Battlestar Galactica: Resolutions
Virtual Season Three, Episode Six
By Senmut. With many muy mucho multi lots of uber dankas to Zaz and Eri
July 30, 2009

     From The Adama Journals

     We are now a full eight sectons from the beginning of the Detente,
and it is perhaps a testament to my own permanent, if hard-won,
acceptance of the situation that I no longer use quote marks around the
term as I did when initially referring to it in these journal entries. 
More and more, we are, slowly, increasing the level of integrated work
details between our Warriors, and Baltar's Cylons, and there have been no
difficulties that we could not overcome.  Our Warriors come back from
integrated patrols with no discernible sense of bitterness or anger, but
are more prone to fall back into the old military tradition of cracking
jokes about the irony of it all. Their ability to see humor in the
situation reveals that their acceptance of the Detente is growing
stronger with each day. I feel confident there will be no more Mattoons.
     With the danger of resistance from our own people diminishing, the
only thing left to trouble us is how long will Baltar, and more
importantly his crew, continue to accept this situation?  In Baltar's
case, that seems to be the lesser cause for concern, because more than
ever, it's clear that Ayesha's presence makes a difference.  I now
believe that if she had not been among us, reformed and willing to do her
part for the well-being of our people above any personal issues of her
own, this Detente would be so dangerously fragile, it might well have
collapsed long ago with catastrophic results for us all. I only wish I
could make Starbuck somehow understand that since, from what I've
gathered in my talks with Apollo and Sheba, his bitterness toward the
woman who might have been his stepmother remains great. I know it's
understandable for Starbuck to feel that way, especially as he becomes
increasingly close to his father, but I suppose I empathize so much with
the burdens that Ayesha has had to carry for so long, and for what it
took for her to make this sacrifice, that the idea of someone resenting
her for that troubles me.  But I'm past the point where I feel that I can
try to convince Starbuck about that.  Whatever bitterness he may feel
isn't something that's affecting his life in other areas, so it wouldn't
be proper for me or anyone else to ever raise the subject again.
     But to return to the matter of the Detente, if Baltar's behavior is
not cause for concern, what then about his crew? This whole utterly
unprecedented phenomena of Cylons developing the capacity to think as
individuals, and to acquire a sense of individual self-worth, is so hard
for us to comprehend, and with Dr. Wilker unable to study one of these
independent Centurions up-close, we can only carefully watch our step in
how we treat them, and make sure we never ruffle any proverbial feathers
and give them the slightest cause for thinking that the continued Detente
would not be to their advantage. But if this capacity to think keeps
expanding, at what point might discontent set in, regardless of how we
treat them?  And if discontent develops, could they at least develop the
sense to channel that toward a more productive goal of achieving
independence for themselves on some isolated world? Kobol knows that
regardless of how much the added firepower of a BaseShip gives us in
terms of our security, most of us, I think, would almost welcome that
kind of development with a sigh of relief.
     For now, that simply must remain the unknown long-term variable. In
terms of short-term unknown variables, we are still trying to deal with
this matter, both of the attempted murder of Lieutenant Sargamesh, via
the sabotage of his Viper's computer, as well as of the discovery of
canisters of deadly piiglin gas, in one of the lower storage rooms of the
Galactica. Colonial Security has as yet made no significant headway in
determining how and when the deadly toxin might have first came to be
aboard the Galactica, although the investigation continues, and for now I
have kept the news of this troubling discovery secret from the rest of
the Council. The same holds true of the attempted murder. Siress Lydia,
in her new capacity as Council Vice President, was notified and briefed
three cycles ago, of the gas discovery alone, after the negative report
from Colonial Security came back. She was not pleased that she wasn't
given an immediate notification about this, but she recognized that so
long as I gave her an advance notification ahead of the rest of the
Council, I was fully respecting her position according to Council
Statutes. If she plans, as I'm sure she will someday, in challenging my
authority, this incident at least will not be the basis for it. If
anything, I'm troubled more by the fact that our new arrival, Commander
Byrne, seems to have developed a very high opinion of her, clearly the
result of the endless flattery and charm she's subjected both he and his
daughter to. If a conflict ever comes up between myself and Lydia, then
it wouldn't surprise me one bit if Commander Byrne decided to openly
support her, and if that were to happen, then Byrne may well decide that
the oath of secrecy I made him take with regard to the briefing on the
Derelict is no longer binding on him.
     And so, that makes me realize that even though we as a people are
prospering like at no other time because of the Detente, the game of
politics has become more dangerous and delicate than at any other time
since our Exodus began, because it would only take one tiny disruption in
one of these variables to cause a chain reaction more destructive than
another solonite induced suicide hit upon us. And my skills as a diplomat
must remain sharp as ever to deal with each of these variables. Lords of
Kobol, give me wisdom.

Prologue

     "Mamaaaaaaaaaa................."
     Captain Kevin James Byrne, late of the United States Navy, snapped
awake, frame taut and senses alert. It took a moment or two for him to
collect himself, and remember where he was. He looked at his demolished
bed, then across the room at the door.
     "Mamaaaaa....."
     He leapt out of bed, crossing the room in a heartbeat, and keyed the
pad. He took in the sight, of his daughter, Genesis, tossing and
thrashing in her sleep, in the throes of a bad dream.
     Another one. Third time this week. 
     He went to her bedside, and grabbed hold of her. She kept flailing,
her open eyes dilated and unseeing, as she wrestled once again with her
own demons. All these years later, and she was still reliving that
nightmare.  Would her torment never cease?
     "No! Leave her alone! Mama! Stop it..."
     "Jen? Jena?" Byrne called to her, but she did not seem to hear. He
shook her, hard, and with a hard catch of her breath, she seemed to come
out of it. Her eyes fixed on him, as she drew a ragged breath. "Jen?"
     "Ma....?" She looked confused and bewildered, reminding her father
of a lost puppy.
     "No. No, baby, it's me," said Byrne, pulling her to him. "It's me.
You're okay."
     "God! It was..."
     "I know. I know, baby. Another dream." He pulled away, brushing her
damp hair from her face. "Another dream. But that's all it was, hon. Just
a dream."
     "I keep seeing it, all over again, Pop. Mama. That pirate. When
they..."
     I know, I know." He pressed her face to him, stroking her hair.
After the vicious and savage murder of her mother, Jena had been plagued
by dreams, dreams that the small girl could not articulate well, but
which her father could well understand. Filled with anger and guilt
himself, he'd had plenty of his own. From time to time, they would recur,
the girl waking up screaming as she relived the horror of seeing her
mother savaged by alien pirates. But they had grown rarer as the time had
passed on the unnamed planet where they had spent so many years, pushed
aside by the daily struggle for survival. 
     Until now. In the almost three weeks since he and Jen had been
rescued from the disintegrating planet by the Warriors from the
Galactica, they had returned, robbing her of both sleep, and peace. Byrne
was no psychiatrist, having actually always harbored a contempt for
"shrinks", but it was clear that the girl was deeply troubled.
     But why now? The change of scene? The upheaval of her entire life?
The fact that her mother's grave had been destroyed along with the planet
itself? He had no answers, and felt frustrated because of it.
     "Pop?"
     "Hush, baby. Just try and rest," he said, yet stroking her hair and
rocking her soothingly, as he had when she was a child. After a few
minutes, he could feel her relax, as the horror of her nightmare passed,
and she began to drift into slumber. He gently laid her back down, and
straightened the mangled covers. 
     Damn! Damn it to Hell, will she ever have peace? God, I wish I could
take away the memories, baby. No kid should ever have to see what you
saw. Robbed of a mother, and a childhood. God, Jena! How I wish you were
here. You'd know what to say. You always knew the right words. I wonder
if Apollo ever felt like this, with Boxey.
     Which reminded him, he had to rendezvous with the Captain, this
morning. He quietly backed out of his daughter's room, and checked the
clock. He had had a couple of hours....centars, before he was expected.
Deciding he wasn't going to get back to sleep, he got going for the day.
     It was so weird, he told himself, as he walked across the room, his
movements fluid once more. His right leg, injured years ago on the planet
and never properly treated, had been at last tended by the doctors
aboard, their medical science ages beyond anything back home, allowing
him to walk without a stick or crutch at last. It was also weird having a
john, too, as he looked in the mirror in the head, to be able to go
through the little "morning rituals" again. It had been so long since
he'd had a mirror, a shower, or even a razor. When rescued, he had looked
like something out of the Visigoth's Sack of Rome, or a 60's Hippie
Love-in, hair and beard gone wild. Now, reasonably presentable once more,
he had time to contemplate himself. 
     Shit, Man, you look old. Ain't no other word for it, fella. Father
Time caught up with you, when you weren't looking. Damn, I look like
Grandpa more all the time. Sure glad Jen got her mama's best genes.
     Shit. 
     Done, he went back into the outer room, of the guest quarters he was
still billeted in, and popped on the tube...activated the vid screen.
Bloody alien terminology! Flicking through the channels, he stopped for a
moment, curious what the IFB was serving up. News about happenings in the
Fleet. Hhmm... a recruitment ad for the Colonial Service. Yeah. It's not
just a job, it's an adventure!
     Man, that Omega guy needs better lighting.
     Zed, the main announcer for the IFB, relating a story of hoarders
exposed and scheduled for trial, reminded him of the talking heads on
MSNBC back home, and he snapped it off with a snort.
     "At least Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac didn't screw up your real
estate, too," he quipped to the screen, briefly wondering what his house
was worth now, as he got himself a small bite. (God, I hope Cousin Tony
or Diane didn't get it!) Simple fare: an egg (he wasn't sure exactly what
kind of bird it had come from, and wasn't sure he wanted to know),
something remotely resembling toast (the butter even more remote), and a
drink that was so close to Navy coffee he could practically hear the
sounds of the galley, back on the old Constellation.  
     Beep.
     He crossed to the desk, and called up the intership message board.
Yes, Apollo, reminding him of their appointment. Another request, for
another interview from Zara, at IFB. ("I must be good for ratings.") A
reminder from Cassie, regarding his medical follow-ups. A greeting from
Ozko, the Calcoryan musician. Pliny the linguist. A request for an
appointment with Sire Pelias, from the Council. Byrne smiled. He had to
admit he kind of liked the young politico. Never one to warm to the
breed, Byrne nonetheless found the young Sire, apparently thrust into the
role unwillingly upon the sudden death of his uncle, to be straight,
honest, and aboveboard.
     He wondered how long that would last.
     "Freak of nature," he quipped, as he tossed back the last of his
java, and sent a reply. He looked at the cup, and smiled. Java. Coffee.
Does Starbuck have the slightest clue just how damned funny it all is?
The guy even has a java stand on the Rising Star. Does it have his name
on it? Good thing I'm not a copyright lawyer.
     He slipped on the rest of his clothes (a U.S. Navy Captain's
uniform, custom tailored to his description, at this little place over on
the Rising Star. He'd paid for it out of the proceeds of a long game of
something called Pyramid, with Starbuck, two other pilots, a garrulously
loud woman called Belloby, and an older man that looked like a dead
ringer for Fred Astaire, introduced as Starbuck's father, Chameleon. God,
these names!), and gathered up his documents, on data chips, and a few
jingling coins. He checked in on Jena, one last time. Sleeping
peacefully, now, she seemed oblivious to the horrors of a short while
ago.
     He left, heading for the War Room. Apollo, with Commander Adama's
concurrence, had asked him to address several of their senior pilots,
about his training and experiences as a fighter pilot and "Strike
Commander", back on Earth. While Byrne had initially demurred, feeling
that the gap between them was too great for him to have anything
substantive to bring to the table, Apollo had pressed the point.
     "A fighter is a fighter," the Captain had told him. "Some things are
basic. Besides, it'll be a way to get to know the men, and they you."
     Byrne had finally agreed, and was soon deep into it. And yes,
despite the wide technological gap, there was a lot they had in common.
He found he liked these guys. Even the older one, called Croad, former
Enforcer from Proteus Prison. Not only had the man brought his antiquated
fighter with him (Antiquated to him. To Byrne, it was like something out
of a movie.), when the place had been evacuated, but he also had
reminisces as well, from when he had been very small, of the long-dead
prisoner they had called "The Silent One", now identified as Byrne's
former crewmate from Earth, Ehud Gur. Separated from the rest of the
expedition, captured and tormented by the evil Count Iblis, (a detail the
Earthman was sworn to secrecy about by Adama for the present, even from
his own daughter), Ehud, mind shattered, had escaped the Count at last,
before winding up on Proteus, where, finally, utterly destroyed, he had
ended his own life.
     Still a lot to learn here, he told himself. Translation of Ehud's
journal. Figuring out where everything fit. Getting some decent food!
Lots. 
     "How about a game of Compartment Billyarks?" Byrne ribbed Starbuck,
to get his own mind back on business.  He'd heard the highlights of the
hilarious tale of Starbuck going missing for almost two entire days, only
to be finally located trapped in a storage compartment, which had
apparently occurred while trying to evade a gang of school children
playing some Colonial twist of Hide 'N Seek.
     Starbuck sniffed in shared amusement as his fellow pilots began to
laugh.  A full secton and a half later, the mere mention of Compartment
Billyarks could still reduce most of Red and all of Blue Squadron to
hysterics, as they imagined the decorated Viper pilot, long celebrated
for his heroics and brashness, twisting his ankle, and then accidentally
breaking off a door latch, resulting in his own unexpected confinement. 
In a universe of danger and uncertainty, it was too preposterous not to
be elected for the IFB's Warrior Screw-Ups and Fleetwide Practical Jokes. 
"I'm staying clear of the Rejuvenation Centre these days, Byrne.  The
action there is a little too hot for this Viper jockey." Starbuck rolled
his eyes, pulling a fumarello out of his flight jacket. 
     Byrne nodded, watching the warrior fiddle with his ignitor, as his
friends good-naturedly gave him the gears.  The Lieutenant seemed
oblivious to the banter as he deftly lit his smoke, or maybe he'd just
heard it all before, and was adept at ignoring it.  Like water off a
duck's back, Byrne reckoned.  Or maybe there was something else on his
mind...
     "Commander Byrne?" a voice inserted, drawing Byrne from his reverie.
     "Huh?" Byrne asked, returning his attention to Cree, who had been
asking him a question.  
     "No, at least not when I left," said Byrne, of a question by Cree.
"While laser technology was making great strides on Earth, and it could
be used to knock down missiles and aircraft from considerable distances,
we hadn't yet scaled it down sufficiently to where it would be as compact
and effective as what you have in the Viper."
     "How long have you actually had powered flight?" asked Noday. Byrne
took a moment to answer. Despite all, he still had...issues with females
aboard warships.
     "When we left Earth, we had had powered flight for just a little
over a hundred years...yahrens," he replied. "From the first successful
attempt, by the Wright Brothers, to our ships, took one hundred and eight
of our yahrens." He put an image up on the screen, of one of the Wright
Brothers, on the beach at Kitty Hawk in 1903, next to the original Flyer.
"Hey! No laughing!" he said, of a rippling snicker in the ranks. The
images progressed, through the developments of World War I, World War II,
Korea, and the advent of jet and rocket power, followed by tons more
questions. Jets? Did they use nuclear power? What about tylium? 
     "Have you flown in a Viper, yet?" asked Noday, again.
     "No, sadly. Until Doctor Salik certifies me as being at a hundred
percent, I'm not cleared to fly anything. Of course, I have been in the
simulator, thanks to Captain Apollo," he nodded to the Captain,
"and...wow! She is a dream! No need to tell you how much I'm looking
forward to the real thing, and eventually qualifying."
     "You're going to join us, then?" asked Jolly. "Become a Viper
pilot?"
     "Well, flying is pretty much all I know, Lieutenant. I might as
well, if Commander Adama will have me. After all, I owe your people an
awful lot. I should do something to repay my hosts."
     "What about your ship, Captain?" asked Bojay. "Are you going to
repair it, or what?"
     Well, I should..."
     Yellow Alert! All hands, Yellow Alert!
     Apollo almost pounced on the telecom. "Captain Apollo here."
     Alien ships, origin unknown, had just come into scanner range, and
were approaching the Fleet.

Chapter One

     "What do we have?" asked Apollo, coming onto the bridge of the
Galactica. Behind him, Starbuck and Byrne trailed, the Earthman at his
invitation.
     "We're not certain, yet," replied his father, Commander Adama. "We
picked them up on deep scan a few centons ago, right after the last
patrol landed." They looked down at the screen. Several dots, moving
almost as fast as a Viper at full turbos, were on an intercept course
with the Fleet, approaching from starboard. "We have received no
transmissions of any sort."
     "What about Baltar's ship? Do they report any contact?"
     "No information from them, but given how they're on our port flank,
plus the distance, they're probably not picking up any indications of
them on their scanners as yet."
     "Have they scanned us?" asked Apollo.
     "Yes," replied Colonel Tigh. "And are doing so now, according to the
data."
     "I'll take a patrol out, and investigate," offered Apollo. Adama had
barely opened his mouth to reply, when a whiney crackle came over the
commcircuit.
     "Commander," said Athena, "we are being hailed. By the approaching
ships." 
     "Put it on," he replied. 
     Athena made the appropriate adjustments, as the ships drew ever
closer, tying in the Languatron. After a moment, her face dissolved into
a frown. 
     "What?" said Tigh, confused.
     "You're kidding," said Byrne. "They want to know if the ships are
for sale?"


     The ships came into visual range a few centons later, decelerating
as they drew even with the Colonial Fleet. There were three of them, each
identical in configuration. Blocky, about as long as four shuttles end to
end and as wide as one, they had a low-slung forward section, apparently
the flight deck, and small outrigger nacelles, mounted on pylons, on each
side. They were manned, the scanners said, but by no species they
recognized.
     They pulled alongside the Battlestar, and quickly matched her for
course and speed. While armed, none of them seemed to present a serious
threat to the Colonial warship. However, as a precaution, Adama had
fighters ready, as well as the laser batteries.
     "Lords, what is that?" asked Apollo, as the alien Captain, or pilot,
or whatever, of the lead ship came on the screen. The creature, a short,
pasty-colored Humanoid, was...fat. More like gross, with pleaty, fleshy
folds on his (?) face, a bulbous nose, and small, dark, porcine eyes. The
skull was mostly bald, with a few strands only of dark oily-looking hair.
The creature had a smile that made Byrne want to hold on tight to his
wallet.
     "Greetings, Colonial people," said the other, and Byrne at once was
reminded of a used car dealer he'd encountered once in West Covina.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Blaato Borkghaz, of the Hork Trading
Federation. Might we come aboard, perhaps?"
     "Uh...I am Commander Adama, of the Colonial Battlestar Galactica.
How is it that you have knowledge of us?"
     "Commander, the whole sector knows of you and your fleet, and what
transpired on Ziklag. As you no doubt can see, our ships carry minimal
armaments. We are no threat to so mighty and infamous a warship!" Blaato
waved his hands as he spoke, as if preaching a sermon. "We come merely
seeking commerce."
     "A moment...Commander Blaato."
     "Oh, not 'commander', sir. I am merely 'Trader' Blaato."
     "Just so. A moment, please." He signaled for sound to be cut.
"Omega, can one of those ships fit into our landing bay?"
     "Yes, Commander."
     "I've never heard of any such race," said Apollo. He turned to
Byrne. "Were any of the pirates you encountered of this species?"
     "No, Captain. He's a new one on me." He shook his head. "Ugly mother
puss bucket, ain't he?"
     Adama shook his head, and turned to Athena. "Contact...Sarah," he
ordered. "Have her report to me on the bridge at once."
     "Yes, sir."
     "And put Trader Blaato back on."
     "Ah, Commander," said Blaato, his smile made all the more grotesque
by the saggy cheeks. "Yes?"
     "You may dock your ship in our Alpha Bay. We shall send you landing
instructions, but we must...clear the area, first. To make room."
     "Thank you, Commander, but a cluttered bay presents no problem. We
can use our transports."
     "Your...I see." Right before his eyes, the alien trader vanished off
the screen in a shimmer of light, the signal being cut a few microns
later.
     "Commander," said Athena, "we just got a report from Alpha Bay.
Several of the...visitors have just appeared there."
     "Lords of Kobol!" Adama contacted Security, alerting them, and
making sure that no one got shot. As he turned, he saw "Sarah", also
known as Nizaka of Ziklag, former slave and refugee shape-shifter in
residence, enter the bridge in her Human form. 
     "Commander?" she asked.
     "Please, accompany us the Alpha Bay."
     "Commander?" asked Byrne, eyebrow raised in question.
     "Yes. If you would."
     "Commander."


     Down in the bay, about twenty metrons inside the atmospheric force
field, a small group of the visitors stood, surrounded by satchels and
cases, as well as two men from Security. Adama crossed to them, part of
his mind already working on his next communication with Baltar, relating
recent events. How he would much rather forego that pleasure! Still, he
needed to remind himself, he needed to shed such impulses, and remember
that if this d‚tente with the renegade Cylons was going to work over the
long haul, he was going to have to keep in touch with the
traitor-turned-ally, keeping him informed of all major events. At least
Siress Lydia wasn't here. Yet. Now that would cause some real distaste.
Thankfully, the new Council Vice-President was over on the Rising Star at
the moment, attending a social function of some sort, with several of her
old society friends.
     Praise The Lords!
     The Horks were even more...disagreeable, in person. Hard on the
eyes. Short, the tallest of them was a scant one and a half metrons high,
and looked like they had spent yahrens stuffing their faces. With gusto.
Saggy flesh, and fingers like rolled mushies, with clothes that were
either filthy, or just lacked fashion sense. They wore belts from which
hung various unidentified items, and one was already fingering a
Languatron with an expression that was plain on any species. 
     "Ah, Commander Adama!" said one of them, stepping forward. Blaato.
He extended his hand, and despite some serious misgivings about hygiene,
Adama took it. The grip was limp, warm and moist, leaving a disagreeable
residue behind. "So good to make your acquaintance."
     "Yes. Welcome aboard the Galactica, Trader Blaato."
     "An impressive ship, to be sure," replied Blaato, looking up, and
around, the cavernous bay. He seemed impressed. In the distance, under a
stand of floodlights, was the Saint Brendan, still undergoing assessment.

     "No!" said Byrne, a tad indignantly, in response to a question from
one of the other visitors. "That ship is most definitely not for sale!"
     "Gold?" said the other. "Zilubian love crystals? Malaabian slave
girls?" Byrne decided the creature's voice was like a politician running
for reelection. 
     "Love crystals and slave girls...?" Starbuck murmured, turning to
the Hork curiously.
     "Look..."
     "Trader Blaato," said Adama, ever the diplomat, "perhaps we
could...get to know one another better, in more congenial surroundings."
     "Indeed a most salubrious suggestion, Commander," said the other.
His oily smile got oilier. It was practically a slick, Byrne reckoned.
     "Our council chamber?"
     "As you wish."
     Adama turned to the Security men, ordering the visitors escorted
there, after a trip to the Decon chamber. He turned and left, party in
tow.
     "My God!" said Apollo, once they were back on the lift, after their
own trip to decon.  "That smell!"
     "You mean stench," said Byrne. "I haven't smelled anything that bad
since the air filtration in the head on the International Space Station
quit. Peeeee-U!!!!" 
     "Granted," said Adama. He turned to Nizaka. "What can you tell me
about this species?"


     "Horks are natives of the Horgos Major System, Commander. It is part
of an independent cluster of systems on the far side of Zykonian space.
They are traders, first and foremost," Nizaka said, a few centons later,
in the Commander's quarters. "Anywhere, anytime, anything. They are also
scheming, duplicitous, dishonest, and effusively gregarious." As she
finished, she noticed Byrne looking at her oddly. 
     "Excuse me," said Byrne, "but if you've never encountered these guys
before, how do you know so much about them?"
     "Academician Sarah," said Adama, quickly, "is a recognized expert on
numerous alien societies. She accompanied us to peace talks on Ziklag,
and has acquired much valuable information, Captain Byrne."
     "I see."
     Nizaka studied Byrne a moment. Yes. She would need caution, here.
     "Anyway, their basic credo is 'If there's a market for it, how can
it possibly be wrong?' If you do deal with them, Commander, then I
strongly suggest caution. As Starbuck likes to say, they'll steal the
clothes off of you, before you even notice."
     "Commander," came a voice.
     "Here." It was Tigh.
     "Sir, Security says that the aliens are ready."
     "Thank you, Colonel." He rose to leave.
     "We are also getting reports from several other ships, sir. It seems
a number of the aliens transported aboard them, when Trader Blaato
appeared here."
     "I see, Colonel." Adama sighed, feeling a BaseShip-sized headache
coming on. "I see.  Colonel, you'd better get in touch with Command
Centurion Moray immediately and find out if anything similar has happened
on the BaseShip. The last thing we need to see is a crew of Centurions
inadvertently responding to what they might interpret as a potential
hostile situation with the Horks!"
     "Commander, don't worry about that, I've already been in touch with
Command Centurion Moray about the general situation, and they know about
their presence in the Fleet. I told him that in case he and his crew see
any of them aboard his ship, they're not to regard them as hostile and
that we're facing the same situation, too."
     The Commander relaxed. Tigh had just offered a perfect reminder of
why he was so invaluable as an Executive Officer. "Thank you, Colonel.
Keep up the good work." 
     "One more thing, Commander," Tigh added.  "A maintenance worker has
been taken into custody by Major Croft's Special Forces."
     Adama nodded, feeling curious eyes set on him, most palpably
Starbuck's.  Croft had been trying to track down the tech who had been
responsible for upkeep on Gamma Deck in the area where Starbuck had
inadvertently discovered a toxic gas that had had the potential to kill
just about every man, woman and child aboard the Galactica.  The man had
disappeared, failing to report for duty, shortly after Starbuck had been
found.  This was the first breakthrough in the mystery that had been
unveiled in a series of bizarre events that could only have happened to
Starbuck. "Very well. He shut off the unicom, grateful that the headache
he'd felt coming on, had now receded just a bit.
 

     "You deal in rare commodities, you say?" Chameleon asked the
repulsive creature that had appeared on the Seniors Ship with an armful
of goods. Life had a way of presenting opportunities at the most unlikely
moments, the challenge was recognizing them for what they truly were and
acting at the right moment. When this Hork had appeared, he'd immediately
appropriated the only Languatron aboard, used to facilitate communication
between the crew and those whose first language wasn't Colonial Standard.
How long had he been moping about, spending far too much time thinking
about...no! Don't go there! Leave sleeping daggits lie!
     This could be a far more pleasant diversion...and maybe...He
grinned, feeling a familiar surge of exhilaration sweep over him, almost
like in the good old days. "Tell me more. In my day, I also used to
engage in a little profitable commerce. I have access to everything from
livestock to the finest of Zykonian Lagulin."
     "Zykonian Lagulin?" asked the Hork, his eyes widening greedily, who
answered to the name of Schplecht Faadi. "The Zykonians aren't known for
exporting their Lagulin, especially to Horks...how did you manage to
acquire it?"
     "The right contact, of course," Chameleon added elusively.
Apparently, his son hadn't asked about Zykonian export permits before
loading a ship with Lagulin and shipping it to the Fleet. Ah, it made a
father proud. "We also have something else I believe you'd be interested
in. We call them 'mushies'. A Colonial delicacy. They're rather unique to
our people."
     "I recognize a kindred spirit," Faadi replied unctuously. "Perhaps
we could come to some kind of arrangement?"
     "Indeed," replied the conman. 


     Adama was half-surprised not to see the Council Chamber stripped and
put up for sale, by the time he got there. Trader Blaato was standing,
looking out the huge port, at the sea of stars. Several of the Colonial
ships hung upon the curtain of night, as well as one of the Hork vessels.

     "Politics are of little interest to us," said Blaato, after he and
his party had seated themselves at the massive table. "We seek only
trade, Commander. Right now, our holds are full, as we have just returned
from a Trade Fair in the Orpheonus System." Blaato paused a moment, to
admire several of his garish rings. Apparently, he had done rather well
for himself, in the trade fair just past. "We merely seek leave to trade
with your people."
     "Yes," said another Hork, only marginally less obese than Blaato.
"We understand that you still possess quantities of ambrosia."
     "As a matter of fact we do," replied Adama. "You know of it?"
     "Oh yes," replied the second Hork, who answered to the name of
Buhlbar Boonz. "We encountered it during a layover on Brylon recently."
The Hork smiled, and it wasn't a pretty sight. "A most...salubrious
refreshment. Yes, indeed."
     "Well," said Adama, "I see no reason that some small degree
of...exchange, could not be condoned, Trader Blaato. If you could provide
us with an inventory of the goods which you intend to offer, we can
examine them."
     "Examine?" asked another of the Horks.
     "Yes, for any potential items that are proscribed by our laws. We
have certain rules. This is after all, a military vessel."
     "Ah, of course. We understand."
     "Oh, there is, I must inform you, one other condition," said Adama.
     "Yes?"


     Since several of the Hork traders were already aboard the Fleet, it
was something of a fiat accompli, granting them permission. Still and
all, their introduction seemed to go fairly well. And, Adama had to
admit, some of the items would not go a begging, given their current
situation. Everything from electronic parts, to exotic perfumes, to rare
and enticing foodstuffs seemed to have a place in the alien holds, and
half the ships in the Fleet were soon abuzz with negotiations and deals. 
     It was some time before Byrne and the rest got back to the session
with the pilots, then it was back to his quarters. Jena was up, and had
knocked a sort of lunch together. Byrne smiled. He felt sure Jena could
make a decent meal out of nearly anything. They ate, and he told her of
the newcomers.
     "I don't know, hon," he said. "They look like Pigs In Space on
steroids, marinated in cholesterol. Frankly, I don't trust them."
     "What do they have to trade?" she asked. "Anything we might want?"
     "I don't know, hon. I went right back to the pilot briefing." He
looked at his watch. "Which reminds me, I gotta get to LifeStation. Last
of my shots, today."
     "Oh hey. Cool. I'm glad those are just about over." She took a sip
of some kind of fruit juice. To Byrne, it tasted like a cross between
apple juice and WD40, but Jen seemed to like it. He looked over at the
table. "How go the studies?"
     "Slow. These Colonies..." She shook her head. "How the hell could
they ever have been so stupid as to go for a peace offer from those Cylon
suckers?"
     "God knows, hon."
     "I mean the Cylons had never kept their word before. What made them
think they would this time? It's like...uh, what was the name of that guy
on Earth? Twentieth Century. The really nasty one? The German one?"
     "Adolf Hitler."
     "Yeah. Him. All he ever did was lie, lie, lie, and yet folks fell
for it. Sounds like this President Adar dude was just as credulous."
     "Well babe, maybe people weighed down by so long a war would be
willing to do almost anything for a chance at peace."
     "Yeah, including parking their brains," said Jena, with all the
wisdom of her years. "It seems that only Commander Adama was bright
enough to see the bait and switch the Cylons were pulling, before it was
too late to save the Galactica."
     "For which you and I should be so grateful," smiled her father.
"After all, if it hadn't been for them happening by..."
     "Yeah," she replied, squeezing his hand. She looked at the clock.
"You'd better get on to the doc, Pop."
     "On my way, Admiral!" he said, saluting. 
     "Dad?"
     "Yeah?" What's up? She never says 'Dad".
     "When can I go out, more? This dump is sure nicer than our old digs,
but I'm feeling cooped up."
     "Well hon, half the ship is off-limits to all but authorized
personnel. Heck, even I can't go some places. And we need to get your
legal status settled." 
     "How long can it take? Or do they use the same people as back on
Earth?"
     "They just might. Look, I'm going to be talking to Commander Adama
later. I'll bring it up."
     "Okay, Pop."
     Byrne shook his head. Once the drama of their rescue had settled
down, the question of legalities had been raised. One of the members of
the Council, the newly-elected Sire Elegabalus, mentioned that, although
Captain Byrne might be from Earth, and therefore could be granted refugee
or visitor status, Jena could not. Not only had she been born on a planet
that was unknown to Colonial Law, it was a planet that didn't exist any
more. Also, her being under the age of majority, in Colonial Law, left
her status somewhat in limbo. She couldn't even go about the ship
unaccompanied, and it frosted Byrne no end. It was all very obscure, and
based on legal technicalities that had seldom if ever been adjudicated,
but Elegabalus, a former legalitician specializing in contract law, was a
pushy sort. He had vocally opposed the admission of the Zohrloch refugees
to Colonial citizenship, but had been powerless then to do anything about
it. Now, in office...
     Byrne sighed. Damned politicians! Hell, the planet she was born on
gets smashed, and I'm all she's got. Lousy little greasy-assed...
     He watched her pop in a disc from home, and settle down to watch. He
smiled as he saw the title. The Prisoner. Arrival.  Yeah, right now she
probably felt like Number 6. All the comforts of home, but...


     For all of a couple microns, Adama had actually considered leaving
Starbuck behind when he had left with Apollo to meet Major Croft in the
Brig.  Mainly, he was concerned that the emotional impact of being
isolated in a locked storage compartment for forty-eight centars would
effect how the often brash officer would react when he first laid eyes on
one of the men allegedly responsible for planning some kind of attack on
the Galactica from within her own ranks.  But the grim determination on
the young man's face had made Adama realize in a heartbeat that Starbuck
needed to see this through.  More than likely, Adama hadn't been the only
one spending sleepless rest periods, aware that somewhere in the Fleet
there could potentially be more toxic piiglin. More people bent on
murder. As he strode down the corridor flanked by Apollo and Starbuck, he
fleetingly grieved for the lost innocence of all of the Colonies' youth
over the last millennia.  Boys became men too quickly, and naivety was
either quickly discarded, or cremated with its bearer.  Still, he
couldn't help but put a restraining hand on Starbuck's shoulder as the
Warrior seemed to surge ahead while they walked into the Brig.
     "Starbuck..." Adama said.
     The Lieutenant's shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, before he
hesitated, raking a hand through his hair.  "Sir."
     "Soon enough, buddy," Apollo clapped a hand on his shoulder.
     "Not for me," Starbuck returned, his hand lightly resting on his
weapon as Croft came through the security entrance.  "Well?" he asked the
Special Forces Major bluntly.
     "Fine, thanks.  And you, Lieutenant?" Croft quipped, pausing only a
moment before continuing, looking down at his board.  "Technician
Aldebaran. Civilian, with no military connections, or known criminal
record or associations. Born on Gemon, 7323, came aboard the Fleet in a
salvaged fuel barge after the Destruction. Originally assigned to the
Agro Ship, he asked for and received transfer to the Galactica repair
detail the day after we put in at Brylon Station. One of the civilian
workers, sir." He turned to the younger men. "As the Commander knows,
we've been looking for him ever since we figured out that it was him
signing off on those maintenance checks on Gamma Deck, without actually
doing them.  Now, if he was just lazy, chances are he'd just admit it and
accept the repercussions.  Instead, he disappeared."
     "That says a lot," Starbuck inserted.
     "More than Aldebaran has, anyhow," Croft added.  "He hasn't said a
word in his own defense since we found him.  He's just been praying."
     "Praying?" Adama repeated, his eyebrows raised.
     "Yes.  Funny time to seek answers from God..." Croft mused.
     "Too bad he didn't ask for divine guidance before getting the
piiglin," Starbuck agreed.
     "Where did you find him, Croft?" Apollo asked.
     "It was a fluke, really.  We were reviewing some security vids, and
found one of him disguised-not very well-boarding a shuttle for the
Sagittarius.  We surreptitiously nosed around some, and finally he showed
up in the commissary.  We followed him back to where he was bunking,
which turned out to be yet another storage room-not as nice as the one
Starbuck was holed up in-and then took him into custody."
     "The Sagittarius?" Starbuck murmured, an involuntary shudder running
through him.
     "Is that pertinent?" Croft asked, narrowing his eyes.  
     Starbuck shook his head slightly, glancing at Apollo and Adama
before returning his attention to the major.  "I...I don't really know. 
Just had a bad experience there once."
     "That's putting it mildly," Apollo murmured quietly.
     "Oh?"
     "Some insurgents calling themselves Il Fadim caused a riot on the
Sagittarius," Adama explained.  "Starbuck was injured."
     "Is it just my imagination, or does this kind of thing happen to you
a lot?" Croft asked the Lieutenant.
     "I get my share..." Starbuck shrugged.
     "And someone else's," Apollo added.
     "Well then, the Goddess of Luck must be smiling on me today, because
it's Aldebaran's turn this time around," Starbuck returned, pointing a
finger down the corridor.
     "I'm not sure that will be much comfort to Aldebaran," Adama
replied, leading to the way to the cell block.
     "I didn't really come here with comfort in mind," Starbuck returned
as he followed.


     Byrne sat on the exam table in LifeStation, as Cassie gave him his
last shot, and he underwent another regen session for his savaged lung.
His respiratory capacity was, Doctor Salik informed him, up another six
percent, over the last exam. At this rate, he could be certified as fit
for duty in another secton or so.
     "Good to hear it, Doc. Nothing I hate quite like being flat on my
back useless."
     "No one does," replied the CMO. "And after a life such as yours,
it's hardly surprising. So, you're going to apply for pilot training, I
hear."
     "Soon as I'm certified. Flying is pretty much all I know."
     Salik nodded, entered a few things into the computer, then left. As
Byrne dressed, he looked over at Cassie. He had to admit, she was a
hottie. Oh yeah.
     But too much like Diane. Now there was a sore spot, if ever there
was one! I wonder what the Barnacle From Barcelona is up to, these...
     "How's Jena?" asked Cassie. "Settling in alright?"
     "Fine, but she's chomping at the bit." Cassie's brow furrowed, and
Byrne realized he'd done it again. Another "Earthism". He explained. "She
hates being cooped up."
     "I can imagine, after growing up like she did. All that openness."
     "Different than yours?"
     "Very. Oh, we had a little house, when I was small, with a garden
out back, but I spent more time flying with my father than anywhere else.
I'm used to the closed-in feel of a ship. The vibration of engines. It
doesn't bother me."
     "Yeah, I know. From the time I was twenty-two, it's been ships or
planes. I spent more time living on a carrier than in a house, until the
Mars mission."
     "Lots of different ones?"
     "A few. My first posting as an aviator was on the Enterprise. Two
years there, before I was transferred. I spent five years and some change
on the Ranger, before being transferred to the Constellation."
     "Pretty big ships?"
     "By our standards, yeah. But our largest aircraft carriers could fit
inside one of your landing bays. The Galactica is many times the size of
anything we have."
     "Sounds interesting," said Cassie.
     "Old hat to me, but some evening when it works out, come on by.
Bring everyone. I'll show you all the pictures and stuff."
     "Sure."
     As he left LifeStation, Byrne mused. Yes, he liked Cassie. Hell, he
was more than a little attracted to the svelte blonde woman. But, she was
a former...oh, what did they call it? Uh...yeah. Socialator, or whatever.
Colonial-speak for hooker, as far as he could reckon. Now while he had to
admit that he had never exactly been much of a Puritan back on Earth, the
woman's former profession gave him a bit of a pause. True, he still knew
very little about Colonial society, and what was considered proper and
what wasn't, but something....well, something atavistic just left him
feeling uneasy about Cassie, around his daughter. Yes, it was probably
nothing. After all, from what little he'd heard about her, she'd left all
that behind, when she had been rescued from the Holocaust, and then
shifted gears to become a medic. He had to give her major buku kudos for
that. It was a gutsy move.
     No, Apollo and Sheba were a bit more his speed. He was the product
of a stable family (Yeah, what's one of those?), his single mother having
numerous relatives around, and he'd had experience as a single parent in
a military career. For her part, Sheba was the child of a military man
who, even when he was there, could not give her everything a girl needed
growing up. She'd also lost her own mother, fairly young. Even so, she
had turned out remarkably well-balanced and adjusted, given their current
conditions. Byrne saw in them potential excellent role models for his
daughter's necessary social and emotional development, development he
could never have provided while they were marooned.     
     Besides, he told himself, Cassiopeia was involved with someone else,
and he knew only too well what it was like to have someone else crash the
party, and play Hector the Homewrecker. Basically it sucked. That, and
she was involved with Starbuck. While he liked the brash Viper pilot, and
saw a lot of his younger self in the fellow, he also knew that the kid
had a reputation for chasing skirts as fast as he chased Cylons. Sure,
Jen was not someone easily Pied-Pipered, but she also had zero experience
of men, and the cheap lines they usually used. He just preferred to keep
some distance between his one and only daughter, and the Fleet's
"champion stud".
     Another reason I wish you were here, Jena, he thought, looking
upwards. Our little girl is...well, she isn't so little  anymore. You'd
know exactly what to do. You always did. 


     Technician Aldebaran was a short, wiry man, dressed in dirty work
clothing that likely hadn't been changed for sectons.  His brown hair was
short, and he probably cut it himself, if the large patch on the back of
his skull was any indication. His nails were ragged, his hands callused
and dirty, as one might expect of one of his calling. His eyes were
blue...and they stared up at the ceiling from where he lay on his back.
     Dead.
     "Frack!" Croft cursed, lunging forward and inserting his security
pass to open the cell.
     "Starbuck, call the Life Station!" Adama ordered, as the Lieutenant
raced toward the comm unit before the words were out of his Commander's
mouth.
     "Is he...?" Apollo asked, dropping to his knees across from Croft. 
A frothy drool trailed from Aldebaran's mouth, down his ashen face,
frozen in a rictus of pain.
     "Dead as Sagan," Croft replied, his fingers to the man's neck.
"Can't be that long. He's still warm." He intertwined his fingers,
placing the heel of his hands on the dead man's chest.
     Apollo instinctively started to lean down to begin rescue breathing.
     "NO!" Adama cried, adroitly moving forward, and seizing Apollo by
the shoulders.  "Don't!  It could be poison!"
     "But how could..." Starbuck began, as Castor dashed back to the
scene, tossing a life mask to Apollo from the Emergency Kit to use
without putting himself at risk.  Sudden realization hit Starbuck and he
sucked in a breath, as Lomas and Komma raced into the cell block.  "Oh,
frack!  He did it himself!" He shook his head in disbelief.  "Crazy son
of a..."
     Meanwhile, Apollo placed the life mask on Aldebaran's face,
activating it, and filling the dead man's lungs with oxygen.
     "The security feed will tell us," Croft grunted between
compressions, with a glance at the horrified security officers that had
been on duty.  
     "Hey, we had nothing to do with this!" Komma protested.
     "Nobody thinks you did, Corporal," Adama replied evenly as possible
under the circumstances, as pounding footsteps indicated the arrival of
the med team.  "But an investigation will need to take place." 
     Tone and Cassie burst onto the scene, pulling their equipment from
their kits and running a biomonitor over the dead man.
     "No life signs," Tone reported.  
     "What happened?" Cassie asked the men, as she tore open the man's
shirt, attaching probes to his chest.
     "He was fine one moment, and when they arrived about ten centons
later he was dead," Castor reported.
     "We're thinking poison," Croft added with a nod at the Commander.
     Cassie paused at that, pulling on a pair of medical gloves, and
sweeping a finger inside the man's mouth.  "Nothing.  Everyone stand
back.  Get ready, Tone."
     "Ready," Tone replied, as the relatively new physician leaned away
from the body.  
     "Defib," Cassie ordered.
     Aldebaran's body jerked as the electrical current ran through it. 
Cassie glanced at the biomonitor.  "Nothing.  Again."
     The body twitched again, and the two health team members exchanged
vernacular, as they tried to revive him using all their skill and medical
equipment at hand.  The others moved back, aware they were only in the
way as microns stretched into centons while the relatively new physician
and med tech went to work on their patient. Finally, after many long
centons, Cassiopeia sat back on her haunches, wiping a stray piece of
hair from her eyes as she shook her head at Tone.
     "He's gone," Cassie murmured dejectedly, removing her gloves.
"Nothing more we can do, Commander."
     "He was gone before you got here, Cass," Starbuck replied quietly,
putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing it gently.
     She looked up at him, smiling fleetingly, and nodding.  She rested a
hand on his, returning the slight pressure.  "I know, Starbuck.  I know.
It's just that..."
     "We'll need a post-mortem, Dr. Cassiopeia," Adama told her.
     "Of course, Commander," she replied, back to business.


     Although Apollo had arrived fifteen minutes late, and already
winded, after an hour or so in the gym with Apollo and Sargamesh, Byrne
felt wiped. He'd been in declining health for so long, he seriously
needed to get back in the groove. Already, his body felt stronger than it
had in ages, and this game, called Triad... well, it was fab. First
chance he got, he'd have to teach them about basketball and volleyball. 
     "You do well," the Zohrloch told him, as they fenced. Back home,
Byrne had once been very handy with both foil and ep‚e'.  He'd also had a
katana, a genuine Masamune, at home on the mantle, a magnificent and
princely gift from his old sensei, Master Osuda. How he wished that he
had it now.
     "Well, it's been a long time," said Kevin, as he and the other
parried and thrusted. "I was Academy fencing champion my senior year. I
tried to keep up with it, but once we were marooned..."
     "Quite understandable, Captain Byrne. Other matters pressed. What
are your plans now?"
     "Get well, get certified, and get back to flying. And get my
daughter's legal status fixed."
     "Yes, I heard. It must be most vexing."
     "You could say that, Sargamesh."
     For a man so heavily muscled, the Zohrloch was surprisingly quick
and limber. Still, it was with some small sense of gratification that it
was Kevin's blade that drew first blood.
     "Excellent," said the Zohrloch, as Byrne stood back, Apollo
watching. Obviously, something was going down.  Something of a
classified, military nature.  Like Starbuck earlier, the Captain seemed a
little distracted.  Not particularly the best mindset for sword fighting.
     "Thanks."
     "However..." In a blur, the other was up, slipped around Byrne, and
hooked his blade to Kevin's. It went sailing, and before he could do
anything but marvel, Sargamesh had brought his blade down on Byrne's
neck. "You must never lower your guard."
     "I'm hardly in a position to disagree," replied Byrne.
     "Well," said Sargamesh, pulling back. "It just takes practice."
     "So I see."
     The two walked towards the towel rack. Sargamesh opened his mouth to
speak, but before he could utter a word, Byrne had hooked his ankle, sent
him sprawling, and seized the blade from his grip. Sargamesh rolled
quickly, to find a point at his throat.
     "Yes. I shall never lower my guard," said Byrne, fighting a smile.
The Zohrloch roared with laughter, and Kevin helped him to his feet.
     "Captain Byrne?"
     "Yes, Apollo?"
     "There's a message for you." Apollo pointed at the telecom on the
wall.
     Interesting. Ozko wanted to see him.

Chapter Two

     Adama's "condition", re the Horks, was simple. In return for trading
privileges aboard the Fleet, he wanted copies of all the starcharts in
the Hork's navigational computers. The Colonials would soon pass beyond
the areas of which they possessed precise information, and Adama disliked
heading into the dark without his scanners working.
     Trader Blaato was agreeable, indeed effusively so, and it at once
fell to Hummer and Komma to work out a computer interface protocol to
facilitate communication between the disparate systems. As usual, the
desired product was quickly forthcoming, and soon the data was flowing
into the Galactica's mainframe. Analyzing it would, of course, take
longer.


     Starbuck sat back in his chair, taking a sip of his steaming java,
considering his father across the table as the old man crunched the
numbers on a datapad, as he let the day's events sink in. The pre-lim
from Cassie had concluded that Aldebaran had indeed taken his own life,
although the full toxicology results weren't back yet.  It could only
make the Lieutenant wonder what kind of people the man was involved with,
that he would commit suicide, rather than subject himself to questioning.
At this point, their only lead was the dead man's journal.  Just how long
did it take for a computer whiz like Komma to crack the code on some
maniac's password protected journal? He let out a breath, raking a hand
through his hair, pausing as Chameleon's eyes swung to him
in...curiosity...concern.  He pasted on a smile, unwilling and unable to
burden his father with the classified information, and pulled a fumarello
out of his flight jacket. 
     "You know, every time Captain Byrne sees me with a cup of java, he
bursts out laughing," Starbuck remarked, deflecting any questions, while
he lit up his smoke.  "I'm beginning to wonder if I should send him
Tarnia's way..." he quipped.  Chameleon chuckled below his breath,
returning his attention to the numbers he was crunching on the data pad.
     At this rate, it wouldn't be long before the Viper pilot's debt to
the Colonial coffers would at last be satisfied, following his
misadventures in a Zykonian hovermobile in Shad Zil, while on Brylon
Five.  It still irked him that his attempt to apprehend a vicious Ziklagi
killer had resulted in not only his (thankfully!) brief imprisonment in
the Katorrgah, but also the Zykonians demanding he pay for all damages
caused while he pursued Korax! Commander Adama had supported that last
decision, which, at least in his view, was akin to admitting to his
guilt. Still, much to his relief, he wasn't disintegrating in that sweat
box of a Hole, digging some ore he couldn't even pronounce. Sometimes a
guy had to cut his losses, and thank his lucky stars he was still alive.
Sometimes only decision was the only decision, however much it sucked ion
vapors. As he glanced across at his father, he realized that there was a
lot of that going around lately.
     "Well?" Starbuck asked.  
     Chameleon looked up, smiling at his son, a sparkle in his eyes. He
looked good, Starbuck realized. Finally, he was looking more like the man
he had first met so long ago on the Rising Star. Getting his father to
handle the stores of Lagulin had been an inspiration. It had taken a load
of responsibility off  himself, and at the same time, provided his father
with a much-needed purpose after finding himself alone, again.
     "Let's just say, business is good," Chameleon smiled.  He glanced
back down at his datapad. "I just secured an exclusive contract with the
Horks. They'd take everything I have, but of course, that wouldn't be
good for business." He raised his eyebrows.  
     "Won't that drive up the price even more for the customers you're
supplying now, if we sell most of our inventory?" Starbuck asked.  
     "Yes, so it's important that we time it just right. Just before the
Horks leave the Fleet. I don't want these Horks underbidding me and
taking my business." 
     Starbuck leaned forward, waving a finger at his father.  "And I
don't want you watering down the product, just so you can increase the
stores..."
     "I can't believe you would suggest such a thing, Starbuck...but I'm
proud that you thought of it."  Chameleon chuckled, running some new
numbers through his datapad and grinning widely at the result.  "Well,
well..." 
     "Chameleon, you're supposed to be rehabilitating..."   
     "It's not much fun," the conman shook his head distastefully.  "A
man needs to have a little fun once in a while."
     "Father, if you're scamming these Horks, and Commander Adama catches
wind of it..."
     "I've only ever been caught once, you know.  I'm actually quite good
at this," Chameleon shrugged, then laughed aloud at the look on his son's
face. He reached across the small table, patting Starbuck on the cheek. 
"Your mother used to get that same look on her face..."
     "And probably with good reason. Have you lost your mind?" his son
asked in exasperation.
     "No, I've found my verve."  He looked pleased about it too. "Again."
     Starbuck let out a short breath of frustration.  "Let's put it this
way, when you're about to travel through uncharted space, it's really not
a good idea to fire up all the locals from one end of the star system to
the next." Starbuck posed.  "It could be unhealthy, to say the least.
Especially if they have guns."
     "The best con is one where the mark doesn't know he's been taken."
Chameleon sagaciously explained.  
     "Oh, right!  And how often do you find someone stupid enough..." he
trailed off, suddenly transported right back to when he'd first met his
father. "Never mind."  He paused a moment as Chameleon frowned at him. 
He could tell the old man was thinking the same thing.  "What are you up
to?  Really?"
     "Just a little harmless...negotiating." 
     "Is that all?"
     "That's all."
     "Really?" He had to ask.
     "Starbuck, don't worry, son.  I suppose I'm just enjoying having
something useful to do, and it's my enthusiasm talking.  All those
'activities' they arrange on the Senior Ship make a man wish he could
just bypass retirement and go straight to his funeral, after all."     
     Starbuck sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "I can't believe
I'm saying this to my father, then again, since we're blood..." He rolled
his eyes, wondering how many times he'd been told the same. 
"Just...don't do anything stupid."
     "Stupid?  I don't..."
     "Like provoking Borellian Nomen."
     "Oh, that kind of stupid...no, I won't do that."


     "Yo, Ozko?" said Byrne, wafting in to the lounge on the Rising Star,
where the Calcoryan musician was currently playing. After finishing off
the last few notes of his current piece, Jungle Baby MudLove, the
ponderous alien being turned to Byrne. Unlike many, the sight of the
alien's single reddish eye didn't bother the Earthman. "Got your message,
Dude. What's up?"
     "I may have good news for you, Kevin," replied the Calcoryan. "At
least I hope so."
     "Good news?" Byrne was intrigued. What news for him could Ozko have?
     "Yes. I was here, between sets, when some of the Horks came in, to
trade." The huge creature shuddered. His people didn't much care for the
Hork physiognomy. Their bouquet wasn't wildly popular, either. "Steward
Zeibert let them back in with great reluctance, I might add." 
     "I can imagine. So, what happened?"
     "Well, it seems that one of them," Ozko pointed a tentacle in the
direction of one of the visitors, currently peddling something at a table
across the room, "has knowledge of your kind."
     "Knowledge of my kind? Humans?"
     "Indeed, and not merely your species, Kevin."
     Holy shit! 
     The gentlehork in question answered to the name of Zhiglee Biirghut.
He was currently in conversation with a garishly-dressed lady wearing a
really bad hat, but, business concluded, motioned Kevin over. Like all
Horks, he smelled as if he bathed in a mixture of moth balls and gym
socks, but Byrne kept his expression as neutral as possible, while he
avoided breathing through his nose.
     "And what, my good HoomanSir, may I do for you? How can this one be
of service?"
     He said service the way most cops said "this shouldn't take long",
and Byrne took a deep breath.
     "I understand you have recently been to a space station, near here.
A station designated RB-33."
     "Oh, indeed, sir. You know of it?"
     "Not as much as I'd like to, sir. I understand it hosts a
most...varied clientele."
     "Oh, most assuredly. One can find beings of many and varied sorts on
RB-33. And myriads of goods for trade, as well."
     "So I have heard," grinned Byrne, conspiratorially, leaning close. A
cubit or two flashed in his hand. "I have also heard that someone similar
to myself is, or has been there." He leaned closer, and dropped his
voice. "What can you tell me?"
     Biirghut's eyes got a look in them one needed no common language to
read, and soon his mouth was moving faster than a Viper scramble. Byrne
tried not to smile, too much.
     But he couldn't help it.
     "Well, there is a chancery there, and when last I was there..."


     "Yes, Captain Byrne?" asked Adama, later, after the majority of the
Council had filed out, following a session. It had been called, by Sire
Elegabalus, in conjunction with the also newly-elected Sire Galerius, to
question, read grill, Byrne about his journey, his experiences, and of
course, about Earth. Since very little flight recorder data from the
Saint Brendan's transit of the "wormhole" had survived, Byrne fell back
on his salvaged video discs. Documentaries on nature, history, art and
culture, and basic science regarding Earth. As he had suspected, the
images from Ancient Egypt, juxtaposed against images from Kobol, left the
room silent, after a nice round of "oohs" and "aahs", and one near
cardiac arrest.  
     Could have heard a pin drop in a Cathedral, Byrne told himself. 
     "Commander, how long do you expect these Horks to be aboard the
Fleet?" 
     "A few days, at least," replied Adama, casting his eyes once more
over the screen captures of images of Earth. The Giza Pyramids. "Why?"
     "Well, I need a ship, Commander."
     "A ship?" Adama let the photo drop, and gave Byrne his full
attention. "For what?"
     "I need to get to that space station the Horks have been talking
about. RB-33."
     "The space station? I thought you knew nothing of it."
     "I didn't, until about an hour....uh, centar, ago. I got this
message from Ozko, about one of the Horks, peddling his goodies over on
the Rising Star. It seems that there is a Human, living on the station,
as we speak."
     "A Human?" said Sire Pelias, standing next to Adama. "Oh, my
apologies, Commander."
     "No, that's quite alright. A Human? Is he sure?"
     "Well, with these Horks, I'm not sure I would be certain of being
wet in a rainstorm, Commander, but he's quite certain. He described the
man to me, and there's no doubt."
     "Your friend, who crashed with you?" asked Siress Tinia.
     "Yeah. Cedric. It has to be Cedric." 


     Cedric Robert Allen, Jr., Commander in the Royal Australian Navy,
nuclear engineer and mission specialist, had been the only other person,
besides Byrne and the late Genesis Kling, to escape the Zykonian
internment on Krylamic ( their sister-ship, the Cabrillo, suffering quite
a different fate), and reach the now-destroyed planet where Byrne had
spent nearly twenty years, and his daughter had been born. When the
younger Genesis was just over two, alien pirates had landed, and all hell
had broken loose. The girl's mother was dead, she was horribly
traumatized, and Allen was nowhere to be seen. Byrne recovered, and set
about trying to raise his daughter alone on an empty planet, and pushed
the memory of his friend and fellow astronaut into the background.
     Until now. Now, for the first time since that horrible day, Byrne
had news of his friend. Or at least he hoped so. The description the Hork
had given was somewhat generic, but three things had decided Byrne on the
matter.
     The man often was heard to use words unknown to anyone on the
station, which, Biirghut said were the same as Byrne's own native speech.
     He sported a tattoo, on his right arm, of what could only be a
mermaid. Byrne remembered it well.
     The man had often asked visiting traders and voyagers for anything
they might know of a planet called Earth. 
     "Are you sure, Pop?" asked Jena, excited. "After all this time?
Alive?"
     "Sounds like it, Jen," said Byrne, over dinner in their quarters.
"From everything this Hork said, I don't see how it could be anyone
else."
     "You gonna go find out?"
     "You know it, kid."
     "How far away is this space station?"
     "Near as I can figure, about twenty light-years or so. It's beyond
the Galactica's scanner range."
     "How are you going get there?"
     "Well, the Saint Brendan certainly can't make it. Not like she is
now."
     "Right. No warp drive, or whatever they call faster-than-light
propulsion here."
     "Yeah. The 'Marron Drive', Adama said. If it comes to it, I'll try
and hitch a ride with Link Hogthrob if I have to."  He refilled her
glass. "But if there's even a chance it's Ced, I have to go."
     "Well yeah." She swallowed another bite of salad. "So, when do I
start packing?"
     "Oh hey, ain't no way, kid."
     "Pop..."
     "Baby, uh uh!" He raised a finger, and shook it. "No way."
     "Ooo-kay." 

Chapter Three

     Getting a ship for the run to RB-33 was turning out to be a bit more
complicated than Byrne had anticipated. Comes from all that SciFi on TV,
dude. This ain't Trek, you know. Vipers and shuttle were out of the
question, as of course was the Saint Brendan. Two members of the Council
were pushing to have the Fleet divert to the station, a move that Adama
was resistant to. Either way, it would be a while before that got
settled, and Byrne wasn't in a mood to wait for the politicians to pull
their heads back out into the sunshine. He was just about to check out
hitching a ride on one of the Hork ships, when Sire Pelias, of all
people, came to his rescue.
     His private yacht, inherited from his late uncle, Sire Feo, could be
placed at the Earthman's disposal, if needs be. After Feo's death at the
hands of the murderous Korax, Pelias had intended on relieving some of
the cramped living conditions in the Fleet, by letting some of the
various families relocate there. However, once in possession of Feo's
titles (and money), he had purchased from the Zykonian authorities at
Brylon Station two impounded freighters, seized from smugglers, refitted
them to be somewhat livable, and given them over to those in need. His
yacht, the Jada, while not huge (Sire Feo's other three, all much larger,
had been left behind in the scramble to escape the Colonies), was
nonetheless fairly fast and comfortable. 
     Byrne was agreeable, and Pelias, he was informed, would be coming
with him. Adama felt that someone in an official capacity would be a
plus, if engagement with the authorities on the station became needful. 
     Back in his cabin, Byrne opened a trunk, rescued from the Saint
Brendan, and rarely thought of. Inside was a picture, of Jen's mother,
holding the newborn, the blue sky and stream of their castaway home in
the background. Byrne slipped it into his pocket. His pocket wasn't big
enough for the alien pistol he had found, next to one of the pirate
corpses after the raid. Built for a slightly different hand than a
Human's, it nonetheless hefted well, Unlike the Colonial lasers, it had a
long tapering business end, with the emitter coming to a point. He'd only
fired it once, and had seen what a job it could do. He slipped set it
back into the trunk.
     He also checked his old but well-maintained Colt .45s. No sense
putting all his eggs in one basket.
     "Pop?" He turned. Genesis was returning to their cabin.
     "Yo, kid. Where ya been?"
     "Visiting. Commander Adama's daughter. Athena. She let me feel the
babies kick!" she grinned.
     Byrne smiled, taken back to the first time he'd placed his hands on
his wife's belly, fleeting the flutter of life within. "Pretty cool,
huh?"
     "Yeah," nodded his daughter. "She was helping me with some of this
stuff." She held up her study materials. "And her nephew was there. Neat
kid, I like him."
     "Yeah, I met him. Weird, having that wind-up pooch of his."
     "Kinda," she shrugged. "And who'd name their kid 'Boxey', huh?"
     "Apparently, some Colonial parent," smiled Byrne. "To be fair, they
probably think ours are weird."
     "Uh, well, there have been a few jokes about fires," she replied.
"So, you ready?"
     "Almost. Just checking a few things." He indicated his trunk. 
     "You taking all this with you?"
     "Pays to be careful, kid." He tossed a couple of outfits in on top
of the rest.
     "Duds?"
     "Well, not knowing what I might find, might as well take a change or
two."
     "Need help loading it on your transport?"
     "Nah. A steward will be by before I go, to carry it down to the
launch bay, on one of their hover jacks. So, eat?"
     "Sure. Who's cooking?"
     "Hey, I'm just a simple sailor," he demurred. "What do I know?"
     "Yeah, sure. Leave it to me, Matey."
     "Nah," he said, and prepared lunch. Jena of course asked more about
the trip, and wanted to go. As before, Byrne was adamant that she wasn't.
"Okay, call me old-fashioned, daughter, but this is potentially
dangerous. I'd rather you were someplace where I know you're safe."
     "A refugee fleet in the middle of nowhere is safe?" she countered.
"Remind me to look that word up."
     "Look, from everything I've picked up, this station is sort of the
local Fort Apache. A cross between Sodom and Gomorrah, and the Federal
Reserve Bank. Hoodlums, smugglers, thieves and killers seem to just about
sum it up."
     "Oh, you mean Congress."
     "Jen...!"
     "Well, can't you call the place, and find out if Uncle Ced is even
really there?"
     "We're out of communications range, apparently. And," he raised a
finger, as she was about to protest, "from what I've picked up from both
Ozko and some of the other Horks, this dump is a watering hole for some
pirate ships that are known to cruise the region. If there's even a
chance that the same bunch could be hanging around the joint, I don't
want them anywhere near you."
     "But what if they should attack the Fleet?"
     "No way. The Galactica alone has enough firepower to blow them into
next week. That, along with what that BaseShip is packing...no way any
pirates are gonna try anything funny." He swallowed another bite. "Hence
my point about being safe."
     "But I want to go," she insisted, inclining her head to one side, in
that way her mother always had, when she wanted something. 
     "No!" he repeated. "Sorry to be an old party pooper, but I want you
here, and alive, kid."
     "But I was there too, Pop. I..."
     "Yes, and it's only by the Grace of God either of us is still
breathing, kid. No, what little mind I was blessed with is made up.' He
watched her pout, and kept himself from laughing. She'd done that so well
when she'd been little, and with it just being they two, she had usually
gotten her way. I overindulged her, growing up. She's too used to getting
her way, and not seeing the other side. But who knew?
     "Dad..."
     "What about Sheba and Apollo, tonight?"
     "Yeah," she answered, voice in full "sulk" mode, body in full sulk
posture. "They invited me."
     "Good. I heartily approve of those two. Now," he reached over to a
side table, and picked up a sheaf of papers. "how go the studies?" 
     "Fine," she sighed. Pout "I finished it all."
     "Okay, ready?"
     "Sure." Pout 
     "Go."
     "Alright. In 1938, the Western leaders met in Munich, with Hitler
and Mussolini, to sign the Munich Agreement. By this agreement, the
Sudeten region of Czechoslovakia was surrendered to Germany, and..."


     This is an intolerable existence.  I know that soon the suns shall
be turned into darkness, and the moons into blood.
     How did it all go so terribly wrong?  When did we agree to abandon
our values and principles, the very doctrine laid down by the Lords of
Kobol, and co-exist with the traitor that led our civilization to its
ruin?  How could our leaders ignore the divine messages of righteousness
and truth, and hurl us into this dark age with their sinister schemes? 
How could they twist and contort our hope and faith?  As I look around, I
no longer sense God's presence.  As we obediently follow the demon and
his eleven minions like ovus, taking me back to the time before the Great
Destruction when we blindly followed another, He has forsaken us.
     I shall wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principles,
against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of our world, against
spiritual wickedness in the heavenly.  I thank God Almighty for giving me
a way.  For I shall be the instrument of God's wrath.  His retribution. 
And when we, His flock, are reunited with Him in His kingdom, His love
shall redeem us.     
     Aldebaran's final journal entry was chilling in a way that Adama had
never experienced before.  Just as he had thought that his people were
adjusting to Baltar's presence in the Fleet, to come across one who had
come to think of him as some kind of devil incarnate...He let out a slow
breath, rubbing his eyes wearily.
     "I submitted a copy of the journal to Tarnia in the Life Station,
Commander, so she could put together a proper personality profile," Croft
was saying.
     "Well, since Starbuck isn't here to say it, I will.  Aldebaran was
obviously very disturbed," Apollo inserted, his brow wrinkled
indignantly.  He'd fill the Lieutenant in on the details later when his
friend had returned from visiting Chameleon.  Apollo had personally
promised as much, knowing that otherwise Starbuck would be stuck to him
like Colonial adhesive until this report came out.  
     Croft snorted.  "Somehow I think Starbuck might have put it
differently."
     "You think?" Apollo shrugged, continuing.  "Just remember that when
Aldebaran brought the Piiglin aboard at Brylon Five, Baltar was still a
long way off from joining the Fleet."
     "That's for sure," Croft nodded.  "But Aldebaran said that God told
him to bring it aboard, and to seek a position on the Galactica..." The
Elite Special Forces officer scrolled through the log, looking for the
entry.  "Here it is.  'I shall wait meekly and humbly.  For I am His
servant, and destined to do His bidding.'  To me it sounds as though he
was just waiting for some reason to use that gas.  Baltar joining the
Fleet, as it turns out, was a convenient excuse to try and massacre every
man, woman and child aboard the Galactica."
     "There are no journal entries that refer to anybody else, Croft?"
Adama asked.  "Accomplices?"
     "No, sir.  From what I've read, he was acting alone.
     "Thank the Lords for that," Apollo replied.
     "Indeed," Adama nodded, unable to shake the disturbing sensation
that had come over him as he reread the madman's words.

     "Ready?" asked Pelias, as Byrne stashed his duffle in a locker
aboard the Jada. 
     "Ready," replied Byrne. They moved aft as the hatch lifted up into
the nose and sealed, and Byrne was impressed at how luxurious the ship
was, considering her size. Polished woods, plush rugs, wet bar, vid
screens and surround sound up the wazoo, bathroom fittings that were
unquestionably solid gold! Man, if this had been Feo's smallest yacht...
     "Well hello," said a voice, as they entered the control cabin. The
chair swiveled, and Byrne locked eyes with Sargamesh. "Welcome aboard."
     "Uh..."
     "My usual pilot is down with something, and so I asked Commander
Adama for a Viper pilot to take his place."
     "I volunteered," replied the Zohrloch. 
     "Well, thanks," said Byrne. He looked at the other member of this
crew. "You sure you want to tag along?"
     "Of course," said Nizaka, in her Human guise. "After all, I have a
certain expertise, when it comes to exotic species, Captain Byrne. You
might need my help."
     "Well, thanks," he said, though he actually had no particular wish
for her to be along. This could, he reminded himself, get ugly. If any of
those pirates were there, he didn't need some ivory tower sort getting in
the way. Colonials and their attitudes!
     "I'll try not to get in your way," she shot back, with just the hint
of a smile.
     "Much appreciated," he answered. Byrne looked at Sargamesh. "How
goes our pre-flight?"
     "Just starting." He turned back to the controls, and began his
preflight, motioning for Byrne to join him. Slowly, a vibration began, as
the engines came to life. The Earthman studied the instruments minutely,
eager for a turn at them himself. "Galactica control, this is the yacht
Jada, requesting launch clearance."
     "Jada, this is Galactica control. Vector coordinates coded and
transferred.
     "Coordinates received and on the board."
     "You may launch when ready."
     Thank you, Rigel," replied Sargamesh. With a deft hand, the ship
began to taxi down the bay. Within moments, they were out in space, and
turning away from the Fleet. "We are now free and clear to navigate."
     "Well, let's get going," said Byrne.
     "Aye aye,' smiled the other. With practiced motions, he banked the
ship, and engaged the set course. The ship began to accelerate, till the
stars smeared into little rainbows, and they were on their way. 

Chapter Four

     "Well, that was...interesting," said Adama, in his quarters. He had
logged off duty a couple centars ago, and had settled in to watch one of
Byrne's video disks, from the Saint Brendan, to get his mind off of
Aldebaran and his mind-numbing accusations that the Council of the Twelve
were the "demon and his eleven minions". After being scanned and
analyzed, the disks, containing audio and video data, had been copied,
the material being converted to play on the Galactica's systems. For this
evening, Adama had selected something Byrne had called a ...moo vee. He
had many to choose from, there having been close to a hundred disks in
the salvaged container.  This one had been what Byrne had described as a
"Western", though west of what, precisely, Adama had not yet figured out.
Titled Across The Wide Missouri, and set in an earlier, more primitive
era, it featured some utterly breathtaking shots of Earth's landforms and
biomes. Several of them reminded him of places that he had visited as a
child on Caprica, and many yahrens later, taken his family, when on one
of his rare furlons home. He could almost smell the fresh breezes, and
the wildflowers blooming in the spring. 
     The story hadn't made complete sense to him, but they were still
working the kinks out in the translation matrix for Byrne's language.
(The Earthman, he had noted, seemed to speak several, and sometimes
conversed with his daughter in something other than his usual English.)
Unlike the Colonies, which had a standard form of both the spoken and
written language, Earth, it seemed, had no such unity. While a handful of
languages and scripts dominated the society as a whole, there were,
apparently, several thousand different forms of speech, each with it's
various dialects and sub-tongues. Even Earth's linguists were not certain
of the precise number. The Commander shook his head; how it was possible
he couldn't imagine. Even when the various worlds of the Colonies had at
last regained contact with each other after long ages sundered following
settlement, much of the spoken languages used by the various groups had
retained a measure of mutual intelligibility. Only a few, such as the
dominant speech of Gemon, had evolved away from the original Kobollian
language, in wild and unpredictable directions, due to factors now
forgotten and lost to history. For instance, that sect that dropped its
vowels...
     Byrne had told him of an event, recorded in a collection of sacred
texts, about a time in Earth's distant past, where God, angered by Human
arrogance and pride, had confounded Man's language, creating the impetus
for Earth's current linguistic, as well as political, diversity. While he
didn't quite know what to make of the tale, Adama had to admit that
Earth's lacking a single unifying tongue, not to mention polity, would
certainly make integration more difficult, when the Fleet finally arrived
there.
     Whenever that might be.
     Well, he decided, he wasn't that tired, and he'd see what else there
was in this treasure trove from across the stars. Hhmm... This looked
somewhat interesting...
     What's Up, Doc?


     "Is it just me, or is the average number of cracked nuts in the
Fleet going up recently?" Starbuck asked Apollo, as he glanced over the
Captain's shoulder while they skimmed through Aldebaran's journal. 
Called to the Duty Office upon his return to the Galactica, he hadn't
been surprised to find Apollo waiting for him at his desk, his chair
tilted back and balanced precariously on the rear legs, as he pondered
the screen in front of him.  Finally, there was news on the dead
maintenance worker and his recently discovered data journal. The
surprising thing was...it was good news. 
     Apollo snorted, and looked up at his friend dubiously.  He knew the
comment came from the same relief that they were all feeling.  There
wasn't some mysterious syndicate scheming to destroy the Galactica, or
take over the Fleet; instead, it had been one troubled man, now deceased. 
Apollo adjusted his balance slightly, leaning back a bit more to get more
comfortable.  "For a guy recovering from Combat Stress Reaction, and
after Sergeant Mattoon, I would almost expect you to be a little more
understanding, Starbuck."  Then he smiled, feeling that same intoxicating
liberation as his friend.  The nightmare was over. The pulmonary agent
had been recovered, the culprit found, and the threat against the Fleet
was over and done with.  "Then I remember who I'm talking to..."
     "Recovering?" Starbuck scoffed.  "I'm a hundred and ten percent,
buddy.  If I was any better, I couldn't stand myself."
     "Oh, and how's that humility coming, eh?"
     "Fabulous. In fact, I'm proud of how humble I am."
     "R-r-right. So, what about when it's just the rest of us that can't
stand you?" Apollo ribbed him, chuckling when Starbuck grabbed the back
of his chair, abruptly dropping him another half a metron towards the
floor, before holding the chair fast.  "Hey!" the Captain laughed, his
hands and feet flailing uselessly in the air as he stared up at the
laughing Lieutenant.
     "Now here's a sight you don't see every day," Sheba's amused voice
came from the door.  "Starbuck, put him down."
     "Really?" Starbuck grinned widely at her. "Aw gee, Matron. Do I have
to?"
     "Yes!" Sheba insisted, covering her face to muffle her own laughter. 

     "Well, if you insist..."
     "NO!" Apollo sputtered, just a little too late.
     A milli-centon, and another half-metron later, the Captain was flat
on his back on the deck, laughing uproariously, once he'd recovered from
the shock.  "I can't believe...you...you did that..." he chortled.
     "Well, that just goes to show that whether or not you believe it,
you're as imbalanced as the rest of us," Starbuck quipped, hopping back
quickly out of range of the hand that shot out towards his ankle. 
     "Grown men, huh?" Sheba giggled, shaking her head at the two of
them.  "Mother was so right!"
     "Huh? asked Apollo. "Right about what?"
     "Exactly!" she shook her head, looking at them. "Anyway, I just
stopped by to let you know that the Jada has launched.  Captain Byrne has
left to find his friend."
     "From what I've heard, it sounds like they're on their way to a real
cesspool," Starbuck mentioned, offering the Captain a hand up.  "How'd
they miss us for that assignment?"
     "I tried signing you up, but Pelias said something about being
scarred for life...flashbacks about a hovermobile ride through Shad
Zil..." Apollo laughed at the mock outrage on the other's face, accepting
the hand up.  "Sargamesh will take good care of them."
     "I know," he replied a little wistfully.


     "She handles like a dream," said Byrne, at the controls of the Jada,
a few hours after departing the Fleet. Once into "warp", and on their
way, they had retired for "dinner and a show", courtesy of Byrne's
library. Sargamesh, predictably, had found Gladiator to his taste, as
well as Kirosawa's Seven Samurai. Pelias also. Nizaka had no opinion.
After the flicks, it was back to the controls.
     "I thought you might find it so," said Sargamesh. "Unlike a fighter,
there is no need for sharp and wild turns.
     "Yeah, she's a bit different than an F-15, that's for sure," replied
Byrne.  He checked his speed, and ETA. He shook his head again. From what
the instruments were telling him, he was currently travelling at over
thirty times the speed of light, something the physicists back on Earth
were still arguing about. And, they could go faster yet. It was better
than sex...at least if he remembered it correctly ..
     "The Fleet," said Pelias, "has to keep to a minimum speed of the
slowest ship. Very few of the ships are capable of the sort of speed we
have, or the Galactica, for that matter. Some of the ships were old,
obsolete, a few even culled from junkyards."
     "And you've kept them going, while on the run."
     "Basically, yes. Stopping only when we can, and making whatever
repairs are possible. We had to finally scrap one of them a while back,
cannibalizing what we could, but things have improved somewhat since our
layover at Brylon Station."
     "Indeed," said Sargamesh. "Serious repairs and upgrades to many of
the ships has resulted in an increase in the Fleet's overall speed,
Captain Byrne. It is up by just over two percent."
     "Well, faster beats slower, especially when you've got the bad guys
on your tail. Which reminds me, how did you guys end up with one of those
Cylon...uh, Base..."
     "BaseShips," said Pelias.
     "Yeah. How did you end up with one riding shotgun on your Fleet?
Commander Adama did try and explain, but we still have a few linguistic
gaps to fill."
     "Shot gun?"
     "Sorry." Byrne explained. Pelias went on to explain the recent
d‚tente with the ship of renegade Cylons, and how, with their help, a
second BaseShip had been engaged and destroyed. "Man, I'd have loved to
have seen that."
     "Well, since you insist," said Sargamesh. He produced a data chip,
and for the next hour, it was tactical analyses, and battles refought.
Byrne was enthralled. This was like a movie, with a no-expense-spared FX
budget. The way the fighters strafed and mauled Lucifer's ship, followed
by savage broadsides from both missiles and laser canons, left him almost
speechless. It's final destruction was indeed a beautiful sight. 
     "That'll teach 'em," he laughed. "No sign of pursuit, since?"
     "None that we have detected," said Sargamesh. "But we remain
vigilant, as always."
     "You sure you can trust these Cylons? The renegade ones, I mean?"
     "For the present, that is the state of things," replied the
Zohrloch. "I will confess that, as a soldier, it gives me some measure of
pause. But," he shrugged, "so far they have been as good as their word,
and have scrupulously abided by the terms."
     "You went on a patrol with one of them, didn't you?" asked Pelias.
Sargamesh nodded.
     "Yes. And I must say, Patrol Leader Plectus is a truly inspired
conversationalist." From Sargamesh's expression, it was clear he felt
exactly the opposite about his Cylon partner. "The only question he asked
me out of the routine was whether the telemetry link, from my multi-band
scanner back to his ship had sufficient band-width." He gave a mock
shudder.
     "Sounds about as engaging as a toaster," said Byrne. 
     "Toaster?" asked Nizaka. Byrne explained.
     From there, it was talk of the Cylons, the long and exhausting war
with them, and various battles and tactics, Eridese, Colonial, and Earth.
As they went on, Byrne checked their speed. It was gradually edging up,
as they went. Suited him fine. The sooner he got to this Sodom in Space,
the better. Finally, they put the ship on auto-pilot, and retired to the
main cabin. They popped in another disk from Earth, one of Byrne's
favorites.
     "It's called what?" asked Pelias, trying to make sense of the label
and lettering on the container. 
     "The Night Stalker," he replied, explaining. 
     "A journalator, chasing manifestations of the supernatural?" asked
the Councilor.
     "Don't laugh. One of these days, I'll tell you about my old buddy
Scott, and some of his adventures."
     "A journaltor?" asked Nizaka.
     "Yeah, although we use the word 'reporter'. Works for a big paper in
San Diego. One time, there was this trail of headless bodies, in and
around San Diego. The police were stumped, as usual. But not Scott
Carmen. No way. Anyway, one night, he was meeting a snitch down at this
seedy waterfront dive called Daddy's..."


     As always in a new and unfamiliar place, Byrne did not sleep well,
and awoke sometime in the wee hours of the "night". He checked the
instruments. Everything was tip-top, the station drawing closer with
every passing second. He gave them one last peruse, and turned to go,
when a light flashed on the panel. He leaned close.
     Near as he could tell, with his current knowledge of Colonial, the
ship's life-support system was alerting the pilot that it was making an
automatic adjustment, due to an extra load. He leaned closer. Huh. Weird.
There shouldn't be any "extra load". Not even Sargamesh's evening
"meditation", had taxed it whatsoever. It was also making adjustments to
the guidance system, due to the added loaded weight.
     Added loaded weight?
     What could be...
     Thump.
     "Holy shit!" snarled Byrne, heading aft. He stormed through to the
aft compartment, just in time to see...
     "Uhh..."
     "Hold it right there, Vampira!" he snapped, as he caught Jena,
trying to slip back into a cargo container. He pulled her out, and to her
feet. "And just what the hell do you think you're doing here, young
lady?" His voice was up, and he was furious.
     "Uh, using the can? It's no joke, holding it inside that..."
     "GEN-E--SIS!!!"
     "Come on, Pop!" she shot back. "I told you..."
     "And I told you!" he bellowed back. "I told you to stay back on the
Fleet! God damn it, child! This isn't a trip down to the fishing hole!
You..." He turned away, red-faced and fists doubled. At that moment, his
fellow passengers emerged from their cabins. 
     "Jena?" asked Pelias, clearly surprised to see her here.
     "Yeah," said Byrne. "Seems we have a stowaway aboard." He glared at
his daughter. "And you're so lucky this isn't the old days. Remember what
they used to do to stowaways in the old days, Jena?"
     "Look, I don't care if you're pissed at me," said Jena, eyes ablaze
with defiance. "I..."
     "How did you get aboard?" asked Pelias.
     "I hid in the trunk dad had loaded aboard. When the steward or
whatever came to get it, I was already inside." Pelias and the rest
looked in the open container. Several weapons, brought from Earth, were
there, along the ammo and a few changes of clothes.
     "Clever," observed Nizaka.
     "Will you excuse me?" said Byrne, steaming, and without waiting for
an answer, dragged Jena into his cabin, and shut the door.
     "What the Holy Hell do you think you are doing, Genesis Byrne?"
Byrne's voice rumbled through the hatchway. Without a Languatron, none of
them could make sense of the English, but given the situation, none
really needed one. "Of all the half-cocked, idiotic..."
     "Look! I told you..."
     "And I told you, Young Lady! And I expect to be obeyed, especially
when  I'm talking to my own daughter! Is that too hard a concept?"
     "Don't talk to me like I was some retard! I..."
     "Uhh, who's up for Pyramid?" said Pelias.

Chapter Five

     Adama began to wonder if the Lords of Kobol were somehow angry with
him. While the presence of the Horks aboard the Fleet had resulted in
myriad mutually agreeable trade deals, relieving a few minor supply
problems here and there, there had also been a few incidents requiring
only the attention of Security. Brawls, some people showing up for their
shifts drunk or hungover, and a number of petty thefts.
     But, in addition to Aldebaran calling him a demon, one of the Hork's
trying to filch the TFS suite off one of the shuttles was really drawing
the line.
     "We have it all on the security cameras, sir," said Reese, to Adama.
"Right in the bay, on the Astrodon Freighter. He had the thing half off
before two guys from maintenance found him."
     "Good work, Reese," said Adama. "Keep him in the brig there on the
freighter, till I can locate Trader Blaato, and we can deal with this
problem."
     "Yes, Commander."
     "And in the meantime, declare the Astrodon off limits to the Horks.
Escort any that might still be there back to the Rising Star."
     "Right away, Commander."
     "Oh, and Reese? While you're at it, make an unobtrusive sweep of
their baggage. Just in case."
     "Yes, sir," smiled the Security man.. Adama clicked off. He had to
admit, since his return to duty and promotion, Reese was a much easier
person to get along with. The man had heroically fought off, hand to
hand, one of the Ziklagi soldiers who had boarded the Galactica during
the battle with the Gee-Tih. He had not only killed the enemy, but saved
Boxey's life in the process. Reese himself had seemed to emerge from the
incident a changed man, now much more personable, and much easier to work
with. Adama hadn't complained, nor had Apollo, and once recovered from
his wounds, Reese found a promotion waiting for him. One which had repaid
Adama's confidence in him.
     Now if only the Horks were as easy to deal with.


     Next "morning", when Byrne emerged from his cabin, he was clearly
still fuming, but said nothing about his "discussion" with his daughter.
No one seemed disposed to ask him about it, either. Sargamesh found him,
shortly after their primaries, going through his trunk, and the weapons
inside. One, long and wicked-looking, was partly disassembled, and Byrne
was cleaning it.
     "An M60," replied Byrne, to the Zohrloch's question. "Which is to
say, a Model M60 general purpose machine gun, firing a 7.62 NATO round,
from a disintegrating belt of M13 links. It can fire three types of
ammunition: ball, tracer, and armor piercing. This one specifically is an
M60E4 Navy version. Weighs 23.15 pounds, is 43.5 inches long, with a 22
inch barrel. Gas operated, open bolt, it fires approximately 550 rounds
per minute, with a muzzle velocity of 2,800 feet per second, and a 1,200
yard effective range." He explained the terminology to the other. "Best
to be prepared, after all."
     "Indeed," replied the Zohrloch. "I am however curious." He raised an
eyebrow.
     "About?"
     "Your...arsenal. From my understanding, your original voyage was to
an uninhabited planet. Why all the firepower?"
     "Well, we were going to be the first people to set foot on Mars. At
least as far as we knew. While all our scans and studies indicated it was
uninhabited, and indeed uninhabitable, several of us convinced the powers
that be that some extra caution might not be amiss."
     "I see. So, in the event of some unfriendly life form existing
there..."
     "Exactly. Also, in the event we had to abort during the launch
sequence." He put some lubricant on a rag, and began to rub several of
the metal parts. "I'm embarrassed to admit it, but there are parts of
Earth that are far from civilized, Sargamesh. Warlike tribes that would
kill you on sight, rough and wild locations, not to mention wild animals
that think people taste good. One mission, still classified like ours
was, came down in the jungles of central Africa. You've got primitive
tribes, dangerous animals, swamps, giant snakes, you name it. Maybe even
some prehistoric critters still around. So, it pays to be careful."
     "It always does," replied Sargamesh. He watched as Byrne finished up
on the weapon, and snapped it back closed. Sargamesh raised an eyebrow,
and Byrne handed it him. From his expression, the Zohrloch clearly found
the antique fascinating.
     "Careful," grinned Byrne. "Those puppies run 6,000 bucks a pop. If I
break it, they'll dock my pay."
     "I shall be careful," replied Sargamesh, also grinning. 
     "Pretty crude, compared to your lasers and stuff, I'll bet."
     "Yes, but I doubt anyone hit by one of these would appreciate the
difference." He examined one of the rounds. 
     "Yeah, they do the job, alright."
     "And this one?" asked Sargamesh, of another, smaller, weapon.
     "An Uzi," said Byrne, looking the weapon over. "Israeli-made." Byrne
explained.
     Sargamesh decided he liked the Earthman. While different in many
ways from the Colonials, there was also much similarity. Probably their
common Humanity, he decided. He also noted that Byrne was firm with his
daughter, in the matter of her defiance. True, a girl-child of his own
world would have been beaten for such flagrant disobedience, but Byrne
had shown a measure of paternal ire that he found refreshing. Since
encountering the Colonials, he had observed that many of them were...soft
with their children in matters of discipline. There was no other word for
it. While he himself had no children, he nonetheless felt that too much
indulgence was a sure recipe for a malformed character, later in life. He
well recalled his own father's harsh discipline as a boy, when he had
"crossed the line", as it were. 
     Still, they were not Zohrlochs, and he should not expect them to be.
They had the ways of their ancestors to follow, just as his own people
did. And, the gods willing, the girl would learn her place, and the
proper way to comport herself. Even so, as he watched Byrne, and examined
the splendid weapons from Earth, he had to admit that a tiny part of him
admired the girl. Yes, she was a disobedient female, yet her loyalty,
both to her sire and to her dead mother, had compelled her to risk her
father's anger, and whatever punishment he might deem fit to mete out.
She had a hard, unyielding spirit, a core that would not easily give
ground, that he had to respect. 
     Almost like a Zohrloch, this girl. Like one of the wives of the
ancient warlords.
     From there, it fell to discussing their respective military careers.
Like everyone else, Sargamesh was fascinated by the "primitive" kind of
ships and aircraft that Byrne had flown or served upon. Once the guns
were tended to, he selected another disk, a "nash e oh nal gee oh graf
ik" documentary, about the type of vessel Byrne had been CAG aboard.
Predictably, Sargamesh was glued to it.
     Oceans! All that water!


     Jena emerged from the cabin later that day, looking simultaneously
both chastened, and defiant. While not wishing to offend Byrne, Pelias
nonetheless invited her to the flight deck, and the two fell into easy
conversation. He found that she was personable, and she found him less
stuffy and stand-offish than she had expected. After all, he was a
politician! He told her of his home, back in the Colonies, and of his
one-time pursuit of a university art degree, and a career as a painter. 
     "Why didn't you stay in the military?" she asked. "It seems like
they need all the help defending the Fleet that they can get."
     "I completely blew my first cadet training mission," he replied,
somewhat chagrined. "Oh, I followed all the procedures, followed orders,
but..."
     "What?"
     "I just wasn't cut out for it, and my superiors agreed." Right now,
he just didn't feel like dredging up Cadet Jada, and how, despite all
logic, he still felt responsible for her hideous death on that disaster
of a mission. "Better for the service not to burden itself with someone
like me."
     "Uh, yeah. And this Council? You got elected after that?"
     "No. I came to the Council by special appointment. My uncle, Sire
Feo, died in office, and as Colonial President, Commander Adama appointed
me to fill the vacancy."
     "Kind of an hereditary nobility?"
     "Not entirely, though one's heritage and family background counts
for a lot in Colonial society."
     "I see."
     "What is it like on Earth?" asked Pelias. 
     "Well, all I know I've gotten either from Pop, or the videos and
stuff he saved. But in the country he came from, there is no hereditary
nobility. In fact, it's forbidden."
     "Really?" Pelias seemed surprised. "That's unusual."
     "I guess so. A lot of countries still have some of the old
hereditary aristocracy from long ago. I can show you some of that, in the
history texts."
     "I would like that, yes," said Pelias. He looked up, as Nizaka
entered. While he knew of her true form of course, Adama had been firm
about not revealing any of that to Byrne, unless absolutely unavoidable.
He wasn't certain how flexible the Earthman might be, plus the fewer who
knew the truth about her, the better. 
     "Oh, my apologies. I didn't..."
     "Come on in," said Pelias. "Just chatting with Genesis."
     "I was going to check our ETA at the station."
     "Our ETA is..." Pelias leaned over, to check the screen, "fourteen
centars, six centons." He turned fully to the instruments. "In fact, the
station is already within our scanning range. Want to have a look?"
     Nizaka did, and leaned over to take a peek. While still at a
distance pretty extreme for the scanner suite of the yacht, RB-33 was
becoming more clear by the moment. She shook her head.
     "Ugly," she opined.
     "Yeah, it is," added Jena. "Who built it?"
     "Well from what the Horks told us, no one knows. It drifted into the
region almost a century ago, from parts unknown."
     "And people just took it over?" said Jena.
     "Yes," replied Nizaka. "This whole region was at that time under the
rule of the old Bosaq Empire. The station became a transfer point for
just about everyone and everything in this sector. Then, about ten or so
yahrens ago, the Bosaq Empire collapsed, and places once possessed by
them became free for the taking. RB-33 being one of them.
     "And now it's full of pirates," said Jena.
     "Among other insects. Pirates, smugglers, slavers, drug dealers,
thieves and killers of all sorts. Every variety of scum and vermin comes
here, eventually."
     "Hopefully, the one's who killed Mama," said Jena, softly, looking
out at the stars ahead. 
     "Very possibly," said Nizaka. 

Chapter Six

     Chief Twilly was amazed, as he got the tour of the Hork vessel. The
engineering was fascinating, as was the power source used by the alien
visitors. Unlike Colonial or Cylon vessels, they used reactors powered by
an intermix of matter and anti-matter, to create a plasma that powered
the drive units that propelled their ships. The Horks, oddly, did not
seem in the slightest suspicious or reticent about showing off their
vessels to the Colonials. 
     For a fee, of course. 
     In his movings about the ship, named the Grr'thnk, Twilly saw many
similarities to Colonial construction methods, and engaged his hosts in
conversation to learn about their origins. The Horks, it seemed,
sometimes contracted out for the construction of their vessels, sometimes
built them themselves, or bought them, ready-made. Whatever happened to
be cheaper.
     "Lowest bidder, eh?" he asked the Hork engineer, a greasy little
fellow named Munghee W'runch. 
     "Of course. Why pay more if one does not have to?"
     "Uh, yeah," said Twilly. I wonder who they stole this tub from? He
stopped dead in his tracks, when he heard a familiar sound, over the
constant thrum of the engine room. Around one corner came a Cylon
Centurion, portable scanner in hand, just like himself, also accompanied
by a Hork.
     Nothing like getting two fees! 
     It was a silver, rather than a Gold Command Centurion, but that
didn't keep Twilly from feeling an almost atavistic urge to open fire on
it. Fortunately for both the Centurion and himself, he was unarmed.
Fleetingly, he wondered about the original Cylon "Edict of
Extermination", and whether these Centurions had had that initial
programming somehow eradicated. He nodded at the Cylon, who did not
reciprocate, and moved on, W'runch showing him yet more of the ship's
machinery, then invited him "up deck" to have a look at some of their
remaining wares. Twilly looked at his chrono, then back towards the
Centurion. Yeah, he needed to inform Commander Adama about
this...development. That done, he had some time...
     "What was that?" he asked. "Slave girls?"


     Now that the station was in range, Byrne had to admit that "Sarah"
was right: it was ugly. Whoever had originally built it had possessed no
sense of aesthetics or design at all. It made the tree house he'd cobbled
together as a kid out back look like a Baroque Palace. 
     "Bleech!" offered Jena.
     It consisted of a central section, looking like a tall, badly bent
telephone pole or sewer pipe, of uneven diameter, from which branched out
a number of other tube-like sections at bizarre angles, and booms, placed
in no particular pattern. At the end of some were what were obviously
landing bays, others sported sealed compartments, the rest just ended
in...nothing.
     "Looks like a Salvador Dali painting on drugs," said Byrne. 
     "Don't insult Salvador Dali," added Genesis. "No wonder they call
this pile of junk 'Rusty Bolt'."
     "You got that right," said her father. He looked up at the chrono.
Still more than three hours till they reached the place. He needed to
work out a plan, now. He looked at Nizaka. "What more can you tell me
about this floating scrap pile?"
     "Nothing beyond what I already have, Captain Byrne. I have never
been here before, naturally." A lie. She had been here, once, in the days
immediately after the collapse of the Bosaq Empire, when her late owner,
Over-Colonel Xekash, had led a small exploratory expedition into the
region, she of course in his retinue. Then, it had been wide open, wild,
and about as safe as taking a nap in a burning building. She wondered if
her knowledge might be a bit dated, but went ahead, crediting her
information to "travelers tales heard on Ziklag".
     True, after a fashion. 
     "Perhaps less deception is required than we imagine," ventured
Sargamesh. They turned to look at him, Nizaka narrowing her eyes,
wondering for a micron if that statement was directed at her. "Recall,
the Hork trader told Commander Adama that the Galactica has become known
in this sector, including what happened with the Gee-Tih, as well as the
events on Ziklag. Why not just present ourselves as we are? Persons from
the Fleet, come seeking trade?"
     "I see," said Pelias. "Being honest might actually be something of a
shield."
     "Indeed, at least to a certain point. No doubt the Horks, who were
on their way here before encountering the Fleet, have informed
compatriots or clients about us. It is an effective cover, without the
need for excessive subterfuge." 
     "I think I like the way your mind works," said Byrne. "Ever think of
running for office?"
     "Not the sort of combat I prefer," replied Sargamesh, with the hint
of a grin.
     "Point taken."


     As they drew closer, the Jada began picking up other ships on her
scanners. Most, like herself, were small, though a few looked to be
gigantic bulk carriers, as big or bigger than the Rising Star. While
Byrne selected his attire for the "mission", Pelias opened a channel.
     "Colonial Fleet?" came a reply over the speaker. While none of them
could place the accent, it was clear that whoever it was sounded bored
and disinterested. "What's that?"
     "Okay, so this may take a bit," sighed Pelias.


     The RB-33 Station was even less appealing to the naked eye then it
had been on the scanners. And, as the name implied, stains and corrosion
on parts of the hull indicated a somewhat less than vigilant maintenance
schedule. 
     "If it falls apart, do we get our landing fee back?" quipped Jena.
Sargamesh laughed.
     "Perhaps we should scan for the purser's office, first," ventured
the Zohrloch. 
     Once out of lightspeed, they had to hold, while a big freighter was
directed into the traffic flow ahead of them. It seemed to be a drawn out
process.
     "What's taking so long?" asked Jena.
     "Sizing us up, wondering how much they can soak us for," replied her
father. 
     Finally, they got clearance, and Pelias guided the Jada into the
indicated bay. It was at the end of a long boom, sandwiched between two
others. It gave Jena the impression that any added weight and it would
fall off the station. Inside a couple of minutes, they were inside, and
Pelias had the Jada down on the deck, taxiing towards a berth. 
     "Best to back in," said Byrne. "In case we need to make our exit in
a hurry."
     "Good thinking," replied Pelias.
     There was no one to meet them, as they lowered the ramp. Jena was to
stay aboard, albeit under protest. It was either "on your honor", or
Byrne would figure out some sort of manacle. After a deep scowl, the girl
acquiesced.
     Of course.


     "And precisely where," asked Twilly, "is your homeworld?"
     "Maalabia," purred the female from across the sheets, one eye hidden
behind the pillow. 
     "Malaabia. Yes," replied Twilly. "Sounds...fascinating. Exotic."
     "I please?" asked the girl. Her skin a deep java color, hair
silvery, and her eyes a piercing green, she looked quite Human, if
somewhat exotic. She reached out to run a finger down his nose.
     "Oh yes, indeed," he replied. This creature was intoxicating, to say
the least. Just being in her presence seemed to make him forget
everything. Hades Hole, he was probably going to have to pay that Hork
double for this. 
     Still...
     "Want again?" she asked.
     "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh Lords!!!!"


     "Oh man," said Byrne, looking at Pelias. "You look like some
mercenary thug out of a Schwarzenegger flick." 
     "I am assuming that is a compliment," said the Sire, with a grin. He
was unshaved, and had not turbowashed this morning. His clothes were
equally unwashed, and looked like he'd dressed out of a rag barrel. With
pistol, a bandolier, and a knife in each boot, he looked like someone who
seriously belonged in jail, or at least on the Post Office wall. Byrne,
older and with some grey, equally looked the part. 
     "Here," said Sargamesh, handing them some dirty and creased folders,
holding their (fake) identities. "Just in the event they should become
needful, and you have to play out the parts of worthless murdering scum."
     "Thanks," said Byrne, casting a baleful eye at the Zohrloch. "I
think." Sargamesh was deadpan. Byrne looked at his, and chuckled. "Well,
Mom would like this one." He slipped the grungy folder into a pocket, and
they headed towards the hatch.
     "Pop?"
     "Yeah?"
     "Be careful." She embraced him.
     "My middle name, kid." He smiled, pulling away.
     "NO!" she shouted. "Say it like you mean it!"
     "Of course I do, hon. Look, I may be a decaying old relic, but I
have had some experience in the covert world."
     "Yeah. Going into Iraq with some Navy Seals, and zapping the bad
guys. This isn't the same!"
     "Scio, mel,." He replied. Byrne was uncomfortable with the others
watching this little drama, and switched from English to Latin. "I know
hon."
     "Pater, sis...
     "Look, don't worry, Genesis. I'll be fine. We're just going to find
out for sure if Ced is here."
     "And them? Any of them?"
     "For their sakes, I hope not." He kissed her. "Now don't worry. I'll
be back."
     "Mom said the same thing."
     Byrne gave her no answer. 


     The gravity on RB-33 was similar to home, and the air smelled like
L.A. on a hot smoggy day, with some old gym socks thrown in, just to give
it that extra body.  At the exit to the landing bay, they were met by
a...person, demanding the landing fee.  Looking like a Human with a huge,
heavily-boned head and deep set eyes, it was, Nizaka informed them, a
Bosaq. A handful of cubits seemed to satisfy the being, and Byrne turned
back, to give the Jada a last look. Hatch up, force filed in place, it
was as secure as it was going to get. Now, the party was on it's way into
the guts of the station. 
     Beyond the bay hatchway, there was a flight of dirty catwalk stairs,
then a travel tube. After that, down a curved corridor, and they came out
onto a balcony, overlooking a wide promenade. It was filled with beings
of all sorts, and the noise was deafening.
     "Man, Deep Space Nine has nothing on this joint," said Byrne. As
they watched, everything from bronze-colored Humanoids, to Ziklagoio, to
something looking like a biped with an overturned gourd for a head moved
past. None seemed to pay the newcomers any mind, which made Byrne relax,
just a little.
     "Where is this bar where the Human was said to be seen?" asked
Sargamesh.
     "Ozko said it was some dive called The Boiling Cuspidor."
     "Sounds promising," said Pelias, scratching his new whiskers. He
wondered how Apollo could stand it, even if Sheba did find it sexy.
"Well, shall we?"
     They descended a lift to the "mall" below, and began to mingle.
Unfortunately, the place was thick with drinking establishments, each one
doing, it appeared, a banner business. 
     "Sodom in Space is right," said Byrne, taking it all in. Gambling,
drinking, open slave auctions, and a dozen other vices seemed to permeate
the place. As he watched, a creature, something like a cross between a
manta ray and a bear, came up, and began babbling at him. Unsteady on
it's "legs", it toppled over when Byrne tried to move by it, landing face
down in a trash bin.
     "That had to hurt," said Pelias, as they left the odd creature
behind. They decided against splitting up for the present, since the
place was unfamiliar to them. Nizaka could not, of course, reveal too
much in any case. 
     They wandered about for some time, Byrne occasionally flashing a
picture of Cedric, when the Languatron could make sense of some alien's
gibberish. Most shook their heads (or equivalent anatomical part),
uncertain of where the Boiling Cuspidor might be, or giving contradictory
directions, and it was with some relief that he at last caught site of a
Calcoryan.
     "Perhaps I should have a look about," said Nizaka, once Byrne was
out of earshot, to Pelias, after they had entered their third promenade
area, a deck down from the first. Pelias agreed, and soon Nizaka was
moving her way though the crowds, in a nondescript form. Pelias looked
back. Byrne had not seen her. From the Calcoryan's body language, it
appeared that Byrne had gotten no luck with the photograph of his friend.
However, the creature did raise one tentacle, and point across the mall.
Perhaps...
     Byrne turned back to his companions. "According to that Calcoryan,
there's a dive, run by a 'Hoo-man', just down this..." He was interrupted
by a loud noise ringing out. Almost from instinct, Byrne recognized it.
It was a shot, from a gun like his own! He turned, and saw that Nizaka
was gone.
     "Where..." he began, when caught site of a Ziklagoio, dashing out of
a joint across the way. He looked up, and beheld a familiar shape, in
flickering, filthy neon, over the door, partly obscured by a drooping
awning. "Yeah!"
     He began to move towards it, the rest in tow. The entrance to the
place had swinging wing doors, almost as if in imitation of something
from home. A few feet from it, they burst open, and a body came flying
through. It landed in a heap on the deck in front of them. Slowly, it
began to move, revealing itself as a Humanoid, with orange-colored skin,
wearing what looked like some sort of uniform, and reeking of alcohol.
The fellow stood up, shook his head as if to clear it, and fixing his
gaze on the door he had just passed through, reached for his weapon.
     It never cleared his holster. The doors opened again, and another
figure stepped out into the open. This one held a drawn weapon, and it
deafened them with it's loud report. With a grunt, the would-be gunman,
spun around, and fell to the deck, a huge bleeding hole in both his chest
and back. Pelias looked up, to see a woman, race uncertain, holster her
own pistol, and with a brief glance at the Colonial party, head back
inside.
     "Holy shit," said Byrne. "I think I just landed in DC!"

Chapter Seven

     Before too much longer, Jena decided, she was going to go ga-ga,
just sitting here. Just sitting, while someone else did the
whatever-it-was, wasn't her way, and she chafed under her father's
demand. Hell, she hadn't risked so much to get here, just to sit around,
and watch the...whatever it was the Colonials called it, in here, that
passed for the tube. Swallowing her ire, she set to studying the ship's
controls, from the checklist Pelias had given her. She thought she might
go for being a pilot, now that there was something like a choice of
careers for her to choose from. Seemed to be a lot of that going on about
her. 
     She reached over to turn down the speaker. It had been left open, in
case anyone needed to call back to the Jada. As her hand reached the
panel, she halted. Out of the cacophony of voices and noises coming over
the circuit, there was one...
     "No way," she told herself, aloud. It couldn't be. What were the
chances? She must be imagining it. The odds must be millions to...
     No, it was a familiar voice. A voice she had not heard in many
years, yet still was indelibly seared across her memory. She dropped the
checklist, and turned the sound up. It was someone requesting landing
clearance, and while the Languatron rendered it as (bad) English, the
underlying distinctive voice was still there.
     And it was in Zykonian! She swore again, then hesitated, her hand
above the...oh, whatever the hell you called it here. The phone! Out the
port, in front of her very nose, a ship was sliding into the bay. A ship
she had seen only once before, but, like the voice, wasn't going to ever
forget.
     A pirate raider, and it was sitting out the window, seemingly at
arm's length.
     Everything but the damn Jolly Roger! Mama! Yeah! Now, I'll...
     Bang! Bang!
     "Oh for cryin' out loud! Now what?"


     "Lords!" said Pelias, looking down at the murdered man in front of
them, "I'd better check our course. I think we ended up on Cordugo Pit!"
     "Eh?" asked Byrne, also mulling this turn of events.
     "A system back in the Cyrannis Galaxy. Not too far from the
Colonies."
     "Bad?" Byrne looked at him.
     "Oh yes. A complete sewer, only it has sunsets," replied the
Councilman.
     "How...charming," drolled Sargamesh. "Well, shall we?" 
     "Yeah. Near as I can tell, this looks like it," replied the
Earthman, indicating the dying neon icon over the door.
     "Ewwwwwwwwwwwww!!!" said Byrne, upon entering. The place was
undoubtedly The Boiling Cuspidor, the identification made plain by
another hideous neon sign, this one animated, along one wall, showing
said article spewing its contents hither and thither. As their eyes
adjusted, they were soon accosted by a large...person, who blocked their
way, and, near as the Languatron could make out, was there to collect the
cover charge. Huge, with a hairless, sunken eyes, bony head and muscles
like a steroid-addicted gorilla, he/she/it seemed insistent, so Nizaka
handed over a small pile of coins. The creature looked at them, back at
her, grunted, and let them pass.
     "Wonderful joint," said Byrne. "Just the place for a family outing
on Sundays. The O.K Corral outside, and King Kong for a bouncer.  Can't
wait to see the inside."
     "Sometime, I trust you will explain what that means," said Pelias.
     "Moi?"
     "Uhhh."
     Like the outside, the interior of the joint was dirty. No, not...
dirty. Make that septic. Tables that looked as if they dated from the
first day of creation were scattered about in no particular arrangement,
along with a number of the patrons, quite a few no longer capable of
movement. A band was playing something in the far corner, and the main
bar itself was through an archway, and garishly lit by flashing fuchsia
and turquoise lighting.
     Basically the place sucked.  And it was packed to capacity, and then
some.
     Slowly, as their eyes adjusted to the illumination, it became easier
to pick out the details. The band in the corner was actually a moving
jukebox, and Byrne could make out several people at the bar. Like
outside, they were a hodge-podge of species, some Human-looking, some
utterly unknown to any of them. Two at one end of the bar, Zykonians,
made Kevin clench his fists at first site. After all, it had been
Zykonians who had been in the majority on that pirate ship, the day his
beloved...
     Someone screamed, and they all turned. It sounded like ripping
metal, and Byrne squinted. In a booth near the far wall, two beings
seemed locked in an...intense embrace, though whether it was for
pleasure, or strangulation, he neither could tell, nor really cared.
Since no one else apparently did either, he decided that 'When in Rome'
was the best policy for now.
     He'd find someone to strangle later.
     Holy f..." he began, choking it off when someone/thing bumped into
him. Oh well, all the spilled booze gave his costume additional
atmosphere. He turned back towards the bar, and found a seat that wasn't
entirely corrosive, and seated himself. Like bars just about everywhere,
it was dirty, worn, and needed a serious wiping down, probably with nerve
gas, or perhaps nuclear weapons. He got the attention of one of the
barkeeps, a waspish creature with shaggy black hair, and ordered a
Plehkuu. He had often imbibed such, a sort of beer, when cooling his
heels on Krylamic, and found that he'd developed a fondness for the
stuff.  He tossed the fellow a coin, and set to, helping himself to what
looked like potato chips in a bowl on the bar. "Sarah" had informed them
that they were safe for Human consumption.
     However it was she knew that. 
     He took a slow sip of his drink ( "Yeah. The potato chips are soggy
and they water the beer."),  and looked around the dump. The rest were
doing much as he was, and doubtless a whole lot better. What the hell did
he think he was doing, anyway? He was from a primitive backwater, and
these folks were all from highly advanced worlds, a zillion years ahead
of Earth. Backwards rube! Who did he think he was, anyway...
     "...and leave that in the back. I ain't servin' that crap to me
worst enemy," said a voice, and Byrne felt as if he'd been hit with a
rock. The figure had emerged from a door at one end of the bar, and was
heading down his direction. He turned that way, mouth hanging open.
     I know that voice! He is here! Yes! My God...
     "Hey, barkeep," said Byrne loudly, in English, "ya got any real beer
in here, or am I gonna have to choke on this piss-filled dishwater from
Down Under, huh?" The figure stopped, and slowly turned around, to face
Byrne across the bar, face a mask of shock and surprise. "And how 'bout a
frosted glass while you're at it, huh?  Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi oi oi!" 
     "Son of a bitch!" said the other slowly, eyes fixed on Byrne. Byrne
tried not to smile, and the other slowly went from utter astonishment, to
a huge grin. "What in God's...Kevin!!?!?!?" he roared.
     "Hey, koala breath, where ya been keeping yourself?"
     Byrne got no further, before Cedric Allen fairly leapt over the bar,
and soon the two old comrades were locked in a bear hug.


     "The Galactica?" said Allen, later, at a table in the back, normally
reserved for more favored clients. The whole group was gathered round,
and Byrne had introduced them. "Yeah, I've heard the name. Some kind of
warship from parts unknown. I hear she gave the Ziks a taste of their own
medicine a while back."
     "And rescued us from that planet, just before it went to pieces,"
replied Byrne. "The moon went into a decaying orbit, and smashed it all
to hell."
     "Sounds like you've got a story or two to tell, Kev," said Allen,
punctuating it with a low whistle. Long-haired and bearded, much of it
streaked with grey, it was obvious why no one had recognized Allen from
the photo Byrne had brought with him. Like Byrne before his rescue, the
Aussie looked like a wild, aging hippie, and had lost none of his accent.
He downed another swig of his drink. "So tell me, how the hell are ya, me
ol' china, what happened? The pirates. Is Jena here, too?"
     "Jena didn't make it," Byrne told him, after a long moment. Allen
closed his eyes a moment, clearly moved, even after so long a time, by
the death of his friend and fellow voyager. "I buried her up on the hill,
behind the ship." He stared down into his mug. "What was left of her."
     "Bastards!" said Allen. "God damned bastards! And..." he spoke
cautiously, putting a hand on Byrne's arm,  "little Jen? Did they, I
mean, did she..."
     "She's okay. She made it," said Byrne. "Somehow, she dragged me into
the woods, out of the line of fire. The last thing I remember, after
hitting one with the .45 was hearing Genesis scream. I turned, then I got
hit with something."
     Yeah, me too. One of their 'phasers', or whatever they were. I saw
Gen fightin' with one of those lizard things, next thing I know, I'm
inside a ship, headed God knows where."
     "We never gave up hope that you weren't dead, Ced. After all, there
was no body."
     "Well, I ain't complaining, let me tell ya."
     "And yourself?" asked Sargamesh. "How did you escape from the
pirates?"
     "Well mate, fact of the matter is, I didn't. Not really. After a few
days, not sure how long, we reached some planet. God knows where it was,
and I was sold off to some fat greasy bloke in silk robes, with a face
that could scare buzzards off a gut wagon. I didn't understand a word
anyone was saying, and I sure as hell didn't take kindly to being sold, I
can tell you. So, I bided me time, sitting around like a gin on a piss
pot."
     "And?" asked Byrne.
     "After a few weeks I guess it was, he told me we were takin' a trip.
I'd picked up a bit of his lingo by then. After all, if a fellow can
learn to understand you Americans," he grinned, "well, then he can get
along just about anywhere, near as I can figure." He paused for a drink.
Stopped here, before heading off to wherever it was. I decided I didn't
want to get any further from home than I already was, so first chance I
had, I offed the bastard."
     "You...what?" asked Nizaka. Really, these Human idioms...
     "I sent him on to Hell, ahead of the rest," explained Allen.
"Slipped a knife into his fat gut one night, while he was drunk. Didn't
have enough brains to give himself a headache, that bloody wombat. 
Hiding out here was easy, when anyone came looking. And a few did.  I had
to lie low for a long while, and this is the place to do it.  Bloody
cesspool!" He scowled. "No one sells me as a slave!"
     "Excellent," said Sargamesh, his estimate of this Human going up a
notch.
     "Well, then I was in more shit than a Werribee Duck (alternative was
"faggot's finger").  I was free, but I had no idea where I was, or where
you were, or even if you were still alive, or where Earth might be."
     "Did you try and find out?" asked Pelias. Allen looked at him as if
the question was unwelcome.
     "He's not the full quid, huh?" Allen muttered to Byrne, before
replying to Pelias.  "Of course. Best I could, anyhow. Every time a ship
came in, I'd try and find out if he was maybe on it, or if anyone had
ever heard of Kev, or people from a place called Earth." He shook his
head. "No one had. No one had even heard of Earth. Getting passage home
obviously was out of the question." He took another drink. "I am sorry
about that, Kev. I had no idea."
     "Hey, you did the best you could with the hand you were dealt," said
Byrne. "Don't worry about it."  Then he grinned, remembering one of Ced's
old lines.  "Don't fret your feckle, mate."
     "And then?" asked Nizaka. Anyone who escaped slavery was, to her, a
kindred spirit.
     "I stayed here," he shrugged, "workin' odd jobs best I could, till
about three, four years back, thereabouts, I won this place in a card
game with a couple of Horks. Bit of a goldmine, actually.  I've been
busier than a blue-arsed blowfly ever since."
     "A mine? Looks like a manically depressed sewer out there, Ced,"
answered Byrne, but he was laughing.
     "Yeah, enough to gag a maggot.  Part of the charm, mate. Folks round
here seem to like it that way, so I didn't even change the name of the
dump. And I save a ton on cleaning staff, too."
     "Works for me," smiled Byrne. "Atmosphere. That and having Herman
Munster for a bouncer."
     "Yeah, he does look the part, doesn't he? So, how's little Jen, eh?
She with ya?"
     "As a matter of fact yes.  Back on our ship. Now that we've found
ya, Ced, we're..." He stopped, as the door opened, and a woman entered.
The visitors all started, as they recognized her. Not only was she quite
stunning, tall, fit, and ...luscious, but she was also the one who had
gunned down the drunk at the door to the bar.
     "Oh my..." began Pelias.
     "Cedric," the woman purred, in English, but with an unidentifiable
accent, "I need the key to the...oh, I did not realize you had guests."
She turned, and studied the visitors. Plainly she recognized them, as
well.
     "Well gents, madam, this is Kalysha. My wife."
     Holy shit!


     Adama was annoyed, but somehow not all that terribly surprised. The
Council, after "some deliberation", and no doubt perusing such exotic
wares as the Horks had for sale, had "suggested" that the Fleet divert to
RB-33. Adama had been against the move, in part because what he knew of
the place made Brylon Station look like a nunnery by comparison. But,
mostly, his caution came from might affect the d‚tente with Baltar's
renegade Cylon crew. Doubtless, the former traitor would also wish to
divert there, if Adama did so. While Humans mixing with beings previously
unknown could be dicey enough under the best of circumstances, he had no
idea how Cylons might behave. Had their directive to conquer and
annihilate all organic sentience been overcome completely, or did it only
apply to the refugee fleet? If some dispute were to arise, would the
Cylons revert to typical behavior?
     "Time will tell," he said to Siress Tinia, with a sigh. "Omega, open
a channel on the Fleet Commline to Baltar."
     "Yes, Commander."


     "What's wrong?" asked Pelias, as Byrne scowled at his commlink. 
     "It's Jena. She doesn't answer."
     "You sure the commlink is okay?"
     "Seems so. Yours?" Pelias tried his own unit, and likewise got no
answer from the Jada. "Could she be in the turboflush?"
     "How the hell should I know?" Byrne turned to his old comrade, going
over some files on his office terminal. "Ced, something's wrong. Jen's
not answering."
     "What if..." began Nizaka.
     "We should assume the worst," said Sargamesh.
     "Between you, me, and the gatepost, he's bloody right," said Allen.
Reaching under his desk, he withdrew a weapon and holster. Ugly but
seemingly capable, he strapped it on. "Okay, we're off, like a bride's
nightie. Let's go, Kev."
     "Yeah."
     "Cedric!" They turned, and saw Kalysha, also armed. 
     "Uh..." said Pelias.
     "You think I will be staying here?"
     "Join the party, love," said Allen, with a laugh. "Most fun you can
have with your pants on!"

Chapter Eight

     Byrne stopped, swearing a blue streak that would have given
Commander Cain a sunburn, when he saw the Jada. Still in her berth, her
hatch was open, the force field obviously down. As he drew closer, he
could see dark streaks on the hull. Scorch marks? What in God's name...
     "Lords of Kobol! The shield's been breached!" said Pelias, running
towards the yacht. Byrne beat him there, and ran up the ramp. Just inside
the ship, the deck carpet was stained. Byrne bent down. It was still
sticky...
     "Jena?" he bellowed. No answer. "GENESIS!" 
     "Any sign?" asked Allen, behind him. Then he looked down. "Oh hell.
Blood!" 
     "Nothing. I told her to stay put!" he said furiously, looking this
way and that. "If she's..."
     "She has either been taken, or was for some other reason compelled
to leave the ship," said Sargamesh.
     "Eh?" said Byrne, turning on him.
     "The scorches on the hull indicate some sort of weapon, Captain. And
here..." He indicated the force field control on the instrument panel. It
was not only dark, it was dead, scorched by sparks. "The screen was
overwhelmed, and your daughter was  compelled to take some action of
which we as yet know nothing."
     "Yeah. Yeah," said Byrne, trying to get control of himself. "Jen..."
     "We'll find her, mate. Never fear," said Cedric. "Hold back your
brumbies."
     Pelias gave his Languatron a shake, glancing at Allen in
bewilderment. 
     "Captain Byrne!" called Nizaka. They headed back that way. "Look at
this." She pointed to the interior of Byrne's cabin. There on the floor
lay a dead Hork, two bullet holes in it's chest. "And her clothes,
Captain," continued Nizaka. "This is what she was wearing, when we left."
She indicated a leisure outfit, from the Galactica. Like the rug outside,
it was stained with the Hork's blood. "She obviously had the leisure to
change, before leaving."
     "Here," said Pelias, handing Byrne a slip of paper. "I found it in
the crate you brought with you."
     Byrne took it, and squinted. Damn these old eyes! Yeah, it was from
Jen.
     Pop. The dead Hork tried to break in to the ship. Got through the
force field somehow. I shot him. Sorry about the mess. I'll clean it up
later. Look across the bay. They're here, Pop. The ones who killed Mama
and took Uncle Ced! They landed right after you left, but I couldn't get
through on the radio for some reason. Gone after him, Pop. I'm wearing
your green outfit. Will try the radio again, but I'm not holding my
breath.
     For Mama!
     Jena.
     "She's gone after the pirates by herself?" said Pelias. "Lords of
Kobol!"
     "Gutsy!" said Allen. 
     "But foolish," said Kalysha. "On a station of which she knows
nothing."
     "Well let's not stand around jaw jacking about it, let's go find
her." Byrne went to the crate, and began seriously arming himself. By the
time he was through, he and Cedric looked like a couple of enforcers for
a Latin American drug lord.
     "That looks like..." said Allen, of one weapon. Long and ugly, it
was...
     "It is. I took it off the pirate I killed. Always knew it would come
in handy someday." He pulled back the slide on his .45. "Okay. Let's go!"


     Baltar cut the communication with the Control Center, and leaned
back in his chair. He looked over at his wife, and inclined his head to
one side. "Well?"
     "It's a good opportunity," she replied. "We could certainly use some
items that don't come from a Cylon storage compartment." She waved a hand
around the room. It certainly would win no awards from Decorator's
Sectarly, Baltar was forced to agree. After finishing his conversation
with Adama, he had called Command Centurion Moray, and ordered a change
in course, for the space station. As often had been the case since being
rescued, he found himself mulling the Cylon's curious change in behavior.
Command Centurion Moray had, on his own initiative, stated that visiting
the station, and having a chance to observe other species, would be "not
unwelcome". After spending some time interacting with the Hork traders
that were currently visiting the Fleet, several of the Cylon crew seemed
to be showing increased signs of what could only be called "curiosity". 
     "Granted," he replied, as always underwhelmed at the Cylon talent
for interior decorating. "I just hope that there are no...incidents
there."
     "Moray seems to be quite self-controlled," observed Ayesha. "I'd
almost say he was Human, at times."
     "Yes, the change does seem quite extraordinary. But it's not the
Cylons I am concerned with."
     She nodded, considering that, before asking: "Baltar, do you ever
wonder?"
     "About what in particular, My Dear?" asked the traitor, watching the
ship initiate the ordered course change, on his repeater array. 
     "What these Cylons ultimately want. I mean they can't just want to
cruise space forever in a, well, stolen BaseShip, in formation with the
Galactica. Sooner or later, they are going to want...something more. If
this development in their cognitive state continues."
     "Yes, you're right," said Baltar, after a moment. "Eventually, they
will reach some sort of consensus."
     "And then? Do they decide to eventually try and assimilate totally
into Human society? Become 'cybernetic citizens', as it were? Do they
find a planet and settle it? Create some kind of...well, new Cylon
civilization? Or will they eventually end up being just like the old one,
and go back to conquering everything in sight?" She reached over, and
touched his hand. "At some point, Baltar, they will have no further use
for the two for us."
     "Yes," said Baltar slowly, nodding. "Yes, I know."


     "How'd you ever link up with this loser?" asked Byrne, of Kalysha,
after they had secured the Jada as best they could, and headed out to
search for Jena. She frowned, not certain that she was grasping his
idiomatic phrasing. Cedric explained.
     "He saved my life, and we have been together ever since," she
replied, as they headed down a long, dirty corridor. 
     "I met her, after I'd been on this floating scrap heap a couple of
years or so," Allen explained. "Saw some some two-bob drongo with a head
on him like sucked mango  roughin' her up in a bar one night, and stuck
me nose in. Got a busted rib for me trouble, but ended up laying the
bastard flat out."
     It turned out that Kalysha, a native of a planet called Harkaelis,
had been in a sort of self-imposed exile from her homeworld, for very
good reasons. She was wanted for murder, having killed a minor government
official who, as the price for hearing the legal suit she had brought
regarding her late brother's estate, and knowing that she had no other
recourse, had decided to demand her favors. Disgusted and insulted, she
had nonetheless acquiesced. That done, he had laughed in her face, and
thrown her out.
     Or rather tried to. In a shame-filled fury, she had stabbed the
well-connected man to death, and been forced to flee Harkaelean space
when his relatives came looking for her, leaving what little she owned
behind. Wandering the space lanes and various out-of-the-way trade
routes, working passage on numerous rust-buckets and scows as everything
from torch singer to galley hand under a myriad of names, she had at last
found herself stuck on RB-33, alone and broke. At virtually rock bottom,
she had accepted an offer to "work" for a slimy local crime boss, a Bosaq
named Kril'q. Nominally as a singer in one of his dives, it soon turned
into more, but she had scant options. Disgusted with her lot, and filled
with self-loathing, she had eventually tried to walk out, something
Kril'q, and his huge goons, had taken exception to. He had been in the
process of "correcting any misapprehensions you may have" about their
relationship, when into the bar wandered one peripatetic Human, Cedric
Allen, late of the Royal Australian Navy. 
     Suddenly feeling both appalled and impulsively chivalrous, he had
stopped Kril'q from beating her, only to learn that Kril'q's thugs were
very capable when it came to running interference. Drawing his weapon, he
burned down two of them, them blew Kril'q's head off, before the evening
was through. But, as he surveyed the carnage, Kalysha was nowhere to be
seen.
     He found her, on the upper level, in a dingy block of rooms, hanging
from a ceiling strut. Without even thinking, he cut her down, and managed
to revive her. At first she was angry at being saved, having become so
disgusted with her life that she had decided to finally just end it all.
But when she learned that this stranger was neither a bounty hunter, a
would-be customer, nor a rival pimp, well, maybe that was different.
Cautiously, she went with him, and the two had been together ever since. 
     "Who was that man you burned down, when we entered the bar?" asked
Nizaka.
     "Kalogytza, another would-be keeper of women."
     "He appeared to be of the same species as yourself."
     "Yes, he was. He wanted me to become part of his organization."
     "He didn't know how to take no for an answer," added Allen. "You
know the type, if brains were dynamite, he wouldn't have enough to blow
his nose. So, I..."
     "Made him an offer he couldn't refuse," finished Byrne. "Think I
would have done much the same." They had come to the end of a dingy
corridor, and turned left. "Where are we going?" Byrne asked her.
     "This is a shorter route to the section where the bar is," she
replied. "It will save some time."
     "If I may," said Sargamesh. "If Miss Byrne saw the pirate crew
disembark, she will certainly have attempted to follow them. Is there a
place on this station frequented by pirates, or perhaps Zykonians, more
so than others?" He looked at Kalysha.
     "Damnations of Vagrax! Why did I not...That is a good idea," said
Kalysha, stopping for a moment. "There is a place, over on the other side
of the upper boom." She seemed to think a moment. She looked at Allen.
     "Uk Muk?"
     "Yes. That would be the place."
     "Excuse me..." said Byrne. "Uk...what?"
     "Uk Muk. If anything is going on around here, Uk Muk will know."
     "Okay, lead on MacDuff," said Byrne.
     "And damned be him that first cries hold, enough!" replied Cedric.
     Kalysha looked to Pelias, but the Councilman could only shrug.


     "ETA, the space station?" asked Adama, back on the Galactica bridge.
     "Twenty-one centars, Commander, present speed," replied Tigh. 
     "Very good, Colonel. Steady as he goes. Full scan ahead."
     "Steady as she goes, full scan aye, sir."

Chapter Nine

     Byrne couldn't help, as they threaded their way through this sewer
system in space, feeling as if he were stuck in an old movie. Here he
was, in parts unknown, the "new guy in town", looking for his daughter,
while rubbing shoulders with all sorts of shady characters. Already, he'd
crossed paths with drunks, pimps, would-be pimps, two corpses, an escaped
self-confessed murderess, and now they were on the way to see some
mysterious big shot with a name he couldn't pronounce.
     And it wasn't even lunch time, yet.
     The trip to wherever it was they were headed seemed to take forever
to Byrne. Maybe it was the worry over his daughter, maybe it was the
unfamiliar surroundings, but the time just seemed to stretch out. More
than once, he tried to raise Jena on the communicator, but no luck. It
seemed that there was far too much interference in the very frequency
bands the device used. He thought, for one brief moment, that he heard
her, but...
     Uk Muk, who or what ever he was, hung his hat in a place that would
have made some crime lords back on Earth blush. Make that gag. Not only
was the lighting hideous (flashing puce under the bar), but the walls
were covered in fur, or perhaps dead furry beings, it was difficult to
tell, really. And some of the "art", well, Byrne decided it really
sucked, and would probably give a bonfire an upset stomach.
     Or an artist turned politician, from the look of Pelias.
     Cedric seemed to know his way around the joint, and was soon in
conference with someone at the main bar along the back wall. At least
they assumed it was a someone; who or whatever it was resembled an
oversized rock, with feelers. After a few moments, and a few coins place
in said feelers, Allen turned to them, and motioned them over. With
surprisingly quick movements, the rock thing escorted them into a room in
the back.


     Jena cursed. Try as she might, she could not seem to raise anyone on
her commlink. Whatever frequencies the thing was set for, they were
hitting massive interference in this place. For a moment, she'd thought
she'd heard her dad's voice, but it was soon swallowed up in static. 
     After leaving the Jada, she had followed the Zykonian that had
emerged from the other vessel, and followed him. While she had been only
a toddler when the pirates had descended and her mother had been
murdered, she knew, she knew, that this was the same one. His face,
Zykonian-ugly to begin with, was marked by a heavy scar down one side,
skin darkened on both sides from whatever injury had caused it. His arms,
bare and heavily muscled, were covered with tattoos, which she also
remembered. No way she wouldn't remember those, seen over and over again
in her nightmares. She also noticed a slight limp, and smiled. Before she
had gone down, her mother had put a slug through one of the pirate's
legs. 
     Oh yeah, this was him!
     He seemed to know exactly where he was going, and she soon found her
way deep into the station. She also noticed, as if the difference were
worth anything, that the place was looking seedier by the minute. A
hundred languages babbled around her, and she didn't know a single word,
nor could she make one out. She couldn't even read the ten major ones
posted on the "YOU ARE HERE" signs set up in various places. But she
didn't care. This monster was the one who had slaughtered her mother. No
way was she losing sight of him. No bloody way.
     She stopped, pretending to read a kiosk, when the Zykonian stopped,
entering what even to a "primitive Earthwoman" was obviously a public
can. She took the opportunity to try again.
     "Pop? It's me. Can you hear me? Come in, Pop!"


     Uk Muk was, well, ugly. To be kind. Short, fat, and oily, he wasn't
a Hork, but of a species the name of which sounded something like Grill.
Byrne had to stifle a laugh. The fellow looked as if he could be fried in
his own grease. Smelled like it, too. He also wore a white suit, like
something out of an old movie, and a really bad hat. But, he smiled, not
a pretty sight, upon seeing Allen. Byrne wasn't sure if it was a friendly
smile, or the smile of a piranha that was terribly hungry, and Byrne
couldn't help but think of Sydney Greenstreet, in Casablanca. In any
event, after casting shrewd eyes over the rest of the party, the greasy
fellow and Allen began to talk.
     Yes, he knew of the Colonial Fleet, and the Hork vessels' current
trading visit there. He also knew of any number of pirates, cutthroats,
thieves, smugglers and killers that visited the station fairly regularly,
and yes, some of them were Zykonian. Uk Muk seemed to have profited from
his associations with many of them.
     "There's one in particular I'm looking for," interjected Byrne, his
anxiety getting the better of him. He explained about the pirate craft
that Jena had seen land, and her subsequently following the Zykonian who
had emerged from it. Uk Muk silently took it all in, as the translator
did it's work, then took a deep wheezing breath.
     "I think I know the one you mean of which, Kevinbyrnecaptain,"
replied the Grill, in his strange grammer. His voice was like a cross
between burning vegetable oil and escaping steam. "His name is Krylon, a
trader and...dealer in certain commodities of rareness."
     "You mean pirate," said Nizaka. 	
     "An ugly word," replied the other. "But yes, his methods do not
always to the more scrupulous codes of behavior adhere, practiced among
my more honorable circles, although our dealings have lucrative always
been. And he is on the station at present, yes."
     "I know the type. So low, he could parachute out of a snake's arse,
and freefall. Any clue as to where we can find him?" asked Allen. "It's
important, Uk Muk."
     "No doubt, or you would not have to me come. Most likely, he will
find his way to The Blue Prigit'zhaz eventually, down on the lower
levels. Why I tell you this I do not know, for profit me it cannot
possibly, but even so..." The creature shrugged. 
     "Yes?" asked Pelias and Byrne at once.
     "The ship you call Galactica, the one that so wonderfully humbled
the Ziklagoio, is on it's way here, even as we speak."
     "How do you know?" asked Pelias.
     "I have many eyes and ears, gentlebeings. I am informed kept. Which
of course is why you came to me, is it not?" Uk Muk smiled. Pelias
gagged.
     "Okay, what's this Blue....whatever it is like?" asked Byrne. "What
kind of muscle hangs out there?"
     "Plenty," replied Uk Muk. "However..." he cast his eyes over what
they were wearing, "...I suspect that you this already knew. The place is
almost exclusively the lair of Zykonians, my friends. Outsiders welcomed
there are seldom."
     "Well, I'm not here to sell AVON," said Byrne.
     "No, I suppose not," replied Uk Muk, after a brief explanation from
Allen. 


     After resuming her pursuit, Jena found herself in a less-populated
part of the station. Several of the chambers here seemed given over to
either storage, infrastructure, or some kind of industrial activity.
There were a couple of landing bays, and what looked like a
used-spaceship dealer, but the Zykonian did not seem interested in any of
these. Finally, after she found herself reduced to hiding behind support
beams for cover, the pirate came to an half-open hatchway. The place
looked like some sort of repair facility; from what she could see through
the doors, the place was littered with crates and pieces of machinery.
Even from across the way, she could catch the unmistakeable stench of old
lubricants and ozone, as torches flickered here and there.
     She hunkered down, and drew the binocs she had borrowed from the
Jada. The doors were halfway down, but she could make out boots, and
other locomotive structures of various sorts, moving about inside. She
tried to raise her dad again, but as before, got nothing but static. She
swore under her breath
     "Got to know what's happening in there. What is that slug doing?"
Even as she spoke, she heard the lift clank down to this level, and
another creature get off. This one was a Ziklagi, and, like the other, it
made for the chop shop. "What's going on, the annual picnic?" She mulled
her options, then turned at a sound.
     Click.
     "Aw hell!"


     "Oi dunno," said the greasy thug, inside the "chop shop". "I founds
her outsoide, watchin the playce." He turned back to regard Jena, seated
in a dirty chair, among piles of machinery and old parts. "This was all
the stuff what she hads." He indicated Jen's commlink, and pistol. 
     "And who are you?" asked the Zykonian she had been following, after
looking over her items. He turned and stood close, glowering down at her.
Despite the scar down one "cheek", and the years in between, she
remembered him. That face, that voice. No question about it. Her two and
a half year old brain had latched onto him, and never let go. "I said,"
the alien went on, "who are you?" He looked down at the device he
carried, some sort of translator, and scowled. One of the others assured
him it was working. Satisfied, he grabbed Jena by the jaw, and yanked her
face upwards. "I could get really tired asking this. Now, who are you?" 
     "Roach inspector?" replied the girl. The other frowned a moment, the
machine apparently having trouble with her words. Then, his puzzlement
was replaced by obvious anger. Jena gasped as a gloved hand was smashed
backhand across her face. 
     "Wrong answer, little mammal," said the Zykonian. He leaned close,
and put a sharp nail under her chin. "Now, I'm a patient fellow. Are you?
This could take a while. Or not, as you choose." Jena just looked at him
defiantly, and he struck her again. One of the others gathered around
laughed, and the Zykonian grabbed her face. "Well?"
     "Didn't your mother ever tell you to pull up your pants when you go
out?" she shot back, through bloody lips. "Oh, sorry. My mistake. That's
your face, right?"
     The other roared with fury, as Jena yowled in pain.
 
 
     Byrne was glad of having found Allen so quickly. Alone, it would
have taken days, maybe longer, to search the station. And, he had to
admit, without Allen's criminal connections, they might have never made
it off the promenade deck. 
     "How far down?" asked Pelias, plucking at his collar, as they piled
into an elevator. His recently acquired skills of bureaucratic diplomacy
were useless in this place, and not for the first time he was glad of the
basic training he had completed in his short career as a Colonial
Warrior.
     "The lower levels are close to the bottom of the station," said
Allen, working the control pad. "There are a few bars and other joints
down there, but mostly it's the machinery level."
     "The station's support level, then?" asked Sargamesh.
     "Yeah. Gravity, air, the lot. Well, I sure hope Uk Muk is right."
     "About?" asked Nizaka.
     "About this bein' the bastard that killed Jen's mom and sold me off.
I have a debt or two to repay to that kind gentleman. I'll have his guts
for garters."
     "Take a number, Ced," replied Byrne.  
     "Take a number?" asked Kalysha, brows furrowed.
     "It means we all have something to chat over with this Krylon,"
explained Allen. Kalysha just shook her head.
     "A conversation which I suspect will likely be of short duration,"
drolled Sargamesh.
     "Best kind," said Byrne. "After all, Mom always said it was impolite
to wear out your welcome."
 
 
     "She's passed out," said one of the creatures gathered around
Krylon, A Ziklagi, examining Jena.
     "Uhh," was all the Zykonian pirate had to say, as he turned once
more to the items found on her. A commlink of unusual design, yet
familiar from somewhere. Where...
     Of course! Brylon Station, a few cycles back. He'd been there, with
several of his crew, working various deals, when he'd seen people, at
least superficially of the same species as this one, moving about the
place. They had worn devices like this. They were called.....Colonials.
Yes. That huge warship that had been in port. So, she was one of them. So
why had she been following him? He'd had no dealings with any of those
Colonial beings while at Brylon. And she seemed to have a definite animus
regarding him. Why?
     He went back to her weapon. It certainly was unusual, a mechanically
operating chemically powered slug thrower. While one still saw such
weapons now and then, they were as archaic as internal combustion engines
or cathode-ray tubes for video monitors. He laughed, shaking his head.
Yes, they were rare, such things. But awfully effective at close range.
Zykor's Lips, he'd taken a slug from one of these things once. Ages ago,
on some dump of a planet, somewhere. Right in the leg, from some...
     Elementals! 
     He rounded on the still-insensate Jena, mind reeling as bits of old,
half-forgotten events fell into place. Could...could she possibly be...
He lifted her face to his gaze again, and studied it. It had been a long
time, and he had no idea how fast these creatures grew, but it surely
must be...
     "Yes!" he said at last, as Jena opened her eyes. The two locked
gazes, and Krylon saw it. Saw the same steely, defiant gaze, behind the
fear, that he had seen so long ago in a female from a race whose name he
didn't even know, on a planet Zykor knew how far away. 
     A female who had shot him right through the leg.
     "You're the kid, aren't you?" he said, lowering himself down to her
level. "You're the brat that I missed. Missed thanks to that slug in my
leg." He grinned, and it was a sick one. 
     "Hey, ye wants what I should show her the error ofs her ways, eh?"
asked the other creature, a long, curved knife in one hand. It looked
from Krylon to Jena, and there was a sadistic gleam in the being's eye.
"Might take a little whiles, but, hey...
     "Not yet,' replied Krylon, never taking his eyes off Jena. "But I'll
keep it in mind, Eergo." The other chuckled, as did many of the other
beings in the room. "Well, now we're together again," said Krylon, to
Jena. "And this time," he smiled even wider, "I won't miss. Tell me,
little one. Are you as...interesting as your mother?"
     Jena squirmed in her seat, choking back the fear.
     And Krylon began, slowly, to laugh.
          
Chapter Ten

     Krylon couldn't believe his luck. After all these years, the gods
had brought him full circle. Now he could finish what he'd started. Yes,
he would enjoy that, he decided, as he looked over an array of "tools"
for "interviewing" his guest. But, with the favor, or luck, of the gods,
also came danger. As he looked at Jena, enjoying the growing fear he saw
in her eyes, and deciding how best to prolong the agony he had planned
for her, he wondered about the rest of her little colony, back on that
long-forgotten planet. He'd killed her mother, and taken one of the males
as captive, selling him off later. He'd returned fire from another one,
but his injury had prevented him from making sure. Obviously, he'd
missed. Someone, after all, had obviously been there, to rear and care
for this one. While he knew little of species such as this, he doubted
that one so small and undeveloped could have survived alone on that
planet for so long. 
     And there was that ship. Unless she had been rescued by some
passersby, someone had flown it out of there. He scratched his chin. No
question about it; the other one, presumably her father, had survived,
and therefore it made sense that he was nearby. And if so, he would
probably come looking for his offspring before very...
     "Stay put!  And then you can tell me where to find your father!" he
ordered, slapping Jena hard across the face, as she struggled to free
herself with a frenzied desperation. At some point in their session she
had realized that her fate was inevitable.  Blow after blow, her
rebellious glare had gradually been replaced by one of pure terror. It
was so satisfying to tear down the tenuous walls of bravery, and to see
his victim quake with fear as traitorous tears poured down her face. 
Courage was a transient beast at best, wholly dependent on who held the
upper hand.  As usual, Krylon did.  "And whatever you do, don't forget to
squirm. It's always better when they squirm!" He raised his fist high in
the air, pausing as she winced at what was to come.  And he laughed.
 
 
     They stopped, across the sparsely crowded promenade, as they came
into view of the establishment Uk Muk had spoken of. The Blue
Prigit'zhza. The unreadable script was rendered needless by the blue neon
outline of some sort of bird, over the door, and flanking both sides. As
told, most of those that could be seen around the dump were Zykonian,
with a sprinkling of other types. 
     "Zykonian," Byrne heard someone mutter. He turned, regarding Nizaka.
She in turn was intently studying the bar. Next to it was what looked
like a garage or storage hangar.
     "Yeah, just like Mukluk said. So?"
     "Uk Muk," she corrected him before adding:  "Oh, just musing aloud."
She raised her scanner. "Human readings, now. You?" She looked to
Sargamesh.
     "Confirmed. One Human, a female. Inside that hangar." He pointed. 
     "What kind of shape is she in?" asked Byrne.
     Shape? What kind...oh!
     "Her bio impulses are strong, but I am picking up indications of
stress. I cannot be more specific. This is not a medical scanner."
     "Okay, so she's alive, and in there," said Allen. "This might
require a certain finesse. What about the rest of that scum?"
     "I read several others as well," said Sargamesh. "Ziklagi. Hork.
Zykonian, of course. And some others I do not recognize."
     "Okay, if we don't do something soon, they'll have her blood for
breakfast. What's the plan?"
     "Dunno, Ced," said Byrne. "She was supposed to stay put, remember.
Besides, I'm making this up as I go along."
     "Well, at least that way nothing can go wrong," Allen replied with a
grin. "Well, just remember. With patience and persistence, you could
bugger a black snake's infected arsehole." .  
     Byrne blinked, catching Pelias' completely befuddled look.  He
shrugged at the Council member. "Sometimes, only his mother can
understand him."     
     "Do we try entering the bar?" asked Kalysha. "Attempt to gain more
intelligence?"
     "Well, we'd kind of stick out," said Byrne. 
     "Like Liberace at a wharfies' picnic," added Allen wryly.
     "Hey, Sarah," inserted Byrne."What do you know of any of these
other..." He turned, and stopped. "Sarah? As if I didn't have enough
problems. Where the hell has she got to?"

 
     "Oh," said Krylon, almost as an afterthought. "Is our merchandise
ready?"
     "It be," said the first henchbeing. "Every bits of it. In the back."
     "Well go get it," ordered Krylon. "Our client is waiting.
Impatiently."
     "I'll go," said another, and moved away, back into the labyrinth of
junk, ship parts, barrels and crates of who knew what. As the rest
waited, Krylon looked down at Jena once more. He smiled, and for no
particular reason, he pressed an electrical discharge to her flesh. She
screamed.
     No particular reason, except that he was a sick creep.
     "What's the matter? Don't like that?"
     Laughing, he did it again.
 
 
     "That was a scream!" said Byrne, as the sound penetrated even to the
noisy outer area. He began to move forward. Ced put out a hand to
restrain him.
     It was like trying to hold back a charging bull.
 
 
     "Zykor's Lips, what's keeping Rxak?" said Krylon, looking towards
the back of the hangar. There had been a noise, a crash like something
falling over, and he'd looked up from Jena. "My merchandise had better
be...Oh, there you are!" he said, as the other reappeared, a large metal
case in each bony hand. "What were you doing back there? Tossing junk
around?"
     "I...slipped on some grease," rasped the other, in its gravelly
voice. "Here."
     "Excellent," said Krylon. He opened one of the containers, and
smiled. Several transparent vials of colored liquid were within,
cushioned by padding. "Excellent. A fat divvy is in our future, me lads!"
     "Sounds good," said one of the others, laughing. 
     "Now, what about her?" asked Rxak, indicating Jena.
     "What about her?" said Krylon, still leering over his merchandise.
     "Shouldn't we take her back to the ship for this?" Krylon looked at
Rxak, a vaguely Humanoid something that looked like a skeleton, bony
plates covering much of its form, eyes deep-set inside a heavy skull. He
cocked his head slightly, inviting the other to continue.  "It's more
secure. If she does have people looking for her, we'd be in a better
position to handle them. Besides, shouldn't we be on our way?"
     "Uhh," said Krylon. "I suppose. but I was hoping the brat would draw
out her old man. You two," he said, motioning to Rxak and another of his
crew, "take her. Get her and the merchandise to the ship."
     "Where'll you be?" asked Rxak.
     "Next door. I could use a drink."
     Several of the cutthroats laughed. They all knew what that meant.
Krylon enjoyed torturing captives the most when he was drunk. The drunker
the better.
     "Besides, I haven't paid my respects to Pel-Pel, yet," he smiled.
The others smiled even more. Yes, a "girl" in every port, Krylon.
     Alrights, lets be going," said one of the pirates. They began
picking up their weapons. Just then, a buzzer sounded. They looked up...
     As several shots screamed over their heads, one light blowing out.
     "No one is going anywhere, I'm afraid," insisted a voice. At the
entrance to the hangar, a group of people stood, every one of them
heavily armed. 
     "And just who..."
     "We're the local civic pride committee," said one, carrying what was
obviously an ancient, but very functional-looking slug thrower. His
expression was coldly furious. "We're here to spray the lice."
     "Uh..." Krylon barely managed to get out.
     "Let her go," said the one in front. He locked gazes with Krylon,
and lowered his weapon at the Zykonian. "Hear me? I said let her go.
NOW!" As he spoke, one of the others drew down the hangar door. 
     "You!" said Krylon, after a few moments, raising his hands as
ordered. "Of all the...You."
     "You were expecting the A-Team? Yeah, I'm the original bad penny. No
telling where I'll turn up."
     "Zykor's Lips! Yours?" he asked, indicating Jena. The girl was
semi-conscious, held by Rxak and another.
     "Shut your God-Damned trap, lizard face, and let---her---go!"
     "I...." began Krylon, when one of the other pirates, partly
concealed behind a crate, attempted to draw a bead on the Human with his
weapon. Byrne caught it, and let off several shots. The crate, and the
pirate, were shredded, the latter falling to the floor in a bloody heap.
The rest leaped back.
     "The next one is for you," said Byrne, returning his weapon to its
previous target. "Right between the legs."
     "Luckily, he's got a scope, and word on the street says he'll need
it," Allen inserted snidely.
     Byrne snorted.  "Got me? Now drop your weapons. ALL of you!" He
looked at Jen, still held by the others, gun to her head. "You deaf? I
told you to let her go. Now!"
     "Pop?" said Jena, head bobbing up and down slowly. She tried to
focus on her father, but one eye appeared swollen, and her face was
bloody. "P...pop?"
     "It's okay, Jena. I'm here."
     "K...kill 'em all, Pop!" She coughed, spitting blood on the floor.
"For Mama!"
     "Surely, you see how this must end," said Krylon, a wheedling tone
coming into his voice, but the fear still there. "We seem to be at
something of an impasse."
     "Uh huh, a real Mexican Standoff. And yeah, I see how it ends," said
Byrne, as his people spread out. "You give me my daughter back, and if
you're really nice, I'll make you a promise."
     "Such as?"
     "I'll kill you last."
     "I see where this one gets her flippancy," said Krylon.
     "Slight negligence in her upbringing," said Byrne snidely. "My
humble apologies. Now, drop your weapons, and let her go. NOW! I'm not
asking again."
     Clang!
     "Look out!" shouted Allen, letting off a shot somewhere. Everyone
began to scatter, and then all hell broke loose.
 
 Chapter Eleven         

     There was a scream, and a body fell to the floor from the rafters
above. As a shot ripped past his head, feeling the heat, Byrne let off a
few rounds in return. He heard a grunt, and then took cover behind a
metal crate.
     For her part, Jena felt herself pulled back, sharply, and a weapon
discharged close to her. In the blur of images and noises, she felt
herself slap hard onto the deck, and something roll over the top of her,
knocking the wind out of her for a moment. Then, something big, a hand
maybe, covered her face, and a voice spoke quietly in her ear: "Keep
down. Do not move!"
     "But..."
     "Just do it!" said the voice, then she was alone, the sounds of
weapons fire all around her. 
 
 
     Kalysha barely got out of the way, as a body dropped from above.
During the "conversation" with Krylon and his thugs, one had managed to
slip away, and make his way up into the ceiling supports, slowly
slithering towards them. Allen, eyes never still, had caught the motion,
and shouted a warning, even as he opened fire on the other, almost
simultaneously with Sargamesh. The alien had fallen to the deck, ripped
by bullets and splattering gore all over. Then a shot zinged past, and
Allen felt the sting of a hit.
     "Human!" bellowed a voice. Krylon's. Byrne did not at once answer.
"Human?"
     "You talking to me?" Byrne shot back.
     "I'll make you a deal."
     "The only deal I want is your corpse, Zykonian!" replied Byrne. He
dared a peek around the crate. "Preferably in about ten pieces. You got
me?"
     "You cannot escape."
     "Then why offer anything?" He swung his weapon around the crate, and
let off some shots in the direction of Krylon's voice.
     "You are mine, Human!" bellowed Krylon, after a sharp cry. "Mine!"
More fire came Byrne's way, sending molten bits flying off his temporary
redoubt. One caught Byrne on the cheek. "How does it feel to be trapped?"
Somewhere, there was the sound of another weapon firing, and then a small
explosion. Flames erupted from a stack of barrels a few yards away.
     "I dunno, you asswipe! You tell me!" 
     Somewhere between stacks of junk, Pelias found himself crawling,
trying to keep his head down, and wondering what on Kobol he was doing
here. You quit the service, remember? You got out of this kind of thing.
For good reason!  Idiotic...
     He stopped, as he saw, up and to his left, someone, Zykonian though
not Krylon, moving stealthily. Before he could aim in that direction, the
other moved, with great speed, and a barrel was knocked over almost in
his face. Behind it, Sargamesh and the Zykonian were locked in a fierce
struggle, the Zohrloch having somehow lost his pistol. Reacting as if he
were still in uniform and not thinking at all, he leaped to his friend's
aid, slamming his body against the Zykonian, who was locked in a death
grip with Sargamesh over control of a very ugly-looking pistol. The three
of them went rolling, slamming into a stack of something, pieces of metal
clattering to the deck around them. Then, Pelias felt one of the
Zykonian's talons going around his throat, squeezing with its laser-sharp
grip. He flailed around desperately, vision beginning to darken, until...
     He felt his hand touch metal, and gripped as hard as he could,
bringing the object up and then down. There was a sound like rotten fruit
being smashed, then a gasp, and the pressure at his throat disappeared.
The Zykonian had been hurt, how badly he wasn't sure. But he didn't wait
to find out either, and swung again. This time, he saw the other recoil
as the object (a steel support rod of some sort) caught the Zykonian on
the side of the face. It fell back, and he got to his knees, and brought
the bar down again. There was a sickening crunch, and a splash of blood,
and the Zykonian went limp, dropping like a soggy rag. Swept back to
another time, when he'd been locked in battle with Korax on the damaged
shuttle so long ago, he instinctively kept hitting, again and again, till
the bar fell from his fingers. He paused only a moment as he gazed in
mute disbelief at the pulpy mess beneath him. Dazed, he looked around...
     And saw Sargamesh, struggling to rise, blood streaming from a deep
cut on his face. The two looked at each other. No words were needed, as
Pelias grabbed up the dead Zykonian's pistol, and he and Sargamesh, after
regaining some measure of their bearings, got moving again.
     Krylon was getting angrier, and also more frightened, by the moment.
Pinned down, he had seen at least one of his soldiers go down under a
hail of fire, and he suspected at least one more had followed suit. He
had dared risk a look around his cover, and had been rewarded by a close
shot from an energy weapon. The alien female, he thought. How in Chaos
had this happened? Not only the girl whose mother he had murdered so long
ago, but the one he had failed to kill, and the male he had managed to
get hold of, and sell as a slave! Somehow, the fates had contrived to
bring them all together once more, and seek him out. At this rate, he
would not have been surprised if the dead Human female herself suddenly
returned from the beyond, and began shooting at him as well.


     After a few moments, Jena realized that no one was paying any
attention to her anymore, not that she was terribly upset about that. The
bonds that had held her to the chair were also loose, giving her some
freedom of movement in her hands and arms. As she heard shots, cries, and
curses all around, she began to crawl away, towards the hopeful cover of
a long row of crates. At least here...
     "Whoa...that's gross!" she hissed, coming upon a corpse. It was the
weird-looking skeleton guy. He, or it, lay on the floor, a gaping wound
in it's throat, blood oozing slowly onto the floor. Funny, how had it
gotten all the way back here? She thought...
     Holy crap! A purple beam ripped through one of the crates, sending
bits flying, and her scurrying for some more secure place of cover.
     Brave? Oh yeah. You're brave. About as brave as Scooby-Doo. Idiot!
Another shot, and she moved as fast as she could around another crate.


     "How are we doing?" asked Pelias, coming up next to Byrne. The
Earthman was crouched behind a stack of metal parts, from old, burned-up
engines it looked like, weapon in hand.
     "I got a couple of them. You guys?"
     "One Zykonian will no longer be bothering us," replied Sargamesh,
face starting to swell. "Have you seen her?"
     "No, and it's weird. She was in that chair, then when I looked
again, it was like she was..."
     "Captain?" said another voice. It was "Sarah", looking surprisingly
unruffled, all things considered. 
     "You seen Jen?"
     "Over that way, I believe," she replied, indicating with a jerk of
the head. "I got one of them. You?"
     "Three, all told, I think," said Pelias. "Any idea how many there
all altogether?" Several shrugs. "Any sign of Allen and Kalysha?"
     "Not for some centons," said Sargamesh. "Though from what I have
seen, Commander Allen and his wife are most capable." In the distance,
there was the sound of weapons fire.
     "Hope so," said Byrne. "I'd hate to blow this whole trip on a
technicality."


     Pain shot up Cedric's left side and leg, results of the near-miss
from one of the alien weapons. Kalysha however, was not unskilliful in
dealing with such things. From a small pouch on her belt, she withdrew a
small vial, popped it open with her thumb, and squeezed the contents on
the worst of the burns. Almost at once the pain went from incredible, to
merely agonizing, and Allen's vision began to clear. Within moments, she
had finished her work, and he began to feel better.
     "Better?"
     "Yeah, thanks, Kal," he replied. He looked around. "How we doing?"
     "Four of them dead, as far as I can see. The place is also on fire."
     "That's not good." He tried to rise, and saw something move behind
her. "KAL!" he shouted, and raised his weapon as fast as his injuries
would permit. He fired...


     This just is not fair! Jen told herself, as the ugly alien thing
grabbed hold of her. She'd done as the voice had told her. Stayed low,
and tried to remain inconspicuous. Fat lotta good that did ya!
     She was being held, cruelly tightly, by one of the ugliest excuses
for a life-form she'd ever seen. It was like a cross between a huge bug
and a lizard, with a grip of steel. She had been behind a stack of
something, when it had begun to catch fire, and she'd been forced to
move. Not ten steps, and she'd been snatched up by this glorified
grasshopper, it's hideous mouth next to her ear. 
     "Ssssstop ssstruggling! You cannot essscape, Heuuoooman!" 
     "Go to hell!" she snarled back, and kicked back with one foot with
all her strength. The creature grunted, and its hold loosened for a
moment. She squirmed, almost out of its grip, when it recovered, stronger
and more vicious than before.
     "You ssssshall pay for that, alien!" it hissed in her ears. It made
several hissing sounds, which Jena finally realized were it's equivalent
of laughter. Suddenly furious that she was the subject of ridicule, she
balled a fist, and punched back over her shoulder as best she could, and
hoped.
     With a hiss of pain, it released her, staggering back. She'd hit the
thing in one huge, ugly eye, and it was momentarily blinded. Not knowing
what else to do, she kicked it in the legs, and took off like a scalded
cat. She rounded a bend, and found herself in a cul de sac, boxed in
completely. She turned back, and saw the enraged creature blocking her
only escape.
     "You ssssshal die for thisssss!" it hissed, and moved in, talons
unclenching. She looked about her frantically, seeing no escape. Steeling
herself for the inevitable...
     She was knocked to the deck, by the explosion of something close by.
The stack of barrels closest to the alien were hurled apart by whatever
it was, and the vile creature was slammed into a support beam. It
screamed, as metal chunks ripped into it's body, and it collapsed in a
messy heap. Taking her sudden chance, Jena leaped over the dying thing
(one heal grinding deep into it's face), and was away.
     Now where, genius?


     Kalysha jerked to the side barely in time, as the pirate behind her
was slammed by Allen's weapon. Of the modern, directed-energy sort, it
lacked the noise of Earth firearms, but was no less effective.  The
creature was sliced open like a piece of overripe fruit, its guts blown
out almost before it hit the deck. Allen avoided the cargo, but neither
could escape the stench of burned alien flesh and fabrics.
     "That...you saved me again, Cedric," said Kalysha.
     "All part of the bargain, Kal," he said, picking himself up. "Now,
let's go find Kev, and..." They both staggered, as something fresh
exploded, closer by this time. Before either could even speak, an alarm
sounded, and the slow, grinding sound of old, worn gears filled the air.
     "The main doors! They are closing!"
     "Shit," spat Allen. "Kev!?"


     "Jena?" the girl heard, somewhere, as her father called to her. She
slunk, down on all fours, through the labyrinth that was this place.
Smoke was beginning to accumulate, and so far, no fire-suppression was in
evidence. She had no idea if this station had a fire department, but
someone sure as hell must have noticed all the goings on by now. 
     "Come with me," said a voice, and she felt a hand grab hold of her.
She turned, and nearly screamed. It was certainly as hideous a "face" as
any she'd seen today. A single huge eye, and skin like a slimy frog. The
grip on her was strong, and her resistance ineffective. "I am not your
enemy, child. Come with..."
     The alien was cut off by another explosion, this time with charred
bits of whatever raining down. It let go of her, and she scurried away in
a mix of terror and revulsion. As she scampered away, she felt something
under her hand.


     Byrne stood stock still, as Krylon leveled his weapon at him. It was
big, ugly, and no doubt extremely lethal. Like Krylon himself. Behind
him, also armed, stood two other of Krylon's surviving thugs. 
     "I have you now," sneered Krylon, eyes that burned with hatred fixed
on Byrne.
     "Yeah, looks like we have a real Mexican Standoff, Lizard Lips." He
tried to make his voice sound more confident than he felt. "Any one of
your guys shoots us, we shoot you. We all go down."
     "Indeed," said the Zykonian. "Now, I can finish what should have
been finished long ago!"
     "Trust me," said Sargamesh, "you would not live to hit the deck."
     "Maybe, but at least I take you with me!"
     "Sorry. I'm headed the other direction, Zykonian," said Byrne. As he
spoke, they could see a nozzle in the ceiling finally sputter to life.
Apparently something around here worked, after all. For all the good it
seemed to be doing.
     "You have caused me no small aggravation, Human," said the pirate.
"You will pay for that!"
     "You take checks?" retorted Byrne. 
     "B'ask!" said Krylon, to one of his killers, "kill them, now."
     The creature, a tall, gray-skinned being that to Byrne resembled an
anorexic undertaker, nodded, and raised a weapon. Before anyone could do
anything, however, a crate toppled over on him, crushing his head. In the
ensuing confusion, the rest scattered. Shots flew around the hangar, as
all present either dove for cover, or pressed their advantage. Byrne
moved to fire on Krylon...
     Only to find him gone. He swore, then something slammed into the
side of his head, and he toppled, seeing stars. His vision cleared long
enough to see Krylon, right before the Zykonian kicked him in the side.
Once, twice, three times.
     "You are mine, Byrne! This pays for all. Well, almost, when I have
had my way with your child!" He laughed, and leveled his weapon...
     And dropped it, as a loud grunt filled Byrne's ears. Krylon had
dropped the weapon, cradling his hand, which dripped with blood. Only a
few feet away was...Jena?
     "Jen!"
     "Hi, Pop, bye, Pop" she said, then took off like a sprinter as
Krylon ran. He ran through the remains of his smoldering redoubt,
stopping to pick up the case that he had examined earlier, then headed
towards the doors. Slapping a control to one side, he waited impatiently
for the thing to open enough to grant him egress. He slipped out, Jena on
his heels. He ran for the nearest hatch, but it had, it seemed,
functioned properly, when the fire was detected. Thwarted, Krylon tried a
ladderwell, lifting it's heavy metal hatch. 
     Bang!
     He whirled, as the shot pinged off the bulkhead. In the shock, he
dropped his weapon from his injured hand. He watched it clatter to the
bottom, as he stubbornly held on to the metal case with his good hand.
Damnations! 
     "Krylon!" He turned. It was the girl. Damn her to the Elementals! He
took it in quickly. She stood, not ten kwags from him, pistol in hand.
One of the primitive slug throwers. Where on Zimira...
     "You..."
     "Krylon!" she bellowed, voice like a soul from the Underworld. 
     "Well, if it isn't the female hatchling!" he said, forcing some
measure of bravado into his voice. He tried to remember if the crude
weapon was empty, or had rounds remaining. Maybe... "If only I had time,
we could..."
     "I'm going to kill you, Krylon!" said Jena, her face a mask of fury
and retribution, carved in stone. "Remember my mother? I'm going to kill
you!"
     "How amusing, child," said the pirate. "I..."
     Bang!
     Krylon froze, a mixture of shock, and pain, on his face. He looked
down, and saw the blood, spreading across his trouser leg, from the
wound. 
     What? No...cannot be...
     "You...shot me...!'"he choked out.
     "Nothing gets by you, does it?" said Jena, face still a mask. She
fired again, never changing expression, as slug after slug ripped through
his precious case, and into Krylon's body. "Die, you bastard!" she
screamed at last. She kept on firing, over and over, till the gun was
empty. Krylon sagged against the ladder, blood pouring from his wounds,
and then he crumpled, tumbling down the ladderwell, a scream wailing back
up, till he fell silent forever.
     Jena wasn't sure how long she stood there, her dad's .45 in hand,
just staring at the place where Krylon had been, still pulling at the
trigger after all the shells were gone, when she felt a hand close over
her own, and take the weapon from her grasp. Slowly, she came to herself,
and realized that tears were streaming down her face, and she was
sobbing. She looked, and it was her father.
     "It's over, Baby," he said, but she wasn't listening. She ran over,
and looked down. There, at the bottom of the shaft, twisted and bloody,
lay Krylon. "Come on, Jena. It's time to go."
     "Kev! We better get scarce,' said Allen, coming up behind him.
     "Sounds good to me, Ced," he replied, and drew his daughter away
from her gory trophy. 

Chapter Twelve

     A few hours later, back in Ced's bar, bandaged, fed, and with drinks
in hand, the party had leisure to count their blessings. All had
survived, though none were unhurt. They had killed all but perhaps two of
Krylon's thugs, the last seen running for parts unknown at the end, and
good riddance.
     The station's automatic fire brigade had finally shown up, like most
things around here, too little too late. Most of the garage/hangar was
burned out, several of the dead pirates along with it. As to the
assigning of blame, the station's owners were willing to look the other
way, thanks to Uk Muk, and his not inconsiderable influence. No one would
be asking any...awkward questions of the mysterious party.
     Just another day in paradise.
     "What now?" asked Kalysha, seated next to Allen on the luxurious
couch, in the equally luxurious apartment over the bar. 
     "Well, the Galactica is on the way," said Pelias. "It seems the
whole Fleet is diverting here. She'll be here in just under three
centars."
     "The whole Fleet?" said Byrne. He shrugged and took another slug of
his drink. "Yeah, why not? They could use some R&R."
     "And Baltar," added the Councilman, with obvious distaste. Byrne and
the rest looked at him biliously. "Yes, I know. But the d‚tente, I
suppose."
     "Any way we could arrange to lose him?" asked Byrne, sparing a look
over at Jena, asleep on the "love seat" across the room. She looked like
she'd been run over by a truck. "As far as I'm concerned, that cockroach
is about as welcome as Hitler at a bar-mitzvah." Allen laughed. The young
Councilman looked at them curiously, but shook his head.
     "Don't tempt me," said Pelias, with a mirthless chuckle, also
looking over at the girl. "How is she?"
     "She will be alright," said Kalysha, pointing a med scanner in the
girl's direction. "She was struck hard, several times, but fortunately
nothing serious was damaged. At least physically. No fractures. I put a
little something in her drink, to help her rest." She turned the scanner
on Byrne. "How are you feeling, Captain?"
     "Well, my ribs feel like I just boogied with an avalanche, but
whatever you gave me is helping." He lifted his glass. "This doesn't
hurt, either." He winked at Allen, then looked back at his daughter."
     "She is strong," said Sargamesh, looking from the sleeping girl, to
her father. "Her spirit is like steel."
     "Another way of saying 'pig-headed', where I come from," Byrne
returned, with a glance first at Allen, then the Zohrloch.
     The Aussie raised his glass, grinning wryly.  "Yeah, don't know
where she gets if from..."
     "Indeed," added Nizaka. "One might not have deemed her so resiliant,
merely from the outer appearance." Byrne scowled slightly at the other,
but made no reply.
     "One should never be fooled by that," said Pelias, looking directly
at the Ziklagi. Unlike Byrne, he had caught a glimpse of her, in her
natural form, during the firefight with the smugglers. It had just about
scared the living Hades out of him, as he thought back to the vile
Over-Lieutenant Korax, who had made Krylon look like a pansy in full
wilt. Byrne caught the Councilman's glance. 
     What in the hell...something's going on here. That Sarah...what is
it about her?
     "So, Ced," said Byrne, after another long sip, "any clue what was in
that case? The one Krylon was so anxious to grab?"
     "Does a fat dog fart?" returned the Aussie, in some attempt at the
affirmative.," "Seems our dear Krylon was running drugs. Some really
rotten crap called irel." 
     "What's that?" asked Pelias.
     "A drug. A very dangerous stimulant, Councilman," replied Allen.
"And I might add, illegal in just about every system I've heard of. Even
the Zykonians have outlawed it."
     "What is it that is so dangerous?" asked Nizaka, although she
already knew. It was also illegal throughout the Ziklagi Empire, as well.
     "It's used illegally to get more work out of people. Specifically
miners, out in some of the fringe system asteroid belts. With irel, you
don't sleep, your stamina shoots way up, the works. Shoot your workers
full of that stuff, and you can double, even triple their productivity."
     "But?" asked Sargamesh.
     "But it's a killer, Lieutenant. It's got a compatibility problem in
a lot of species. After a while, it kills the user. Burns 'em out.
Destroys their organs. Tickers. Livers. Or whatever they may have. That's
why it's banned in so many places." Allen looked to Byrne. "Like shooting
someone full of speed, but on a higher scale." Byrne nodded. "A few days
from here, there's a huge mining operation, in the asteroids of the
Nikkirhanda System. Gold, copper, platinum, you name it, they've got it
up the 'ole wazzo. But that ain't enough, I guess. Rumor has it the folks
there use drugs to get more out of their workers, and they'll pay top
dollar, or whatever currency, to get the stuff."
     "I guess drug running paid better than piracy," said Nizaka.
     "You bet it does," said Allen. "From what I saw, it looked like
Krylon had enough of that crap to buy himself a couple new ships, at
least. Live like a king. Whatever took his fancy."
     "Greed, it seems, has been our ally," said Sargamesh. They turned to
look at him. "Yes. If Krylon had not been so greedy, he would have gotten
away, and eluded Jena. Because of his greed, she was able to take her
revenge on the murderer of her mother."
     "Interesting way of putting it," said Allen. "If he hadn't been such
a greedy bastard, he might still be alive."
     "Precisely."
     "Well, then," said Byrne, "let's drink to greed, and Krylon's
introduction into Hell."
     "Here, here!"
     Clink 


     "Commander," said Athena, on the bridge, as the space station came
into visual range.
     "Yes?"
     "Sire Pelias' yacht is approaching, sir. And he's hailing us."
     "I see. Put him on, Athena."
     "This is the Galactica.  Prepare to be boarded and forfeit your
lives!  Nanner, nanner, nanner!"
     Adama turned, and just glowered at her. Perhaps it was time for her
to start her maternity leave.
     "Yes, sir."
     "Commander Adama?"
     "Yes, Sire Pelias?" Adama was at once struck by Pelias' appearance.
The young man looked as if he'd been in a serious fight.
     "You and the entire Fleet are welcome to spend some down time, here
at the station, Commander. It seems the powers that be are looking
forward to meeting you all."
     "Looking forward to meeting us?"
     "Yes. Our victory over Ziklag has not gone unnoticed, it would
seem." Pelias looked up at his chrono. "We'll be landing in six centons,
Commander. Could you have LifeStation standing by, after we clear decon,
sir?"
     "Of course. And Sire Pelias..."
     "Yes, sir," replied Pelias. "Mission accomplished, sir." He looked
back at the rest of his passengers. "Mission accomplished."


     "Holy crap!" said Allen, slowly, as the huge Colonial warship at
last came into view. "It's like...like something out of..."
     "TV or a movie?" said Byrne, with a half-smile. "Yeah, I felt the
same way, first time I saw her. She's like aircraft carrier meets super
battleship. Believe me, she's got everything, including the kitchen
sink."
     "Cripes, she must be...what? Well over a...what? A couple kilometres
long?"
     "Even my people do not build ships this large," said Kalysha. "She
is enormous!"
     "Hell, if she's that big, I'd hate to meet the folks they lost out
to," said Allen, as they began to curve around the Galactica.
     "Well, since you insist," said Pelias, and pointed out the other
huge vessel. Baltar's Hades-class BaseShip was holding position, about
five kilometrons off the Galactica's port beam, slightly astern. Again,
the Aussie was almost dumbstruck, taking in the fearsome Cylon war
machine. Like most Humans, upon first sighting one, he found the slow
spin of the alien vessel somehow extremely intimidating.  
     "What's she get on the highway?" Allen murmured in shock.
     "About a parsec per thousand gallons," Byrne adlibbed with a
chuckle.
     "What's that in real measurements, huh? You know...litres."
     "Yeah. Gallons," grinned Byrne. "Not that French crap!"
     "Bah! Time for you to update!"
     "Traitor to the English-speaking world!"
     "English!" Allen snorted.  "Your people have managed to take the
English language, and bastardize it until it's almost unrecognizeable. 
Americanese!  Only in the United States could you put 'S', 'A' and 'V'
together and somehow get them to spell 'Save'!  But what do you expect
from a people who claim to hold a  'World Series' every year, and then
don't invite the world.  Provincial, backwards Yank!"  
     "We are the world!" Byrne slowly began to sing, trying not to grin.
"We are the chil-l-l-l-l-l-dren!!!"
     "Oh, God.  Not Michael Jackson!  Anything but Michael Jackson!  He
drove me madder than a meat axe!"
     "Kangaroo breath!"
     "Follicularly-challenged Eagle Droppings!!!!"
     "Mad Max movies!"
     "Disney!!!!"
     "Sydney Opera House!"
     "Lite Beer!"     
     Damn, but it was good to find his friend. 
     Pelias, Nizaka, and Sargamesh just looked at each other, mystified. 
     "Damnations of Vagrax!" whispered Kalysha, eyes still fixed on the
BaseShip. "What kind of mind could conceive of such a...a monster?" Then
Baltar's ship vanished from sight, as the Battlestar's Alpha Bay filled
the view ahead.
     "That's a long story," said Pelias. He looked at the instruments.
"Alright, Galactica control has us. We're going in."
     "Whoever would have thought..." muttered Allen, as the huge bay
swallowed up everything.
     "Yeah," added Byrne.


     Byrne had to admit, as he watched on a monitor in LifeStation, that
Space Station RB-33 looked even more ridiculous, with a Battlestar, a
BaseShip, and the other associated vessels of the Fleet spread around it.
He looked up from the screen, to where Jena sat, being checked over by
Doctor Paye.
     "How is she, Doc?"
     "Yeah, how am I?" chimed in Jena.
     "Well, aside from some nasty bruising about the face and head,
you're pretty good," replied the physician. He turned to Byrne. "And the
bone fuser has sealed the fracture in one of your ribs, Captain Byrne.
The bone is actually stronger than before."
     "That's good to know," replied Byrne. "I just wish it felt like it.
How are the rest of our party?"
     "All doing well, including your fellow Earthman. His health is
excellent. Also, Commander Adama is waiting to see you, by the way. The
debriefing."
     "Well tell him as soon as you let us go, we'll be on our way."
     "Pop?"
     "No, Jen."
     "Pop!"
     "This shouldn't take long, hon," he said, switching to a language
the Languatron didn't have down, yet. "Look, it's just a boring
debriefing. I'll..."
     "Pop!" she growled, and slid off the table, and was out the door.
Byrne sighed, and looked at the doctor, who was looking back.
     "Problems?" asked Paye.
     "Take my advice," said Byrne, somewhere between a sigh and something
else. "Don't have kids!"

Chapter Thirteen

     Commander Adama was pleased. Not merely for Byrne, on a personal
level: the man had resolved his long-standing "problem", and cleaned up a
sink hole in this part of the galaxy in the process. But also for the
fact that he now had two people from Earth, which only buttressed his
goal of continuing there. He talked long with the Australian, even
accepting an invitation to visit the station, and the man's bar.
     Lords of Kobol!
     Only it wouldn't be his for much longer.
     "Yeah, I'm sellin' up," he told his guests, Adama, and Byrne. "We're
off like Grandma's pants on Father's Day."
     "Selling? Who too?" asked Byrne.
     "Uk Muk made me an offer," said Allen. "And I took it. More than
it's worth, really."
     "You're coming with us, then?" asked Adama.
     "Well, since you're the only ones headed for home, I guess I'll have
to, Commander," smiled the Aussie. "I got me a hankerin' ta see the old
place again, anyway. Been away from home too bloody long."
     "And I," added Kalysha, "am likewise ready to leave this place well
astern." She gestured around, indicating the station as a whole. "It is
high time we left." She looked at Allen. "Right?"
     "Right, love. So, Commander?" He looked to Adama. "So, got room for
two more?"
     "Glad to have you aboard, Commander Allen."
     "Cedric. Or just Ced, Commander. Way too many titles around here."
He signaled the barkeep for a refill. "Come on, drink up! It's free, at
least until Uk Muk shows...and speaking of the Devil!"
     They turned to look, as a short, fat, greasy-looking creature came
in, dressed in a white suit. The Grill moved, or rather oozed, across the
floor like his feet were in shackles. Surrounded by several of his
minions, he came over to Allen, and was introduced. Surprisingly, the
creature tipped his hat, exposing the oily top-knot on his bare head.
Allen served him, and then after picking up the money, Allen rose to go.
     "Oh, and Uk Muk?"
     "Yes?"
     "Don't forget, you still owe the place at least twenty cartons of
Calcoryan cigars from the last shipment. And don't give me any of that
horse pucky about carrying charges."
     "Ah, yes. I shall remember to pay them, to myself."


     "Home?" said Ozko, late that evening, between sets, on the Rising
Star. "You mean it?" The alien was beginning to quiver.
     "Yeah," said Kevin, Allen with him, in the bar. 
     "There's a transport, due in in a couple of days, I hear," said the
Aussie. "A transport with Calcorya on her homeward bound route."
     "I...I don't know what to say..." stuttered the huge alien. "After
all this time, to finally go home..." He looked at the Humans. "It seems
we have something else in common, yet again. You are heading back, to
your homeworld, and now, so can I."
     "I'll miss ya, Oz," said Byrne. "You've been a great friend."
     "As have you all," replied Ozko, wrapping a tentacle around each of
the Humans. 
     "Here," said Byrne, lifting the old gold coin, the Double Eagle,
from under his shirt.
     "But I could not, Kevin. That is a token, an heirloom of your home
planet."
     "And I can give it to whomever, right? Here, Oz. Keep it, as a
remembrance of us."
     "I...I shall always treasure it, my friends." Slowly, he took it,
with a third tentacle. "I hope that we may, one day, meet again, and you
grace Calcorya with your presences."
     "The galaxy's a big place, Oz," said Allen. "Who can say?"
     "Who indeed? Even the Overseers, perhaps, could not." 
     While it was hard to tell with these creatures, Allen was certain he
saw something well up, in one corner of the Calcoryan's huge red eye.

Chapter Fourteen
     
     Nine days at the station. The Fleet had spent a total of nine days,
resting, playing, and trading, at the redoubtable RB-33 space station,
and despite his initial misgivings, Adama had to admit that it had been,
all in all, a plus for them all. The station's proximity to a number of
major mining operations, as well as several trade routes, enabled them to
once more stock up on vital raw materials, and the Foundry Ship was again
humming with activity. To "pay" for these items, the station's
powers-that-be "asked" that the Foundry Ship do a few jobs for them, as
well. Before long, several parts of the station's hull, as well as a
certain hangar that had somehow caught fire were being replaced, and
Adama was able to get something he really wanted.
     Information. The traders, explorers, and adventurers that put in
here had star charts, and Adama was able to barter a number of items and
services for them. Charts of the way ahead, along their course to Earth.
Systems. Planets. Peoples, places, and phenomena, to be either wondered
at, or avoided. 
     Conditions in the Fleet would also, he was pleased to have informed
the Council, be somewhat easier, now. As a result of his adventure here,
Byrne and his fellow Earthman had not only acquired the resolution sought
over the death of Byrne's wife, but they had also acquired some new
ships. Not only had the transport used by the late, unlamented Krylon
somehow come into Byrne's possession, but two cargo vessels, also
formerly attached to the dead Zykonian, were now finding their way into
the Colonial Fleet. While the circumstances were a bit...murky, Adama
suspected it had more than a little something to do with the unpleasant
but nonetheless influential creature called Uk Muk.
     From what he had been able to gather, it seemed that with Krylon's
operation out of the way, various and sundry "opportunities" had come Uk
Muk's way, many of them shady, some downright criminal, and all of them
lucrative. Always one to show his gratitude, the Grill had presented
Allen, and thus the Fleet, with two fairly spacious vessels, one a cargo
ship about the size of the Gemini, the other an old passenger ship, a
little smaller than the Prison Barge. Able to support Human life with no
alterations, and needing only a small amount of refitting of their main
systems, together the two ships would provide extra living space, for
close to a hundred families. (As an added bonus, both ships had arrived
with their holds filled to bursting with tylium ore. Not used by the
spacefaring races of this region, it was considered a useless, sometimes
hazardous, by-product of many mining operations, and thus waste to be
disposed of. As a result, several hundred thousand kilotons of fuel came
their way, free.) Pelias, along with the newly-elected Sire Galerius,
were handling the new living assignments. 
     No one on the station had ever seen or heard of a Cylon before, and
Adama held his breath a little, as he watched a number of Centurions move
about the station, in groups as usual, from a small caf‚ on an upper
deck, overlooking the crowds below. He noted that the cybernetic beings
still went about in groups, usually of threes, as always, except for the
Gold Command Centurion, Moray. He wondered if the newly-emerging
self-awareness of these Cylons, so profound and unexpected, had yet to
pass some threshold, whereby each member of Baltar's crew would be able,
eventually, to function entirely independently of their fellows. Was
there still some measure of "evolution" yet to occur in these breakaway
Cylons? Would they, as time went on, become even more independent, ever
less Cylon-like? 
     That was a worrisome point, for Adama. If these Cylons kept on
"growing", becoming more self-directed, what would they ultimately decide
to do? Integrate with Human society? Settle somewhere? Go on a warpath of
their own? As he watched Baltar, Ayesha beside him, walk along one of the
promenade decks, he wondered, for the nth time, what Baltar really
wanted. He had, against all the odds, survived yet again, and this time
turned the tables on his Cylon captors, to become an unwanted ally. What,
ultimately, would the always-enigmatic Baltar do?
     He looked down, to see the Traitor of Humanity looking up at him. As
always, Baltar's expression was hard to read, leaving the Commander with
no more answers than he had before. Two Centurions flanked the couple,
their personal honor guard.  A third followed not far behind. It would be
no time soon that Baltar could comfortably meander through a crowd dotted
with Colonials, and not worry about a laser pulse ending his life.    
Adama narrowed his eyes as Ayesha suddenly faltered in her pace. 
Instinctively, her hand withdrew almost guiltily from the crook of
Baltar's arm, as her gaze locked on a familiar dark blond head metrons
before her and Baltar.
     Starbuck...
     The Lieutenant's stance was taut, but of course, Adama could not see
his face.  He held his breath as they stood staring at each other,
praying that the young man would do nothing foolish.  Baltar was saying
something to Ayesha, obviously somewhat disturbed by what was happening,
and without looking at him, she held up a hand to stay him.  Then she
stepped forward slowly, almost as if in a dream, until she came to a stop
just short of the young Warrior.
     What happened next, Adama almost couldn't believe.  Starbuck bowed
before her, taking her proffered hand, and kissing it like some legendary
champion of yore.  Ayesha responded mutually, offering him the same
respect he had afforded her, when she curtsied, her hand still enclosed
in his.  Starbuck's head ducked down towards hers, and they exchanged
words for a few centons, before her hand finally and reluctantly slipped
from his.
     Baltar stood back restlessly, obviously completely bewildered, and
probably wondering if his beautiful and elegant wife had had a dalliance
at some point with the handsome young Warrior.  Adama wiped the smirk
from his face, aware he was enjoying that particular facet of the moment
just a little too much.  That, and the fact that Starbuck had somehow
managed to restrain himself, and hadn't even engaged Baltar.  In fact,
he'd ignored him completely, as if the Betrayer of Mankind didn't exist. 
It was twice the insult, and Adama fervently wished that Starbuck
realized it...and reveled in it. 
     Ayesha then seemed to gracefully blow Starbuck a kiss, perhaps meant
to be passed along to his father, and then she turned her back, and
drifted back to Baltar's side, her hand once again slipping into the
crook of his arm.  She smiled up at her husband, who considered her
curiously.  By now, Starbuck had also turned to go, and Adama could see
the golden locks of Cassiopeia's head, as the Lieutenant made his way
through the crowd towards her.  It was good to see those two able to
steal some time together.
     "What was that?" he said, his attention going back to his companion,
Siress Tinia.
     "I said, I wish it were possible to sort of lose him, when we leave,
Adama," replied the Siress. She smiled at him slightly, over the rim of
her glass. "Tempted?"
     "Does it show?" he asked, not surprised she hadn't missed the
exchange.
     "It shows on every Colonial, Adama. We may not all be Mattoons, but
none of us have forgotten why we are here."
     "I know. It is disturbing, seeing him free like that." He turned
away from Baltar, to see Byrne, threading his way along the upper deck, a
woman on his arm. Adama was both unsurprised, and somewhat uneasy, to
notice that it was the always-scheming Siress Lydia. 
     Since the incidents leading to the arrest and incarceration of her
former lover, Sire Antipas, Adama had watched the seductive woman go from
shallow beauty, interested only in the prestige of Council membership,
and fulfilling her own carnal appetites, to someone who now took politics
seriously, even to wangling her way into becoming Council Vice-President.
Her appetites had changed. Now, she had, it seemed, locked weapons on
Byrne, and was seen with him quite a bit. It left Adama feeling
irrationally protective of the Earthman.
     What was her plan, he wondered? Was the Earthman, exotic as he was
to those who knew of him, just another plaything, sexual or otherwise, or
was he the latest tool, in what Adama was certain was a plan to
ultimately oppose him, openly? He had hoped that the Earthman would have
more discernment, or at least taste, when it came to his choice of
companions. Of course, he probably knew nothing of the Siress' past, and
it had been many yahrens that he had spent alone, on the planet where he
was found, with only his daughter for company. Was Lydia planning on
using Byrne, against him, somehow? Or was this merely another of her
famed hunting expeditions, a lean, virile man, the current Fleet
celebrity, the ultimate goal?
     He shook his head. Too much to think about, right now. He was
wondering how to excuse himself and Tinia, when Byrne and Lydia come
over, and made themselves at home. He turned away for a moment, looking
down on the promenade once more, but Baltar was gone.


     Once more, on their way. The Fleet, at her maximum permissible
speed, was more than five centars out from Station RB-33, the station a
shrinking blip on the scanners, and the ships, even the "new" ones, were
just settling in to their "nighttime" routines. 
     But not everyone was.
     Byrne sat up, late into the night, musing on events. Things had not
quite turned out as he had envisioned. True, he had found his surviving
fellow Earthman, and the murderer of his beloved Genesis had paid for his
crimes. But the capture, torture, and then the final explosion of
violence from his daughter had left him somewhat stunned. While he had
taught her the use of weapons, and seen her take down some big prey, back
on the planet, he had never thought of her as a killer. The way she had
boiled over with rage and hatred, and blown Krylon away, had taken him by
surprise. Jena rarely spoke of her mother, and since it had happened when
she had been small, he had assumed that her emotions were not quite so
near the surface.
     He had, quite definitely, underestimated his own child, and the
effect that her mother's violent death had had on her. While he was
pleased that the Zykonian criminal was where he belonged, he was
disturbed at Jen's behavior. He had himself led a sometimes violent life,
yes, but he had never wanted that sort of thing to be a part of Jen.
Old-fashioned in some ways, he had hoped for her to be as untainted as
possible by the events of the past. Obviously, that was not the case.
That, and he wondered, who had pulled Jen out of that hell hole? Someone
had released her, and drug her out of harm's way. Who? Jena had said it
was some sort of alien, but that didn't fit anyone in their party. One of
Krylon's boys? That sure didn't make sense. 
     What now, for Jena?
     What now, for him?
     He looked down, to where Siress Lydia's hair lay splayed across the
pillow. He had to admit, it had been a long, long, time, but the
sensuously sultry Siress had sure helped to make up for it. At least he
wouldn't have to lay here, and listen to Ced and Kalysha, both sounding
like a couple of rutting dogs, next door. 
     "Yeah," he whispered to the air. "Where now?"


     For his part, Sire Pelias wondered the same. Unlike Byrne, he knew
the answer, but was under orders not to speak to Byrne, or for that
matter anyone, of what he knew. Their Ziklagi shapeshifter-in-residence
had saved Genesis, back there on the station. Indeed, her actions, in
various forms, had probably saved them all. He would, of course, include
this detail in his report to Commander Adama, a report that only the
Commander would see. His later "official" report, to the entire Council,
would be suitably sanitized.
     "Damn good work, Nizaka," he muttered, as he finished up his latest
canvas, glad to be able to escape to his easel. He leaned back to give
the work a critical eye. He hoped, when it was finally done, that
Commander Byrne would appreciate the portrait the Sire had painted of his
late wife, Jena's mother. The photograph of her, from the Saint Brendan,
had not done her justice ( so few photographs did ), but he had tried to
capture the essence of the deceased woman, even so.
     "I hope Jena likes it, to," he muttered to himself, as he set down
his brush, glad to be free of his easel for the moment. He sat back,
thinking about the blossoming girl, and smiled.


     In her own quarters, Nizaka stood, in her true form, looking out the
small port, at the stars. Less than a centon ago, the Fleet had passed
beyond the "officially demarcated" Ziklagi sphere of influence. She was,
now, further from home than she had ever been in her already long life.
Truly, she was cast out from all she had known, and she was heading into
the unknown. As she watched, the stars of home growing ever further away,
she felt a tear gather, and drop to the floor. 
     But, her kind were long-lived. More so than the Humans. And one day,
she promised herself, one day, she would return. She would set foot upon
Ziklag yet again. A free Ziklag, if she had anything to say about it. 
     "One day," she spoke out, into the night. "One day."


     In his small cabin, one of a number of quarters off engineering,
Engineer Twilly looked across at the Maalabian women he had met, and
enjoyed, aboard the Hork ship. Satiated for the moment, he nonetheless
had one question uppermost in his mind.
     What the Hades Hole do I do if the Commander finds out?
     "Again?"


     In her room, deep in the first restful slumber she had had in ages,
Genesis Byrne slept. Slept, and was unaware of the presence which briefly
hovered about her. A presence that smiled down on the one it has once
called daughter, and then gently, and regretfully, turned to go. It
turned back, for one last gaze, and in her sleep, Jena's lips parted,
gently.
     "Mama"


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