "You see...I understand why
you two, as Squadron Leaders, need to be the first to do this, but...well
a lot of us in the ranks who've had trouble adjusting to the idea of
working with the Cylons, we've always kind of had the perception that the
two of you being in command positions..."
     "Have it easier, Sergeant?" Apollo finished for him.  The squadron
leader schooled his face to show nothing, "That doesn't happen to be
true.  And if that perception exists, I want it stopped, now.  You can
tell the rest of the men you bunk with, that."
     "Well, I'm not saying it's right, sir, I'm just saying it exists,
and you're right, that perception *needs* to be dispelled. And that's why
I think if you have just one of us come along on this patrol and get the
same kind of exposure the two of you will be getting to this set-up, then
when all three of us make our report to the men, next sectan, it will
resonate a lot more with them."
     Neither Apollo nor Sheba gave any answer at first.  It was clear to
both of them that it was a point worth considering. 
     "Sir?"  Mattoon prompted, and then glancing at Sheba, "Lieutenant?"
     "We'll take that under advisement, Sergeant," Apollo finally said,
"You'll have our answer by tonight."
     "Thank you, sir," Mattoon sounded relieved, and then walked away.
Apollo shrugged his shoulders, and started to go in the other direction
toward the turbo lift.  He and Sheba had to report to the Bridge to get
the update on their navigational heading.  
     He'd gone a few steps, when he noticed his wife wasn't alongside
him. He looked back and saw that Sheba was still where she'd been,
looking back at Mattoon's receding figure at the end of the corridor. 
     "Sheba?" he called over. 
     She looked back at him and seemed embarrassed, "Oh, sorry.  I'm
coming."
     "Something wrong?" he asked with slight concern as she came up to
him. 
     "No," his wife shook her head, "I was just wondering what brought
that on."
     "You think there's more to it than the reason he gave?"
     "I don't know," Sheba shrugged as they stepped onto the turbo lift,
"Let's just say I didn't get a good vibe from that."
     "Well, maybe we should talk to the Commander about it, and see what
he thinks. For now, we've got some other stuff to attend to."
     "Right," she said as she stepped into the turbo lift. Before the
doors closed, the last thing she saw was Mattoon non-chalantly turning
left at the far end of the corridor. 


     Red Leader's day had slightly less official business on his schedule
than Blue Leader.  That was because Boomer had set aside a centar he
might have ordinarily used for the administrative work he was expected to
take care of, to handle a personal matter in the Life Station that was
far more important. For him and Athena, both. 
     "The latest sonic scan results have been fully analyzed,"
Cassiopeia's expression was professional, indicating that she wasn't
going to drop any hints ahead of time.  "That means that after three
sectars, and the end of your first trimester, we have a better idea of 
what you can look forward to. 
     "The babies...?" Athena asked expectantly. 
     "Are both doing fine," the med-tech said, "One is still slightly
smaller than the other, but by the looks of the scans everything appears
to be developmentally normal.  So I think with all signs looking towards
a normal pregnancy for both of them...maybe we can finally end the silent
treatment we've been maintaining toward everyone else over just *how*
many children you were going to have."
     "Yes, I'm all for that!" Athena said with relief, "When you told us
the early signs indicated twins, after all that I'd gone through on
Brylon V, we just...didn't want that to become known if there was still a
possibility of miscarriage happening."
     "Totally understandable," Cassiopeia said, "The end of the first
trimester is when things generally start to relax for a nervous,
first-time mother, so everyone else should see this delay in announcing
the news about twins to be perfectly normal."
     "They'd better," Boomer allowed himself a smile. 
     "Now that that's taken care of," Cassiopeia went on, "The only
remaining question is: Do you really want to know?"
     Athena and Boomer both traded glances, and he reached out to squeeze
her hand in support. They nodded, and then looked back at the med-tech,
who was holding the results of a sonic scan Athena had undergone the day
before to check on the development of her unborn children, as well as see
if the sex could be determined at this stage. 
     "We talked a lot about this," Athena said, "We want to know. It
makes more sense to diligently prepare things that way."
     "Like what color to paint the room," her husband added, "Besides,
we've got enough pressures to deal with from our jobs, to not let
ourselves be distracted by not knowing whether we're having two boys or
two girls."
     "I know what you mean," Cassiopeia sighed, "We're feeling that
pressure too. It seems like every time someone comes in to get a routine
Fitness Exam, they're always taking an idle centon to gripe about the
whole...arrangement."
     "A day doesn't go by where I don't hear it on the Bridge," Athena
sighed, "And I don't even want to know what it's like when it comes to
the pilots."
     Cassiopeia felt herself tense slightly, wondering if she should ask
Boomer how much Starbuck was still sounding off.  Ever since their
conversation three sectans ago, after the whole arrangement had been
announced, she'd been troubled as to whether or not things could reach a
point where Starbuck could easily go beyond the process of just blowing
off steam about how terrible the whole idea was, and start contemplating
something rash.  Every time they'd gotten together since then, at least
five centons had to be taken up listening to her boyfriend vent before he
was able to contemplate doing some activity with her.  Could anyone keep
that up forever?
     "So what is it?"  Boomer suddenly asked, "Boys or girls?"
     The blonde med-tech blinked slightly, as she realized she'd let her
mind wander as a result of the tangent the conversation took. 
     "Sorry," a sheepish grin came over her, "Well..." she looked back at
them, "You *really* want to know?"
     "Cassie..." an edge of frost entered Athena's voice, even though it
wasn't genuine. She had figured her friend would play this game before
the big moment of revelation. 
     "Okay," she skipped a beat and then became serious and professional,
"In another seven sectars, you will be the parents of...a  boy *and* a
girl!"
     As if in unison, they both leaned forward in their chairs and looked
at the med-tech, whose grin was as broad as it could be. 
     "Are you trying to tell us that..." Boomer started, unable to
finish. 
     "I just did," Cassiopeia kept grinning.  "*Fraternal* twins, not
identical ones! Congratulations!"
     "Good Lords of Kobol," Athena shook her head.  This was news neither
she or Boomer had ever expected to hear when she had first been informed
her pregnancy was "high risk".  They had spent all this time, adjusting
to the realities of how they would have to deal with one child to raise.
They both took a few microns to savor the news, tightening their grip on
each other's hands.  And then, they both leaned toward each other to
share a kiss. 
     "Green?" Boomer asked with a grin. 
     "Yellow," Athena replied with a twinkle in her eye. 
     "Or maybe one wall green, one wall yellow," he quipped. 
     As they slowly rose and got to their feet, the happiness of the
moment sunk in even more and they both knew that this was going to be one
period of adjustment they were going to enjoy immensely.  Which both of
them would find infinitely preferable to the other period of adjustment
going on. 


     Adama had felt a greater air of solemnity than usual when he'd
gaveled the meeting of the Council to order. As far as the business that
was to be conducted went, it differed not a bit from the usual routine. 
A report on the state of the Fleet, listening to input on various matters
of importance such as the state of food and fuel supplies, and more
importantly listening to the updates that had come in from Ayesha aboard
Baltar's ship, which confirmed the ongoing status-quo in the nature of
how the Cylon centurions...as well as her husband, were acting. Instead,
what was going to make this meeting different from the others is that it
would in effect mark the end of an era.  The end of the Council as it had
been comprised since the turbulent days just after the Destruction, when
he had reassembled the body from the ashes for the sake of providing some
continuity in Colonial Civilization.  The membership had been appointed
by Adama, drawn from the ranks of the survivors of the Holocaust, rather
than elected since there just hadn't been time to get something set up on
that basis.  But now, the mechanism for the election of Council members
was after nearly two yahrens, in place at long last, and when the Council
met again, many of the members seated at the table would be gone, as they
had chosen not to run for elected terms. Some of them, Adama wouldn't
miss in the least like Domra, whom he regarded as a mistake almost as
great as Uri, Antipas or Geller had been. The only difference was that
Domra at least hadn't carried the stigma of being a traitor, murderer and
thief like Uri a programmed sleeper agent of the Cylons like Geller, or
an opportunistic thief and killer like Antipas.  Others, like Montrose
and in particular, old Sire Anton, he would feel a great sense of regret
in seeing leave. 
     There was one member, Adama wished was among the departing ones, but
who wasn't, and who he knew would be an even bigger problem in the new
Council because of certain promises made to her. For now though, he
wasn't going to let the matter of Lydia intrude on the deeper meaning of
what the day represented for him, as he finished up the final order of
regular business, which was summing up the status report from Ayesha. 
          "Perhaps after three sectans we can allow just a little bit of
the tension we all feel to dissipate," Adama noted, "At the very least,
we can certainly say we're past the stage of wondering if there was some
ulterior motive at the time when Baltar and his crew undertook their
defection. And what that means, is that any future actions they take will
depend more and more on how *we* as a people react to them."
     Nods of assent came up from all of the Council members, even those
who still disliked intensely the new state of affairs.  But no one, not
even those Adama regarded as long-time opponents could begin to
contemplate a rational alternate strategy to that which already existed. 
     "And now," Adama's voice grew to its most dignified, "The Chair
would like to take a centon to note that this marks the last time we as a
body will meet, prior to next sectan's Fleet elections.  For those of
you, who will be leaving us and embarking on new endeavors in your
lives...you go with my best wishes, and with my respect and gratitude for
answering the call of our nation when your service was needed during
those dark and difficult days following the Destruction.  And may the
blessings of the Lords of Kobol be with you, all."
     As he brought down the gavel, the members who'd be returning with
the new Council like Pelias, Tinia and even Lydia (all of whom were
running unopposed before their constituents) began to applaud politely,
while those like Anton and Montrose bowed in acknowledgment. Domra seemed
more stoic, as if there was an inner resentment in him about this, but he
had long ago realized that his chances of winning an outright election to
the Council, given what an opponent was liable to use against him in a
campaign, were so slim that it was better for his sense of dignity to
just step aside. 
     The members then began to file out.  Adama rose from his chair only
to shake hands warmly with Anton, whose eyes were slightly misty as the
elderly Gemon recognized his career in public service was over after many
decades. He said nothing but smiled in gratitude at Adama before making
his way out.  
     Once Anton was gone, Adama then noticed that Lydia was still there.
Glaring slightly at her, he resumed his seat. 
     "Is there anything you wanted to discuss?" he injected a note of the
faintest disdain. 
     "Only a reminder of what the *first* order of business will be at
the next meeting after our new members are sworn in." the Aerian Siress's
voice had an air of gentle reproach. 
     "I haven't forgotten our agreement," Adama said, "Since we never
bothered with temporary replacements for Antipas and Geller, I wasn't
going to let a body of only ten on the Council vote on your proposal to
create an office of Vice-President."
     "With me in the position," she then added. 
     Adama said nothing. 
     "Adama?"
     "I said I wouldn't stand in the way of your receiving the position,"
he finally said, "But you'll have to find someone else to place your name
in nomination."
     "I've already taken care of that," Lydia finally rose from her seat,
"I don't expect us to be the best of friends, Adama, once this new
working relationship gets underway, but I do expect to receive the
highest level of respect from you and your senior officers.  And that
means no resentment of my presence if I decide to make it known.  Believe
me, I have no intention of constantly speaking up and making life
difficult for you and your men in conducting affairs that are beyond my
scope.  It's all a matter of...staying on top of every important
situation in a way that regular Council members aren't afforded."
     The Commander remained silent.  Lydia, sensing that she wasn't going
to hear anything more, but that she'd made her point, finally threw him a
disarming smile and then departed, leaving Adama alone. 
     Slowly, Adama picked up his Council gavel and for a long time,
contemplated smashing it down on the table with as much fury as possible
so that it would shatter completely.  It took him nearly two centons
before he finally felt calm enough internally to overcome that urge and
gently place it down, before leaving to depart for the Bridge. 
     Chameleon stroked his chin, looking over his data pad one more time
as the shuttle prepared to dock on the Seniors Ship.  Business was good. 
Zykonian Lagulin hadn't even been released on the market yet, and already
he had orders for what would account for forty percent of his stock,
stowed securely in Siress Belloby's storerooms in her private quarters. 
The small and exclusive party he had organized to introduce Lagulin to
some of the more affluent and elite members of the Fleet, by invitation
only, would be both a personal and professional triumph.  In some ways,
it already had become that.  As Chameleon had suspected, word of the
event had spurred several businessmen to pre-purchase cases of Lagulin
without ever having tried it.  The real kicker was that he didn't even
have to arrange to disappear when all of this was concluded.  
      At first he had been surprised when Starbuck had approached him
about handling this business venture that his son had masterminded while
on Brylon Five.  One hundred cases of a fine and exclusive Zykonian
liquor had been purchased with Siress Belloby's financial support-giving
her a majority sharehold in the company-and then quietly tucked away
until they were far out of range of Zykonian trade routes.  There was
something calculatingly delightful about having a monopoly on a high
quality product that was not only expensive, but worth every cubit
Chameleon was demanding. 
     It had occurred to the old conman-retired, of course-that Starbuck
was taking pity on him, and merely trying to keep him occupied with
something other than self-pity.  Admittedly, those early centars after
Claudia had forsaken him for Baltar had been difficult to while away. 
But there was a certain energy to be derived from wheeling and dealing. 
In fact, Chameleon had forgotten how infectious it was, after being
strongly influenced by first Siress Blassie, and to a lesser extent
Claudia, to avoid any business arrangements that might potentially lure
him back into patterns that certain unmentioned officers of the Colonial
Fleet found .  .  .  distasteful. 
     It was enough to make him smile.  After all, everything he had done
so far was completely legitimate.  And after a lifetime of living by
one's wits, a man gained a certain capacity for reading a competitor, and
anticipating reactions.  These were life skills-his son had tentatively
suggested-that could be put to use in the business world.  
     Now, he'd given himself another reminder of how there wasn't
anything he wouldn't do for his son.  As he understood it, Starbuck owed
the "Colonial Coffers", as he referred to them, a large sum of cubits for
damage done during a hovermobile chase on Brylon Five.  The warrior had a
burning desire to eradicate that debt.  His son had admitted that the way
it was financially set up, he could quite comfortably have a small,
mandatory sum deducted from his pay right up until he was toothless, bald
and demented.  The financial burden was hardly taxing, but it was the
principle of the situation that was irking Starbuck.  The behavior that
command had called "rash" and "reckless", he had argued was a necessary
and calculated risk.  Besides that, he had already done hard labor in the
Zykonian Katorrgah for it.  Unfortunately, the monetary arrangement had
been a part of the negotiations for his release, and Commander Adama was
a man of his word, as irrational as that seemed to the young lieutenant
in this instance. 
     Life was made up of various chapters, some of which were well
delineated, and others which blurred together, but often it was necessary
to do something definitive or symbolic in one's life in order to move on. 
This was one of those cases for Starbuck, and Chameleon knew just how his
son felt.  Like Starbuck, he was moving on.  However, in contrast
Chameleon was locking away rich memories to cherish and treasure in his
old age.  He had almost managed to convince himself, that Claudia was in
fact dead-at least in his mind-and that the woman referred to as
"Baltar's wife" was somebody he didn't even know.  That wasn't far off
the truth, after all. 
     Maybe it was pride, maybe it was stubbornness, but he would never be
able to accept Claudia returning to Baltar because of any fondness for a
man who had caused the deaths of billions of people.  Admittedly, her
justifications for her actions were beyond him.  Yet, even though she had
offered to return to explain herself someday, he found he couldn't face
her one more time, knowing it would ultimately end in goodbye.  More than
that, he didn't want to see a woman that he thought of as honorable,
fulfilled, and content-almost angelic in a way-standing before him in any
kind of emotional distress or humiliation, trying to justify herself. 
And he didn't want to beg her to stay, knowing that she would not. 
     Chameleon sighed, mentally chastising himself for going off on this
tangent.  Not quite cured, Cham.  Still, his son's attentiveness during
these past two sectars had been a highpoint, considering how long it had
taken to get their relationship back on track after the truth had finally
been revealed to Starbuck that Chameleon was indeed his father.  There
was a time where Chameleon was sure that his son would have written him
off, the same way the young man had felt his father had done.  Lately,
Starbuck was opening up to him more and more, showing some of that same
vulnerability that he had displayed when they had first met.  It was a
turbulent time for all Colonial Warriors, suddenly having a Cylon
baseship in their midst that they were supposed to be considering an
ally.  Starbuck seemed to be having a tough time with the change, seeming
resentful and even angry that it had come to this.  Chameleon was
actually a little worried that the young man might do something rash...or
reckless.  
     Still...his worry wasn't enough to justify broaching the subject
with his son, from his standpoint.  That would have to be a calculated
risk on his part, but one he was willing to take.  For now. 
     
     Apollo and Sheba had reached the Bridge and spent the first ten
centons conferring with Colonel Tigh, and then with Omega to recheck the
matter of their course heading.  That enabled them to then consult the
navigation board and decide the flight paths for the next set of patrols. 
Which included the one that they would fly in two days as the first
integrated patrol with their Cylon counterparts. 
     The preparations for the integrated patrol meant that Apollo had to
perform another task, and it was never an easy one.  The communication
with his Cylon counterpart aboard the baseship who held the title of
senior strike leader.  Every day, Apollo was expected to confer with him,
and make sure the administrative details of coordination were being dealt
with.  But now, this conversation would deal with a more serious matter,
intended to show how much further the Colonial-Cylon relationship was
progressing. 
     It was Rigel who put through the communique on Fleet-Com Alpha to
the baseship which set up the request.  "Captain Apollo to speak to
Strike Leader Orion."  Orion was the name Apollo had bestowed on the
senior Cylon command pilot three sectans earlier during their first
exchange, as part of the process of giving the nameless centurions a way
of making it easier to identify with and coordinate matters.  Since then,
the various senior officers of the Fleet who had interacted with the
centurions on comline set-ups had bestowed more than thirty separate
names on a like number of crew, with Ayesha herself contributing several
more from her vantage point aboard the baseship.  The strict rule was to
utilize place names only, and never proper names of actual people.  And
even when choosing a place name, the name of a famous battle in
Human-Cylon history was also strictly off-limits. As a result, more and
more named Cylons were apt to find themselves addressed by the names of
various streets, parks and small towns from throughout the twelve worlds. 
And under no circumstances, as Apollo had once warned Starbuck, was there
to be anything like the name of a company known for reprocessing scrap
metal. 
     Strike Leader Orion's face then came on the screen just as Apollo
moved into position to handle the communique, "Orion, this is Captain
Apollo."
     "Greetings, Captain Apollo," the monotone of the Cylon never
changed, but the choice of words always seemed to suggest to Apollo that
his counterpart was somehow *trying* to show something that could be
construed as friendliness.  It was one of those strange intangibles that
only a sharp observer might have picked up on."You have not attended to
your problem?"
     "Problem?" Apollo frowned, and then realized what he meant since the
first time he'd communicated with Orion had been the day before he'd quit
shaving and that meant his counterpart had been able to see the steady
change in Apollo's appearance each day, "Oh, no.  Orion, I told you
before, this is just a beard a totally natural organic process. It's
nothing out of the ordinary for humans.  Sometimes we let these things
grow on our faces." he then added hastily, "Just the male of our
species."
     "That is...a concept we are not familiar with from Commander Baltar.
. I...apologize for my ignorance."
     "That's okay," Apollo said with relief, hoping the subject never
came up again. He was prepared to handle quips and kidding about his new
look from his friends and fellow warriors.  Having to explain it
constantly to a Cylon though, was probably the one thing that could have
the potential to get him to lose his confidence in keeping it. 
     Sheba, standing next to him and realizing his discomfort, suddenly
playfully nudged him, "Remember whose opinion counts most on the
subject!" she whispered. 
     Her comment immediately relaxed Apollo and it got him to get back to
the matter at hand.  "Strike Leader, Orion, this is just a reminder about
the patrol we have scheduled in two cycles.  Have you found a crew
willing to join you for this?"
     "It has been attended to. My regular pilots will accompany me. The
second Raider will be commanded by the one who is now designated as
Elysian."
     "Elysian," Apollo realized that whoever had come up with that name
was drawing from the name of public park on Caprica, known for outdoor
games and sporting activities.  "Does he have long experience aboard your
ship?"
     "He has served as long as I have, along with his pilots."
     "I see.  If you could have the telemetry and communication channels
of his Raider linked to the Galactica's channels and to the designated
Vipers of myself and Lieutenant Sheba, that would be appreciated. Our
four total ships should all be ready in terms of systems coordination no
later than early tomorrow."
     "It shall be attended to, Captain Apollo."
     "Orion, there's one other thing I have to ask," Apollo decided he
might as well bring it up now, even though he still needed to confer with
Adama about it.  "There's a possibility we might have our patrol consist
of three ships from each group. If that comes about, can you have a third
Raider crew available?"
     "That is no problem.  One can be found and detached from regular
duty at a micron's notice."
     "Okay, that's good.  I can't say for sure if this will happen but
you will find out from me, or from Commander Adama to Commander Baltar
later today."
     "Of course." Orion bowed his head slightly, "I also am preparing to
send our copy of the data tapes from our own advance patrol that we
received upon their return earlier today."
     "Thank you, please transfer those to Galactica Core Command,
Sergeant Rigel's station."
     "By your command."
     Apollo winced, wishing that Orion or any other Cylon wouldn't use
that expression. However, it seemed to be the only thing that a Cylon
knew how to say as a way of terminating a communication.  However much
independence from traditional Cylon thought these centurions were
demonstrating, learning how to say "hello" and "goodbye" was still beyond
their capacity for now. He fleetingly wondered if the Cylons' own
language ever *had* such words. 
     He shut off the vid-com and shook his head slightly, "If those
pilots think we have it easier because we hold senior positions when it
comes to coping, they should have their heads examined.  Do they honestly
think I enjoy doing that every day with him?"
     "I guess they think there's a difference between feeling awkward and
the way they feel," Sheba sighed as they moved off to the upper level,
where they noticed Adama had arrived.  
     Adama took notice of his son and daughter-in-law, "Apollo.  Sheba."
     "Commander," Apollo bowed slightly, trying not to get informal on
the Bridge, though inevitably within a few centons, he'd usually slip
anyways. 
     "I noticed you were busy with your counterpart, Orion," he said,
"Everything set on his end?"
     "On his end, yes," Apollo said.  "But there's one thing on our end
that isn't set. And we need to talk to you about that."
     "Oh?" Adama lifted an eyebrow, "Anything wrong?"
     "Sergeant Mattoon of Blue Squadron wants to accompany us on the
patrol and have it extended to three ships each," Sheba decided it was
her turn to speak, "He says the pilots who resent the whole arrangement
now would be more impressed if it wasn't just the top echelon of Blue
Squadron carrying it out."
     Adama pondered that, "Well, that does make a certain amount of
sense. Pilots do have a tendency to think that squadron leaders are on a
different plane from them.  If someone they regarded as a peer went on,
it *could* have more of a positive impact."
     "Ordinarily, I'd agree."  Sheba said. 
     "Ordinarily," Adama looked at her, "But you think it wouldn't be a
good idea?"
     "Well...," Sheba started and then shrugged, "I don't know, Adama.  I
just found it odd that Mattoon would come up to us out of the blue and
make that request. This was something he could have mentioned a long time
ago."
     "Sheba, today was the first day I mentioned the patrol to them at a
briefing," Apollo pointed out, finding her attitude a little puzzling. 
     "I know...but the unofficial word has been out on this for at least
a sectan.  I just..." she then shook her head as if she wasn't sure how
to express her next thought. 
     "Is it Mattoon specifically, you're thinking about?"  Adama prodded.

     "I guess, maybe so," she admitted. 
     "Well, he has a fine record.  Is he the kind of pilot you'd
ordinarily trust for a tough assignment?"
     "I know I would," Apollo said, "He's got more decorations than any
other pilot from the enlisted ranks I know of. At least two Bronze
Clusters and a Silver one if I remember right."
     "I think even more extensive, from what I recall," Adama noted. 
     "Yeah.  Well, I do have to admit, Father, I don't share Sheba's
feeling about this."
     "Well, you're the Squadron Leader, so it's your vote that ultimately
counts," Adama said, "As for the basic idea of having a third pilot from
the regular ranks take part in the patrol, I have no problem with it. The
matter of who flies it, is entirely up to you."
     Sheba looked over at Apollo, who simply shrugged. 
     "Honestly, I don't see why it shouldn't be him," Blue Leader finally
said, "It was his idea, and if I turned him down and chose another one,
then maybe the next rumor that would start going up among them, is that
we play favorites to try and determine who can be more easily
manipulated."
     "Sheba, do you want to keep registering an objection?"
     "No," she shook her head, "No, I haven't got a valid reason I can
pin down for not giving him the assignment. Just a gut feeling that maybe
it shouldn't be him, but that's not enough."
     "Well with the two of you going along with him, in the patrol, you
shouldn't have any trouble making sure he's on his best behavior the
entire time. If you feel confident in your roles as Squadron Leader and
Deputy Leader."
     Sheba finally relaxed slightly and smiled, "I guess so," she looked
at her husband, "I need to get those dossiers on the recruit pilots Giles
and Call need to go over."
     "See you later," Apollo smiled back, nodding as she stepped off the
upper level and exited the Bridge. 
     "Well, I guess that's that," Adama said, "Anything else?"
     "No," Apollo turned and started to leave but then noticed his father
seemingly staring at him, and he knew the reason why. 
     "I know, you think it looks ridiculous."
     "It's not that," his father shook his head, "It looks perfectly
fine.  It's just that it is a first in our family."
     "You mean you never felt the urge to grow one?"
     "I'll admit I did try once, when I was serving on the Rycon, and no
longer an active pilot," he said, "But your mother saw my attempt in a
hologram message I sent for her Natal Day, and she told me that she
didn't care if I kept it the rest of my space duty, just so long as it
was gone the day I came home. Ever since, I have never contemplated any
scenario where I might find myself having a beard.  Unless someone pasted
a false one on me as a practical joke."
     His son laughed, "Well, I'll admit it's not the kind of thing
everyone should do.  But my decision has been made, and it's
irrevocable."
     "Well, we all need to make some changes in our lives, now and then,"
Adama admitted, "If anything, the more we alter our own routines, the
more we can...accept the bigger changes in life that are thrust on us." 
His father's subtle change in tone told Apollo just what he had in mind. 
     "Yeah," Apollo grew serious, "The only problem is, the threshold
between understanding change and accepting it, is bigger than it usually
seems."
     Adama nodded. 
     "Catch you later," Apollo then departed, leaving Adama alone to
contemplate further that last point his son had made. 
     When it's so difficult to go from understand to accept, God help
those who can't even get to the understand phase of things. 
     "Commander," Omega called over, "Dr.  Wilker's on the vid-com from
the lab. He says it's about that advanced Cylon body he's been studying."
     He went over to answer it. The chief scientist's preliminary report
on what was left of the late Commander Septimus was something he was most
anxious to hear. 


     Sergeant Mattoon had returned to the pilots barracks, which were
mostly empty as most of them were out attending to their various duties
and responsibilities for the day.  He could only see three off-duty
pilots, all from different squadrons, stretched out on their bunks,
catching an extra centar of rest.  And to his relief, their bunks weren't
in close proximity to his, so that meant he would have privacy for all
intents and purposes. 
     He opened his footlocker, taking no notice of the awards and
decorations that lined the top of it.  All of which were replacements
that had been made for the ones he had lost, since all of his personal
effects had been destroyed with the Solaria in the Destruction.  Only one
holopic was there, showing him with the first squadron of pilots he'd
flown with aboard that battlestar, and the only reason why he had that,
was because Giles had been part of that same group, but had transferred
to the Galactica after just a yahren.  If it weren't for Giles giving him
a copy of the photo, he'd have no tangible links to his past left.  Only
memories, all of which he tried to keep as vivid in his memory as he
possibly could. Especially the memories of people.  And of one person in
particular whose image he had once carried without fail in his pocket,
everywhere he went.  Except for the day of the Destruction, when the
sudden alert on the Solaria had forced him to hastily put on a new
uniform, leaving him with no time to retrieve the image...never thinking
that his ship would soon meet a fiery end and leave him with no visual
reminder that she'd existed. . 
     He found a notepad and stylus for writing, and then settled back in
his bunk. It was time to write what for him was the most important thing
he'd ever written in his life...and ever would. 
     
     My dearest Jana-
It won't be long now before I see your face again.  And I hope you won't
think
     less of me for not having tried to live the rest of my life without
you to its fullest. 
     I knew that's what you would have wanted me to do, and since that
horrible day
     when I realized you and Abby were gone, I've tried to do that.  But
things have
     reached a point now where to live any longer in a universe that's
just been turned
     upside-down would shame both of your memories, and I refuse to have
any part 
     of that.  The thought of being allies now with conceivably the very
same centurions
     who took part in the attack that night and ended your life and
Abby's, is a sign that
     there's no point in my going on.  All I can do now is go out in a
way that will
     remind everyone who the enemy is, and what they *have* to do.  

     I plan on being part of a special "patrol" that is designed to show
how well human
     and Cylon can work together, and I intend to play-act the role of
obedient warrior
     following orders right up to the last possible micron. And then...I
will engineer
     my death in a way that will make the resumption of hostilities a
foregone conclusion. 
     I know I'll be condemned as a traitor at first, but in the long-run,
I know history
     will vindicate me.  Even if that takes a hundred yahrens, it won't
matter of course
     because we'll be together in Eternity. 

     I love you always.  

     -Matty. 

     Mattoon then let out a low sigh, and then calmly folded the letter,
placing it in an old-style envelope. He then placed it on top of his
decorations in his footlocker and closed it.  Any of the other random
warriors on the other side of the barracks noticing him, might have
thought he was just doing something as mundane as putting away his boots.


Chapter Two

     Two centars had passed since Adama had heard Wilker's report on his
study of what was left of Commander Septimus, Baltar's one-time IL class
deputy.  Almost immediately, he had asked the Chief Scientist to make out
a duplicate report on computer disc for him to study in closer detail in
his quarters. Now, he had spent the last centar going over it, and making
idle notations on his writing pad, sometimes crossing them out and others
leaving alone. 
     Interesting.  They certainly do operate on a different wavelength. 
     When the chime sounded, he didn't look up from his notepad, but
still acknowledged it, "Enter."
     He didn't look up to see who it was, but could hear the footsteps
approach, as he made another notation. 
     "If you want to live as long as I have, Adama, you won't exert
yourself that much."
     Adama looked up and saw the genial face of Sire Anton looking down
at him. Immediately, he rose and extended his hand apologetically. 
     "I'm sorry, Anton, I didn't realize it was you." 
     "Quite all right, quite all right," the elderly Gemon who had now
taken part in his last meeting as a Council member reciprocated. 
"You're...busy trying to make sense of what we can do next, I imagine."
     "Very," Adama admitted as he dropped back in his chair and motioned
to the material on his desk, "We just received a new report from Dr. 
Wilker with his insights into how these...so-called IL class Cylons
function."  He then offered his old friend a drink, but the elderly sire
shook his head no. 
     "Anything usable from a practical standpoint?" Anton asked as he
seated himself. 
     "That's what I'm trying to figure out.  Obviously what we discover
won't be of too much immediate practical use, since there are no other
Cylons of that kind left on Baltar's baseship.  And yet...maybe there's
some kind of benefit we can gain from this that might...well that might
*help* solidify our relationship with Baltar's crew."
     He heard nothing from Anton in response, and then looked up at him. 
The elderly Sire's face had lost a bit of its usual geniality. 
     "Does that idea bother you, Anton?" Adama asked, "The idea that
maybe we should be actively exploring ways of...solidifying our
relationship with these Cylons."
     "That depends on how you define the word 'bother', Adama," Anton
said with a heavy sigh, "You know me better than to think I wouldn't want
our relationship with these Cylons to be anything but stable.  But does
it...leave me with qualms, and something of a bad taste in my mouth?  I'm
sure all of us would answer that, yes."
     "I'm not doubting that, Anton, because I feel the same way," the
commander said, "But what I want to know from you, because I respect you
more than anyone else who's ever sat on that Council since I had to first
put it together on such short notice after the Destruction, is do you
think we should even be *considering* the idea of strengthening our ties
with these particular Cylons?  Or should we just maintain a position of
an uneasy detente where at some point, we can hopefully go our own
separate ways?  I can't help but think *that* is the option most people
who are only grudgingly accepting what's happened, would hope for in the
long run.  Or..."
     "Or what, Adama?"
     "Or...find a way to short-circuit this 'independent' streak of
theirs.  Hijack it, as it were, by trying to gain direct control of them.
And that way...there'd be no question of our ability to maintain the
upper hand in this kind of relationship and we'd have the means to
control them without having to worry about Baltar's presence at all."
     Anton was silent for an instant, before responding, "Is that
theoretically possible?"
     "Yes, there is a theoretical possibility of it," Adama tapped his
writing implement against the notepad, "As Dr.  Wilker was quick to
remind me during our conversation, the recent battle was *not* the first
time that Cylon pilots did our bidding."
     Anton nodded, "Baltar's two pilots from when we captured him."
     "Yes.  'Agrestis' and 'Furcifer' we dubbed them. We used them for
recon probes at Boron-Din, and then as expendable probes against the
Ziklagi minefield.  They also flew against the Gee-Tih in that battle."
     "What's become of them, since?"
     "After the recent battle happened and we were thrust into this new
relationship with a whole crew of Cylons, I ordered Wilker to turn them
off and put them back into storage," Adama said, "The last thing we need
are two docile centurions following our every edict walking about this
ship, and suggesting to a crew of independent-minded centurions that this
is the kind of fate we'd have in store for them. In fact, every person in
this Fleet who knows about those two centurions are under orders to never
mention their existence to any Cylon they should encounter in a work
detail."
     "And Baltar hasn't raised the question of what's happened to them?"
     "He doesn't have much of a reason for wanting them back, after what
they did to help us thwart his escape from the Prison Barge with the
Eastern Alliance Enforcers. So that's likely why he's never bothered to
ask.  Besides I think he knows that if his crew saw what happened to
them, it could be just as bad for him, as it would be for us.  They might
be apt to stop trusting Baltar the way they are now."
     "So if there were ever any attempt to gain control of these
centurions, it would have to be done...surreptitiously.  To lull them
into a false sense of security that we *don't* plan on doing any such
thing to them."  Anton's comment was as much a question as it was a
statement. 
     "Exactly," Adama nodded, "And doesn't that, in a nutshell, summarize
the whole ethical nightmare behind even *considering* a strategy like
that?  A lot of us, and that includes reasonable men like Wilker, are
willing to suggest that our long-term safety may very well rely on us
resorting to the kind of treachery and deceit that the Cylons perpetrated
on us in the Destruction.  If we ever find ourselves doing *that*, then
what good are we ultimately, as a people?"
     "Not much," Anton admitted, "Distasteful as it is for me to admit
it, we have to start thinking of these Cylons not as mere machines any
longer, but...well, they're something else that mandates greater respect
than we could have given them in the past."
     "And it's altering every perception we've carried within us for
hundreds of yahrens." he then let out a mirthless chuckle, "I can already
imagine what my father would say about it."
     "Oh?"
     "Yes, he'd say 'They're machines, son.  Soulless mechanical
constructs.  They deserve no more sympathy than a broken door hinge that
gets tossed in the scrap heap. '"
     "Your father was more eloquent than my father would have been on the
subject," Anton smiled. 
     "And with all of that teaching we've received, how do we adjust
those perceptions without sacrificing our honor on the one hand, or
selling out our principles on the other?"  He shook his head, "I have no
idea at this point how it will end."
     "Just as well that my time has come to get off the stage of
politics," Anton sighed, "This is one challenge we face as a people that
requires more younger blood in our ranks.  Present company excepted, of
course," he added with a twinkle that made Adama smile. 
     "Of course," he said, "As I recall, your seat is one of the few in
which there's a contested competition taking place.  Between..." he
snapped his fingers, trying to recall, "Squire Hess and that young man
from the Gemonese business class..."
     "Xavier," Anton finished, "Hess has the greater prestige from his
days as a large landowner of solium fields, but Xavier I think has the
advantage of more youth and the sense of being a fresh face.  He also had
some military experience before the Holocaust which might make him a more
tolerant ear for you.  But either way, I think my replacement will serve
you well."
     "If your replacement gives me one fraction of the effort you've done
for me these past two yahrens, Anton, I'll consider that more than
sufficient," Adama rose and extended his hand once again.  "You've been a
voice of reason on the Council all this time..."
     "Not...all this time," he said with self-reproach, "I let you down
at Carillon when I hitched myself to Uri's mad scheme, which I now know
was for more sinister purposes than we ever envisioned, but...since then,
I've done my best to live up to what you expected of me when you
appointed me and the rest of us to the Council."
     "And you've succeeded in more ways than you could imagine," Adama
wasn't going to let Anton be modest, "After all, we're still alive in
spite of everything.  And I know that our mutual late friend, Adar, would
be proud of you."
     "It was mostly for his sake that I accepted your call, Adama," Anton
said, "All those yahrens I spent by his side as his chief aide before
retiring, made me feel as if I owed it to his memory to come back
and...for his sake, do as I know he would have wanted to make amends had
he lived through the tragedy."
     Adama said nothing on that point but nodded in understanding. 
     "If at any time, you need for me any kind of unofficial
consultation, I'll be glad to give it, even if I know it might make your
soon-to-be "Vice-President" unhappy to see an old relic from the past
hanging around."
     "As long as we're on the subject, I'll ask for your advice on what
you think she's really after and whether it can be a greater danger than
the uncertainty of what Baltar and his baseship pose to us."
     Anton's smile returned, "I think Lydia has one saving grace that
makes her different from the likes of say, Domra, or Antipas before his
fall. Lydia is now reaching a point where politics fascinates her more if
she can get titles and an aura of reverent respect surrounding her that
would come with the titles.  But as for an actual alternate vision to
challenge yours...my sense is that she doesn't have one, Adama. She'll
just look for whatever voice is offering the most sensible plan and then
try to hitch herself to it and profit in the process.  If that voice is
you, so much the better.  If you continue to lead wisely, the worse she
may turn out to be is just a minor nuisance from her mere presence."
     "I hope you're proved right," Adama sighed, "This is one time where
the lack of anyone pushing for an alternate vision of our future, away
from Earth, is most welcome."
     "But you might see it come from one of the new incoming members,"
Anton warned, "And if Lydia becomes convinced one of them can come up
with a better philosophy, all she has to do is throw herself behind him
with the prestige of her new title as Council Vice-President, and then
your troubles will *really* be just beginning."
     "I'll remember that," the Commander nodded, "Good day, Anton,"
     "Goodbye, Adama," the elderly Gemon said with an air of finality as
he gave the commander a friendly wave before departing.  "The Lords be
with you."


     To Sheba's annoyance, Giles was late showing up for his briefing on
the recruit pilot he'd be handling. She knew from her own experience that
this was not the sort of thing any pilot liked to go through, but she
also knew that a simple sense of duty required staying punctual at all
times.  Giles was going to need a pointed reminder of that once he
arrived. 
     She decided to save some time by giving Sergeant Call his briefing,
and then she would wait for the older pilot.  Five centons passed after
she'd finished with Call and dismissed him.  Then ten. With each passing
centon, she felt a greater sense of fury boiling up inside her because
she could think of a lot of things she could be doing now instead of
waiting for a reluctant pilot. 
     When Giles finally arrived, he was flushed and out of breath,
indicating that he'd been sprinting like mad throughout the corridors. 
     "Sorry," he was apologetic as he took a seat across from Sheba, "I
got detained."
     "By what?" she decided she wasn't going to fall for that without an
explanation. 
     "It's nothing," Giles waved his hand, "I'm ready for the briefing."
     "It is something when you show up this late, *Sergeant*," she added
a heavy layer of frost to her tone, "Start talking.  Now."
     Giles slowly exhaled, "Someone asked a favor of me, and I...lost
track of time."
     "Sergeant Mackin, right?" she didn't let up, referring to the
attractive female pilot that she knew from shipboard gossip had been an
on-again, off-again item with Giles for sometime. 
     "No, no, I swear, Lieutenant, it was nothing like that. It was
Sergeant Mattoon."
     "Mattoon?" Sheba's annoyance suddenly faded, eyebrow going up,"What
did he want?"
     "Oh...he just asked offhand if I had any mementos in my locker from
the old days. I promised him I'd look someday and see if there was
something I'd missed, but...it was no go.  I really was hoping I'd find
something."
     "The old days?  You've known him a long while?"
     "We were in Flight Training school together and started out on the
Solaria. I transferred off there after a yahren to the Galactica.  We
never crossed paths again until...the Destruction and he was one of a few
Solaria pilots who survived."
     "I see.  And he was asking you for mementos from back then?"
     "Yeah, because he lost all of his personal effects when the Solaria
was destroyed. I'd found a holopic of our old group and given that to
him, but he wanted to know if I had any pictures he might have sent me of
his family. Unfortunately, I didn't have any."
     "His family?" Sheba's curiosity deepened. 
     "Yeah, he got sealed a few sectars after we graduated Flight School.
A girl he used to go out with all the time...Jana I think her name was.
She was killed in the Destruction."
     "That had to have been awful. Any children?"
     "I think he had one daughter.  She would have been born after we
lost track of each other, but...I do remember him mentioning that when we
hooked up again.  I've...never brought it up with him since, and he
doesn't talk about it, either. Except...a few days ago, he asked me if
he'd ever sent me a picture of his wife, and I told him I'd check when I
got a chance."
     Sheba shook her head with sadness, and at the same time she could
sense the uneasy feeling from the morning returning. 
     "I didn't get a chance to do it until today.  And...I felt so bad
when I couldn't find one, I kept rechecking it again and again and just
lost track of time."  He took a breath as he relaxed, "Anyway, I'm ready
for the briefing."
     She didn't respond at first. Instead, the Squadron deputy leader was
staring off to one side, as if her mind were elsewhere. 
     "Lieutenant?" Giles waved his hand in front of her face. 
     "Oh, sorry," Sheba snapped back to attention and picked up the
papers on the desk, "You're catching a lucky break, Giles. Cadet Nash is
actually an old commercial pilot and not a wide-eyed kid recruit..."
     "Thank you," Giles was visibly relieved. 
     "Though your being late has me wondering if I should switch your
recruit with Call's," she added with just enough of an edge to remind him
that he'd been out of line for being late.  "Do that again, and I'd have
to consider detached assignment to cleaning out the recyclar filters on
the livestock ship."
     Giles gulped and nodded. 
     "Anyway, here's what you need to know about Nash."


     Apollo's last order of regular business for the day was a conference
with Boomer and Bojay to make sure that all matters of necessary squadron
coordination were taken care of.  He'd noticed that his brother-in-law
seemed to have a perpetual half-smile on his face, as if he was waiting
for a moment to spring some news of a personal nature on him but when the
conference broke up, he saw that Boomer wasn't going to accommodate him
yet. Clearly, whatever was on his mind was something that would have to
wait for a larger family gathering, where Athena would be present too. 
     Bojay, he noticed also seemed to be in an up-tempo mood.  His
relationship with Gayla, the Agro-Tech and one of the former wives of the
notorious Chief Twilly, had settled into one of steady dating, and it
made Apollo feel good that Silver Spar Leader had found someone. That
meant that Bojay would never have any trace of regret left in him over
never trying to start a serious relationship with Sheba during their days
aboard the Pegasus. 
     Amidst all this craziness, life still manages to be good for some of
us, he thought as he returned to his quarters.  When he entered, he saw
Boxey standing in front of Muffit in the corner, hands behind his back. 
The robot daggit was looking at him with an obedient posture. 
     "Hi Boxey," he said brightly.  "What are you teaching him?"
     His son looked at him impishly, "How to sniff out a water bomb."
     "Water bomb?" he came over and frowned, seeing said item in Boxey's
hands, "What's with that?"
     "Well I got hit by one the other day when we were in our rec period
after class."
     "Oh?" he lifted an eyebrow, "Who did it?"
     Boxey lowered his head. 
     "Come on, Boxey."
     The little boy shrugged his shoulders, "Colm."
     "Colm," Apollo repeated. , "Yeah, you've mentioned him before." 
Colm was the orphaned son of a pilot known for getting a bit wild at
times.  "When did he suddenly start taking up throwing water bombs?"
     "Just the one time.  But I won't let him do it again if I have
Muffit with me and he can sniff one out before he can throw it."
     "All right," Apollo folded his arms, "Then what happens?"
     "Then I give Colm a big surprise!"
     "Yeah?"
     Boxey then shrugged, "A water bomb of my own."
     Apollo slowly nodded, "Okay...eye for an eye as the old adage goes. 
But if you ever throw any punches at him, young man, you're grounded for
a sectar.  Water bombs are more than enough!"
     "I promise!" his son raised his arm as if taking an oath. 
     "That's good," his father said, "Just impress him with the fact that
you can be more clever than him, and he'll realize that he can't put one
over you again."
     "No way!" Boxey said with determination.  "Isn't that right,
Muffit?"
     The robot daggit barked his assent. 
     Apollo smiled, "Where's your mother?"
     "She's in her room. She said she had some stuff to go over."
     "Did she?" Apollo lifted an eyebrow wondering if there was an
ulterior motive in mind behind that, since ordinarily Sheba never
retreated to their chamber while Boxey was still awake.  Even allowing
for the fact that they had been enjoying a good deal more than their
usual share of healthy marital relations the last few sectans, he
couldn't envision her being eager and ready at this time of evening. 
     Maybe Muffit's getting on her nerves a bit?
     He went over and opened the door to their chambers and based on what
he saw, he wasn't sure if his hunch was right or not. Sheba was sitting,
or more accurately slouching, on the bed, uniform off and in her
preferred late-night attire of Academy t-shirt and briefs.  The look on
her face though, was one of pure business and there were documents spread
out in front of her, as well as a miniature data-com which she
occasionally picked up to study further. 
     "Sheba?"  Apollo asked as the door slid shut behind them, and he
instinctively pressed the lock. 
     His wife looked up at him, and her surprised expression finally
confirmed that she hadn't been lying in wait waiting for romance.  "Oh,
hi, Apollo. I'm just...going over some stuff that I wanted to study
privately."
     "Anything I should know about?"
     "Yeah," she calmly collected the documents into one neat pile, "I
really think we should forget about having Mattoon come on this patrol."
     Her husband frowned and sat down on the edge of the bed, stopping to
pick up one of the printouts, "Are you going through his personnel file?"
     "Yes," she didn't bat an eyelash, "Apollo, there is something I
don't like about the way he just out of the blue volunteered for this. 
And...I had to see if there was something in his background that might
indicate..."  She finished her half-sentence with a shrug. 
     "Might indicate that he'd do something ridiculous?" Apollo finished
for her, "Sheba, I know there's a lot of bad feeling inside these
warriors over what we're going through, but why in the world would
*anyone* contemplate doing something like that?"
     "I don't know!  Or...maybe I think I do, but...," she came up to a
sitting position, feet on the floor, "Apollo the more I keep finding out
about him, the more I keep getting a bad feeling about him."
     "Why?"
     "I was talking to Giles today.  He knew Mattoon a long time ago and
Mattoon was asking him if he had ever given Giles a picture of his wife,
who was killed in the Destruction."
     "His wife?" Apollo was surprised, "I never even knew he'd been
married."
     "Not only that, but he lost a child too.  A girl."
     "Well if he asked Giles if he had any pictures of his wife, that
shouldn't be a surprise, since Mattoon would have lost everything on the
Solaria."
     "Apollo," Sheba pointed out, "Mattoon's had nearly two yahrens to
ask Giles that.  Why now, all of a sudden, just before he comes up to us
and volunteers for this mission?"
     Her husband raised an eyebrow, "You're right, that is kind of odd,
but...maybe he just never thought to ask or felt like it."
     "But the bottom line, is that it means that Mattoon really has a
reason for never wanting to work with the Cylons long-term."
     "Sheba, if losing family members were the only criteria for judging
that, you'd end up disqualifying most of the pilots in the Fleet, and
that includes me."  Apollo then decided he was going to mention something
else that he ordinarily wouldn't have, "And you can also add to my case,
the fact that I saw a Cylon gun down Serina right in front of my eyes. 
That's a sight seared into my mind forever, but it's not making me think
I'd ever find myself doing what you're suggesting Mattoon might be
capable of doing."
     "Apollo, I know that, but there's a difference. A big difference and
I don't mean the fact that we're married now.  Even without that, you
still had family members and friends of long-standing surving with you. 
You didn't find yourself...thrust among a group of people you'd never
known with no close acquaintances left."  She stopped and shook her head
with irony, "Now I sound like I'm describing myself when I ended up
here."
     "But...you ended up finding a new group of friends and family."
     "Exactly.  But Apollo, Mattoon is different. I had to check
afterwards to see if a hunch I had after I talked with Giles was right. 
He's the only pilot left from the Solaria.  There were four others the
Galactica picked up with him, and the rest of them were all killed in
battle in the first yahren after the Destruction. That means the only
person in this Fleet who even had a small acquaintance with him before
was Giles, and that was over six yahrens before."
     "Let me see if I get this straight," Apollo held up his hands as if
trying to synthesize everything, "You're saying that you think Mattoon is
more prone to flip and do something rash because he lost family *and*
because he's a loner with no ties left to anyone else around him?"
     "Yeah, I guess that's what I'm saying.  Now I haven't been around
him much, apart from briefings and maybe one or two patrols, but in two
yahrens, has he ever come across as someone who really fits in with the
rest of the pilots, or does he always seem more like he's...one step back
from everyone?  Someone who can talk easily with the rest of us...but
someone you know you'd never open up to, or who just seems more like
a...colleague instead of a close comrade?"
     Apollo shook his head and let out a sigh of mild exasperation,
"Sheba, I don't know.  We have so many pilots in this Fleet now and I'll
admit I know some of them better than others on a personal level.  My job
is to just make sure I know what they're like professionally, and if they
follow regulations. Mattoon's never once been out of line for any reason,
and he's never once had to face disciplinary action.  And his combat
record speaks for itself. I'm sure you saw that in the file."  He idly
glanced at the printout he'd picked up earlier.  It was Mattoon's last
fitness report from the Solaria, which had been uploaded into the Central
Fleet Files just prior to the battle at Cimtar, signed by her executive
officer Colonel Nebka. The report was as positive a one that could have
been written, with a recommendation for eventual promotion. 
     "Yeah, I did.  It's a good record and one to be proud of. But..."
she stopped and lowered her head as if she were suddenly tired of
debating the subject, "Oh, frack, maybe I am just being overly paranoid,
but...I really think it'd be better to tell him that we're not ready to
take on an extra member for this patrol. We can tell him that maybe in a
couple sectans we'll be ready for it but the first patrol should be just
the two of us."
     Apollo shook his head, "Sheba, I don't think we can do that. Look,
let's say I buy the argument that maybe underneath, Mattoon is more prone
to be bitter than the average warrior, but let's try to approach this
from a positive angle. Maybe the reason why Mattoon volunteered for this
is because he thinks it'd be a form of catharsis for him.  That if he can
be the first one from the regular ranks of the pilots to fly a patrol
with these Cylons, then he'll be able to overcome that barrier in his
mind for good, and then that can make it easier for everyone else to see
how they can overcome those feelings for the greater good too."
     "And if you're right, where is there a danger in turning him down
for the patrol?"
     "Because maybe that will only make the bitterness in him fester even
more, and then maybe he'll start shooting off his mouth to the other
pilots in a way where before you know it, we'll have an even bigger
problem on our hands. We'd be confirming that image that he says some of
them have about how it's easier for us as squadron leaders to handle this
working arrangement than it is for the regular pilots.  And that's going
to make it even harder for us to try and make this long-term arrangement
work, which like it or not we *have* to do."  He shook his head again,
"Sooner or later, we have to get our pilots to accept the reality of
doing these kind of patrols, and if we make it later than sooner, I don't
think we make or jobs any easier."
     "All right," Sheba nodded as she powered off her mini data-com,
indicating that she was done studying the files for tonight.  "All right,
for now we'll stay committed to him going on this, but...Apollo, I want
to spend tomorrow talking to some other pilots and get their feedback on
what they think about him.  Just how does he interact with him, what kind
of guy they think he is. I want to see if I get any more surprises than I
already got today about him."
     "If you make your inquiries discreet, then go ahead," Apollo said,
"But if by tomorrow night, there's nothing to add to what we already
know, then that's the end of the matter.  He's going."
     "Agreed," his wife sighed, as she placed the documents and data com
on the table next to the bed, "I guess that's that for
tonight...workwise."
     "Workwise?  Hmmm, anything else?" he tried not to smile, but found
it hard to avoid doing so.  
     She looked up and saw that his expression had  grown coy. 
Immediately, she relaxed against the headboard of the bed and matched his
expression. 
     "There is, but...I think we'd better wait another centar until Boxey
is safely tucked away."
     He leaned closer to her, "I did remember to lock the door when I
entered."
     Sheba playfully ran her hand through the thick growth of his beard,
which always signified how much she loved his new look.  "What if he
rings and asks for something at a time when we wouldn't feel like
answering?"
     "We could pretend we're asleep," he took her hand and kissed it. 
     "And then he'll ask Muffit if he hears anything.  You know how he
is."
     "Good point.  If he can now learn how to sniff out water bombs,
sniffing out what goes on behind these doors..." he trailed off
purposefully. 
     "And then Boxey could tell all his classmates about how his parents
go to bed before he does and they'll ask him why." she shook her head,
"Better safe than sorry, my wildly passionate husband."
     "Yeah, I guess this time you're right," he sighed reluctantly and
slid himself off the bed, and back to a standing position.  "But if by
the time he's ready for sleep that's all you want to do, I may decide to
punish you by doing something rash."
     "Oh?" she coyly leaned forward     
     "Yeah," he grinned at her and rubbed his face, "Maybe I'll get rid
of this new appendage that turns you on so much."
     Sheba grinned mischievously at him, "That's more than enough
incentive for me since I never want to see you shave again.  And here's
my incentive to keep you awake longer."  She playfully lifted her
t-shirt, exposing her naked upper torso, "Consider this a preview of
coming attractions!"
     Apollo laughed as he fought the urge to do something right away
regarding her "preview."  "Sometimes, you can be just like a shameless
little socialator."
     "When it's necessary," she lowered her t-shirt and her tone then
grew serious, "And Apollo...I have to be honest.  These last few sectans,
it's felt like it's been more necessary than ever. If I didn't have you
to lean on every night as a way of relieving the kind of tension I know
I'm feeling over this whole arrangement with the Cylons, I honestly think
I'd be prone to doing something crazy."
     Seriousness then returned to her husband's expression, "Sheba, is
*that* the reason why you think Mattoon could be prone to doing something
foolish?"
     She lowered her head, "Yes, Apollo, I think it is. I honestly think
if I were still a single woman with no one to lean on in a special way,
living in this arrangement we've got now, I'd be looking for some kind of
stupid way to release a lot of built-up tension."
     "What kind of stupid way?" he wanted her to elaborate. 
     "I can't say, Apollo.  The fact that I know I've got you to hold
onto, and a family to look after and care for is enough to keep me from
taking that thought any further.  But...if you're all alone every night
in the silent darkness, and haven't got anything left to care for and
your whole life has been devoted to killing Cylons and suddenly you find
you can't do that any longer...that doesn't make for the best convergence
of elements. That's why when I see something in Mattoon's background that
reminds me of what I could have easily been going through...yes, it makes
me wonder."
     Apollo was almost on the verge of reminding his wife that there was
one key difference between her and Mattoon, and that was the fact that
she hadn't lost anyone in the actual Destruction, but then he remembered
that the element of her father's disappearance with the Pegasus largely
amounted to the same thing, since even if it was true that her father was
still alive out there, the end result had been a separation as painful as
if it been caused by death.  He was glad he'd stopped himself from saying
something that would have seemed thoughtless. 
     "I'll ask around too about Mattoon," he said quietly, "We'll both
pool what we find out," 
     Sheba nodded and then got up from the bed, stopping to grab a robe
she'd left lying on a nearby chair. 
     "Okay," she said as she wrapped it over herself, "Let's both spend
some time with our son."
     He nodded, as he unlocked the door and slid it open. 


     For all warriors not assigned to night duty aboard the Galactica,
there was a general rule on "lights out" in the barracks at a designated
time late in the evening cycle.  A warrior could stay up longer if he
chose in the nearby lounge area and catch up on reading or a late game of
pyramid with another warrior, but there had to be a level of quiet
maintained so as not to disrupt the sleep periods of those who had chosen
to turn in at the specific "lights out" time. 
     For Sergeant Mattoon, he had chosen to be among those who would be
in their bunks at "lights out", but unlike the rest of them, he wasn't
asleep. Instead, the decorated enlisted man had his arms stretched back
as he stared with eyes open in the darkness at the ceiling.  Thinking
about the task that he had committed himself to, which he felt Destiny
had chosen him for, and which would take place the day after tomorrow. 
     Tomorrow's my last full day of living, he thought for perhaps the
hundredth time since the lights had gone out in the barracks. And then
after that...Jana, darling, I'll be with you again. 
     The dark canvass of the room allowed him to try and summon a visual
memory of his dead wife.  The bad news Giles had given him about not
having any pictures of Jana to give back to him, meant that he wouldn't
be able to carry her image with him on this final mission, as he'd always
done on every other mission he'd flown before the Destruction.  So as a
substitute, he could sit alone in the dark and make sure that the memory
of her was still fresh after nearly two yahrens. Of a beautiful woman
with long-blonde hair that always caught the sunlight like a golden halo, 
and a buoyant personality that always made it look like she was
constantly laughing.  She'd told him during their days of dating how her
father, who had once had a career as a club singer on the Colonial Star
Circuit, had even written a song about her when she was a child, "Jana
with the laughing face."  The song might not have been a hit, but it had
described her personality perfectly, with every word ingrained indelibly
in his memory.  Jana was an easy laugher, and she had made him laugh so
much during the days of courting while he was at Flight School, and then
their marriage, just four sectars after he'd been assigned to the
Solaria. 
     Despite being away nine sectars of every yahren, theirs had been a
solid marriage without any of the difficulties most married warriors
separated for long stretches often went through. Commander Remus, himself
a married man, had often lent a willing ear to his young charges,
listening to their troubles, becoming almost a "father confessor" to
Mattoon, giving him of his advice and wisdom in domestic matters, for
which he had been deeply grateful.  And while he amassed a solid record
for a pilot in the enlisted ranks, Jana dabbled in her father's footsteps
by working as a local club singer herself, picking up a few extra cubits
and winning good critical notices, but never feeling any ambition to go
into bigger things in the entertainment world.  Especially when three
yahrens into their marriage, they'd been blessed with a daughter,
Abigail, who appearance wise was all her mother. Which suited Mattoon
fine. 
     Long-term, Mattoon had looked to putting in ten yahrens of
front-line combat service on the Solaria, and then putting in for an
officer's commission, which he hoped could land him a job as an
instructor back at the Flight Training School he had gone to.  He was
sure that by then, he'd have had his fill with blasting Cylons and would
want to spend the rest of his days as a warrior with a desk job, which
would give him the chance to come home every night to Jana and Abigail,
and not miss a single day watching her grow up. 
     Grow up, he thought with bitterness for perhaps the millionth time. 
Something I wanted to see.  It was all planned out so I'd get to see
that.  And I didn't get that chance.  She didn't get that chance. 
     That had all changed forever in a single, horrible day.  A day when
he'd not only lost Jana and Abigail forever, but also his ship and all of
his comrades and friends he'd been close to for nearly six yahrens when
the Solaria split in half and went up in a giant fireball. There'd only
been four other pilots from his ship who had made it beside him, and now,
nearly two yahrens later, they were gone too.  And with all his personal
effects gone too, it was as if the life he had known and cherished on
both levels...personal and professional, had been wiped out of existence
as if it had never happened. 
     In the time since, Mattoon had found that the only way to adjust to
the new reality was to throw himself into his work, and the task of
protecting the Fleet from the Cylon pursuit.  That single-mindedness had
kept him from doing any kind of close fraternization with the pilots he
now worked with. Talking to them, and participating in their activities
was one thing, but thinking of them in the same way he'd thought of his
friends aboard the Solaria...that was something he could never bring
himself to do.  Trying to form such new bonds of close friendship was
something he didn't want to even try after losing too many friends from
his old ship.  He just could not afford the emotional energy, the
distraction from the task of killing Cylons.  And for the same reason,
the thought of ever letting romance come into his life again, was
something he couldn't contemplate.  Not when the pain of losing Jana and
Abigail had never gone away inside him. The pain, the bitterness and the
hate. 
     So he'd kept himself slightly removed from the rest of his fellow
warriors...adding to his distinguished record and remaining proud of his
service as a warrior.  And then, three sectans ago, the stunning turn of
events that now saw the Galactica paired in alliance with a renegade
Cylon baseship and its crew had thrust Mattoon in a shock as nearly as
great as the Destruction had been.  A shock that had then given way to a
sense of inner anger and rage like nothing else. He had been forced to
make the painful adjustment to a new life because of the Destruction, and
it had been the most gutwrenching thing he could have been forced to do. 
Now though...to be expected to actually think of Cylons as allies now. 
Centurions who for all he knew could have been the same ones who had
unleashed the bombs that had destroyed his house and killed his beloved
Jana and Abigail.  That was something he could never, EVER accept,
especially when it also meant exoneration for Baltar and having to in
effect treat the traitor responsible for it all as a colleague in this
new arrangement. It represented not simply a betrayal of principle but
the ultimate shaming of the memory of those who had died that night in
the Holocaust. Especially the innocent ones like Jana and Abigail, who
were not supposed to be the victims of the war. 
     And so, he had decided just days after the last battle had been
fought against the baseship, that he would take matters into his own
hands. That somehow, the first chance he would get, he would take the
step that would insure the needed resumption of hostilities between
Colonials and Cylons.  An act that from the long-run of history, he knew
he'd be praised for, regardless of what they might think of him in the
short-term. As far as he was concerned, he was Destiny's Instrument,
chosen to fulfill this necessary task that would serve as a needed
wake-up call to humanity. 
     That was why right now, he could sit alone in the dark without a
single care in the world, because he was past the point where anyone who
might know about his plan could ever appeal to anything inside of him
that would get him to deviate from this course of action.  He was
committed to it with mind, heart and soul for all time. 
     And if anyone tried to stop him...he had absolutely no qualms with
the idea of shooting that person dead to make sure he could complete the
task he knew he was destined by Fate for. 
     So it was, that when Sergeant Mattoon finally fell asleep, the image
in his mind of his lost Jana was accompanied with a deep sense of
satisfaction and inner peace. 

Chapter Three

     The next day began for Apollo with the same sense of routine duty
that the previous ones had been filled with.  Getting the new set of
fitness reports that had been processed, and then down to the Operations
Center for another daily briefing.  But it was during it that he shifted
his attention to the matter of Sergeant Mattoon.  He began by keeping a
close eye on the enlisted man during the briefing to see if there was
anything in his expression that indicated something out of the ordinary. 
And then, he avoided mentioning Mattoon's suggestion about taking part in
the next day's patrol, wanting to see if that would prompt Mattoon into
raising the subject publicly among his fellow warriors.  
     The public briefing on the day's schedule yielded nothing on that
score, though. Throughout it, Mattoon had just sat obediently in his
designated seat, arms folded, his expression one of attentiveness and
obedience. Not once did he bother to crack any jokes or make idle talk
with any of the warriors seated around him.  It was the type of behavior
that a squadron commander ordinarily would have considered exemplary. 
Today though, Apollo knew he couldn't take anything for granted.  He
would have to probe further, and that meant talking to Mattoon directly
after the briefing to gauge his reaction about being a part of the next
day's patrol. 
     When the briefing finally ended, and the warriors began to file out,
Apollo made a point of calling Mattoon over and asking to speak with him. 
The Sergeant wasted no time coming over to where Apollo and Sheba were
waiting. 
     "Yes sir?" he asked with the politeness that would have been more
typical of a cadet. 
     "Ah, Mattoon, about that matter of your volunteering for the
patrol..." Blue Leader then purposefully trailed off to see if that would
provoke some kind of reaction in the sergeant, but Mattoon just had his
arms folded with no change in expression at all. Apollo knew he had to
continue. 
     "Well, we've given it a lot of thought and at this point, we don't
see anything wrong with it.  Make sure you're set for tomorrow."
     "Thank you, sir," Mattoon smiled, "I really think this is going to
help a great deal."
     "Yeah, well we just need to make sure all potential loose ends are
taken care of as far as coordination with the baseship goes, and with
their squadron commander, since this means they'll have to furnish an
extra fighter themselves for the patrol.  That's why I didn't mention
this during the briefing, but by tomorrow morning it should be set and
I'll let everyone else know about it then."
     "I see," the sergeant nodded in understanding, "Does this mean you
don't want me to mention this to any of the other pilots until then?"
     "Well that depends on whether or not you've already mentioned your
asking us about this already," Sheba interjected."Did you talk to any of
the other pilots about it yesterday?"
     "No, not at all," Mattoon shook his head, "I didn't think it was
appropriate before you'd given me an answer about it."
     "Well in that case, wait until tomorrow morning at the briefing when
I tell everyone else," Apollo said, "In the meantime, I suggest you make
sure your viper is in order and that you also get an update from the
Bridge on what the proper Cylon communication frequencies are, since
you'll have to learn how to talk with them during a patrol situation."
     "Gotcha," Mattoon nodded, his voice still an even tone of
acceptance.  "I do appreciate this, Captain.  I really think this can
help make a difference in settling things."
     "Well, we'll know better tomorrow when we see how this goes," Apollo
kept his tone low-key, "Dismissed."
     Mattoon gave the two officers a salute and then departed.  Sheba
kept her eye on him until he'd left the briefing room.  Apollo noticed
that the suspicious edge in his wife's expression from the previous day
was still there. 
     "What do you think?" he asked. 
     "A little...too accepting if you ask me," Sheba said, "It's as if he
was trying not to rock the boat at all.  I really would have felt easier
if he'd spoken up during the briefing and acted a little anxious to see
if this was going to come off."
     "But if he's so instinctively quiet and withdrawn, then a reaction
like this isn't really out of character for him," Apollo pointed out. 
     "I guess not," his wife conceded, "But so far, I'm not impressed."
     "That's not enough to get me to change my mind," Apollo held his
ground.  "So now, we part company and start gingerly checking with others
to see what else we can find out about him.  Since you played bad cop
with Giles yesterday, that means it's my turn to talk to him today and
see if he'll open up a bit more about Mattoon."
     Sheba nodded, "I'll head over to the female barracks and see if
they've got any thoughts on him.  He may not have any romantic
involvement with any of them, but they've all had a chance to work with
him on a professional level."  
     "Alright, we'll hook up at 1130 in your office, and then head over
to the Club for lunch."
     "On my way," she said and headed for the hatch.  They stepped out in
the corridor and the parted company, with Sheba headed for the female
barracks, and Apollo going in the opposite direction toward the turbo
lift.  Before he reached it, he saw to his surprise that Starbuck was
standing in front of the lift door, as if he'd been waiting for him. 
     "Hi," Starbuck's tone was a bit more friendly than it had been the
last few sectans, "Glad I caught you."
     "Something wrong, Starbuck?"  Apollo asked, catching the change in
his friend's voice. 
     "Well, no, it's just..." the blonde warrior shrugged, "I just...kind
of realized it's been awhile since we got together for lunch in the Club,
and figured it was time to...shoot the breeze like we used to."
     Apollo could sense his friends's awkwardness, and he could feel it
himself, "Yeah, I guess it has been awhile since we did that."
     "Since before you started giving the Borellian Nomen a run for the
cubits in the hirsute department," Starbuck said lightheartedly which
managed to break the tension and they all laughed. 
     "Yeah, I guess so," Apollo gently rubbed his beard, "So do you have
any more quips about it you'd like to get out of your system at long
last?"
     "Who, me?" Starbuck pointed at himself, "Given all the kidding I've
taken for letting my hair grow too long at times, I'm the *last* one who
should make cracks about sartorial rectitude," he grinned and slapped his
friend on the shoulder, "Besides, I think your doing something that
caused an old regulation to get abolished is your way of showing that my
rebellious nature *has* rubbed off on you a bit."
     "Yeah, I guess so." Apollo was glad to feel this sense of easy
banter coming back, since it had become nonexistent ever since the
aftermath of the battle three sectans ago and the beginning of the new
arrangement with the Cylons.  "In that case, can I soon count on you to
join me in this new rebellious direction?  The benefits of waking up
every morning and knowing you'll never shave again are worth it."  
     "Nah.  It isn't a sign of rebellion any longer if the squadron
commander is doing it," Starbuck kept it up, "And since Cass's tolerance
level for my not shaving goes no longer than three cycles, I've got
another good reason for not wanting to do it.  I'd rather answer to a
dozen angry Tighs than one angry med-tech, *any* day!  Not that I ever
had any desire to grow a beard. Just not my style."  He stroked his
smooth-shaven jaw in mock emphasis. 
     "That's funny," Apollo chuckled, "It's just the opposite with Sheba. 
She not only encouraged me to grow it, she'd  consider it grounds for
divorce if I ever got rid of it.  Which suits me fine, since I intend to
grow this as big as it can get within reason."
     "Just make sure you know exactly when you've reached 'within
reason'," Starbuck kept it up, "Because if you're not careful you'll find
yourself coming back from patrol one day and you won't be able to get
your helmet off because your Nomen appendage is stuck in the face plate!"
     The two laughed and tapped each other on the shoulder, feeling more
of the old sense of camaraderie coming back.  Apollo knew it had to have
taken a lot of effort on Starbuck's part to make the first move, and he
also knew that given his position of authority, it would have been
impossible for him to make the first move even if he'd wanted to.  
     "So anyway," Starbuck said, "I just wanted to see if I could catch
you or Sheba and find out if you were free for lunch.  Can you make it?"
     "It'd be my pleasure, buddy," Apollo said, and then knew that he had
to reciprocate Starbuck's gesture somehow, "And...anything you want to
say and get off your chest about...other things, feel free to do it."
     "Thanks," Starbuck sighed, his tone growing more serious,
"I...appreciate that, Apollo. Because...well, yeah there are some things
I need to get off my chest about what's...been going on."
     "I'll look forward to it," Apollo tapped him on the shoulder again,
as the turbo lift door opened and he stepped in. Starbuck waved back at
him before the door closed.  And as the lift began its journey up, Apollo
found himself noting the contrast in Starbuck's demeanor with Mattoon's. 
Mattoon had been so perfunctory and by-the-book with not a single
external indication that anything had been troubling him. It almost
seemed...Cylon in a way.  Starbuck, by contrast, couldn't conceal it even
when he was trying to do so. 
     Maybe Sheba's right.  Maybe Mattoon's attitude is a little too pat. 
     Whatever the case, he hoped that Giles could shed some more light on
the enigma that Mattoon was turning out to be. 


     The beginning of Sergeant Mattoon's day was orderly and methodical.
He had a precise itinerary laid out in his head, and he intended to
follow it to the letter.  Especially now that his brief chat with Apollo
and Sheba had guaranteed for him that this would indeed be the last day
of his life. 
     His next visit had been to the Launch Bay to check on his viper and
inquire of the maintenance crew if it had been given a thorough check to
insure its readiness for patrol duty.  If a glitch had come up, he would
then be expected to put in a requisition for a new viper to maintain his
patrol schedule, but he knew how the usual procedure when something like
that happened was to simply wait until his primary ship was repaired and
step out of the patrol schedule in favor of a pilot who's ship was in
working order.  Even though he was reasonably sure that Apollo would be
inclined to let him use another ship if his own was faulty, since he had
been the one to volunteer for the mission, he knew he couldn't take a
risk that Apollo might choose to be a stickler instead and ask if there
was any other pilot willing to do the patrol instead. 
     To his relief, the report from the maintenance crew was that his
viper was in perfect working order and in no need of any repair work that
would have to be done on the Celestra.  After thanking them for the
update, he then mentioned that he'd be flying a patrol tomorrow and that
his viper needed to have its laser generators fully charged in case of
trouble.  
     "Not a problem," the maintenance worker said cheerily to him, "All
vipers in the Fleet have been recharged since the battle and are all at
100% firepower. No one's had to use them since."
     He smiled in acknowledgment and then walked away to the turbo lift. 
     No one's had to use them since the battle, he thought, but tomorrow
that changes. I'll be using it on the Cylons in the patrol AND the
baseship!  And then everyone else is going to have to use theirs. 
     Which meant that from his standpoint, it was nice to know that
everyone else's viper was at 100% readiness in that category. It would
guarantee that when his fellow warriors needed to take up the challenge
as they would tomorrow, they would have the firepower to destroy Baltar
and his band of mechanical scum forever and avenge the honor of the
Colonial nation at long last. 
     With that detail taken care of, it was now time to move on with his
itinerary.  One in which he would show not the slightest deviation from
his normal routine and thus further lull everyone he came into contact
with, into a sense that there was nothing for them to be suspicious
about. 


     As the daily routine aboard the Galactica unfolded with its air of
predictable normality, aboard the Cylon baseship, Ayesha was experiencing
her own version of predictable normality.  When she had made her decision
to give up her life as Claudia the social worker on the Senior Ship,  and
resume her place as Baltar's wife, she had wondered if life aboard a
baseship, with Cylons her only other company apart from her husband,
would ultimately break her resolve that she'd made the right decision. 
Now, three sectans later, she'd found that wasn't the case.  While she
certainly missed the many friends she'd made in her life as
Claudia----Chameleon in particular----and the ability to talk with them,
she'd found her new life to be an easier emotional  adjustment than she'd
anticipated.  And there was no question in her mind that the reason why
it had been easier was because of her belief that she alone held the key
to insuring that Baltar's desire to reform remained genuine for the
long-term. 
     Night after night for three sectans in the privacy of their
chambers, she'd had many conversations with her husband. Emotionally open
and intimate ones.  And they were enough to make her realize that Baltar
had been chastened a good deal by his recent experience that had led to
this outcome, and that her dramatic return to his life had been keeping
that inner chastisement present in his psyche. With each passing day, she
was convinced that if she had not been able to return to his life, then
sooner or later her husband's instinctive sense of lustful ambition would
have kicked in to the point where the amnesty he'd received for
delivering his baseship to Adama would no longer be enough. That sooner
or later, Baltar would wonder where the opportunities for greater power
might still lie, and how could that be achieved. And there was also the
matter of perceived old scores to settle with Adama.  
     One sectan into her return, he had one night opened up over what
he'd felt was the reason why he'd had to become a committed Cylon
commander after his treason that had caused the Destruction.  His hatred
of Adama for rejecting an offer to seek revenge on the Cylons that he'd
presented in the Tomb of the Ninth Lord of Kobol.  Once that had
happened, Baltar had said bitterly to her, he'd been left with no choice
but to throw himself into the role of being a devoted Cylon, which had
never been the option he'd wanted to pursue. 
     She had listened to him that night hearing him open up about that
moment, and then she had decided to be blunt. 
     "After what you had done a matter of sectans before, *why* do you
think you were entitled to any kind of newfound trust from Adama?"
     "I'd taken care of that!" he'd said aloud, "That warrior, Starbuck. 
I'd released him as a sign of good faith----,"
     "And it could have easily just seemed like another trap to him
again, even with that gesture," his wife had cut him off, pondering
briefly in her mind the irony of how the man who might have become her
step-son had played such an important role in Baltar's life at that
point. 
     "For what reason?" Baltar had spluttered aloud, "My whole reason for
being a traitor was gone by then, with Piscera destroyed and..." he'd
stopped, looked at her and his voice dropped to a normal tone.  One thing
he never did was shout to her face.  "And with my thinking you were dead,
too." 
     "Think of all Adama had lost," she'd learned by this point that the
key was to show no sympathy, but in a way that was not disdainful or
antagonistic.  "With all of those emotional burdens that he'd shouldered
and was carrying, why should he have even bothered to see things from
your perspective?"
     And then she gently touched him on the shoulder...but didn't change
her tone or expression.  
     "I know I wouldn't have believed you either."
     The fury at that instant had disappeared from Baltar's face.
Replaced by that same look of anguished intimidation he'd felt the
previous day when she'd first talked to him face-to-face and asked him
the simple question, Why?  And once again, it was a reminder to Ayesha of
how her position as Baltar's wife...the woman Baltar had loved, made it
possible for her to act as a moderating influence.  All alone, Baltar
could allow these feelings of defensiveness and rationalizations to
obsess his mind day and night and harden his attitude.  But in her
presence...and hearing her turn things back on him in a deftly clever way
of gentle condemnation...it seemed to have the effect of finally breaking
down the barriers of bitter rationalization in Baltar's psyche. 
     "You..." He'd finally managed to get his words out, "You wouldn't
have trusted me?"
     "No," she shook her head, her hand still on his shoulder, "Not after
what I'd been through trying to save myself in the Destruction.  Knowing
that you'd done what you'd done without my ever suspecting a thing.  That
would have been too much to ask of me, Baltar.  I've never hated you at
any time in my life, but...that was as far as I could go in terms of how
I felt about you after I realized what you'd done."
     He lowered his head with the seeming air of a child receiving
reproach from a teacher or parent.  Ayesha wondered if she should go on,
or if she should give him a centon to see if he'd say anything. For now,
she decided to wait. 
     Finally, her husband broke his silence, "When I was aboard the
Prison Barge, did you ever...*think* about confronting me?"
     "No," she shook her head, "I had a new life by then, and I
considered you a closed chapter.  I didn't see any need to call attention
to my past and risk being lynched by a group of angry people with bitter
memories of their own."
     He nodded, "I...understand why you'd do that.  But...why is it
different now?  Why do you trust me now, but not then?"
     "Why does Adama trust you now, and not then?"  She countered,
"Circumstances change, Baltar.  And..." she sighed and pulled him close
to her, "Even people can change."
     A night of intimacy had then followed and when it was over, Ayesha
had found herself realizing more and more that these conversations with
her husband, with their ramifications for the well-being of the Fleet as
a whole, mattered more than anything she'd been forced to give up.  She
could miss the pleasure of other people's company with a gentle sadness,
but nothing more. Her inner sense of being destined by Fate and the
Almighty for this task could only grow stronger with each passing day. 
     And so it was, two sectans later, that Ayesha could now find herself
moving about the baseship freely, as was her custom, taking in the
details of how it functioned and conversing easily with the centurions
roaming the corridors or manning their stations.  After three setans, she
could see the subtle signs of centurions trying to express more
independent thinking than they'd done in the past and she would do her
best to gently encourage it in a friendly way.  Never trying to act too
inquisitively, lest they suddenly develop a suspicious or paranoid
streak.  Never volunteering too much information about what it was like
to live in the Fleet or how humans conducted themselves.  But never
acting reticent either. Always trying to make sure things remained at the
cautious level of the middle ground between potential extremes. 
     It would take more than her attitude toward the centurions to
convince them of the long-term benefit of working with the humans.  While
she knew that she held the key to keeping Baltar in line, it would take a
collective effort on the part of the Fleet's population to make sure the
centurions would have good reason to stay in line.  And while she had
reached a point where the mere act of being around a Cylon didn't unnerve
her, she could still realize just how difficult a task that was going to
be for most of the population, since so many had lost at least one family
member.  
     She could only hope that those with positions of responsibility in
the Fleet were doing their part, just as she tried to do hers aboard the
baseship. 

Chapter Four

     Apollo found Giles down in the launch bay conferring with a
maintenance technician over the status of his viper.  The sergeant knew
he had to have his machine in perfect order for his pending training
exercise with Cadet Nash next sectan, and that meant many long centars of
conference and inspection was necessary to insure nothing would go wrong.
Knowing how important that preparation was, Apollo kept his distance
before approaching Giles, waiting for a lull in the sergeant's
conversation with the maintenance tech. When it finally came, he
approached him casually, knowing that he had to sound a different note
from what Sheba had done the previous day. 
     "Hi, Giles," he said with a friendly air and glanced up at the
sergeant's viper, "How's it look?"
     Giles turned and snapped to attention, "Oh!  Well, it looks like it
just needed to have a small adjustment in the turbo pump in the right
engine.  Rik took care of it," he jerked his thumb toward the technician,
who was walking away now.  "Nothing that the Celestra boys would have to
handle."
     "That's good," Apollo nodded and kept looking at the viper, "We
wouldn't want anything to go wrong in a training exercise.  And we
certainly wouldn't want to see something happened that would mean
changing the roster and having to get a new instructor at the last
micron.  It's always better when there's been some advance preparation
before you meet your recruit for the first time."
     "I agree," Giles' voice was still filled with an air of tension, his
mind still recalling the dressing-down he'd gotten from Sheba, "I spent
all of last night going over Cadet Nash's file. Impressive background for
a new recruit."
     "Tapping the civilian flyer ranks is something we need to do more
of. We've been too slow to see the potential of doing that," Apollo then
finally turned to face Giles and smiled, "Relax, Giles."
     The disarming tone had its effect and the sergeant eased himself
back against the struts of his craft, looking relieved. 
     "By the way," Apollo now felt he could ease his way into the subject
he was interested in, "Given how you and Call were so slow to volunteer
for this, that means the next time this thing comes up I might have to
start drafting warriors for the job.  If I have to go that route, I'd
want to pick the ones who have a better knack for this kind of thing, so
that means I'd like your feedback on who you think should be at the top
of the list."
     Giles, feeling he could speak freely, chuckled, "Since this is the
kind of duty we don't like to wish on our fellow pilots, I don't know if
I'd be doing them any favors."
     "Don't worry, this is all in the strictest of confidence," Apollo
returned the chuckle, "But I know exactly what you mean, for what it's
worth."
     "I figured.  Well, I guess if you want my honest unbiased opinion of
who'd do the best job if asked, it'd have to be Mattoon. He's the one guy
in the Squadron who really knows how to throw himself into the job if
he's asked to do it.  Just like a daggit sinks his teeth to a bone."
     "I see," Apollo felt glad that Giles had given him an opening right
away, "Sheba tells me you and he go back a ways."
     "Yeah, I'm the only one left who knew him aboard the Solaria, though
that was yahrens ago."
     "Yeah, I guess he's changed a lot since then."
     "Well, that doesn't surprise me, given how much he lost with a wife
and kid. They were everything to him. Ever since we became reacquainted
aboard the Galactica, he's pretty much turned over a new leaf and thrown
himself into his work to just try and put all that behind him."  He
paused and his eyes narrowed, "Until recently, I guess."
     "Oh?" Apollo kept his tone nonchalant, "Has he been moving out of
his shell, then?"
     "Well...he's hardly back to what he was like in the old days,
but...I do think he's trying in his own way to make some changes. Like
growing his moustache back."
     "He used to have one?" 
     "Yeah, he wasn't trying a new look just because you did with the
beard," Giles stopped, "Sir, aren't we getting a little far afield from
what you wanted to talk to me about?"
     "Who said we're getting far afield, Giles?" Apollo kept his tone
disarming, "The more I find out about the men I'm in charge of, and what
makes them tick, the easier it makes my job when it comes to trusting
them in battle or in any other tough job.  And a lot of times, you can
find out more about your ability to trust them when shooting the breeze
on the seemingly mundane matters."
     "I see," Giles nodded, "Well...in that case, I understand."
     "Anyway, you were saying Mattoon had a moustache before?"
     "Yeah, he always had a moustache when I knew him aboard the Solaria
and before that in Flight School. In fact, he still had it the day I
first saw him among the survivors who made it to the Galactica, but a day
later he'd shaved it off. I think it was because his wife always liked
him with it."
     "So keeping it would have been too much of a painful reminder of the
past," Apollo noted, trying not to make it sound like it was a big deal. 
     "That's my guess, sir."
     "I guess it is a step forward that he doesn't want to let something
like that trouble him any longer if he's grown it back."
     "Yeah.  And I guess that's also why he was asking me yesterday if
he'd ever sent me a holopic of his wedding.  He'd never bothered asking
before, but I guess he's more at peace about it now."
     "What about doing activities with the other pilots?" Apollo asked,
"Is he any looser when it comes to that?"
     "Well...I guess that's the tougher thing for him to branch out into,
when he's been keeping to himself for nearly two yahrens.  But from what
I hear, he did get into a Pyramid game our guys and Red Group set up the
other night.  I was on night shift, so I don't know how involved he got
into it, but it was something new for him. Most of the time when there's
a Pyramid game going on, he's back in his bunk reading a book or watching
an old entertainment vid on his personal vid-com."
     "That's just the sort of thing I need to know to see if he's the
right guy to get drafted for instructor duty in the future," Apollo said,
"It's one thing to be devoted to the job, but if there's any kind of
rigidity or aloofness, that can send a bad signal. It's one thing for a
Squadron Leader to put some distance between himself and a recruit, but
the rank and file warriors have to send a different kind of message to
put the new members at ease."
     "I agree," Giles was nodding fervently, which made Apollo wonder if
that was an honest opinion or a case of just buttering a superior.  It
didn't matter though.  He'd found out what he'd needed to learn from the
sergeant. Now the only question left was whether anything he and Sheba
learned from other sources would create a picture that would dispel the
doubts or deepen them. 

     Sheba's designated "office" as Deputy Squadron Leader, was little
more than a small cubicle adjacent to the female barracks, with her own
desk that took up almost the entire length of one side of the room with
space only for a chair and one more person.  Because of the cramped
confines, she seldom used it, finding it better to conduct any work that
required a desk right in her own quarters.  Today though, marked a rare
exception, since her office offered the convenience of being closer to
the Officers Club than their quarters, which made it a more practical
rendezvous point with Apollo. 
     When Apollo arrived, he saw his wife already there, seated on the
edge of the desk instead of the chair, since using it would have left
almost no space for Apollo to maneuver. 
     "Hi," he said, "What'd you find out?"
     She shook her head, "Just about nothing.  They all wrote Mattoon off
as a cold fish so long ago, it's immunized them from having any interest
in developing any kinds of meaningful insights into what makes him tick. 
All that matters to them is that Mattoon knows how to do his job well, is
polite and courteous to women, regardless of rank, and never does
anything to offend, but prefers not to make the slightest of small talk
with them."
     "And that hasn't changed at all, not even in the last few sectans?"
     "Not a bit. Mackin's known him the longest of any of the girls in
the Squadron, and she thinks he's even more than his usual aloof self
when it comes to the opposite sex."
     Apollo put a hand to his chin, and idly rubbed his beard in
contemplation, a gesture that had come instinctively to him as it had
gotten thicker with each passing day.  "Giles thinks he's looser than
usual, and the women think he's colder than usual."
     "And from your standpoint, what does that add up to?"  Sheba asked
pointedly. 
     "Not enough to justify taking him off the mission," he shook his
head, "Maybe he's trying to make peace with the past in some ways, but
he's not at the stage where being more relaxed with women is part of the
package.  At any rate, it's not enough to suggest there's a time bomb
inside waiting to go off."
     Sheba grimaced slightly, "I'll level with you, Apollo.  If this were
my call, I'd say pull him.  Or at the very least tell him he has to wait
another sectan, which would give us some more time to study his case."
     "Well it's not your call, Sheba, and I say we have to proceed.  We
just don't have the time to spend days on end studying the behavior
patterns of one man to see if he has the potential to be a security
risk."
     "I guess not," his wife admitted reluctantly, "A sixth sense isn't
enough for this kind of thing, like it is when you're out flying a deep
patrol and you think there's an enemy force about to descend on you
despite what the scanner says."
     "Exactly.  It would be easier to make a call if it were," he
absently looked up at the ceiling, "Oh for the wisdom of the Lords!" 
     "You said it. I could use some of that myself.  I guess that's it
then," she rose from edge of the desk, "Lunch then?"
     "Yeah.  Oh, and by the way, Starbuck will be joining us."
     "Really?" she was surprised. 
     "Yeah," he quickly recapped the details of his conversation with the
brash warrior, "I think he wants to move beyond all the felgercarb of the
last few sectans.  And I'll tell you, that really makes me feel good. I'd
like to see the old Starbuck."
     "I'm glad he's moving forward," Sheba nodded, "Let's not keep him
waiting."


     As Mattoon made his way through the corridors of the Galactica, he
made a conscious effort to keep his head erect at all times, and to give
a friendly smile of acknowledgment whenever he came past a fellow warrior
or crewman headed in the opposite direction.  His methodical mind that
had been plotting every move he would make in the final days of his life,
had dictated that a fundamental key was to act friendly and cheery with
everyone he saw. If he looked withdrawn and moody, it could all too
easily make people wonder what was wrong with him and start unnecessary
conversation with others that could have just the slightest potential for
disrupting his plans. And with so much riding on the outcome...the very
survival of Colonial Civilization as far as he was concerned, and the
salvaging of the honor and dignity that had been lost in entering this
unholy alliance with Baltar and his crew of Cylons...his mind wasn't
going to let that slight chance of disruption happen. 
     He reached the Ordnance center, which was the next stop on his
itinerary.  While he had a primary plan in place for how he would carry
out his mission that would reignite the war, he also knew that he needed
a backup plan, and a visit to the weapons arsenal, where warriors and
security personnel would come to have their laser pistols recharged, or
to pick up weapons packs for planetary missions, was key to the backup
plan.  He intended to have four thermal hand detonators at his disposal
to use against the Cylons if he decided that he would have to land his
viper aboard the baseship and use them to take down as many centurions as
he could.  While that would not offer the same immediate potential of
guaranteeing renewed hostilities that he knew his primary plan of suicide
mission would, it was still something that he knew would be certain to
cause a collapse in the detente arrangement by leaving the Cylons
incapable of any belief that they could keep working with the humans. 
     Mattoon inserted his right hand into the scanner that would open the
door after reading his prints and DNA. Only pilots and security personnel
were entitled to have this kind of access to the Ordnance center.  Other
crewmen who didn't carry firearms as part of their routine duty were
totally prohibited from any access to the facility and could only gain
entry with a special signed authorization form from either Colonel Tigh
or Commander Adama.  He was glad that access to this facility was routine
for pilots like him, since it meant that his presence wouldn't be seen as
anything out of the ordinary.  
     When he entered he saw that his luck was with him in more ways than
he could have expected. The Security Guard on duty at the main desk was
Corporal Lepus, and he knew that for the last two sectars, Lepus had
become the least perceptive man in the detail.  Ever since he'd been
busted in rank for insubordination during the mission to the so-called
"weather planet", Lepus had become surly and moody, showing little
enthusiasm for his job, which Mattoon knew he really couldn't blame him
for.  His punishment carried a minimum penalty of one yahren before he
could be considered for reinstatement to his former rank of sergeant but
Lepus was savvy enough to know that the usual wait time generally
averaged at two yahrens.  It was enough to make Lepus realize that his
career in Security was likely dead in the water, and so all that was left
for him was to count the days remaining in his enlistment term, and
resign at the first opportunity. But that was nine sectars off, and until
then, banned from all but the most mundane of work, the ex-sergeant could
only pass the time stewing in discontent. 
     And for Mattoon, that meant that Lepus was not apt to scrutinize his
movements and actions inside the Ordnance center in any detail. Which
suited him just fine. 
     "Morning, Lepus," Mattoon kept his tone more neutral than friendly,
since he knew that Lepus's surly mood would not make him receptive to a
too friendly greeting.  If anything, being too friendly likely would have
made Lepus snap back with a "What's so good about the morning?" kind of
remark and draw him into a too prolonged discussion.  And Mattoon wanted
this to be as perfunctory a discussion as it possibly could. 
     When Lepus looked up and saw the pilot, his sour expression softened
just a bit out of professional courtesy, "Oh, hello Sergeant.  Need
anything?"
     "Yeah, my laser pistol needs recharging," he detached his pistol and
dropped it on the desk in front of Lepus.  "I'm getting things in order
for deep patrol tomorrow and all my equipment's got to be checked out."
     "Just a micron," Lepus made some notations on his computer terminal. 
He was required to keep track of all warriors who visited and what
requests they made.  "Okay, you're entered into the database.  Go back to
the charger."
     "Thanks," he moved through the Security Door, and over to the back
of the room where the equipment for recharging laser pistols and rifles
was kept.  And as Mattoon well-knew from so many visits here before, the
charging equipment was right next to the storage locker containing
thermal hand detonators, satchel chargers, limpet mines, and other
portable ordnance. 
     As he plugged his laser pistol into the device, he slowly turned
around and saw Lepus, twenty metrones away at his desk, his back totally
to Mattoon so that there was no way he could see the sergeant even in his
peripheral vision.  Slowly, Mattoon turned on the charging machine which
let out its familiar telltale hum.  It would take no more than two
centons before a beeping sound would emit and indicate that his laser was
fully armed and ready. 
     As the humming noise filled the room, and as Mattoon kept his eyes
on Lepus's uncomprehending form, his hand slowly reached for the handle
to the storage locker and pulled it open. There were no locks on the
storage compartments, nor alarms at the Security Desk since it was felt
that the regular security procedures for access to the room were
sufficient to make the need for locked cabinets and alarms a needless
redundancy. Especially if during a Red Alert situation, speed would be of
the essence in handing out ammunition to a warrior who needed it fast. 
     Any sound of the door opening was more than drowned out by the sound
of the laser recharger doing its job.  Mattoon calmly reached inside and
removed two detonators with their safety catches on, and stuffed one in
each inner pocket of his uniform jacket.  Two more disappeared into the
top of each boot.  And then, still looking forward and making sure that
Lepus wasn't moving a muscle, he closed the door and felt it shut
securely. 
     One micron after taking his hand off the handle, the beeping sound
emitted from the recharger, indicating that his laser was ready.  He
reached for his weapon, and saw Lepus turn around slightly at just that
instant.  Mattoon gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment, but no smile as
he checked it, then put it back in his holster and made his way back to
the desk. 
     "That's it," Mattoon said. 
     Lepus grunted indifferently and pushed the datapad across which
Mattoon then signed. The last bureaucratic detail had been taken care of.

     "Later," the warrior said as he made his way to the door. Even
before he stepped out of the Ordnance Room and back into the corridor,
the security guard had once again become indifferent to his presence. 
     As Mattoon walked away, he couldn't help but think about how by the
end of tomorrow, once things had settled down following the
implementation of his plan, there was little doubt in his mind but that
Lepus would find himself busted in rank even further. 


     Adama had spent his designated morning centar aboard the Bridge
before returning to his quarters to handle the mundane matters his jobs
as Fleet Commander and President of the Council required of him.  He was
glad that his office had always been an easy workplace environment,
giving him room to move about and think if he ever needed to indulge in
those respites of contemplation that were required before making a tough
decision.  He knew of other commanders who were more prone to put their
feet up on their desks when contemplating, but he'd always been more of a
pacer by instinct.  And that had been true even when he'd been at home,
and he'd listen to Ila commenting more than once how his penchant for
pacing was liable to wear out the carpet and force her to buy a new one. 
     A tough decision was now crossing his desk that for once had nothing
to do with the ongoing matter of the detente relationship with the
Cylons. But it still struck him as difficult, since it cut to the heart
of his sense of ethical propriety. 
     No other long-range goal mattered more for Adama than the hope of
finding Earth, and finding more evidence about Earth.  In recent sectars,
there had emerged more evidence about Earth thanks to a slow lifting of
the fog surrounding the perpetual enigma of a man known only as "The
Silent One."  A one-time prisoner in the Proteus Colony, who had never
said anything to his fellow inmates, but whose legacy of a drawing in his
cell that Starbuck had studied, followed by an untranslatable journal in
his personal effects, had been enough to indicate Earth as his place of
origin.  And then, there had come a breakthrough during their time at
Brylon V when some records kept by the Zykonians, and some firsthand
information from a strange alien lifeform named Ozko Balzokian, revealed
a story of two Earth ships visiting Zykonian space at one time, many
yahrens ago.  
     From there, Adama had been able to piece several other bits of
information together.  Where had these Earth ships gone after their stop
at the Zykonian outpost of Krylamic?  The answer had come from Apollo in
his earlier experience with Sheba aboard the Derelict ship of Count
Iblis's where the cryptic remarks of the late Colonel Delambre of the
Battlestar Callisto, and the witnessing of two transformed humans into
demonic minions wearing uniforms that matched the descriptions of the
Earth crewmen, told a tale of the Earth ship likely having been enslaved
by Iblis.  And in all likelihood, the "Silent One" had been the only one
of the crew to escape, ending up somehow adrift in space to be captured
by the Protean enforcers, and to spend the rest of his days in mute shock
over the trauma of his experience and the lonely fate he'd been consigned
to. 
     That was the general outline of what had happened. But so much else
remained unanswered.  When had this expedition left Earth?  The answer
could reveal so much about the potential state of Earth's technology at
this point in time, and offer some indication of whether Earth was at a
technological level capable of fighting the might of the Cylon Empire. 
And that was certainly the most important question that needed answering
about Earth, because there was every reason to believe that with the loss
of one baseship and the defection of a second, the Cylon Empire would at
some point attempt to resume the chase with even greater numbers. If the
people of the Fleet, who often had to struggle just to believe in the
mere *existence* of Earth, could have some reassurance that the place
where Adama had committed themselves to finding when they had begun their
flight from the Colonies was indeed a place capable of giving them
long-term safe haven in a technologically developed society, the effects
on morale would be enormous. And Adama also knew that in this changed
relationship of detente with Baltar and his crew, knowledge of a
technologically advanced Earth would provide further incentive to these
Cylons to stay allied with them. 
     Because so much remained unanswered, it was important that someone
with some insight into what this Earth ship and crew had been like be
available to react to any future evidence that emerged.  And only
one...person, if he could be called that, fit that criterial.  The
Calcoyrn, Ozko, who for the last sectar had been a new addition to the
Fleet's population.  The result of missing his transport back to his home
planet, and accepting an invitation from Adama to come with them, in the
hopes that at some point, the Fleet would cross paths with another race
in another planetary system that could get him home. 
     But...there was a part of Adama that from the outset that had known
that was wishful thinking.  And that Ozko Bolzakian, who was now plying
his trade as a musician aboard the Rising Star in the luxury ship's
Empyreal Lounge, stood a greater chance of never seeing his home planet
again.  Which from Adama's standpoint would be beneficial, because it
would guarantee the Calcoryn's presence to be able to respond to any new
questions.  One thing Adama had already learned from his previous meeting
with Ozko was how imprecise and inconsistent the Calcoryn's memory could
be. It had not been until the second conversation with him about Earth
that Ozko had  remembered the basic detail of having conversed with the
Earth crew at one time, and understanding part of their language.  That
information had been vital in providing a few hints for Professor Pliny
to continue his never-ending quest to translate the Silent One's journal,
but it also offered a reminder of how Adama could never feel one hundred
percent certain that Ozko's memory had been picked clean on the subject
of what he knew about the Earth crew and what other clues could he offer
about Earth as it was now, especially if he were given a chance to react
to any new evidence they came across in their ongoing journey?
     And so, Ozko remained in the Fleet, and Adama knew he had a source
to potentially rely on.  And yet, the Commander also understood what a
profound ethical dilemma that put him in.  Didn't he have an *obligation*
to level with Ozko and let him know that the chances of him ever finding
a way back to his home planet by hooking up with another race in another
system were increasingly remote with each passing day and sectan?  And
that if Ozko still wanted a chance to get back home, he would have to get
off at the next planet, ship or station  they came across with an
intelligent race and run the risk of becoming marooned with them, if they
couldn't follow through?
     He thought back to how Apollo had been so passionate on the subject
of letting the Terran family of Michael, Sarah and their children
continue on their journey with no interference from them. Even though
there had existed at the time, the potential to learn key information
about Earth, ethics had dictated letting them go because it had not been
the right of the Colonials to keep them prisoners just to serve their own
selfish needs. Didn't that apply to Ozko?  Granted, Ozko wasn't human,
and to most humans would have seemed more like a plant than a true
sentient being.  But this whole experience with the Cylons had, as his
conversation the previous day with Anton revealed, told him much about
having to develop a sense of ethics when it came to dealing with
machine-beings.  Ozko certainly deserved no less. 
     Oh for the wisdom of the Lords!
     Yes, Adama thought.  He *would* have to level with the Calcoryn and
let him know what the odds were on his getting home at this stage. And if
Ozko then made it clear to him that the sooner Adama could oblige him on
that, the better, he would do all he could to accommodate him.  Even if
that meant potentially losing more helpful information to unlocking the
secrets about Earth. 


     As Apollo and Sheba warmly greeted Starbuck, and settled down for
lunch with him in the Officer's Mess, Blue Leader knew it wouldn't be
long before he'd know if the earlier conversation with Starbuck in the
corridor represented a true turning point.  If things became awkward and
forced in short order, then Apollo would find himself worrying that his
old camaraderie with Starbuck was one step closer to becoming a thing of
the past. Starbuck had taken the difficult first step, and he had
reciprocated by agreeing to the meeting, and now the ball was back in
Starbuck's court to prove that he'd meant what he'd said about wanting to
move on from the difficulties of the last few sectans and try to
recapture the old feelings of friendship that had grown strained in that
time. 
     It didn't take long for both Apollo and Sheba to realize that
Starbuck was following through.  Their lunch was filled with lighthearted
banter about Chameleon's budding new enterprise dealing in rare Zykonian
liquor, followed by further lighthearted talk about what names would
Athena and Boomer pick for their twins, once they arrived.  Starbuck also
made certain to get in a few more quips about Apollo's beard, which the
captain knew was entirely for Sheba's benefit, since Starbuck wanted to
hear Sheba openly say a word in defense of her husband's new look.  Sheba
didn't disappoint on that score, and even made sure to get in a barb at
Starbuck about how a beard could only mean an improvement for *his*
appearance by breaking up the monotony of his face. 
     All-in-all, as they finished off lunch, it proved to be a productive
conversation. Just like so many Apollo had shared with Starbuck over the
yahrens going back to their Academy days, when they would chat about
exams and flight instruction seminars in the Mess Hall.  Apollo, as
senior to Starbuck, would always know just how far he could go in sharing
information and giving tips to an underclassman without crossing a line
that would be considered an unacceptable breach of protocol.  Starbuck
likewise, would understand Apollo's position and recognize that for any
underclassman, the key to proving one's mettle as a would-be warrior
wouldn't come from upper classmen giving away all the answers as a result
of their own experiences.  And so, with both men recognizing the limits,
that opened the way for them to have the kind of easygoing banter on
things unrelated to class work and flight training, which for any
friendship was essential. 
     Just like old times, Apollo thought, as he swallowed the last bit of
food from his lunch tray.  But there was still one thing he was waiting
for, and that was when Starbuck was going to "get a few things off his
chest" as he'd said he'd wanted to do during their conversation in the
corridor. If Starbuck didn't do that, then Apollo would end up leaving
this lunch gathering convinced that all matters hadn't been taken care
of, and that things were *really* back to normal with Starbuck.  There'd
still be too much room in Apollo's mind to believe that Starbuck was
holding back a good deal of bitterness inside, and if that was the case,
then there was no way in Apollo's mind that this kind of easy bantering
they'd just been enjoying would be the long-term norm. 
     Apollo decided it was time to test the waters on that, "So tell me,
Starbuck," he said gently, not wanting to sound threatening or that he
was trying to force him to talk, "You said earlier that there were a few
other things you wanted to get off your chest, if we got together for
lunch."
     Starbuck took a deep breath which seemed to indicate that he'd been
waiting for this moment, but had been letting the easy banter act as a
way of putting it off until the last possible instant. 
     "Well," he said, glancing first at Sheba, as if he was trying to
avoid looking directly at Apollo.  "Yeah, there were. It's about...this
whole damned situation we're in. I...guess, like a lot of others, I was
keeping what I thought about all this close to the vest, just like
Command ordered us to.  Well...the longer it went on, the more I begin to
realize it was just making me more and more angry."
     He paused a centon, looking side to side, as if checking who was in
earshot before he leaned conspiratorially closer to the couple.  "I'm not
talking angry as in 'I just caught the barkeep watering down the grog
again, I'm taking about wanting to shoot Baltar dead at first sight
angry."  Starbuck paused again as Apollo carefully controlled his
features.  "I know, I know...It sounds pretty crazy, but that bastard has
impacted my life a little personally lately, and I never thought I'd be
spending centars trying to find ways to keep my father occupied, so he
isn't just sitting in his quarters looking at holopics of..."
     Starbuck abruptly stopped.  Apollo and Sheba were both looking at
him intently, both of them knowing they couldn't dare say a word until
they knew for certain he was finished. 
     The blonde warrior took a sip from his tankard before continuing,
"All that aside, if we're really...I mean *really* going to be dealing
with this kind of changed situation with Baltar and his crew of Cylons
for the long-haul, keeping things bottled up and seething in righteous
indignation and murderous anger is not going to be helpful when it comes
to doing our jobs right."  He then grinned ruefully, "At least the way I
see it."
     "Starbuck," Apollo finally felt it was safe to speak, "When you say
keeping this bottled up, you're talking about what you say to those like
me, aren't you?  It's not as if you haven't let off steam to anyone at
all."
     Starbuck sighed and absently looked down at the table, idly pounding
the end of an unlit fumarello against it.  He seemed reluctant to
continue. 
     "Starbuck, it's me.  Spit it out."  Apollo's tone grew just a bit
more forceful. 
      The blonde warrior sighed, "You're right I have talked about this
with others.  But there's not a lot I can say to Cassie unless it
concerned Chameleon, since..." he shrugged almost apologetically, "Well
you pretty much put a gag order on any of us expressing our opinions on
this matter, buddy.  I know you meant well, but frankly this thing
knocked most of us on our astrums and we needed to get it off our chests. 
I actually...well I sort of fell into a regular card game with a group of
guys who were just as choked as me."
     "Fell into it?" Sheba asked. 
     "Absolutely," Starbuck averred, "Believe me, I didn't advertise. 
They just kind of migrated toward me.  I guess I don't contain my anger
well," he smiled slightly, "Who knew?"
     "I might have noticed a time or two," Apollo kept his tone neutral,
"So you vented with other  pilots.  But never Boomer, I take."
     "Nah, Boomer's too busy learning to puff his way through
contractions. Besides, his being a squadron leader would have been deemed
too dangerous by any of us in the group since that would have constituted
mouthing off to someone in high authority."
     "Well now's your chance then," Apollo said, "As far as you're
concerned this whole thing smells worse than the livestock ship does when
the ventilation system breaks down."
     "Perfect analogy," Starbuck chuckled without mirth and finally
looked Blue Leader in the eye, as if Apollo's remark had served as a
needed icebreaker that could make him relax just a bit more.  "Anyway...I
got to thinking just the other night that it was time for me to get this
out of my system.  Not just in general, but with you, Apollo.  I guess
for a while I felt that gag order transcended even our friendship.  There
was a time I could tell you what I thought no matter how much I knew you
wouldn't like it, and you would still value my opinion.  You'd still
listen."
     "It's been a tough few sectans, but I'm listening now."
     Starbuck nodded, again leaning forward, and this time lowering his
voice.  "When you see up close how wild-eyed some guys can get when
they're expressing *their* displeasure over the whole thing, it makes you
think a little harder about how you wouldn't want to end up like that."
     "What do you mean, Starbuck?"  Sheba frowned. 
     "I mean I got a good look of just how ugly a guy's inner soul can be
when he's letting this whole thing fester. I mean, at first I actually
thought it was doing us all some good.  Most of the guys seemed to settle
down a bit a after raving about it all.  But one guy didn't.  It wasn't a
pretty picture and it...well frankly it kind of made me ashamed of what
I've been thinking the last few sectans since it became a done deal."
     "It's okay, Starbuck," Apollo said gently, "It doesn't surprise me
at all. This...well nothing we were trained for as warriors covered this
kind of scenario.  It's only natural that we'd all...resent the whole
damned thing.  I mean...Kobol knows, *I've* felt it too."
     Starbuck looked at him more intently, saying nothing for almost a
half centon. 
     "I guess you have," the blonde warrior finally said, "I...suppose
it's easy for all of us pilots who aren't in positions of authority to
think that someone like you and the Commander can just shut all of that
out in the name of duty and not let it eat at you, but...I guess that's
really not how it works at all."  He shrugged, "I guess growing that
beard didn't hide a pretty good Pyramid face of yours after all."
     "Don't sell yourself short, Starbuck," Apollo knew it was time for
more reassurance, "You're Deputy leader of Red. So what you did with the
others, letting them vent, is probably more beneficial than not.  They
were following your lead, and as much as it might horrify you to hear it
out loud, you probably gave them the outlet they needed to keep it
together.  I didn't even think about that, because I was so busy and
Sheba was too, just trying to help prevent a catastrophe from happening."
     He then leaned closer across the table, "Starbuck, if it were up to
me and I could work my will, I sure wouldn't have us living this way. 
But...I don't know, I guess I've been able to find my ways of letting off
steam in my own way and keeping it from eating at me. We all have to find
our ways of doing that."
     "And that goes for me too, Starbuck," Sheba interjected, "There've
been nights these last few sectans where I've actually been grateful my
father isn't here with us, because given his...impulsiveness, I really
wouldn't like to think of what he'd do if he..." she stopped, not wanting
to express the thought any further.  It pained her enough to think that
her father could be capable of cracking in response to something like
this, but she had known her father long enough to realize that the
possibility of it had to be conceded. It didn't do any good to deny it. 
     Starbuck now had his attention focused on them both, "I guess it
helps having each other to...let  off steam to, if you have to." he
sighed, "So many of us who are...unattached, we don't have that luxury. 
I mean...it's not as if I hold back everything from Cass, but...it does
make a difference when you're sealed to each other. Plus the fact that
you're both warriors.  No worries about breaching confidentiality.  I'll
be the first to admit that."
     "You don't have to think not being sealed is a barrier to it,
Starbuck," Apollo said, "Close friends.  Family.  They can serve the same
function, which is why we're glad to let you do it in front of us, right
now."
     "Yeah," Starbuck nodded, "And I appreciate that, Apollo. Really. I
mean, if I have to handle this situation from now on, do I *really* want
to find my mind contemplating doing some..." he stopped and shuddered. 
     "Doing what?" Apollo leaned forward, keeping his voice empathetic,
"Starbuck, don't feel embarrassed. Whatever's gone through your mind at
one time or another is a normal reaction for anyone when it comes to
something like this.  Especially considering Claudia."
     Starbuck allowed himself a mirthless chuckle, "You mean I'm not
going to end up in the brig for mutinous thoughts passing through my
mind, after all?"
     "Hey Bucko," Apollo said, "You're talking to someone who can
remember the first time you ever expressed a mutinous thought aloud.  The
day the Academy Commandant revoked all freshman cadet furlons for two
sectars because someone put the dead skorpius in his bed."
     "Really," he looked at him with an amused air, "What did I vow to do
to the old man?"
     "I think you were suggesting that it be a live skorpius the second
go-round."  He paused, "It would have just been a matter of following the
same path you took to his quarters before, wouldn't it?"
     Starbuck smiled thinly, "I never fessed up to putting the dead one
in his bed."
     "You didn't have to," Apollo returned it. 
     "I guess not," his friend sighed and rubbed the back of his neck,
"Okay, you got me there.  But...would you call trying to find an excuse
to restart the war and do to those Cylons what the whole Empire did to
us, the same thing?"
     "I might," Apollo said, "If the thought only crossed your mind a
bit, and you didn't let it go beyond that."
     "Well...it's crossed my mind more than once, Apollo. But nothing I'd
ever say aloud, at least in the wrong company.  I guess that's the reason
why I let it go through my mind more than once the last few sectans. It's
just...the first time I ever *said* it aloud to anyone...well that's when
I saw a reaction that really jolted me."
     "I've heard you talk about that more than once," Sheba knew this was
mostly a conversation between Starbuck and her husband, but she still
wanted to be a participant and choose the moments when she could
interject something.  "I won't ask you to name any names, because that
wouldn't be appropriate, but...what kind of occasion was this?"
     "Oh...it was the usual  Pyramid game the other night," Starbuck
waved his hand.  "All of us Raving Renegades, as we call ourselves.  And
in-between the high stakes we were playing for, we...well we were all
loosening our tongues a bit, talking about how we wished we could shove
Baltar out an airlock.  How we wish we could take the centurions apart
and find new creative ways to use their bodies for new machines and
gadgets. Someone was even speculating all the different devices Wilker
could create from one centurion.  And then there was speculation about
selling Cylon heads as new light fixtures."
     "Sounds pretty tame actually," Apollo said. 
     "Yeah, but then...one guy, he just said in the ugliest tone of voice
that the only way anything like that could ever happen would be if
someone had the guts to take things into their own hands and  force the
issue.  I remember how that kind of brought everything to a halt for a
micron in the game, and we all stopped looking at our hands and looking
over at the guy who said it.  He just...had a real wild-eyed look in his
face and then said aloud that if it were up to him, he'd give a medal to
the first guy who could create an incident that would force us to destroy
them once and for all and to Hades Hole with standards of fair play and
all that sense of honor that we're supposed to represent."
     "Was he drinking?"
     "Oh yeah," Starbuck nodded, "A lot more than the guy normally
touches.  I really don't think he was aware of the game much. Hades, this
is one of the guys who usually sticks to himself.  I was  surprised he
even joined in the game.  It's not his usual M. O."  He then winced and
shook his head, "Frack, I've said more about him than I'd want to
anyway."
     "I guess so.  " Apollo  felt the words of his next sentence stick in
his throat as a sudden flash went through his mind.  And with it came an
awful, sick sensation as he realized that there was a question he was
going to *have* to ask Starbuck, even though it would represent a total
breach of propriety and ethics to do so.  A question that would be enough
to conceivably make Starbuck think he was being used and taken advantage
of to play informant, and that would end this heartfelt attempt to
restore their old sense of friendship. 
     For the moment, he could only feel grateful that his new beard could
actually conceal his inner feelings since ordinarily he'd be displaying
flushed cheeks and telegraphing that something was wrong.  It at least
would give him a precious centon to collect himself and figure out where
to go from here. 
     To his relief, Sheba hadn't noticed him, and was directing herself
toward Starbuck again. 
     "So when you heard all this, it was...something new?"
     "Yeah," Starbuck sighed, "I mean...that was the kind of stuff I'd
let myself *think*.  A lot of times over the last few sectans, but...when
you hear it coming from someone else and it looks as ugly as that guy
made it look...well, like I said, it's like looking in a mirror and not
liking what you see.  And I guess it's because that image of him was so
stuck in my mind that I wanted to...hook up with you and finally clear
the air after all this time.  Kobol knows it's going to be so tough to
accept this.  And this isn't what I want to see us do, but...I am a
warrior. And there's a lot of pride that goes into that, and what it
means and...no warrior worth his salt *ever* wants to contemplate losing
that sense of pride in what it means to serve the Colonial Nation. 
That's one lesson we're all taught to remember from the Academy on,
and...Apollo, I just only wanted to say that if you ever hear me
grumbling about all this from now on, just...cut me some slack.  Cut all
the other guys some slack.  If we know that you're on the same wavelength
with us about how rough this is, then...there's no need for me or anyone
else for that matter, to think stuff as bad as what that guy was saying
aloud  in a drunken state."
     "You think that guy is the exception, and not the rule, as far as
the Raving Renegades go?" Apollo had collected his thoughts now and
decided to probe as gently as he could. 
     "I wouldn't know that, Apollo," Starbuck said, "I can't guarantee
that I wouldn't have said something as awful as he did if I'd had a few
extra glasses of ambrosia or ale. And I guess it's because I couldn't
guarantee that for myself or anyone else, that's why it was disturbing to
finally see someone, anyone do it.  But most of the others looked as
unimpressed as I felt.  I can tell you that."
     "I really think deep down, all of us in the Fleet, no matter what
job we have, would probably say something that bad if we'd had a few
rounds too many and we didn't have other ways to let steam off," Sheba
said, "So don't worry, Starbuck. People like Apollo and me...we
understand completely and know it could be any one of us."
     "Yeah," Starbuck seemed to relax, "I guess...that's it.  I really
think the worst stuff is easier to bear when everything between friends
and family is on an even keel;.  At least for me."
     He noticed that there was no reaction at first from Apollo, whose
head was lowered slightly, as if he were trying to avoid eye contact with
Starbuck. 
     "Apollo?" Starbuck asked and waved his hand slightly in front of
him. 
     The captain finally forced himself to look at him. His devotion to
his friendship with Starbuck  was now colliding with his devotion to duty
and his obligations as a squadron commander, and if he didn't pursue this
in light of everything else that had happened in the last day, he'd never
be able to live with himself.  Especially if, God forbid, there was
actually something to be concerned about. 
     "Starbuck," he said quietly, "Ordinarily I would never ask this
question. And I'm going to make this as easy as I possibly can so that if
I'm wrong, it isn't going to mean what you think it does."
     "Huh?" Starbuck frowned, "Apollo you're talking like an Aquarian
poet all of a sudden."
     Apollo took a breath, "Starbuck, just answer one question for me. 
Was the pilot who shot his mouth off, Sergeant Mattoon?  If it wasn't,
then it's none of my business who it was, but if it was Mattoon, I *have*
to know."
     Sheba's eyes widened in unexpected surprise, especially given how
skeptical her husband had been of her suspicions.  Unless he heard
something from Giles that made him ask?
     Starbuck's reaction was one of mostly disbelief.  Not anger that
Apollo had asked, just a sense of disbelief that Apollo could have
guessed right away. 
     "Apollo," the blonde warrior said quietly, "I'm going to assume you
have a *very* good reason for asking."
     "I wouldn't ask you otherwise.  You *know* that, don't you?"  Apollo
was equally quiet. 
     Starbuck studied him like he was deciding whether or not to place a
large wager on an unsure bet.  Finally, he nodded his head, "Yes, it was
Mattoon."
     "Oh my God," Sheba whispered and lowered her head which caused
Starbuck to glance at her with a deeper sense of disbelief. 
     "Apollo," his voice remained quiet.  "Mattoon's had to have done
something else, hasn't he?  If he has, you'd better tell me what it is
after all I've told you."
     "Starbuck," Apollo didn't hesitate, knowing his friend was right on
that point, "What if I told you that yesterday, Mattoon came up to me and
personally volunteered to the point of pleading that he take part in the
first integrated patrol with Cylon fighters tomorrow?"
     Starbuck's eyes widened and then he blinked twice as if he wasn't
sure he'd heard right. 
     "Starbuck?" Apollo prodded, feeling a growing sense of urgency
within him. 
     "You got to be kidding," his friend finally said, "You don't mean
you drafted him and he had no choice..."
     "No," he interrupted, "I mean he *volunteered*.  Talked about how he
felt it was important to set an example for the rest of the pilots and
how having a regular pilot in the first integrated patrol was important
for morale."
     "Apollo, I can't believe he'd do that. *No* one I know would in
their right mind volunteer for that. We'd do it if we were ordered, but
Good Lords of Kobol, the way all of us were sounding off, that's the last
thing any of us would volunteer for. And Mattoon least of all, after the
stuff that came out of his mouth."  He stopped and felt a wave of horror
go through him, "My God, I just said  that looking at Mattoon was like
looking in a mirror and...Apollo if he's volunteered for that assignment,
it can't possibly be because he's thinking of group morale.  Mattoon's
the last guy in Blue or Red Squadron who thinks about things like that,
he's only been concerned with trying to keep his sanity in check the last
couple yahrens since the Destruction happened."
     "Apollo," Sheba said quietly, "We have to pull him off the mission."
     "At the very least," her husband nodded, "But I don't think it can
end with just that.  If Mattoon wants to do something rash that could
blow the whole detente apart, then he can't be allowed to get another
chance sometime.  We have to...we have to expose him."
     "How are you going to do that?"
     "At the very least, we have to get the Commander to authorize a
search of his effects.  Maybe he's got something stashed away, or written
something down that exposes all this."
     "Kind of a slim hope even if it is true that he's sailed off the
deep end."
     "We have to start with that, and if we find nothing, then we
confront him and have a long talk  with him," Apollo said.  "And of
course...if we find something, we'll then have to confront him in a
different way."
     "Then we'd better end this luncheon, right now," Starbuck's tone was
deathly serious, "And I'm going to tag along and do what I can to help
you get the Commander's approval for a search."
     Nothing more needed to be said as they rose from the table and
hurried out of the Officer's Mess. 
     

     After leaving the Ordnance Room, Mattoon wondered if he should go
back to his quarters and  stash his booty of stolen detonators in his
trunk for safekeeping.  He wouldn't actually need to be carrying them
until the next morning, when he intended to get up a centar ahead of the
rest of his fellow pilots and give him the privacy needed to get dressed
and have them at the ready without anyone noticing. 
     When he checked his chronometer and saw that it was close to the
general luncheon cycle period, he decided that it wouldn't be safe to try
and stash them away now. This was the time of day when many warriors
often preferred to skip going to the Mess Hall, and grab some extra rest
in their bunks.  That meant too much of a likelihood of being spotted. 
     What to do instead?
     He suddenly found himself filled with a sense of nostalgia for how
he had spent his entire career as a warrior serving aboard Battlestars. 
It seemed appropriate then, that he should spend the last day of his life
just walking about.  And taking in all the familiar sights one last time.

     So be it.  He would spend the next few centars with his detonators
in his jacket pocket safely hidden, while he walked the corridors of the
Galactica unnoticed by everyone else. 

Chapter Five

     When Apollo, Sheba and Starbuck arrived in Adama's quarters, the
captain didn't waste any time getting to the point.  He only needed three
centons to telescope all of the essential information, and once he was
done, he was blunt about what needed to be done next. 
     "We need to have Mattoon detained, and then we have to make sure his
quarters are searched to see if he's done anything that points toward all
out sabotage of the mission tomorrow."
     His father looked at him with a hardened stare of total neutrality. 
     "Apollo," he finally said, "There isn't just the slightest chance
that the three of you are adopting a somewhat...paranoid attitude?"
     "No sir, I don't think there is," Starbuck decided he needed to jump
in.  "What I saw of Mattoon at that card game was the look of a man with
so much hate inside him, there's no way in Hades he'd  then decide to act
selflessly and volunteer for the sake of morale."
     "Why not?" Adama interrupted.  "Let's just look at the other side of
the coin, Starbuck.  You don't allow for the possibility that Mattoon's
been doing his own self-reflection about things he's said and felt
inside, and figures that this could be a way of making amends for that?"
     Starbuck wasn't sure how he should respond to Adama.  He knew he had
to choose his words  more delicately with the Commander, and avoid any
sign of losing his temper.  Starbuck had not appreciated the fact that
Adama had basically forced Starbuck to be the one who would tell
Chameleon about Claudia, and he couldn't let any lingering resentment
about that surface now. 
     Fortunately for Starbuck, Apollo decided to answer his father's
question. 
     "Ordinarily, Father, I'd say yes, that is a legitimate possibility
to consider.  But there are too many little things that add up to
something a lot more horrifying. When you start with the premise that
Mattoon wants to sabotage the mission in a way that will re-start the war
with these Cylons, and end his life in the process, then that would
explain a lot of the little things he's been doing the last few sectans
ever since the battle.  Growing his moustache back. Asking Giles if he's
got holopics of his late wife. It's like...it's like how the old rulers
of Kobol used to prepare themselves for their burial, by trying to look
exactly as they wanted to look in their journey to the afterlife. 
Mattoon would want to look exactly as he did to his wife, and would want
to take a picture of her with him for his journey because he expects to
die in a blaze of glory tomorrow."
     "It's an interesting theory, Apollo," Adama said, "But if I were to
authorize a search of Mattoon's quarters, *and* had him detained, and
there was nothing to your suspicions, the political ramifications could
be more disastrous than you could ever imagine. And right now, with a new
Council about to be elected, and my gaining an unwelcome Council
Vice-President in the form of Siress Lydia, that's the last thing I can
afford to have. Because if I start to look unstable, think of what that
could do to Baltar's willingness to keep up the whole detente."
     "Believe me, Commander, we understand the risks you're facing,"
Sheba knew she had to speak up and make this a truly united front.  "But
not acting on this would constitute a far greater risk."
     "I don't disagree, Sheba, but there have to be better ways of
handling this situation.  For now, I certainly agree that he should be
pulled off the mission, and I can provide cover for you, Apollo, by
telling him personally that I would rather concentrate on having the
squadron commanders interact with each other on the first mission. That
would give us time to see how he'd react, and a chance to study his
behavior further."
     "Commander, I don't think that's going far enough," Apollo was
emphatic.  "If Mattoon *is* contemplating something horrible, then
pulling him off the mission isn't going to be enough.  We have to nip
this thing in the bud right *now* and not give him a chance to stew
further about this. For all we know, a delay might give him a chance to
start looking for other hotheads to form a veritable private  army that
might decide to lead a mutiny someday.  We just can't take that risk."
     "So what are you suggesting?" Adama clearly didn't like where this
was going, but he wasn't about to cut his son off and end the matter
right now. 
     "Maybe we should have his quarters searched first, without him
knowing about it.  At this stage of the game, Mattoon has to have
something in his effects that would expose him.  If we find something,
we've got him.  If not...then we would have to at least have a long talk
with him to see just how he really feels, and maybe he'd end up tipping
his hand there."
     "So what it boils down to, is that plan A is a surprise search of
his personal effects without his  knowing, and plan B is an
interrogation. Both of which, done without any prior tangible proof to
justify those courses of action according to the due process standards of
Colonial jurisprudence."
     "Well, Commander," Starbuck injected a slight edge in his tone, "He
doesn't have to know about the search, if nothing turns up. What he
doesn't know, can't possibly hurt him."
     Adama noticed the slight edge, and wondered if that was in any way a
veiled reference to the whole matter surrounding Claudia and Chameleon.
Even if it was, he wasn't about to drag that in.  He could at least cut
Starbuck that much slack. 
     "What's his duty schedule, now?" Adama asked quietly. 
     "Pretty much off-duty as far as designated assignments go," Apollo
said. 
     "I want to first make sure, he hasn't left the Galactica," Adama hit
the switch to the bridge, "Omega, this is Commander Adama. Please check
the main computer to see if Flight Sergeant Mattoon signed out at any
time to leave the Galactica."
     "I'll have that in a micron, Commander," the Bridge Officer's voice
came back over the intercom. As he waited, Adama idly drummed his fingers
on the desk. And then, the reply came. 
     "He hasn't signed out, sir. Do you want me to have him paged over
the unicom?"
     "No," Adama said firmly.  "No, that won't be necessary.  Thank you,
Omega." he switched  the intercom off and the activated another button,
"Security, this is Commander Adama."
     "Yes, Commander?" Lieutenant Castor's voice came through clearly. 
     "Castor, I have a very delicate assignment that I want you to handle
personally.  Check the warrior barracks to see if Flight Sergeant Mattoon
is there, and if he isn't, I want you to open his service locker so
Captain Apollo and I can go through his effects. We'll stand by until we
get word from you that he isn't there."
     There was a brief silence on the other end which indicated that the
Chief of Colonial Security was slightly caught off-guard by the request. 
But Castor was never the type to question an order, so an instant later
he was acknowledging with total deference. 
     "Understood, sir, I'll be on mini-comline channel D and let you know
if you can proceed."
     "Thank you, we'll be waiting.  And Castor, see to it that two other
men are stationed outside the barracks once we get started and have them
keep all other personnel out until we're finished. ."
     "Yes, sir," Castor then ended the connection,
     "Just you and Apollo?" Sheba asked with a none-too-pleased air. 
     "Yes," Adama said firmly, "If this thing backfires, it's best that
you and Starbuck be kept out of the matter completely.  I as Commander,
and Apollo as Strike Leader, would have the only legitimate authority to
engage in such a search. If you were involved, it would...complicate
matters."
     "Sheba, I think he's right," the last thing Apollo wanted to see,
was his wife's temper flare up at an inopportune moment, even though he
sympathized with her anger on this. If he, as her husband, had to take a
risk, then she wanted to face that risk equally. It was hard for her to
accept the moments when Apollo's senior position of leadership would make
that impossible. 
     "Starbuck?" Adama inquired, "Do you object?"
     "No," the blonde warrior sighed, "I don't like it either, but...I
see where you're coming from.  We'll wait and see if the news is good or
bad."
     "Let's get started, Apollo," Adama rose from his chair.  "We haven't
a micron to spare."


     The first place Mattoon came to was the now empty Flight Operations
Center of the Galactica.  Coming here held meaning to him because it was
one place on the battlestar that looked absolutely identical to its
counterpart version on the Solaria. All he had to do was envision the
different battlestar insignia hanging on the wall, and the illusion would
be complete.  He could think of himself as visiting the same spot on his
old ship, recalling so many special memories from his six yahrens of
service. Of his first day as a Solaria pilot, and overcoming the
nervousness when his fellow cadets from Warrior Training School had
managed to put him at ease with some good natured ribbing.  Of  hearing
Commander Remus give a friendly introductory speech that further put him
at ease, and made him enjoy every element of being a Solaria pilot. 
     Most importantly, he could remember that one day when he'd been able
to bring Jana and Abigail aboard the Solaria and take pride in showing
his wife and daughter where it was that he worked. The Solaria had been
in for repairs at a Colonial spacedock,  leaving all of its crew on
detached assignments for the next two sectars.  Little Abby, only four
yahrens old, and already developing an understanding that her daddy
couldn't be home to see her all the time, had frequently asked her mother
if she could see where it was her daddy worked.  When Jana had told her
husband about that, it made Mattoon decide he should approach Commander
Remus and see if certain sections of the battlestar, deemed as
non-essential from a security standpoint, could be opened up to
visitations from crew families while the Solaria was in the spacedock. 
He was pleased that Remus was immediately receptive to the idea, feeling
it would be great for the morale of married crewmen if they could impress
their spouses with a greater understanding of how important their work
was. That way, the wives who had to shoulder the burden of staying at
home would perhaps feel less bitter about the separations, and enable the
marriages to survive for the long-haul. Remus had seen too many instances
of marriages that hadn't been able to survive the separations, and he
wasn't about to let the crew of his ship add to the divorce statistics.  
     Not that Mattoon himself would ever have had to worry about becoming
part of the divorce statistics. Jana had always been understanding from
the beginning, knowing that her husband only wanted to put in ten yahrens
of front-line duty, and then he'd gladly make the sacrifice of shifting
to duty that would keep him at home. But even though he planned on being
around for when Abby entered her teen years, he knew it was important
that she get an introduction at an early age as to why her daddy was away
so often.  If she spent those early yahrens with as clear an
understanding of that, then Mattoon knew his daughter would appreciate
the closeness they'd be sharing in later yahrens to come all the more. 
     As he stepped in front of the podium, which Apollo or Adama would
ordinarily stand behind when giving a briefing, he could look out at the
empty seats and see them filled with Solaria crewmen, himself included,
and he could see so many wives and children seated next to them or lining
the back walls of the room.  He could stand at the podium and hear
Remus's friendly voice talking all about the important functions of a
battlestar and how the men and women who served aboard the Solaria
performed the most valuable tasks any warrior in the Colonial Service
could be called upon to do.  And then, Remus would ask one of the
children in the audience to come up to the front, and he would gladly
play the role of a kindly uncle or grandfather, asking the child who
their daddy or mommy was, and what he or she knew about what their parent
did for a living aboard the Solaria.  Inevitably, the child would say
something that would have the rest of the audience in howls of laughter. 
Such had been the case when Remus had called for the little blonde girl
in the front row to step forward. 
     "And what's your name?"
     "Abby."
     "Your daddy works on the Solaria?"
     "Yeah."
     "Where is your daddy?"
     Abby would then play hard to get for a micron which the audience
found endearing, and then with a cute little girl giggle, would point out
at the audience to her father, sitting in the front row. 
     "Oh, I do believe that's Corporal Mattoon.  Do you know what he
does?"
     Abby chuckled twice and then said impishly, "He runs the whole
ship."
     Some loud laughter erupted and Mattoon, while still smiling, now
found himself settling lower in his chair. 
     "How do you know he runs the whole ship?"
     "He told me."  More laughter erupted, and Mattoon knew he was going
to hear it good from all his buddies at the next get-together. 
     "Did he tell you what I do?"
     Abby looked wide-eyed at the Solaria commander and then shook her
head, "No."
     "Do you know who I am?"
     "No."  And still more laughter. 
     "Well you just remember this, Abby.  I'm the one who makes it
possible for your daddy to run the whole ship, because he knows that if
it wasn't for me, he wouldn't be able to be on this ship for him to run."
     Remus had said all that with a kindly twinkle in his eye, and it
managed to get the biggest laugh of all.  The Solaria commander had a
special way with children that made Mattoon admire him all the more.  He
wouldn't have wanted to serve on any other ship. 
     "You forget something, Sergeant?"
     Mattoon abruptly felt himself jerked back to the harsh, sad reality
of the present when he saw Sergeant Call of Blue Squadron enter the room. 
A young man of nineteen, clearly the recruit pilot that Call would be
responsible for training personally, was right behind him. 
     "Oh!"  Mattoon flushed a deep shade of red, "Sorry, I.... thought I
dropped my chronometer here earlier.  Turned out I was wrong."
     "I see," Call nodded, "Anything else you need?  I'm just giving
Cadet Stiles here a tour of the place."
     "Don't worry, I'm going.  See you!"  the sooner Mattoon was out of
there, the better.  He hadn't been prepared to see anyone else at that
instant, and the longer he stayed the more he risked being dragged into
an unwelcome conversation. He hastily made his way past Call and Cadet
Stiles and was out in the corridor within microns. 
     The young cadet seemed confused, "Is he okay, sir?"
     "I guess," Call shrugged, not knowing enough about the man to have
any feelings one way or the other.  "Meantime, what's say I show you what
this room is all about."

     "Barracks are all clear, Commander.  Standing by."
     "Thank you, Castor," Adama switched off his mini-com and then he and
Apollo proceeded down the corridor that led to the barracks. Corporal
Lomas and Sergeant Komma had taken up positions outside the door, to
prevent anyone else from entering.  The two of them came to attention
when they saw the Commander, who acknowledged them only with a slight
bow, as he and his son entered. 
     Castor was standing over Mattoon's foot locker holding the cutting
device that would break the  seal on it. It was clear the Security Chief
wasn't going to make the slightest move until Adama personally gave him
the okay. 
     "Okay, Lieutenant," Adama nodded his head, "Do it."
     Castor reached down and cut open the lock. He then lifted open the
door and stepped back, as if he wanted no part of actually going through
the sergeant's personal effects, which was exactly the case. 
     The Commander came up to the open locker, knelt down and started
going through the numerous objects it contained, removing first the
sergeant's extra set of boots.  
     "Well, he doesn't have any objects he shouldn't be carrying," Adama
grunted.  "And this paper stuff is mostly decorations...would have to be
replacement ones for whatever got issued to him before the Destruction."
     Apollo had come up alongside his father, looking down over his
shoulder.  He knew this was one of the most distasteful things anyone
could be asked to do, but once his father had made the decision to do it,
there could be no holding back. It had to be the most thorough search
possible. 
     "Father, what about that envelope there?" he pointed. 
     Adama stopped, and saw the old style envelope that warriors in the
pre-Destruction era often used to drop off letters to home at various
communication outposts whenever they were on deep space patrol.  This one
was sealed as if ready for delivery, as opposed to being one that had
been received at one time in the distant past to be cherished forever. 
With great hesitation, he picked it up, wondering if his resolve would
crack on this point.  It was as if Adama had felt there was a distinction
to be made between what lay in the open, and a sealed message that had to
represent something deeply private and personal.  And now, if he was to
perform his duty to the fullest, he would have sacrifice that distinction
and open it. 
     Why must this whole infernal detente lead to things like this? He
thought with disgust as he reluctantly slit open the envelope with his
finger and removed the document inside.  He cautiously folded it open,
hoping that the first glance would show something innocuous he could then
put back. 
     "My dearest Jana.  It won't be long before I see your face again."
     "Father?" Apollo gently tapped him on the shoulder.  Adama had spent
more than a full centon reading the contents of the document.  The
commander's expression was firm and stoic, but Apollo could see a great
sadness in his father's eyes, reflecting emotion that he knew his father
wasn't going to show any other sign of. 
     Slowly, Adama got to his feet, pocketed the letter, and calmly
turned to Castor. 
     "Find Sergeant Mattoon now, and have him detained in the brig for
questioning." he said quietly, but with a dead seriousness that made the
security chief's blood rush cold.  "Treat him carefully. He's to be
considered potentially unstable, and might do something rash."
     "Yes sir," Castor nodded in understanding, "Do you want a unicom
announcement to go out?"
     "Not yet," Adama shook his head, "He might suspect he's been found
out if that happens.  Just inform all guards throughout the ship to keep
an eye out for him and then act with the greatest caution possible."
     Castor nodded and walked out of the barracks.  Alone, Apollo turned
back to his father, who was staring off into space with a look of grim
sadness. 
     "Father, what did it say?"
     "I'm not going to let you see it, Apollo," his father shook his head
without turning around.  "I'm ashamed I had to read this, and I don't
want to compound that by letting anyone else read it.  Let's just say
that...all of your hunches and Sheba's and Starbuck's are one hundred
percent correct." he sighed, "What comes after this...could be more
difficult than how we've been handling the whole detente relationship up
to this point."
     "You mean what kind of discipline?  Good Lords of Kobol, you're
right, if he ends up getting  kicked out of the Service and committed to
medical treatment because he's cracked, the effect on the rest of the
pilots..."
     "Let's just hope that all of them were like Starbuck when they saw
his reaction at the card game, Apollo, and that they know their limits on
how far they can carry their anger over the detente," Adama said quietly,
still not looking at his son, "If Mattoon isn't unique...then God help us
all."
     "It can't be that way, Father," his son tried to sound reassuring,
even though he knew he was contradicting the point he'd made in Adama's
office earlier, about how Mattoon could have the capacity to recruit a
private army.  As far as he was concerned, it was more important to give
his father all the support he could get at a difficult time, just like he
had done so many times in the past. 
     "I'd like to think so, Apollo," Adama sighed, "We've gone through so
much upheaval and turbulence these last few sectans.  None of it changes
the fact that the right decision was made back then, but...I can see how
making that decision is now putting us through the greatest test we've
ever faced as a people.  And I can't believe that we've been brought this
far, and rewarded as we have, only to see it end because our own men
couldn't handle this kind of adjustment."
     Suddenly the door slid open and Castor was sprinting back in with a
deeply concerned look on his face. 
     "Commander," his voice matched his expression, "I sent out word to
all Security personnel on their comlines to look for Mattoon, and...he
was in the Ordnance Room not half a centar ago getting his laser
recharged."
     Adama's eyes narrowed, "That means we have to regard him as armed
and dangerous."
     "The unicom announcement, sir?" Castor prodded. 
     The Commander hesitated for a brief instant but then shook his head,
"Not just yet.  Who's on duty in the Ordnance Room?"
     "Corporal Lepus, sir."
     "I want a word with him to find out just how Mattoon was acting." 
He motioned to his son, "Come on, Apollo."
     They left the barracks, and took the trip down one deck level to the
Ordnance Room. When they entered, they saw that Corporal Lepus wasn't
behind the security desk, but was at the back of the room hunched over in
front of the open ammunition storage locker with a seemingly frantic air.

     "Corporal!" Adama barked. 
     The ex-sergeant spun around in response to his voice.  Adama and
Apollo could see the frightened look of a man who sensed that what was
left of his career was now over. 
     "What is it, Corporal?" Adama's voice was never more stern and
angry, "What is it?"
     Lepus was backed against the open locker, like a little boy
frantically trying to back away from a parent he knew was going to
administer the strap. 
     "Sir," he whispered, "Mattoon, he...he took four hand detonators out
of the locker."
     The shock on both Adama and Apollo couldn't have been any greater.
But on the commander it quickly gave way to the most intense rage
possible. 
     "And made off with them without your noticing?!" Adama thundered at
the top of his voice. 
     "Sir, I----," Lepus seemed ready to break down in sobs, knowing he
couldn't say anything that would make it better.  He had committed the
worst act of negligence a Colonial Security Guard could ever be capable
of, and he knew it. 
     Disgusted, Adama went over to the console and hit the switch. 
"Security, this is Commander Adama!"
     "Yes sir!" Castor immediately responded. 
     "Castor, the situation has changed. Sergeant Mattoon is carrying
four hand detonators with him and is to be considered armed, dangerous
and mentally unstable.  Approach him with extreme caution with weapons
set to full stun.  And I want Alpha and Beta Launch Bays closed off
immediately!  As soon as he realizes he's been discovered, I don't want
there to be the slightest chance of him stealing a Viper!"
     "Yes sir!" Castor's voice went up. 
     Adama looked back only once at Lepus and shook his head with the
greatest amount of disgust  he could summon, but said nothing to the
security guard. If anything, that only served to magnify the sense of
shame in Lepus.  Adama then turned back to his son, "I want you to get
Starbuck, Sheba and any other pilot you trust to join in the search. 
Between keeping vital areas secure and looking for him, Security's going
to be undermanned enough."
     "Especially with one less member in the detail," Apollo said coldly,
eyeing Lepus briefly before  he turned his back on him and followed his
father out of the room.  Only when they were out in the corridor did he
decide to ask any more questions. 
     "What about the unicom announcement?"
     "That's the last thing I'm going to do now that I know he's armed
and dangerous.  If we broadcast a unicom ordering his arrest, he knows
we're onto him, and then he'll probably be mad enough to start taking
hostages or something else.  We have to get this done as quietly as
possible."
     His son nodded grimly and he moved off down a different corridor
that would take him back to where Starbuck and Sheba were waiting.  


     After his hasty exit from the Flight Operations Center, Mattoon
quickened his pace just a bit as he went further and further into the
battlestar's interior. The more he could get away from the sight of other
people and just get the chance to have a few last introspective centons
to himself, the more at ease he'd be before tomorrow.  Tomorrow, there
would be no time for any introspective thoughts about Jana, or Abby, or
past friendships with long-dead crewmates from the Solaria.  Full
concentration on the job and making *absolutely* certain it happened
according to plan was all that would matter then. 
     He took the turbolift down which opened to an empty corridor that
led to the ship's solium storage tank area.  This place held interest to
him because the counterpart to this room on the Solaria was the place
where raw recruit pilots often found themselves assigned to as part of
disciplinary action if they ever ran afoul of their superior officers. 
Not simply to take the place of a Colonial Security Guard who would
ordinarily be manning the duty station, but to also pitch in with the
maintenance crew to help check for leaks and then perform the tricky
details of cleaning up any potentially hazardous leaks. 
     Given how one unchecked leak had the potential to destroy a
battlestar if a fire broke out, no one ever liked being assigned there
for disciplinary duty. Not because they lacked faith in the safety
systems built-in to the tanks, but because standing in their presence for
a sustained period had a way of making one self-conscious of the
potential for danger, and once one started getting self-conscious about
those things, that was never pleasant for any warrior. 
     That was the feeling Mattoon remembered well when Commander Remus
had given him a probationary assignment in the Solaria's storage tank
area one day, and Mattoon always felt that the experience had been good
for him.  It had made him more aware of how when one was out there in a
viper trying to react under the pressure of battle conditions, there was
never any room for any sense of self-consciousness about the danger. 
After one sectan of probationary duty, spending eight centars each cycle
surrounded by the tanks of volatile fluid, Mattoon had emerged convinced
that he'd never  have to worry about cracking under pressure in battle
again. And as far as he was concerned, his battle record attested to
that. 
     He reached the door and stuck his hand into panel that would read
his prints and DNA and give him the free access to the room, just as he
had received it for the Ordnance Center.  The doors slid open and he
stepped in, taking note of how impressive it always was to leave the
low-ceiling, cramped  confines of the corridor and then step into the
high, open area of the storage room, where suddenly each footstep one
took sent a distinct echo throughout the room.  
     The Duty Station was to the immediate left of where Mattoon had
entered.  Sergeant Thomson was on duty and as soon as he heard the door
open, his eyes went up and locked onto Mattoon. Immediately, the Security
Guard knew that he couldn't betray the slightest sign of emotion. 
     "Afternoon, Sergeant," he said cheerily, "What brings you here?"
     "I'm on detached duty right now.  Just wanted to see if there was
anything I could do," Mattoon said evenly. 
     "Well, nothing much going on. We haven't got any fuel distribution
matters to take care of for at least another cycle or two, so you kind of
came by at the wrong time if you wanted to help."
     Mattoon then let out a disarming grin, "I kind of figured that. I
wouldn't have stopped by if I actually thought I *was* needed."
     "No, I guess not," Thomson returned it, and then quietly reached
under his desk for the button that would activate a silent alarm that
would be visible only on Athena's console on the Bridge.  Once he'd done
that, he then rose from his chair.  "Just taking in the sights?"
     "Yeah, I guess so. I'm kind of celebrating an anniversary. Six
yahrens ago, I drew probationary duty here, and I always wondered if
things had changed much."
     Thomson frowned slightly, "I thought you came from the Solaria?"
     "Oh.  Well, yeah, that's what I meant.  I had duty in the Solaria's
storage area.  Sorry, I guess I kind of...forget once in a while."
     "Understandable," Thomson nodded and slowly made his way out from
behind his desk, making sure his hands remained nowhere near his
pistol."The Solaria and the Galactica were built around the same time, as
I recall.  They were practically identical."
     "Yeah," Mattoon said wistfully, his eyes slightly askance in the
direction of the tanks, which rose to a level of three-quarters the total
height of the room. 
     But as he seemed to keep looking off to one side, he still had from
the corner of his left eye a good view of Thomson drawing slightly
closer.  And suddenly, when the guard was no more than  eight feet away
from him, Mattoon abruptly whipped out his laser pistol and pointed it at
the Security Guard. 
     "Don't make a move," his voice suddenly changed to a menacing
whisper.  "You're real good, Thomson.  A lot better than that idiot Lepus
in the Ordnance Center, but not enough to fool me."
     "Sergeant, give it up," Thomson didn't change his expression.  "A
full alert's been put out on you.  Whatever it is you're planning, it's
finished."
     Mattoon recoiled slightly, as if he'd been delivered a blow to the
chin.  He frantically began to shake his head even as he kept his pistol
trained on Mattoon.  "No.  I swear by all the Lords, it's not over.  It's
not going to end this way!"
     "The entire Security Contingent is going to be converging on this
room in less than two centons,"  Thomson's voice remained even, "You
haven't a chance."
     "Do I?" Mattoon suddenly swung his pistol away from Thomson and then
pointed it the nearest storage tank.  "Then maybe I should just take this
ship with me!"
     Thomson's eyes widened, indicating that he'd been caught off guard. 
"You can't explode that tank with one shot, Mattoon."
     "I could with more than one shot, and since I'll gladly shoot you
down if you try to stop me, that gives me the upper hand, doesn't it?" 
Mattoon suddenly snarled.  "Now lock that door, now!  Do you hear me? 
Now!"
     Thomson felt a rising level of frustration in him that he hadn't
been able to defuse the situation.  Events were already revealing just
how dangerously unstable Mattoon was, and that this was going to require
diplomacy from those in higher authority. 
     "Okay," Thomson raised his arms in the air, "Okay, I'll do it."
     "Drop your gun first and kick it across to me," Mattoon swung his
pistol back toward Thomson, "Do it!"
     Thomson slowly obliged, and then went back to his duty station,
where he activated a switch.  The sound of bolts locking into place then
filled the room indicating that the door was totally locked and secure. 
     Literally fifteen microns after the bolts had been activated, there
was a violent pounding from the other side, which indicated the arrival
of the rest of the Security team. But just a little bit too late. 
     Mattoon, kept his pistol trained on Thomson and let out a malevolent
smirk. Events had suddenly gone out of control for reasons he couldn't
fathom, but he knew if he wanted to salvage any hope of fulfilling his
dream, he couldn't dwell on what had gone wrong.  Now it was time for him
to demonstrate just how good a warrior he really was and practice the
fine art of improvisation in battle conditions to the fullest.  Because
as far as Sergeant Mattoon his last battle had now commenced.  And he was
determined to still come out the victor. 

Chapter Six

     As soon as Adama got the grim report on what had happened from
Castor, he wasted no time getting back to the Bridge, since he knew this
situation would have to be monitored from the Galactica's Command Center.
Apollo, Starbuck and Sheba had rejoined him on the Upper Level along with
Colonel Tigh. 
     "Our timing couldn't have been worse," Adama grunted, "Of all places
to have trapped him, it had to be the most vulnerable part of the
Galactica, where he'd actually have a chance to threaten the ship's
safety."
     "To think he's so far off the deep end that he'd have no qualms
about doing something like that," Starbuck could scarcely comprehend that
any warrior could be capable of what Mattoon was doing now. 
     "Or it could be a giant bluff on his part," Tigh pointed out, having
been hastily brought up to speed on what this was all about, "A bluff to
get us to make some concessions to him."
     "And if that were true, his 'concessions' probably involve something
just as catastrophic," Sheba said, "Something we couldn't possibly let
him get away with."
     "Plus, the fact that he has Sergeant Thomson as a hostage
complicates things further," Apollo noted. 
     "Only to a point, Apollo," Adama had his hands behind his back, his
expression as hard as it had been at any time in the yahrens he'd
commanded the Galactica, "In a worst case scenario, Thomson has to be
regarded as expendable.  He knows that, and we have to be prepared to
deal with a situation where that might be our only choice. But for now,
that's strictly the worst case scenario and if we can avoid it, that's
what I want to do."
     "Shouldn't we be trying to contact him, and see what he wants?" 
Tigh asked. 
     "Not yet," Adama shook his head, "Let him make the first move on
that.  It'll only be a matter of time before he'll want to state what his
demands are, so in the meantime let's weigh our options on what it is we
*will* do."
     "Seems to me, the answer's pretty obvious on what we should do,"
Starbuck said, "Use the Zykonian transport device and get Mattoon out of
there. Once he's out of the Solium room, our biggest problem's solved."
     "I've considered that, Starbuck, but the problem is we've never used
that technology before on a target *inside* the Galactica, and there's
also the fact that we're dealing with too much sensitive equipment in
that room.  I'm having Wilker run computer tests to see what might happen
if that were activated on a target in the storage areas.  If there's any
potential risk that could trigger a solium explosion then that option
goes out the window, completely."
     "And where would that put us then?" Starbuck was dubious.  "You're
not suggesting we blast our way in?  Once we tried that, he'd just have
to make one shot at the tanks and it's all over."
     "No, I don't mean that. I was thinking more on the lines of some
kind of...surreptitious entry."
     "Surreptitious..." Apollo's eyes slowly widened as he then caught
on, "You mean infiltrate the storage room through the duct vents?"
     "That's exactly what I mean," Adama turned to one of his consoles
and activated a switch.  In an instant, some detailed blueprints of the
Galactica came up on the screen.  "Ever since that  catastrophe when the
Cylon suicide hits nearly destroyed us, I've had Maintenance make
adjustments to many of the duct vents that run throughout the ship,
specifically widening them to allow them to act as an escape route should
anyone find themselves trapped in a fire zone. It's still a long-term
work in progress, but we *have* widened the duct vents that lead directly
to the storage room, coming out here," he pointed at the screen, "In the
right side wall of the room. There's also an additional vent opening in
the ceiling from this direction. If we can't use the Zykonian transport
beam, then our only option is going to be taking him out from these
points."
     "Which will require one or two of us going through the vents to take
a shot at him," Apollo said, "That's going to require the most precise
timing imaginable."
     "Aren't we forgetting something?" Sheba interjected, "Mattoon has a
bunch of hand detonators in his possession.  By this point, he's got to
have taken into account that he has a better chance of blowing the Solium
tanks if he just has one of them out and ready to detonate.  That means
we could run the risk that taking a pot shot at him, will just mean that
when he falls to the ground he'll let a detonator go and that's still the
end."
     "Good point, Sheba."  Adama nodded, "We *will* have to factor that
in, but in the meantime I think we have to agree that infiltration is our
*only* option absent the Zykonian beam.  The report from Wilker will tell
us which way we go." 
     "Commander," Athena called over, "Sergeant Mattoon wants to talk to
you on Alpha Channel line."
     "How considerate of him to use a secure circuit," Tigh grunted with
disgust. 
     "He wants to stay off a vid-com circuit and not let us see what he's
up to," Adama grunted as he picked up his headset, "He's no fool, and
that's what makes him more dangerous than we could possibly imagine."
     A micron later he had the headset on and hit the switch.  For now,
this would be a private conversation.  "Sergeant Mattoon, this is
Commander Adama. I am ordering you to stand down immediately and
surrender to Colonial Security."
     There was a heavy sigh from the other end and when Mattoon spoke the
regret was unmistakable. 
     "Commander, I am sorry, but I can not in good conscience do so.  You
must instead listen to my demands and carry them out for the good of our
people."
     "Sergeant Mattoon," Adama decided he would stay calm and gentle for
now, "You are a warrior.  A warrior with a distinguished record, who has
served the Colonial nation honorably.  There's no point throwing all that
away senselessly."
     "Commander, don't bother appealing to my sense of honor as a
warrior.  That's the very reason why you've left me with no choice.  I
would have preferred to do it tomorrow during the integrated  patrol, but
this way will have to do. One way or the other, things will be set
right."
     "What do you mean, Sergeant?" Adama maintained his tone, "How do you
define setting things right?"
     "By putting an end to this dishonorable alliance you've forced us
into, sir," Mattoon said, "If honor means anything to you, you'll agree
with me that a sneak attack on Baltar's baseship is essential, and that
the sooner we destroy him, the better off we'll all be."
     "How will we be better, Sergeant?  You're talking about seeing
people die in a battle that need not happen.  How is that better for us?"
     "Better that some of us die in a necessary battle today than lose
our whole sense of honor...no damn it, we'll lose our souls if we keep
this up!" Mattoon suddenly snapped.  "Commander, *how* can you have us
live this way?  Forcing us to spend each day of our lives *working* with
those monsters that killed everything we ever loved and cherished? 
Letting the man who betrayed us have a pardon and absolution?  That isn't
the kind of world I want to live in.  That isn't the world *any* of us
want to live in."
     "Most of us don't like the fact that circumstances necessitated this
arrangement, Sergeant," the  teacher-like edge from Adama was gone now,
and the harder edge of the Commander started to take over, "But you, I am
sure you will acknowledge, are unique in deciding that betraying your
oath as a warrior, and threatening the lives of thousands is somehow a
justifiable way of dealing with your bitterness."
     "If I'm betraying my oath, Commander, it's only because you and the
rest of those in authority betrayed your oath to our sense of honor by
agreeing to this."  Mattoon was steadfast, "And don't tell me that two
wrongs don't make a right.  All I'm doing is getting thing back to the
status quo, which is treating the Cylons and Baltar the way they should
be treated."
     "So what you want is a resumption of hostilities," Adama found
himself clenching his fist as a way of relieving the boiling anger he was
feeling inside, "And if hostilities aren't resumed, you somehow think
it's better to just destroy the Galactica and everyone else aboard. I
suppose you also realize that if there's a solium explosion, it won't
just destroy this ship, but most of the other civilian ships that are in
proximity to us will be destroyed or damaged in the shockwave."
     "Better we die with our honor intact than live this way."  Mattoon
said, "But if there is dishonor in our dying because I blow the tanks,
then let History hold you responsible for setting these events in
motion."
     "I happen to believe an individual is responsible for his own
actions, Sergeant," Adama suddenly grew cold, "Don't pass your personal
problems off to me.  I sympathize with the fact that you lost a good deal
in the Holocaust, but that can be said of everyone else in the Fleet, and
none of us  use that as a crutch to justify mass murder, which is all
you're doing."
     "You shut up!" Mattoon suddenly screamed, "I've got one of the
detonators out now, and if you say one more word I don't like I'll toss
it at the tanks!  Do you hear me?"
     Adama let five microns pass before he answered.  When he did, his
voice was back to the calm, gentle tone. 
     "Go ahead, Sergeant. What do you want, and what's your deadline?"
     "You have exactly one centar to launch a sneak attack on Baltar's
baseship and take him out," Mattoon said coldly, "I want to hear a full
Red Alert going, with launch orders being broadcast on unicom throughout
this ship."
     "One centar," Adama was indifferent. 
     "And that's as generous as I can get," Mattoon snapped, "Take that
time to formulate the best possible battle plan.  The way you've acted, I
should have given you a quicker deadline, but I'm still a Patriot who
wants us to *win* this battle."
     "I don't doubt you believe that, Sergeant," Adama said, "Will you
still be on this channel?"
     "As of now, the conversation is over, Commander!" he spat, "The next
time I hear your voice, I want it to be on Unicom giving a launch order."
     And then the transmission ceased.  Grim-faced, Adama slowly pulled
the headset off and then glared at Tigh. 
     "I want Wilker's report in the next five centons!"
     "Yes sir," Tigh turned and quickly descended the steps. 
     The Commander then turned to Apollo and Starbuck, "Regardless of
what happens, I want you two standing by at the entry points to those
duct vents, ready to go on my signal.  Apollo, you'll take position in
the vent leading to the wall.  Starbuck, I want you in the ceiling vent. 
You'll have to get ready to make a drop on him if it comes to that."
     The two of them knew they didn't have to ask him to explain
Mattoon's end of the conversation.  They both nodded and were leaving the
Bridge as fast as they could. That only left Sheba to await instructions.

     "Colonial Security forces are standing by outside the door," her
father-in-law said, "Go down there and lend an extra hand to them."
     "Yes sir," Sheba nodded and then hesitated slightly before leaving,
"Do we stand a good chance of stopping him?"
     "Whether it's a good chance or not doesn't really matter, Sheba,"
Adama was blunt, "It's something we *have* to do.  Because there's no
other choice for us if we're to survive."


     "You see, Sergeant?" Mattoon smirked with satisfaction as he stepped
in front of the security desk, from where he'd been talking to Adama, and
waved his pistol at Sergeant Thomson.  "I'm going to get some results."
     Thomson, forced into a sitting position on the floor with his legs
crossed, rolled his eyes and said nothing. 
     "Are you making fun of me?" Mattoon darted toward him and then
pointed the pistol at the security guard's temple. 
     "No, Sergeant," Thomson shook his head, "I don't think there's
anything the least bit funny about you."
     He pulled the pistol away and smirked again, "Just your way of being
sarcastic, then."  his eyes narrowed, "Meaning you don't think I'm going
to get some results."
     "Sergeant, I'm just a lowly security guard.  I'm not the one who's
going to decide whether you get what you want or not."
     "But you've got an opinion, don't you?" he began to circle around
him, ""You're a trained professional, Sergeant.  Just like me.  You've
got an opinion I'm sure I can respect."
     He looked up at Mattoon and glared at him, "You don't respect
Adama's judgment, so why should you respect mine?"
     "That's different."  Mattoon shook his head, "You're part of the
common folk, Thomson, just like me.  The ones who have to carry out the
orders the bigwigs give us, and live with them. You're not one of those
snitrads who corrupt themselves."
     Thomson could scarcely comprehend what he was seeing.  He was used
to seeing incompetence in the ranks of warriors and security guards. But
this was different. He knew that Mattoon was a good warrior with a good
record, and to see him fall apart this way defied everything he'd been
taught about what warriors were capable of.  Men who possessed this kind
of capacity for madness were supposed to be weeded out in the training
process.  They weren't supposed to be the ones who made it as far as he
knew Mattoon had gone in terms of service and honors. 
     That's the most chilling thing about this.  If he can crack, who
else could do the same thing?
     "Sergeant!" Mattoon barked and pointed the pistol at him again, "I
asked you a question!"
     Thomson knew he couldn't dare say a thing on that.  Tell Mattoon he
was right, and Mattoon would know it was insincere.  Tell Mattoon the
truth that Adama wasn't going to give him what he wanted, and Mattoon
would then change his tactics and make it more difficult for Adama to
plan something that would take Mattoon down.  His duty as a hostage was
to keep things on an even keel and not make it more difficult. 
     "I'm invoking my rights under Colonial jurisprudence to not say
anything," Thomson said, "You can give me that much at least, can you?"
     Slowly, Mattoon's angry expression dissolved into an unsteady smile
and laugh.  The kind of smile and laugh that only someone detached from
reality would have. 
     "Yeah," he said, "Yeah, you're right.  I shouldn't step on your
rights any more. Wouldn't be fair of me."  He moved back to the security
desk and pulled out one of the hand detonators from his jacket pocket. 
Then, he sat down at the terminal and lazily rolled the detonator in his
hand like a child handling a rubber ball.  
     Thomson felt too ashamed for Mattoon to keep looking at him. There
was little doubt that even if this ended well for him, he was never going
to be able to shake the image of the warrior's madness from his mind for
as long as he lived.  
     

     "Wilker's finished his report, Commander."
     Adama could already tell from Tigh's expression that it wasn't going
to be good news.  He half-wondered if he should even bother listening to
the Chief Scientist's explanation, since time was of the essence, but he
knew he had to digest the information for himself.  If there was the
slightest chance he could tell Wilker otherwise, he wanted to grab it. 
     The Commander came over to the monitor where Wilker's gray-haired
visage stared back at him.  "Your report, Doctor?"
     "I'm sorry, Commander," Wilker shook his head, "It all comes down to
a matter of side-effects."
     "Explain, but explain *concisely* if you please, since I don't have
much time."
     "Yes sir.  It just comes down to the fact that there's a lot of
electrical conduits and cables that run through the area, and without the
ability to pinpoint the exact spot where Mattoon is, since you indicated
he has the vid-com off, that would necessitate activating the beam on a
wide enough arc to guarantee transporting him.  But it would also
increase the risk of inducing a massive current in those cables and
conduits.  Or conversely, since you say he's holding hand detonators, the
beam could very well come into conduct with them, and induce detonation
of them while he's still in that sensitive zone."
     "Very well, Dr.  Wilker."
     "And there's also the potential danger from static electrical
charge-----."
     "That will be *all*, Doctor!"  Adama coldly cut him off, not wanting
to hear anymore.  "Thank you for your report."
      He switched the vid-com off and turned back to Tigh, "Tell Apollo
and Starbuck to move inside with pistols ready at heavy *stun* setting
only.  They're to have headsets on so they can  stay tuned into the
Bridge for further instruction on the secure link, and also they can keep
their voices down when they have to talk back to us, and keep Mattoon
from hearing them inside the vents."
     "There's almost as much potential for something to go wrong there as
there is with using the beam," Tigh grunted. 
     "Choosing between the lesser of two evils all over again," Adama
said with mirthless irony.  "What a pity that there are some people who
can't understand that basic concept in life."
     As Tigh moved off to carry out the order, the Commander came over to
his daughter, who was  maintaining a placid expression. To Athena's
surprise, she felt her father touching her shoulder with an air of
paternal reassurance. 
     "It'll be okay," he said under his breath, but loud enough for her
to here, "We'll get this defused."
     She was taken aback slightly, because this was not how Adama
ordinarily acted when a crisis came up.  On the Bridge, he never allowed
any matters of familial emotion to interfere with decision-making.  That
he would drop his guard this time clearly indicated the strain he was
feeling from this, and no doubt his concern for the safety of her unborn
twins was also making him more self-conscious than he otherwise would
have been. 
     "I know, Father," she whispered back, while still keeping her gaze
on her console, "I know it'll be all right."
     He nodded and then like a light switch going back on, resumed his
normal command bearing.  "Contact Siress Lydia aboard the Rising Star,
and tell her she's to see me in my office in six centars."
     Athena frowned, "Siress Lydia?"
     "Yes," Adama's tone was of resignation.  "Tell her, it concerns a
matter of importance that requires her being informed under Council
Statutes."
     His daughter shook her head slightly, since this also represented
something new.  She could never remember her father being this concerned
about the niceties of Council notification. 
     As Adama went back to the Upper Level, he found himself biting his
lip and feeling a rising tide of frustrated anger within him.  Anger over
the plight they found themselves in now.  Anger over  the attitude of
Mattoon, and wondering how many other warriors with similar attitudes
would he have to regard as potential enemies now.  And now, he would have
to oblige Siress Lydia in her new role as "Council Vice-President" by
giving her a full briefing on the events of the day, because if he didn't
then he was going to get more grief from the aftermath of this incident
then he would ever want to deal with. 
     Dear Lords of Kobol, please give me strength!
     About the only thing he could take solace in was that he didn't feel
the need to pray that Apollo and Starbuck do things exactly right.  Right
now, maintaining faith in their ability was about the only thing he had
to lean on at this point. 


     Apollo and Starbuck had taken up positions on opposite sides of the
Galactica, since both of them would have to enter the duct vents from
different locations.  They had both discarded their uniform jackets to
increase their freedom of movement, and wore miniature headsets set to
the same channel, which would enable them to communicate with each other.
Their lasers would be detached and remain gripped in the right hand as
they made their way forward. 
     Finally, the word came down from Colonel Tigh, and the two of them
went inside their respective vents. Since Apollo's would lead to the
wall, he only had to go up five rungs before reaching the horizontal
ductway that would take him straight to the storage room. By contrast,
Starbuck had to climb up some thirty rungs before he would find the
horizontal passageway that would eventually place him directly above the
room. 
     "Testing," Apollo whispered as low as he could into the mouthpiece
extension on his headset. 
     "Copy you just fine, buddy," Starbuck said, "I haven't talked this
low since my first trip to the Caprica City library when I was a kid."
     "Okay, good.  Let me know when you're in position."
     "Gotcha.  Even with the renovations it's still a little tight in
here."
     "Better us than Muffit to the rescue, unlike last time."
     "I won't tell Boxey you said that," Starbuck quipped.  "Don't get
that new facial appendage of yours caught in the ductwork."
     "Considering how long it's been since you got a haircut, I'd say we
cancel each other out on that score," Apollo was glad they were able to
bounce quips off each other. Without that, he would probably feel more
anger over the situation, combined with too much self-consciousness over
what was at risk.  
     Slowly, he crawled his way through the vent.  Fortunately he could
see where he was going since the duct holes that led to other rooms and
compartments enabled the light from them to shine through. Whenever he
reached a section where there was no other nearby hole, a red auxiliary
light offered sufficient compensation. 
     Three centons later, he saw the light coming from straight ahead,
which meant the end of the duct and the entry into the Solium Room. He
took a deep breath, and slowed his pace just a bit, wanting to minimize
the possibility of making any noise that Mattoon might be able to hear
from inside. 
     "Apollo?" he heard Starbuck's voice again. 
     "Copy," Apollo whispered into the speaker. 
     "I've reached the overhead.  I gotta tell you, I'd hate to have to
drop in on him, since the ceiling's a little higher than I figured. 
Probably five or six metrones."
     "You'll just have to brace yourself and try and land on your feet if
it comes to that, Starbuck," Apollo said, "I may be lower down, but
trying to remove the grille and getting in without him noticing would be
a lot tougher."
     "But you should have an easier shot at him."
     "That depends on where he's positioned. Can you see him?"
     "Just a micron...No...I see Thomson, and he's almost directly under
me.  Looks like he's been forced into a sitting position there."  He
stopped and shook his head, "Apollo if I were to drop in, I'd land on top
of him.  There's no way Mattoon is going to come underneath me unless he
comes directly alongside Thomson."
     "Maybe you can get Thomson's attention?"
     "Thomson would have to look up at the ceiling, and if he does that,
then Mattoon is going to do the same," Starbuck was blunt, "Apollo, I
could lie and go for an angled downward shot if he starts to come towards
Thomson, but if you want my honest opinion, I think you're going to be
the one with a better view of him."
     Apollo knew that Starbuck wasn't trying to finagle his way out, and
was giving him an honest assessment of the situation.  Grim-faced, he
drew closer to the end of the duct, flattening himself down as far as he
could go, and keeping his pistol pointed forward.  It gave him flashbacks
to the days of Academy training when he and all other cadets were
required to do a full session of ground infantry exercises that required
crawling across dirt and mud surfaces and pressing against them all the
while to achieve that maximum flattening effect.  The one difference here
though was that the  metallic surface of the duct was much easier to move
across. And he also realized that the thickness of his newly grown beard
gave his chin insulation from the cold discomforting touch of the
surface, which meant he could stay as low to the ground as possible for
the longest sustained period.  That would maximize his chances of getting
the best possible shot off through the grille work and it would also
minimize further the chances of Mattoon seeing him if he was as low to
the surface as he could go. 
     Add yet another reason why I'll never shave again. 
     Slowly, he extended the tip-end of his laser pistol through the
grille.  He could see into the open expanse of the storage room. 
Thomson, seated in the center offered a right profile view to Apollo. If
Thomson had been his target, he would have had the perfect shot.  From
the corner of his right eye, he tried to pick up where Mattoon was and
then he saw the warrior seated behind the duty station desk.  The angle
was such that Apollo could see Mattoon's left profile. The warrior's face
was not distinct, but the one thing Apollo took immediate note of was
Mattoon's hands.  The sergeant was lazily holding a detonator in his left
hand, rolling it over and over like a ball, while his laser pistol rested
in his right hand which he kept on top of the duty station console. 
     "Starbuck," Apollo decided to chance the lowest possible whisper
into his headset mouthpiece.  To his relief, there was no movement from
either Thomson or Mattoon. 
     "Yo," he heard the blonde lieutenant. 
     "I'm in position. The way I see it, we need to fire simultaneously
at him the instant he gets close to Thomson.  If he's right next to him
on either side will he be in your line of fire?"
     "Affirmative on that. The way Thomson is centered beneath me, all I
have to do is adjust the angle a tiny bit to get anyone who'd be next to
him."
     "Well we need to synchronize angles from our vantage points." 
Apollo whispered.  "I'm using  the right profile of Thomson as my base. 
The instant Mattoon is directly in front of Thomson on his right side is
when I will fire. Can you pinpoint that spot from your angle."
     "Give me a micron."
     The microns seemed to stretch an eternity for Apollo as he waited,
but finally he heard his friend's voice through the headset.  "All set. 
I've got my tip pointed down and the base target is five degrees from his
right profile.  If you're targeting straight on to there we should hit
anything in that spot right at the same time."
     "Let's get our signal word set," Apollo said, "When I want us to
fire on him, I'll say "mark" and then you're to open fire at the same
time I will."
     "Copy. I guess it's a waiting vigil now to see if he'll move in that
direction."
     "This is Tigh," for the first time, the executive officer's voice
came over their headsets.  "I've been keeping silent and letting you two
work this out yourselves since this is your tactical game, but  I should
remind you both that you haven't got time to do a waiting vigil. Mattoon
has a fixed deadline for his demands to be met, and we can't stall
forever just to get him to move into that one position."
     "Then if it comes to that, Colonel, I suggest you contact him and
come up with something that will *get* him to move in that direction,"
Starbuck decided  it was more prudent for him to reply, given that he was
further away from where Mattoon was.  "Our options are too limited.  If
we try to take the grilles off and jump in, he's probably going to have
more than enough time to toss that detonator at the tanks."
     "Start considering the likelihood that you may *have* to go that
route if time slips away, Starbuck!" Tigh retorted, "If nothing's
happened in the next twenty centons, I want you to start making
preparations to take the grilles off where you are and move in, because
by that point he's going to start getting more desperate to see some
action."
     "We copy, Colonel," Apollo wanted to end the conversation right now
and resume the vigil.  "Standing by in position, and will await your
signal when you want us to change tactics."
     And then, Apollo carefully wrapped his finger around the trigger of
his laser, saying a prayer to the Lords that the easier solution would be
presented to them. 

     "Status?"  Adama inquired of Tigh. 
     The executive officer lowered the mouthpiece of his headset to keep
his conversation with the Commander private.  "Not good.  They're in
position, but unless Mattoon walks over to one designated spot, they'll
have to force their way in and take their chances."
     "Which is the least preferable alternative," Adama shook his head
grimly.  "Maybe we should stall for time somehow."
     "That would require convincing Mattoon that we're about to launch an
attack on Baltar."
     Adama put a hand under his chin and then activated one of the
switches on his upper level console, "Castor, this is Adama.  Do you know
if those duty station consoles have visual monitors that can detect
what's happening outside the Galactica?"
     "Commander, the only vid-com monitor is for direct contact with the
Bridge. As far as knowing about what's happening outside, anyone in that
room would be blind."
     "Thank you.  How many men do you have standing by outside the room?"
     "I've got a full complement ready to go.  Just a micron, Lieutenant
Sheba wants to talk to you."
     A centon later, Sheba came on, "Commander, I just wanted to run this
by you. Any chance of having Shadrach and the Maintenance team work on
disassembling the control panel lock from the outside?  If we could get
it open, we could then storm through and take him down full force."
     Adama winced as he realized that this was something he should have
considered right from the outset. If he needed further proof of how much
the tension of this crisis was eating at his nerves, he'd just been given
it. 
     "Thank you, Sheba, I'll get Shadrach down there and when he arrives,
I want his report on how long it would take immediately."
     He switched it off and shook his head in disgust. 
     "Commander," Tigh said quietly, "Don't blame yourself, because I
should have thought of that too."
     "And by now, it's probably too late," he impulsively slapped his
hand against the side of the console to let off some of the steam inside
him."All right, let's get back to the idea of convincing him that we are
launching an attack, when we're not. What if we broadcast a Red Alert
that would *only* be heard in his section?  If we did the whole spectrum
of announcements that he'd be expecting to hear in a true Red Alert
situation, it might get him to let his guard down in a way that he'd
present an easier shot.  Because all he has to do is put the detonator
and his pistol down and then Apollo or Starbuck don't even have to worry
about precision on the first shot."
     "I guess in his position he wouldn't be able to tell the difference
between a localized message to his section and a uni-com one being heard
throughout the whole ship.  Of course, given how we're on Security Alert
already, does it make a difference whether the fake message is localized
or not?"
     "Yes it does, Tigh," Adama was insistent, "If that message were to
go out on uni-com we might run the barest risk of it accidentally going
beyond this ship, and if it gets out in the clear and is overheard by
Baltar's ship...then we'll end up inadvertently fulfilling his demands
and I'm not going to let even the slightest risk of that happening."
     "I take it you have no intention of letting Baltar know that we have
a crisis developing."
     "Not a chance," Adama shook his head, "The last thing I'm going to
do is let him know we have *any* kind of problem like this. Because if he
finds out we have warriors ready to crack and push us back into war
footing, then sooner or later his crew finds out and that destroys
everything."
     "Or at the very least damages it severely," the executive officer
sighed, "How much longer though, before the rest of us start wondering if
that's really worth it?"
     The Commander suddenly glared at his old friend, and Tigh realized
that he'd crossed a line. 
     "I'm sorry, Commander," he said hastily, "I didn't mean it that way,
I *know* this situation is preferable to what we faced back then, but
still...if Mattoon ends up not being a unique case----,"
     "For our sakes, let's hope he is, Tigh," Adama cut him off.  "Now
find out whether a fake alert can be confined to the audio relays in that
section only.  If so, then we have to be prepared to buy some time doing
that.  We'd also need to see if we can localize the Red Alert sirens in
that part of the Galactica."
     "Yes sir," Tigh moved off, and adjusted his headset so he could keep
track of what was happening with Apollo and Starbuck. 


     Five centons had gone by, and Apollo and Starbuck hadn't budged from
their positions.  Both of them sprawled out on the surface of the duct
vents, heads down as far as they could go, tip ends of lasers pointing
through the grille work at the synchronized position that would offer the
best chance for a simultaneous hit on Mattoon.  Watching.  Waiting. 
Their minds devoid of all other thoughts except the desire to do the job
if the opportunity came. 
     From Apollo's vantage point, he could see Thomson slowly tilt his
head upward as if the captive guard was trying to relax his neck muscles.
And then, he saw Thomson's head stop, as if he was looking up. 
     "Starbuck, is he looking up at you?"
     "Yeah, no question," Starbuck replied.  "I can see his face, and
he's trying to keep from looking surprised. He knows I'm here."
     "Let's hope he understands the reason."
     "Apollo, even if he calls Mattoon over to get him in my line of
fire, he might blow things if he moves out of position and keeps us from
making a double shot."
     "Well we don't have any chance of letting him know exactly how we
want the angle, so we'll have to take the risk."
     "He's looking down.  Thank the Lords if he kept staring up here,
Mattoon would have noticed for sure."
     "Shhh.  Let's see if he says anything to him."
     They fell silent and kept watching. Thomson's body heaved as though
he were taking a deep breath.  Preparing himself to say and do something.

     "Hey, Mattoon!"  Thomson suddenly called over. 
     From Apollo's vantage point, he could see Mattoon look over at
Thomson.  He continued to roll the detonator in his hand. 
     "Yeah?" the warrior's voice was flat and emotionless. 
     "My legs are really stiffening up.  You mind if I get to my feet?"
     Slowly, Mattoon rose from the chair behind the duty station and idly
waved his pistol at the guard.  "Hold your arms out!" he barked. 
     Thomson obliged and then tried to rise but he remained seated. 
"Ow-, Mattoon I'm all cramp and stiff.  You've got to help me up."
     There was silence from the warrior, who was looking at him with a
deeply suspicious air. 
     "For crying out loud, Mattoon, you've got my laser and everything
else.  Just help me up for sagan's sake and let me stretch my legs."
     Slowly, Mattoon made his way forward, taking his steps cautiously,
one at a time.  Watching, Apollo could feel his heart pounding against
the surface of the vent, knowing that if he weren't a highly trained
warrior, he'd be shaking violently. 
     Above, Starbuck could feel the sweat dripping down his forehead and
he could only hope that  none of the rivulets would get in either of his
eyes.  He didn't dare use his left hand to wipe them away since he didn't
want to run the slightest chance of losing his precision targeting. 
     It too more than a centon before Mattoon, still holding the
detonator in his left hand and pointing his pistol at Thomson, reached
the stop in front of the guard's crossed legs. 
     "Come on Mattoon, you can't help me up from there and with both
hands full."
     "Oh, like I'm supposed to let these go, am I?" the warrior's voice
dripped with contempt.  "Not a chance, Sergeant.  I just wanted to see
your face and see if you really are suffering from what you say you are. 
I have to admit, I can't say for certain, but even if I believed you, I
wouldn't help."
     Thomson slowly shook his head, "Totally lost your compassionate
streak, eh?"
     "The only compassion I have left is for our people and the belief
that they shouldn't be made to suffer under this kind of humiliation."
Mattoon said with a rising level of anger. 
     "Funny way to show it, if you're willing to let so many of them die,
because that's what's going to happen either way.  If you blow those
tanks, the Cylons are going to destroy all the civilian ships that don't
get taken out in the shock wave because they won't have any reason to
think they should keep getting along with what's left of humanity."
     "Then we go down as men, rather than as a shamed people."
     Thomson let out a mild sigh of exasperation, as if he didn't know
what else he could say or do at this point. 
     "Honor doesn't mean anything to you, Sergeant?"
     "Oh, it means a lot to me, Sergeant Mattoon," Thomson looked him in
the eye, "I just don't accept your definition of honor. Not when it
involves the needless deaths of thousands of people.  Men, women and
children."
     "But as a people, we survive with our principles intact."
     "Even if we become extinct in the process?"  He paused and decided
to try something.  "I'm assuming you don't have any family left, because
I can't believe you'd do something like this if you did."
     "Come off it, Thomson, you know all about my story!" Mattoon snapped
and pointed the gun directly at the guard's head. 
     "Actually, I don't," Thomson said, "It's not my place to know the
details of everyone's life.  That's not the kind of work we do in the
Security division."
     His expression suddenly softened, "No, I guess you don't." he
lowered his head and let out a sad sigh.  "I don't have anyone left."
     "What if you still did?"  Thomson felt like he'd been given an
opening, "What if you still had family left, and you still had to cope
with this god awful arrangement.  Would you still be going ahead with
this?"
     "Oh boy, I hope he knows what he's doing," Starbuck muttered into
his mouthpiece. 
     "Apollo?  Starbuck?" Tigh's voice urgently came over.  "What's going
on?"
     "I think Sergeant Thomson is trying to get him into position so
Starbuck can take a shot," Apollo said, "But he's not in position for me
or Starbuck to go yet.  So Thomson is...trying to talk to him."
     "You're down to ten centons before you have to start taking the
grilles off," Tigh warned, "We just ran a feasibility check on whether we
could stall for time by broadcasting a fake alert in his part of the ship
only and it was no go.  That means it's up to you guys to do it one way
or the other."
     "Unless Thomson does the job for us," Starbuck could feel the level
of sweat in his body increasing as he kept himself rigidly in position. 
     "Quiet," Apollo said, "We need to hear what's going on."


     A centon had gone by with Mattoon not answering Thomson's question. 
Instead, he remained fixed in his position at the security guard's feet,
still keeping his hold on both his pistol and the detonator.  But his
head was darting down slightly to the floor as if he were trying to avoid
answering the question. 
     "Come on, Mattoon," Thomson prodded, "I don't think its an unfair
question.  Would you really see yourself doing this if you still had a
family alive on the Galactica."
     "But I don't have one," he said quietly, face still down.  "Not
anymore and it's...not fair."
     "Course it isn't. I know that.  We all know that. It happened to so
many of us."
     "Oh?" he looked at him with a deeply suspicious air, "Who did you
lose?"
     "No one," Thomson sighed, "I'm an only child and my parents were
already dead. So I'll admit...I didn't lose anyone that night but...I
know that my parents wouldn't have made it if they'd still been alive."
     "Well, then you really couldn't understand what it's like with me,
even if you had lost them," an edge of bitterness entered Mattoon's
voice.  "You're not married."
     "No," he shook his head. 
     "And no kids."
     "No."
     "Then you don't know what it was like," he pointed his pistol at
Thomson's face again.  "I had the most beautiful woman in the whole
Colonies and the most beautiful little girl."
     "I'm sorry," Thomson's tone was sincere, "You got a picture of them? 
I'd like to see them."
     Suddenly, Mattoon let out one of those insane sounding laughs, "Oh,
you're funny, Thomson.  Get me to take out pictures so I can set these
down?"
     "I didn't mean that," he maintained his composure, "I really would
like to see them."
     "Well I don't have any pictures of them!" Mattoon spat, "Couldn't
take any with me in my viper and then when the Solaria blows up, that
takes all my personal effects with it. I've got *nothing* tangible to
remind me that they even existed." he lowered his head, "And that's not
fair."
     "I know it isn't.  I'm sorry."  Thomson was wondering why the man
above him wasn't taking a shot.  He was convinced Mattoon was already in
a good enough position to offer a target.  "But...I'd still like an
answer to the question."
     "Question?" Mattoon blinked. 
     Oh boy, is he cracked. Still, he kept his voice calm.  "Would you be
doing this, if you still had your family?  Would you still be all that
concerned about honor and principles?"
     "What a stupid question," he pointed his pistol closer at Thomson.  
     "No, I don't think it is, because it's kind of obvious what the
answer is, isn't it?" the last thing Thomson was going to do was raise
his voice and patronize him. The right mixture of firmness and
friendliness was needed.  "You wouldn't be doing this.  You'd be trying
to...adjust, just like the rest of us are trying to do. For their sake."
he paused, "And if someone else decided to make his statement on behalf
of honor and principles and put their lives at risk...you'd be pretty
damned ticked off, wouldn't you?"
     There was a long silence. Thomson staring at Mattoon.  Mattoon
staring back at Thomson.  From above, Starbuck staring down through the
grille. From the side, Apollo staring through the grille, their fingers
still on the triggers of their pistols.  The two warriors hearing every
word, and neither able to crack a muscle, lest they lose the precision of
their would-be target. 
     "Five centons!" Tigh's voice barked through the headsets. 
     Colonel, why don't you shut up?  Starbuck thought to himself,
figuring he could be insubordinate in the depths of his mind all he
liked. 
     Slowly...Mattoon started to lower his pistol. The detonator still
remained in his hand. 
     "Someone would do it, sooner or later," he whispered.  His voice now
suddenly acquiring an air of desperation.  "With this kind of
arrangement...how can someone *not* do what I've got to do?"
     "But if the situation were reversed and you still had your family,
and say it was me, a guy with no family making a stance for honor and
principles, you'd be saying to hell with those principles.  Admit it,
Sergeant!"
     The warrior began to tremble slightly, "Well that's just not the
hand Fate destined me for."
     Slowly, Mattoon began to circle Thomson.  Apollo felt his inner
tension increase. Mattoon was going around the left side of Thomson. He
needed to go all the way around and get on Thomson's right. Only then...
     "I see this as part of a higher calling, Sergeant," he reached the
back of Thomson's head, looking down on him, "And if it's a higher
calling from the Lords of Kobol...who am I to question them?"
     Around the back of Thomson's head...slowly moving along the right
side...exposing his back to Apollo.  From above, his head right in
Starbuck's line of fire. 
     "MARK!"  Apollo suddenly shouted. 
     A fraction of a micron after Apollo spoke, two blasts of laser fire
filled the room. One from the wall, striking Mattoon in the back. The
other from above, striking him in the head.  The effect of two hits on
heavy stun setting caused the warrior to crumple to the ground
immediately.  Mattoon's laser fell out of his right hand and clattered to
the ground. The hand detonator remained in the warrior's left palm, but
when the warrior fell and hit the surface, it suddenly rolled out across
the floor. 
     Thomson, despite the terrible cramped sensation in his legs suddenly
bolted to his feet and grabbed the detonator, clamping his thumb down on
the switch.  He could hear a tell-tale humming sound which meant only one
thing.  It had already been activated, and that meant he had exactly ten
microns. 
     The security guard sprinted across the room, pressed the control
panel and the door to the outer corridor slid open.  Outside, Sheba,
Castor and the rest of the security guards who'd been waiting to move
were taken aback by the sudden turn of events.  
     "Get inside before this goes off!"  Thomson shouted at the top of
his voice.  With no further prompting needed, the rest of them hurried in
and as soon as the corridor was empty, Thomson hurled the detonator down
as far as he could. 
     When the explosion went off, the only damage it could cause was
superficial charring of the walls and two other compartment doors.  An
overhead fire control system kicked in and promptly smothered the damaged
region with boraton mist. 
     Thomson slowly collapsed to the ground and let out the biggest sigh
of relief.  Castor hurried over and knelt down next to him. 
     "You okay?"
     "Yeah," Thomson found himself shaking as he tried to collect
himself.  "Yeah, I'll be fine."  He then turned to his superior and found
himself chuckling, "I want tomorrow off."
     The Security Chief broke into a wide grin, "You've earned it."

     Apollo had slowly detached the grille and made his way inside the
storage room.  The rest of the Security Guards were attending to the
unconscious Mattoon, getting shackles on him. 
     Sheba noticed her husband and came over to him.  "They've got the
rest of the detonators he was carrying.  The area's now secure."
     "Boy that was close," Apollo felt chastened.  "We had the best shot
and he was still able to set off the detonator."
     "So be glad Thomson was there to pick you both up."  She smiled,
"After all, it's not the first time he's done that."
     "Yeah," Apollo nodded, remembering how Thomson had suddenly come
through at the last micron on the weather planet just at the point when
Apollo had been ready to abandon him and the Kian woman, Pili, as lost
and dead.  "At least it's over, thank the Lords."
     "In more ways than one, I hope."  Sheba said as she looked over and
saw that the guards had Mattoon on his feet and were now dragging him
out.  "God, what's going to become of him?"
     "I don't know," Apollo shook his head, "But...one thing's for sure. 
He can't be treated like a criminal.  What he needs is help, just like
Starbuck needed help after his terrible experience."
     "And what do we do to keep others like him from trying the same
thing?"
     "I haven't got an answer for that today, Sheba," her husband sighed
warily, "But I do know that we have to have some answers for that by
tomorrow at least."
     As he made his way over to the duty station so he could make a
report to the Bridge that the area was secure, Sheba noticed the
heaviness in her husband's steps.  She reached out and wrapped an arm
around him in support. 
     The only thought going through Apollo's mind was a deep sense of
gratitude that he had his family as his barrier to keep him from ever
falling victim to the sickness that had claimed Sergeant Mattoon. 


     "That's the whole story, Siress Lydia."
     The new Council Vice-President looked genuinely surprised. There was
none of the air of scheming or deviousness that Adama had seen such an
increased level of in recent sectars.  If anything, it was a reminder of
how even those with instinctively corrupt streaks had their limits, and
could still be capable of genuine human emotion. 
     "It's so tragic," Lydia finally spoke.  "Where is Sergeant Mattoon
now?"
     "He's been removed to Hospital Ship #2 under heavy sedation," Adama
said, "He's in a total stupor, as if the failure of his plan sent him
into an almost...catatonic condition.  And I suppose the only perverse
benefit that comes to us from that is that he can't talk openly to anyone
about what he went through for now."
     "So you plan on just locking him up in the section for mentally
unstable people and throwing away the key?"
     "Of course not!" Adama snapped.  "I spoke to Dr.  Tarnia, who is our
expert in psychological treatment, but she can't do anything for him
until he comes out of that catatonic condition.  If medical treatment
provides a breakthrough there, then she can begin the process of
counseling him, and maybe, God willing, cure his sickness, but we can't
even begin to guess how long that might take."
     "I see," Lydia nodded, "And if he is cured, there certainly wouldn't
be any possibility of charges being filed against him."
     "No.  Just an honorable discharge from the Service, and the most
generous pension possible  in recognition for many yahrens of fine
service to the Colonial nation." he paused, "And it was a good record
before this happened."
     "I'm sure of that.  But that still leaves us with the vexing
question of how you prevent something like this from happening again." 
She paused, "And if you can't come up with a solution soon, Adama, you
realize that the Council as a whole would have no choice but to make some
proposals of our own on how to deal with these kinds of situations."
     "It will be attended to immediately, Siress Lydia," Adama was
forceful.  "I will be addressing our entire complement of warriors
tomorrow in Flight Operations, and I intend to let it be a session for
*all* of them to get what's buried inside them out in the open. To let
them know that I *do* understand their feelings, and am not some aloof
distant figure unconcerned with what this experience of detente has done
to them.  Dr.  Tarnia will be there as well to let them know that
resentment over an unpleasant situation is a normal thing, and that if
any of them ever wish to avail her of her services for counseling on
matters that still trouble them, the door is open. That they don't *have*
to end up the way Mattoon did, even if they did suffer the tragedies of
losing family in the Holocaust."
     "Then it sounds like you're taking charge of the situation, most
ably, Adama," Lydia's deferential tone sounded totally genuine.  "If
these approaches work, then there will be no need for any kind of Council
interference on the matter."
     "And no demands for an investigation of why this happened, I hope."
     "So long as you've attended to the court-martial of the guard in the
Ordnance Center, then I think that takes care of all loose ends."  the
auburn-haired siress rose from her chair, "Thank you for notifying me
about this, Adama.  I think this cooperative relationship should prove to
be most...productive for us both."
     "Let us hope," Adama said, feeling more than a twinge of distaste
inside him.  If anything, the fact that Lydia wasn't going to exploit
this sad tragedy for her own benefit was enough to tell Adama that she
was going to be a very formidable political opponent.  There would be no
knee-jerk opposition for the sake of it. Lydia would instead weigh each
scenario carefully and pick and choose her battles at the right moment. 
And only then, would she move, and the fact that she'd backed Adama on
many occasions in the past would only give her greater credence with the
rest of the population as a fair-minded voice of reason. 
     Sire Antipas taught you well about the fine art of politics, he
thought as he shook hands with the Council Vice-President and she
departed. As soon as he was alone, he relaxed in his chair and found
himself thinking of the prospects of a long, soothing session in a hot
turbowash. 
     The sound of his com-line chime disrupted those thoughts.  "Yes?"
     "Baltar is on Com-Line Alpha, sir," Omega reported from the Bridge. 
     Adama let out a dismal groan and then activated the switch.  "Yes,
Baltar?"
     "Adama, my flight leader Orion wishes to reconfirm the time for the
integrated patrol tomorrow morning."
     Lords of Kobol, the very thing that Mattoon wanted to use to set his
plan into motion. The events of the day had caused Adama to forget all
about it. 
     "It's still set, Baltar," Adama said politely, "At 0900 tomorrow,
Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Sheba will launch and rendezvous."
     "There won't be a third ship from your end?"
     Adama's eyes narrowed, and he took a breath, "No, Baltar, I'm afraid
we had to cancel the third ship. The pilot designated for the assignment
was taken ill and there's not enough time to get a replacement
appointed."
     "I'm sorry to hear that," Baltar said, "I'll inform Orion that it
will just be two ships from his end."
     "Of course."
     "Is everything else in order?"
     Adama didn't hesitate, "Everything's exactly in order, Baltar."

Epilogue

     Ordinarily, dinner on the Rising Star was an upbeat occasion, but
this time out, as Apollo and Sheba met with Boomer and Athena in a
private dining room, the mood was much more subdued. Not downcast,
just...spent. For Apollo and Sheba, it was a chance to hear all about
Adama's speech to the warriors and what had happened. For Boomer and
Athena, it was a chance to hear about what it had been like to take part
in an integrated patrol with Cylons for the first time. 
     "As soon as I saw Tarnia in the room, sitting next to Adama, I
realized what he had in mind," Boomer was saying, "And I got to tell you,
I think it was a stroke of genius. The Commander really connected with
everyone, and made them realize how this whole detente, as they call it,
hasn't been easy for him either. They saw him as just like the rest of
them on an emotional level, and...I think it made them see what he's been
going through in a new light."
     "And Tarnia?" Apollo asked, "How did they react to her, and the idea
of a counselor/psychologist on permanent call for them?"
     "I think the ones who don't have family members to open up to,
really welcome the idea that there's someone in authority who can act as
a sounding board for what still bothers them. And Starbuck was quietly
putting in a good word for her to anyone who'd listen afterwards."
     "Good for him," Sheba noted as she sipped from her ambrosia chalice,
"A recommendation from Starbuck should go a long ways with many of them."
     "But the real tense part was when Adama just opened the floor and
said anyone could speak up right then and there with no fear of
disciplinary action."  Boomer went on.  "I think we were all wondering
how far he'd let us go with it, but in the end, he let it go on for as
long as there were volunteers."
     "And about thirty took him up on the offer," Athena noted, "They
ranged from mildly frustrated to pent-up furious, but they got their two
cubits in, and when it was over...all of them just seemed to  have it out
of their system."
     "I don't think you're going to see any more card games with warriors
saying horrible things behind Adama's back," Boomer said, "They know
there are better ways to deal with whatever's still bothering them now,
and...it can put them more at peace with what it is they *have* to do as
warriors, even if they don't like it."
     "And what's your sense of how the whole business with Mattoon has
affected them?"  Sheba  asked. 
     "I think the reactions are all over the place, but...if you want my
gut feeling on whether there's anyone capable of doing what he did, I
think the answer is no, there isn't.  What the warriors really wanted was
a sense of understanding from Adama, and not a sense that they were being
put in their place when they were told they couldn't complain openly
about the whole detente. Adama's defused that, and given them an outlet
where they can let loose with what's bothering them, and that means that
they can finally *respect* Adama's order to make the detente work even if
they don't have to *like* it. Because now, it's become a matter of
knowing they'd dishonor their oaths as warriors if they ever did the
slightest thing that could undermine the detente."
     "And the oath is the one thing a warrior is taught to take total
pride in from the day he becomes one," Apollo noted. 
     "That's so true," Sheba noted, thinking back to what Adama had told
her about the last thing Commander Cain had said before he'd gone off to
engage the two baseships.  A plea for his potential last battle to not be
an act of mutiny and that he receive Adama's blessing. Her father would
never have been able to stand the idea of dying without that, and she'd
always been grateful that Adama had in the end, obliged him. 
     "And who knows, maybe actually seeing Mattoon crack is enough to
chasten the rest of them into realizing that they wouldn't want to end up
like that."  Boomer sighed,   "Locked up in the ship they call the Nut
House for who knows how long."
     "Hopefully not forever," Athena said, "Hopefully he'll one day come
out of that stupor he's in, and Tarnia can get to work curing him."
     "I can't begin to imagine what it would be like to be trapped in
that kind of state," Sheba shuddered.  "Everything a blank void.  No
sense of where you are."
     "Well, at least it's a closed chapter for now," Boomer lazily rolled
his chalice back and forth before taking a sip.  "So in the meantime,
let's find out from the two of you how the first integrated patrol
between human and Cylon went."
     Apollo leaned back and sighed, "It was...so routine. And I guess for
the both of us, we kept wondering if that was good or not."
     "Routine?" Athena raised an eyebrow.  
     "That's exactly right," Sheba nodded, "Once we got used to the sound
of Orion's voice with that silly monotone, communicating with him and the
other ship was like handling any other patrol. And during that time, when
we had checklists to go over and reports to relay, there wasn't an idle
thought entering my mind about how silly this all seemed. I just found
myself locked into the job and making sure I did it right, because so
much depended on it."
     "Ditto," Apollo added, "It was only after we got back that it all
hit us, and we realized how crazy it was that we could have gotten
through that kind of experience without batting an eye. But if we were
able to block it all out, then that means yes, we can make the whole
thing work for however long we have to make it work."
     "I've got a suggestion," Athena said, "At the next squadron
briefing, the two of you repeat that same story, and let them know what
it is you've had to go through.  If they hear that on the heels of what
they've gotten from Adama, then you should have no problem getting more
pilots to do integrated patrols as well."
     "Good idea, sister," Apollo nodded, "Thanks."
     "And if you don't mind your little sister giving you another bit of
advice," her tone suddenly grew light.  "There's something I've got to
say about that beard of yours."
     Apollo smiled, "Sorry, Athena, but my mind's made up."
     "Yes!" Sheba reached over and gave his beard an almost protective
rub, "This stays till death us do part."
     "Hey, I was only going to suggest that you not wait too much longer
before giving it a trim."
     A split second of silence was followed by the four of them breaking
into the loudest laughter  any of them had experienced for a long time.
And with it came a collective realization that if it was still possible
for them to laugh, then there was still much more in life to be grateful
for than to be troubled about. 


     Fleeing from the Cylon tyranny, the last Battlestar, Galactica,
leads a ragtag fugitive fleet on a lonely quest.  A shining
planet...known as Earth.