Crord's Law
A (Battlestar) Galactica 1980/Babylon 5 crossover fanfic by Paul Robison
Sequel to: Blood Hunt by Paul Robison

Special Guest Stars:
The Narns, Babylon 5 (changed to the Nomen, Battlestar Galactica)
Captain Kanon (Galactica 1980, "The Night the Cylons Landed)
Ambassador G'Kar, Babylon 5 (Ambassador Kar, Nomen ambassador to the
Counil of Twelve)
Londo Mollary, Babylon 5 (Sire Mollary of the Council of Twelve)
Vic Cotto, Babylon 5
Delenn, Babylon 5 (Siress Delenn)
Lennier, Babylon 5

Spolier: Babylon 5, Book #3: Clark's Law by Jim Mortimore.  Dell 
Paperbacks, N.Y, N.Y, (c) 1996

Author's Note: I don't own these shows. They belong to Universal Studios
and Glen A. Larson and Warner Bros and J. Michael Straczynski. I just
wanted to bring them out and play with them, so please don?t sue me?

In America, society's outrage over rising crime is such that few
politicians can hope to win an election without declaring support for the
death penalty
     From the UK Channel Four television documentary 
     When the State Kills 

I fight my brother,
I fight my brother and my cousin
I fight my brother, my cousin, and my neighbors,
But all of us fight the alien.

     ---Borellian Nomen proverb

FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS

     How could a certain Colonial warship captain named Angerhunter have
known that with these three simple words he became responsible for the
almost complete annihilation of the human race?  This man, in my opinion,
was as guilty of bringing about the destruction of the Colonies as
Baltar.

*****

PROLOGUE

Cyranus Galaxy: The First Lie
Colonial Yahren 6293 

     They came out of the immense gulf of space like ghosts, huge ships,
the image of immense power.  By comparison, the Colonial battle cruiser
Alatres, was little more than a clutch of battered tin boxes bolted
rather haphazardly around a less than optimal frame.  The alien ships
were one-hundred percent efficient. .
     To Colonial Service Captain Angerhunter they were also utterly
terrifying.
     Even now, during the debriefing session in the amphitheaterlike
Caprica Presidium, as safe as it was possible to be anywhere in the
Colonies, Angerhunter shuddered and sweated at the memory of them.
     Efficient.
     Terrifying.
     Deadly?
     The truth was that as far as that particular facet of the alien
ships was concerned, Angerhunter had no more idea than he had of what it
might be like to hang-glide naked over 
The old moon, Cimtar.  His experience of the alien ships extended no
further than his first observation that they were the most efficient and
powerful-looking artifacts he'd ever seen.  It extended no further than
this because in the first moments that the alien ships had appeared on
his early warning systems and changed course, gun ports gaping ominously
to intercept the Alatres.  Angerhunter had ordered his gunnery officer to
open fire with the full force of the most advanced weapons that the
Colonies currently possessed.
     Angerhunter had done something that all of his training and all his
many years of experience had taught him he must never, ever do. 
     He had panicked.
     The burst of laser fire left the nearest alien ship drifting
helplessly as Angerhunter spun the Alatres about and initiated a
hyperspace jump.  His last sight of the aliens, as the Alatres vanished
into the murky fog of hyperspace, was of the damaged ship erupting into a
globe of light that, for a brief moment, burned as brightly as any sun.
     The sight had left him sick and shaken.  Though a Colonial Warrior
by profession, he was basically a man of peace, an explorer; his passion
was to expand the limits of human knowledge and experience.  He had never
killed anyone in his life.  The fact that he had made a mistake resulting
in the destruction of a foreign spacecraft and the death of its entire
crew was nothing short of terrifying.
     Angerhunter had retired to his quarters to consider his actions and
had not left them until the Alatres arrived in Caprican orbit, three days
later.
     Now Angerhunter stood in his dress uniform before a full assembly of
the Quorum of the Twelve that served as both a debriefing panel and a
review board.
     "They are called Cylons!" Vice President Eredel was a heavyset man
whose worried expression and weary demeanor suggested he carried more
than just excess physical weight.  His voice was soft, yet in the
stillness of the Presidium it carried to every one of the other eleven
representatives of the Twelve Colonies of Mankind.  "We've received
information from them from the Hasari Ambassador."  Despite humanity's
earlier fears that contact with a technologically advanced alien species
would be damaging, the Hasaris had proven to be no threat to humankind. 
They had instead become a regular source of information and technology. 
"The fleet consisted of nine ships.  One was destroyed and several more
disabled in the blast.  The Cylon civilization is entirely composed of
robots, originally the creation of a reptilian race that was also known
as 'Cylon.' Their ruler, whom they call 'Imperious Leader,' was aboard
the ship that was destroyed."
     Now Angerhunter understood why 
Eredel looked so worried.  Utterly scared would have been a better way of
describing his expression.  Angerhunter himself was beginning to feel
more than a little fear as he scanned the rows of faces before him, from
Sire Brus on Angerhunter's left, through the full complement of
representatives to the records clerk sitting before the huge semicircular
Picon bloodwood table which was the focal point of the Presidium chamber. 
With one exception the faces were expressionless.  Only Eredel showed his
feelings.  Angerhunter had a sense of great machinery in motion, big
wheels grinding exceedingly small.  He swallowed hard.  He was lying
before these wheels in more senses than just one.  One slip and it was
his career that would be ground exceedingly small---perhaps even his
life.  Could accidentally starting a war be considered treason?
     Angerhunter said nothing, merely licked a drop of sweat from his
upper lip.  For the moment silence seemed the most appropriate response. 

     The President stood.  In the sunlight from the curved windows, her
plain features were lit with dramatic harshness.  When she spoke, her
voice was as familiar to Angerhunter as that of his own mother's.  A rich
contralto, the voice resonated in the Presidium chamber.  Angerhunter
wondered that even with the new influx of alien technology, the broadcast
system did not yet exist that could fully reproduce all the subtle
nuances of that voice.
     Eredel nodded.  The Councilors remained silent.  Only the soft pad
of the court clerk working his terminal broke the silence.  
     The President spoke again.  "What have our friends the Hasaris told
us of the Cylons?"
     Eredel pursed his lips.  "They are aggressive.  Under the robotic
Cylons, they have begun expanding their sphere of influence, creating
what they like to call 'the Alliance' Their goal is to strive to achieve
'eternal perfection and order' throughout the known galaxy."
     "How do you intend to accomplish that?" asked the President.
     "By any means necessary, Madam President."
     "Including war?"
     "That was the inference, ma'am, yes."
     Another silence.  The smile faded.  Angerhunter felt the President's
gaze on him and had another brief sensation of those big wheels grinding
ever closer.  
     "Captain Angerhunter.  You must understand that since the Alatres's
flight recorder was wiped by the explosion of the Cylon vessel, your
testimony and the testimony of your crew is our only means of determining
the truth in this matter."
     "I do."
     "And it goes without saying that you understand that in this
matter---that of the first contact between ourselves and such a hostile
and potentially dangerous culture---the truth is of paramount
importance."
     "I do."
     "Very well, Captain Angerhunter.  We have heard your report in every
detail save one.  So will you please confirm for the Quorum the order in
which the exchange of fire between yourselves and the Cylon fleet took
place?"
     "Madame, I will." For then and ever after Angerhunter felt his body
shake with the truth of the matter.  A truth that from then until the day
he died only he and a handful of others would ever know.  And with a
breath of air that would never taste so sweet again, Captain Angerhunter
uttered the lie that would lead to the extermination of the Hasari
people, throw two great cultures into a thousand-yahren-long shooting war
and eventually bring about the destruction of the Twelve Colonies and the
flight of a rag-tag fugitive fleet of spaceships in search of the
legendary planet Earth and sanctuary from the relentlessly-pursuing Cylon
war machine.
     "They fired first."

*****

Battlestar Galactica: The Second Lie
May 03, 1987 (Earth Time)


     The Main Conference Hall aboard the battlestar Galactica had not
changed much with the passing of nearly a generation.  The finish on the
giant conference table, where the Council of Twelve met, had faded just a
fraction under the onslaught of the sunlight of ten thousand different
solar systems, the carpets had been changed a couple of times, both times
to an even more somber shade of dark brown, to match the table.  
     It was midmorning, Earth time.  Crord, the newly elected president
of the Council of Twelve, stood alone in the Conference Hall, waiting for
the Council to assemble.  He stood by the main observation window where a
shield of glass paralleling the long table allowed an unobstructed view
of Mars, the fourth planet from the Earth sun.  It was clearly visible in
the eternally black sky, often described by the Earthmen as the "Red
Planet", as the iron oxide prevalent on its surface was responsible for
its reddish appearance.  Mars was a planet with a thin atmosphere, having
surface features reminiscent both of the impact craters of Cimtar, back
in the Colonies, and the volcanoes, valleys, deserts, and polar ice caps
of Earth. The rotational period and seasonal cycles of Mars were likewise
similar to those of Earth.  
     A less hospitable planet than Earth, true, yet there was a thriving
civilization of living beings down there, thanks to period large-scale
coverage on its "dirty" surface, and those small geyser-like water flows
observed by Colonial viper flybys.
     Shuddering at the thought of such a planet harboring life, Crord
closed his eyes, allowing the sunlight reflected from the Martian surface
that entered the Conference Hall to play across his face.  He screwed his
eyes tithter, letting his mind seek out another moment of light, this one
associated with death.  The moment as Commander Adama's personal
shuttlecraft sparkled like a Yuletime tree ornament, its hull dappled
with explosions like sunlight upon a woodland pool.  The engines
detonated, the superstructure melted as the passenger section broke away,
only to be caught in the explosion itself microns later, to vanish in the
expanding halo of light.  There was no hope of escape for anyone aboard,
including then-Commander Adama.  In less time than it took to sip from a
glass of ambrosa, Adama's shuttle was reduced to a mess of loose trash
orbiting before the sullen red eye of Jupiter, and the man that had led
his people on a desperate flight across the stars from the dread Cylon
Alliance, all the way to the planet Earth, was dead.
     Crord opened his eyes.  Now he was President of the Council of
Twelve, having ousted Siress Delenn (who had briefly been Adama's wife). 
He was going to make a damned sight better job of handling the Fleet's
current situation than Adama had.
     But there were going to be problems.  He knew that.  His ideas were
radical.  Subtle in their application, but radical.  He had counted on a
ten-yahren term at least to get things moving---but the Fleet people had
recovered remarkably quickly from the death of the much-beloved Adama. 
Less than a yahren into his presidency, and already Crord was facing
minor troubles.  Some of the Council had given voice to the opinion that
Crord's policies were too hard-line, too insular.  Crord knew where he
stood with these sires and siresses.  They lacked his vision.  His vision
of peace through strength.  Peace through unity.  Peace through
singularity.  He wanted to be known as the man who, like his personal
hero, the legendary Commander Cain, brought down the murderous Cylon
Alliance.  He would do absolutely anything to accomplish that end.  His
drive and ambition were becoming known throughout the political world. 
Only last week at a reception he had overheard the representative for the
cruiser Neropon refer to him in a private aside to her husband as
possessing the "straightforward, deadly elegance of a chimera."Crord
smiled inwardly.  The image of a chimera with his own somewhat fluffy
eyebrows amused him greatly.
     But Crord did not allow his amusement to detract him from the
purpose of this meeting with the Council.  In the previous six sectars
polls had been conducted; in some outlying ships, his popularity seemed
to be fading.  The projections indicated he might have trouble holding
office.  He knew exactly what to do about that.  Changes were coming. 
Big changes.  But like all big things these would be built up slowly. 
Give the public a chance to get used to them.
     The Fleet people were sheep; most would follow wherever a commander
or president led.  The method was simple: Provide ample political
incentive to begin with and then allow social inertia to take over. 
Everything else was a downhill run.
     That was what he was doing now: providing incentive.  And what
better incentive than consolidating humanity's hold over its last
remaining outposts, the rag-tag refugee Fleet and the planet Earth?
     Crord nodded to himself.  The Fleet was running dry; its resources
were almost exhausted.  Those ships could hardly support their human
inhabitants; let alone the non-human populations already in residence in
semi-uninhabitable ships like the Noler and the Oledoll.  The fact that
Adama had launched a covert campaign to export Colonial technology to
Earth didn't help matters any.  That was why many of the survivors wanted
to flee the Fleet, to colonize parts of Mars, the moons of Jupiter and
Saturn, and, yes, even the planet Earth---and why it was inconceivable
that these things should even come to pass.  Without the Galactica and
her warriors to protect her, humanity was finished.  If humans of the
Fleet fled to other planets and star systems, taking every piece of
Colonial technology they could with them, Earth was finished.  Humanity
could not fend off the Cylon hordes with its bare hands.  Humanity simply
had nothing.  Nothing---except the powerful weaponry of the battlestar
Galactica.
     Of course, Crord had to bear one thing in mind: although the
Galactica was one of the largest, most powerful warships in the galaxy,
unmatched by anything other than maybe a Cylon base star, it, like her
sister battlestars, was also the most costly in terms of  equipment and
food to maintain.  It was a landram without fuel,a battleship without the
means to provide food for its crew.  What Crord---and certain
others---were coming to realize was that without significant political
changes, the Galactica was a short-term item---terminally short term. 
And without the Galactica humanity was dead.
     The only way for humanity to survive was to kick out the parasites
and consolidate.  Consolidate and then expand properly.  It was going to
be a long struggle, and it might well be the one he would not see
finished.  But Crord was prepared to start the process.  In truth, he
could see no other way forward.
     His motion to reinstate the death penalty for crimes other than
treason was the first step; in moments he would discover how his proposal
had fared when voted on by the Council.  In truth, he was not too worried
about the outcome; a couple of weeks of political horse-trading behind
the scenes had allowed Crord to win one of two critical votes in the
Council.  And since his proposal did not call for the creation of a new
law but merely the reinterpretation of an existing one, it was unlikely
to be declared an infringement on individual liberties.  Even if the
Council was hung---a possibility---he knew how the deciding vote would be
cast.  Either way, the end of the next centon would see the inception of
the first of many steps toward his vision of the future.
     Crord watched as the Council of Twelve filed into the chamber, one
by one taking their position along the oval-shaped table.
     When they were in position, Sire Ovold, the Clerk of the Council,
announced their deliberations on Crord's proposed policy.
     Watching them, Crord knew what was coming.  He could read it in
their faces, as a child might read the graphics on a cheap home system. 
The expression, the set of bodies, some relaxed, others tense.  He could
even tell who had voted for or against him.  
     It would make no difference in the end.
     Ovold's words confirmed his supposition.
     Even taking into account his political maneuvering, the Council was
hung, divided evenly, some for his proposal, some against.  An even
number remained neutral, unwilling to commit either for or against such
an obviously hard-line policy.
     Well, that was fine.  Very fine indeed.  Because as Clerk of the
Council, Ovold had the casting vote.
     And Crord knew exactly what Ovold was going to say.
     "Mr. President, I have the deciding vote.  I will cast that vote,
provided you can give both myself and the Council a final assurance."
     Crord was not surprised; he would indulge the Council in their wish. 
The change in the law he proposed would have wide-reaching implications;
everyone knew that politics really was like those long-extinct Earth
animals called dinosaurs, slow to change, with most of his brain in its
ass.
     How Crord sometimes wished that he could just sweep away the old
Council, replace it with new, dynamic, fresh ideas, a group of twelve
younger men unafraid to draw from the past and look to the future, one
that relished its position as a conduit for galactic history.
     With the help of his associates, that time might come sooner than
anyone thought.
     Ovold cleared his throat, a prelude to speaking.
     Crord had expected conditions just as he had known the Council would
be hung on his idea.  In fact, he was luckier than he had hoped; there
was only one condition.  More of an assurance, really.  He listened as
Ovold spelled it out.
     "Mr. President, in consideration of the proposed new wording of
section one, paragraphs eleven through eighty-three, to wit, in
encapsulation, the law as it relates to the reinstatement of the death
penalty for the crime of premeditated termination, and after due
consideration, the Council require from you an assurance that the letter
of this new law will not violate the spirit of it, which intent is to
uphold and preserve the morals and standard of living of all who are
subject to it.  Further, and most important, we require an assurance from
you that the law will be applied equally and fairly to all persons to
whom it applies whether they are of human or non-human birth."
     And with utter sincerity, President Crord spoke the lie which was to
result in the destruction of an entire species and have devastating
consequences to the survivors from the Twelve Colonies.
     "I assure the Council that reinstatement of the death penalty for
the crime of termination will be applied to both humans and non-humans
with complete and absolute equality."

*****

Mars, City of the Tuchanq People: First Lie 
Dec 22, 1987 (Earth Time)

     Kar, Nomen Ambassador to the Council of the Twelve, listened to
Tenniel's Red Rhapsody as he commanded his hired guns to release their
plasma generators into the atmosphere of the planet Mars.
     The Rhapsody was peaceful music for a tranquil death.
     If the Tuchanq, the dominant species of Mars, only realized how
merciful he was being, thought Kar as the sound of bloodwood floods
insinuated itself gently into his ears.  Sure, the human mercenary
riffraff he'd gathered from the ends of the Fleet might torture their
males, rape their women, and slaughter their children if he allowed it,
but he wouldn't, for he was nobler than that.  The Nomen needed Mars,
needed room to grow, to breathe, to be free of the decrepit Borella, and
the Tuchanq stood in the way, had to be eliminated.  Still, he would
accord them respect due one to whom losing the fight was inevitable.
     All the Nomen knew the value of honor.
     Kar had learned this lesson well at the hands of a Nomen master who
took his pleasure in ways other than study of the aesthetic.  Kar had
killed his master shortly after that Nomen had hung Kar's father, then
the master's personal servant, from a ceiling pipe in one of the cargo
bays for spilling the soup he had been serving at the dinner table.  Kar
had since then learned all the disciplines of The Code and, though an
ambassador, was still a Warrior of the Code.  Now Kar would implement for
the seventh time the lessons he'd learned so well in his early youth.
     He would kill all unessentials, preserving only that part of the
Tuchanq culture necessary for the exploitation of the economy and ecology
of this planet called Mars; a world soon to belong to the last surviving
Nomen of Borella.
     The second movement of the Rhapsody began with a fanfare and
staccato rhythm of drums, before melting into a haunting melody stated on
strings and reiterated by the flutes.
     Kar smiled, swaying a thickly-muscled arm in time with the music. 
How uplifting it was!
     In time with the music, light bloomed in the atmosphere below Kar's
personal shuttle, bringing a brief day to the night hemisphere of the
invaded Red Planet.  Kar closed his eyes against the glare as his
listened to the Rhapsody, hearing in the intricate exploration of its
main theme a parallel to a vision his instruments pulled from the
devastation below: dissolving buildings, screams choked as soon as formed
by burning air, melting throats.  Loved ones and strangers, males,
females, and children alike; twisted, crumbling bodies blasted into vapor
and left as nothing more than memories in the minds of those who would
die immeasurable short microns later.
     Kar's smile widened.  The Tuchanq Capital City held ten billion
people and a countless wealth of art and history.  It made a perfect
target, a means to subdue the outlying industrial centers, the planet's
more valuable technological resources.
     The light flared once more and died, in perfect time with the final
reprise of the Rhapsody's main them.  The full orchestral ensemble
descended by chromatic scales into silence, leaving the original
bloodwood flute to restated the final form of the theme as the night
hemisphere of Mars became a sheet of darkness broken only by the palest
flickers of its two moons, Phobos and Deimos.
     Two days later, Kar set his shuttle down at the edge of a
ten-metron-wide plain of black glass.  The sun was rising behind distant
hills as he stepped from the loading ramp.  Behind him, heavy cargo ramps
descended with disassembled pre-fabricated shelters and sophisticated
life-support machinery from the belly of the shuttle.
     Kar walked to the edge of the ramp and stood there as the atmosphere
heaved and buckled around him in the aftermath of the two-day-old
explosion.
     Before the ship was scattered movement.  Survivors crawling among
the charred landscape, they came as disaster victims always came: dying,
angry, terrified; warriors and politicians alike, to beg for help, for
life.  All now recognizing in the face of this single ship how helpless
they were to affect their own destiny.  
     "Tuchanq of Mars"---Kar's voice was picked up by his helmet
microphone and his words were translated and amplified to stormlike
proportions by the shuttlecraft---"you Captial City---I believe you
called it Lothaliar---has been destroyed by a plasma device of Cylon
manufacture.  For those of you who may not have heard of the Cylons, they
are a warlike robotic race whose aim is to enslave and rule.  Allow me to
introduce myself.  My name is Kar.  I am a representative of the Nomen
people of the distant planet Borella, another world that has suffered
miserably at the hands of the Cylon Alliance."  Kar paused to let the
words sink in, words which rolled away to the distant sand dunes like
peals of thunder.
     "Fortuantely, we Nomen, together with our allies, the Warriors of
the Great Colonies of Mankind, have driven the Cylons from your skies."
     Kar watched the growing crowd of people before him for a micron,
gauging their reaction to his words.  Then, with a smile that would have
broken the heart of even a Colonial Warrior, he spoke the lie which was
to condemn an entire culture to misery and death.
     "We are the Nomen.  We are your friends.  We come in peace to live
alongside you, help you rebuild your world."

*****

Mars, City of the Tuchanq People: The Second Lie 
December 12, 1993 (Earth Time)

     Mir-Ru painted herself black to execute the Nomen.
     She did this for three reasons. Firstly for revenge: The sludge the
Nomen's life-support machines poured into the streams of Mars was black. 
Secondly for ritual: the Nomen, aided by the renegades from the Colonial
fugitive fleet had invaded her world by night---it seemed appropriate
that they too should die by night.
     The third reason was terror.
     Mir-Ru wanted the Nomen to feel the same terror her people had felt
for the past six years.  Blind, unreasoning terror as death struck in the
night, taking family, friends, and loved ones into the cold cradle of the
Great Nevermore.  Mir-Ru was a silent killer, to Nomen eyes a darkness
upon indistinguishable darkness in the shadowed midnight of the prison.  
     Yes.
     The Nomen would know terror.
     The first Nomen died with surprise on his face, a tired groan, and a
pattering of arterial blood.
     The second Nomen gazed mesmerized at the glittering dagger hovering
apparently unsupported in the darkness a hand's breadth from his face. 
The knife flashed twice.  The Nomen blinked and died. 
     She let the third Nomen scream before killing him, a bubbling
mixture of fear and blood.
     The mood in the prison began to change.
     Panic.  Fear.  The smell of Nomen blood.
     The fourth Nomen took longer to die because she deliberately missed
the artery.  She watched as he bled, tipped her head to one side to allow
her spines to catch the full moment.
     She hummed gently to herself. 
     The Nomen whispered through bloody lips.  "Singing.  The dark is
signing."
     Mir-Ru allowed her spine to collapse into the running position.  On
all fours she sniffed the air, angled her spines to catch the final
nuances of the Nomen's death.
     By now the prison had taken up the dying Nomen's words, a collective
whisper from more than forty terrified Nomen.  
     "Singing."
     "The dark is signing."
     "The dark.  The dark."
     The whisper rose, became a gestalt scream of terror as she moved on,
knife glittering in the darkness.
     "The dark is coming!  The dark!  The dark!"
     Mir-Ru slipped through the prison, blood-spattered darkness or
moons-shadowed night.  One by one the Nomen died.  And when the voices
were finally stilled, the only sound left was her Song.
     She sang her life.  She sang her family land, now hers again, and
she sang the new name the dying Nomen had bestowed upon her.
     And next morning, before the slaughter was discovered, she slipped
through the newly proclaimed capital of Buraru to the desert where the
single remaining Colonial starship---a commodities freighter larger than
the Regal Bastion---rode high in the ever-shifting red sands.
     Carrying her clothes in a plastic bag, she snuck out to the hull and
climbed aboard the freighter through a little-used organic waste vent
port.  Once inside, she washed and then dressed, took her place among the
diplomatic staff.  They had drawn lots for the job of executioner.  It
had been Elder Stateswoman Vi-El's instruction; no one was to know of her
midnight foray---thus no guilt could be attributed or punishment
assigned.  
     Later that day, in the Regal Gardens in the City of Buraru, Mir-Ru's
voice lifted in song with Vi-El's.  The Song of Revenge.  When the crowd
joined in you could hear them even above the rhythmic pulse of the
freighter's station-keeping engines.  
     Two days later, thirty Colonial centons after a full honor guard had
tipped the Nomen into their own food reprocessors, colored and flavored
and tinned the resulting organic mash, the rest of the diplomatic chorus
came aboard the freighter, together with such pitiful supplies of fresh
water as could be cobbled together from the secret hoards of the
resistance. 
     The dead Nomen came aboard as well.  In self-heating tins.
     With this action the Tuchanq had finally recognized a truth Mir-Ru
herself had seen many months before.  The Song was dead.  The Land was
dead.  If the Tuchanq were ever to survive the death by starvation which
the renegade Nomen had brought upon them, they must beg for help.
     The people to whom they would turn were listed in the freighter's
data banks, along with the name of their destination.
     A battlestar called Galactica.
     If their mission failed, all Mars would die.
     Later, as the commodities freighter shouldered its way through the
gulf of space, its destination the battlestar Galactica, Mir-Ru
petitioned Elder Stateswoman Vi-El for permission to take the Song of the
Nomen she had killed. 
     When Vi-El refused permission on religious grounds, she assumed the
new Song anyway, naming both it and herself for a word spoken by the
dying Nomen.  And although the fact that the name bore more resemblance
to the Nomen form than it did any Elder-sanctioned Tuchanq name made it
technically both heresy and a lie, which meant nothing to her.
     If the Land was to be saved, if the Song was ever to be sung again,
then the old ways were going to have to change.  She knew this for a
fact.  
     Or her name wasn't Arc.

*****

PART ONE 

February 12, 1994 (Earth Time)
Daytime

CHAPTER 1

     If you go to the Earth Moon, you will die.
     Troy, Commander of the battlestar Galactica since the death of his
grandfather, Adama, sighed, perched a bowl of steaming leek soup on top
of a stack of paperwork that threatened to simultaneously cascade off all
four sides of his desk, and leaned back in his chair.  He shook his head,
tried to find a place for his feet on the overcrowded desk, gave up when
the wobbling stack of reports threatened to send his snack splashing into
his lap.
     Troy sighed again.  He was a warrior.  A leader of men.  A man of
action and decision.  Until six yahrens ago he had thought his destiny
was irrevocably bound up with the lost thirteenth colony, Earth, part of
a daring plot to bring its hopelessly primitive civilization up to
technological speed.
     That all changed when he inherited command of the Galactica from his
grandfather.
     He was now a strictly an administrator.  They'd changed the rules. 
Crord had changed the rules.  And the people of the Fleet had let him.  
     Troy felt almost betrayed by this change of position.  Added to that
feeling was the burden of command that weighed heavily on all battlestar
commanders: the guilt over ordering men and women to slaughter.  He had
rationalized it, then, by telling himself that a warrior, after all, was
in the business of killing. He needed discipline, to concentrate on the
task at hand of saving his people, if he was to crowd out his misgivings. 
As cold-blooded as it was, he had to make it work. However, there was
always that deep hurt that worked its way past the edges of his resolve
when friends and acquaintances fell. Only time could heal that. He had to
push that hurt away and not permit it to cloud his judgment during
combat.  
     It was sort of crazy, Troy supposed, but deep down inside, it was
what he had always wanted, ever since Captain Apollo had first brought
him aboard the Galactica; to command this mighty warship one day. 
Despite the fact that he now had his lifelong wish granted, only because
of the third death in his family, that of his beloved grandfather, Adama,
it seemed nearly impossible for him to see the positive side of his new
life.
     And there were other things.  Less obvious, more like...well, like
Dark Ones, really.
     If you go to the Earth Moon, you will die.
     The Galactica was a battlestar, the cream of the Colonial Fleet. 
During the Thousand Yahren War, it was always the flagship of any
squadron where she served.  No other ship had ever received as much
glamour as the Galactica.  Every young man and child in the Fleet wanted
to serve on her.  She had grown from this vision: big, ponderous and able
to carry two squadrons of Vipers into battle.  The only flaw was an
initial lack of heavy offensive weaponry, although several battlestars
other than the Galactica had rectified that.
     The Galactica was not just a fighter carrier, though---it was a city
in space with recreation facilities, training centers, repair and
manufacturing facilities to last the vessel for yahrens at a time,
counselling centers, life centers and more.  She generally needed no
escorting or support vessels (Thank the Lords of Kobol).
     But it seemed to Troy that the Galactica was less of a warship and
more of a giant "baby-sitter," leading a rag-tag fugitive fleet of 220
ships on a thirty-yahren voyage that had practically led to---nothing.
     And then there were the internal problems within the Fleet that he
was now responsible for keeping in check, terrible problems. 
Homesickness.  Illness.  Mutinies.  Rape.  Murder. Distrust.  Fear. 
Anger. 
     And the ongoing war with the Cylons and their masters, the Dark
Ones.
     In some ways, that was understandable.  The civilian animal was, in
Troy's experience, notorious for overreacting, underplaying, hedging
bets, hiding the truth, ducking and diving and just plain lying at every
possible opportunity.
     Then again, nobody was quite what they seemed these days, including
himself.  Dr. Zee, the Fleet's "boy wonder" had briefed him on the true
reason why he and Dillon had been recalled from Earth.  They were being
given a mission, one that had first piqued Troy's curiosity.  In time, it
had come to mean much more. Secret societies like Nightwatch and The Star
Chamber. Corrupt buriticians.  Their job was to seek out their
connections, their contacts, find out how far the crawlon's web
stretched.  Monitor it if possible; if possible stamp it out.
     If you go to the Earth Moon you will die.
     Troy sighed, finally gave in to the memory.
     It had been five sectars since Dr. Zee had spoken the warning.  Five
sectars since he had been told of the Dark Ones.
     Since then his life had become a nightmare. 
     There were Dark Ones lurking on every ship in the fleet, including
the Galactica.  Invisible.  Insidious.  Calculating.  Manipulating.  They
could be anywhere, watching, learning, reporting back to their force
gathering on the Galactic Rim.  They could be right here in his quarters
now and he would never know it.  And he could do nothing about them. 
Nothing.  Because his grandmother, Siress Delenn, had said so.  Because
of a prophecy old when the pyramids of Kobol were still in the earth.  A
prophecy which was, apparently, all too close to fulfillment.  
     Dark Ones.
     Here.  Now.
     Troy felt his shoulders tighten against his uniform.  Somehow he
resisted the urge to swing around, study the room for the minutest clue,
hope by his sudden movement to catch them by surprise.  It was pointless. 
You never caught Dark Ones that way.  Care and subtlety, caution.  That
was what Delenn advised.  The Dark Ones were holding Jamie Hamilton
prisoner on the Earth Moon---well, they might be holding Jamie Hamilton
prisoner on the Earth Moon---well, he'd been told they might be holding
Jamie Hamilton prisoner on the Earth Moon.  But even a one in a
thousand---a one in a million chance to rescue her---was worth a try. 
Dr. Zee had told him he would die if he went to Earth's Moon, but Troy
loved Jamie and would attempt anything, dare anything for just one
chance, however small, of rescuing her.  Dr. Zee would help him. He'd
promised.  Well, he said he would help Troy understand himself, and that
was as close to a promise of help as you got from a Seraph.
     Troy became aware his cheeks were aching.  With an effort he
unclenched his teeth.  He blew out his cheeks and tried to regain control
of himself.  One moment's loss of concentration and look what it did to
you.
     Cold sweats.
     A fit of shakes a cargo loader couldn't damp down.
     The office door bleeped politely.
     "Enter."  Troy shook his head, managed with an effort to cast off
his dark mood.
     The door slid back to reveal a tall Colonial male with brown eyes
and light brown hair, dressed in the navy blue uniform of a Galactica
executive officer. 
     Troy turned.  "Colonel Dillon.  What can I do for you?"  
     "You wanted to brief me on the arrival of the Tuchanq delegation
from Mars."
     Troy nodded, felt his shoulders loosen.
     "That's right."  He stayed by the window, unconsciously framing
himself with the outside view.  "The report's on my desk."
     Dillon shot an amused glance at the desk.  "So's half the Fleet
manifest by the look of it."
     Troy sighed.  His life seemed to orbit around paper.  Lots of paper. 
Reams in fact.  There were duty logs.  Personnel transfers.  Equipment
manifests.  Cargo manifests.  Inbound and outbound shipping
authorizations.  Repair chits.  Requests for special cargo.  Weight
allowance checks.  Diplomatic schedules.  Diplomatic minutes.  Lots of
diplomatic minutes.
     "Just between you and me, Colonel, I suspect that one day very soon
the Galactica is going to pass the paper event horizon and vanish up its
own behind."
     Dillon raised an eyebrow.  
     "In fact, I'm not so sure that wasn't what happened to the
battlestar Pegasus when it vanished."
     Dillon made a curious and unique expression: half smile, half
disapproving frown.  It was an expression only he could get away with. 
Troy knew very well what happened to the battlestar Pegasus; Dillon knew
it.
     He moved his soup and reached for a report, handed it to Dillon, put
the soup back down on another teetering stack of paperwork. 
     Dillon thumbed through the report quickly. "That's interesting. 
We've never met a quadruped species  before."  More pages.  "Hmm.  It
seems that a few yahrens back, a group of renegade Nomens from the
Borella, backed by some renegade humans, made an unauthorized flight to
their home planet, Mars, and killed off a lot of them in an attempt to
colonize the red planet.  Those Nomens have never been heard from again,
nobody knows why.  But the Tuchanq have inherited enough Colonial heavy
machinery to start a small war and no ecology."
     Troy nodded thoughtfully.  "No worms."
     "Sorry?"
     "No worms.  No microbial life.  No arable land or living ocean.  No
trees.  No food.  Just a lot of red dust that gets blown about by fierce
global sandstorms.  And eighteen billion citizens who'll be dead of
starvation in very short order unless someone helps them."
     "That someone being us?"
     "Yes."
     Dillon nodded.  "Their ship---it's been identified as the missing
commodities freighter Dorahre, by the way---arrived a few mili-centons
ago.  They're waiting for your permission to come aboard."
     "Better not keep them waiting, then."
     "Aren't you coming with me?"
     Troy glanced at his desk.  "To be honest, it's very tempting.  But
no, I can't.  I've got an appointment to see Dr. Zee in a centon."
     Dillon winked.  "Another 'moment of perfect beauty?'"
     "Another lesson in how to make the incomprehensible less
understandable, yes."
     "My sympathies."  Dillon turned to leave.  "If you need me, just
call."
     Troy nodded.
     When the door shut behind Dillon he sat once more at his desk. 
Before him, a mountain of paperwork. In his mind, a likeness of Jamie
smiling.
     If you go to the Earth Moon you will die.
     He reached for his soup.
     It was cold.

*****

CHAPTER 2

     Nightwatch is your friend.  Trust in Nightwatch.
     Dillon left the commander's quarters, walking through the immense
labyrinth of corridors deep inside the battlestar's heart.  
     Just how big was the Galactica, anyway?  Dillon didn't know.  Nobody
knew.  Simple as that.  For decades, several figures floated around.  The
most common one stated that the length was 2,000 metrons, that one being
quoted by visitors from other ships in the Fleet.  Recently, one of the
recruits (Dillon had forgotten his name) said that he estimated the size
of the ship, based on factors like the length of the port and starboard
landing bays, to be 6,080 maxims long, which, when converted to Earth
measurements, corresponded to exactly one nautical mile.  
     Then there were civilians who estimated the Galactica to be anywhere
from one to fourteen kilometrons long!
     And finally, there was the reporter Jamie Hamilton, who, when Dillon
and Troy first brought her aboard way back in the Earth Year 1980, said
"My God, it's like a city in space, ten times larger than the biggest
aircraft carrier I've ever seen!"
     So who was right, and why?
     Dillon, himself, didn't know at all.  There were some who'd guessed
the length as 2,000 maxims by showing pencil sketches with Vipers to
scale, but there were others who used the same methods to prove
otherwise.  There just wasn't any information at all to prove or disprove
otherwise.
     Personally, he liked the size of a nautical mile best, but he was
going to stick with the 1,265 maxims size that all the other warriors
currently thought. 
     However, just because it was semi-official, did not mean that it was
right.
     The turbo-lift was due soon; the corridor was getting crowded.  All
were Colonial warriors, humans, except for some of the non-human
minorities, aliens who'd joined the Fleet after their homeworlds had
fallen to the Cylons.  There was, for instance, a scattering of Totens
and one Ex-En (Exotic Environment) whose mirrored AE Suit was covered in
a layer of frost so thick that Dillon couldn't read the environment
designations.  The Ex-En was probably a Cinaed, most probably the
Ambassador or one of her attaches.  They were a race that breathed liquid
metallic hydrogen at a pressure of eighteen atmospheres who tended to
both explode and spontaneously combust when faced with a human-normal
environment.  Only somebody of ambassadorial status would really see the
need to stray outside her quarters.
     The turbo-lift doors slid open.  Dillon set his feet carefully on
the metal floor and pulled himself into the lift.  He settled onto one of
the seats between a computer technician and a member of the Galactica's
fire brigade and strapped himself down, tuned out the multitude of
voices, and closed his eyes.  It took the lift fifteen mili-centons to
reach Landing Bay Alpha, which gave the Colonel time enough for a quick
doze.
     Drifting off, Dillon felt her thoughts stray inevitably to Talia. 
Felt again her light touch, heard her whispered words.  And something
else; something more than the touch of bodies.  The touch of minds...
     He shook himself awake.  This was no good, no good at all.  Thoughts
like these only brought pain.  Healing would come with time; until then
it was best to simply put the pain aside.
     Dillon sighed, tried to get comfortable in the seat harness.  His
head told him that displacing the pain was the worst route to healing,
but his heart wasn't listening.  He simply had too many yahrens of denial
weighing down on him to do anything else.  Denial by his father of his
mother's psi ability, denial by his family that his mother had been caged
for years by drugs and ultimately forced to take her own life by those
who called themselves her friends. And above all, far too many yahrens of
denial of his own latent abilities as a telepath.
     Nightwatch is mother.  Nightwatch is father.
     Dillon clenched his jaw.
     Frak with Nightwatch.
     He had a job to do.
     Landing Bay Alpha was a cavernous chamber, the mouth of which was
separated from the vacuum of space only by a force-field membrane. It was
used primarily for the recovery of launched vipers and shuttles during
the Fleet's trek across the stars.  Lately, it had to serve as a kind of
"port of call" for all sorts of inter-fleet transport and passenger
vessels.
     The new Admissions section, established upon recommendation from Dr.
Zee, was an appallingly inefficient operation.  It consisted of a line of
desks and warriors-turned-receptionists and slightly substandard
computers, a high level of background noise and the usual
incomprehensible announcements.  It took exactly two mili-centons for an
arriving visitor to be cleared before he could be admitted to the
Galactica, more than was necessary to catch the first available
turbo-lift, and when you finally got to the terminal, there was still
just standing room only on the lift.
     The first sign that there might be trouble brewing came as Dillon
flashed his command ID and entered the bay.  As he drew level with the
terminal clerk's desk, the "clerk"---actually a Colonial warrior named
Jarr, a Piscon who was not very fluent in Colonial Standard---stopped him
by mouthing off a series of gentle glottal clicks.  Dillon fished out his
languatron and impatiently waited for it to process the clicks, an
impossibly long fifteen microns.
     When it came, the Piscon warrior's translated voice came out in the
usual dreadful parody of a human voice.  "Colonel Dillon.  The Tuchanq
have arrived.  Their processing is not going frictionlessly."
     "It's 'smoothly,' corporal."  Dillon made the correction
automatically.  The languatron software was state-of-the-art---but as
with a lot of the technology onboard, the languatron hardware was pretty
much whatever old tatt the Galactica's technical support staff was able
to cobble together from odds and ends.
     The warrior blinked his green eyes impatiently.  More clicks.  A
surprised grunt.  More clicks.  A fifteen-micron wait, then "That is what
I said.  Frictionlessly."
     Dillon uttered a humorless grunt.  "No wonder the waiting time here
seems more that our life expectancy."
     He waved away the clerk's further glottal exposition and strode
purposefully into the ocean of disembarking passengers.
     The Tuchanq delegation had somehow managed to miss the Ambassadorial
gate.  They were smack in the middle of the landing bay, surrounded by a
crowd of curious onlookers.  Well, that was understandable.  This was the
first time a delegation from Mars had visited the battlestar, and no one
except the Nomen had seen them before in the flesh.
     Admitting to a certain curiosity himself, Dillon pushed through the
crowd.
     Dillon got his first sight of the Tuchanq.  He counted about twenty
of them in a clearing ringed by curious onlookers.  At least he thought
there were about twenty.  It was hard to tell because they were jumping
up and down, weaving in between each other in a complicated pattern.  In,
out, left, right, up, down.  Sometimes as much as two meters off the
ground at every leap.  Sometimes they jumped on two limbs, sometimes on
three or four.  And when they jumped, they yelled.  They jumped and
yelled in rhythm.
     And even in a universe whose basic operating principle seemed to be
extreme physical diversity, they were weird.
     For starters, they seemed to be partly exoskeletal.  Only partly. 
For another, they seemed to be partly reptilian and partly
mammalian---even partly avian; fur and scales and spines and feathers all
bound up together in woven harnesses through which emerged a different
number of limbs for each individual.
     The Tuchanq jumped.  They yelled.  Then they began to sing.
     Dillon watched them, openmouthed.
     In a wide circle around the Tuchanq the passengers and warriors
watched, fascinated.  The queues slowed and stopped moving toward the
processing booths.  The crowd got bigger.  Some joined in with the
chanting.
     Dillon found himself tapping a foot in time with the rhythm.  He
then moved sideways a couple of steps, bringing him into direct line of
sight of the Tuchanq delegation.
     Dillon realized waiting for a quiet moment to speak was a
nonstarter.  Cranking up the volume on the languatron she'd had Kar
program for him, he bellowed in his best flight sergeant manner, "Allow
me to introduce myself!  I am Colonel Dillon!  As second officer please
allow me to welcome you to the battlestar Galactica!"
     Exactly fifteen microns later an earsplitting series of growls and
barks issued from the languatron.
     The Tuchanq stopped.  As one being.  They turned to face him.
     And took off their skins.
     Now that's an attention getter.
     There was an eerie silence. Then a single shriek from the crowd that
turned into laughter almost immediately.  Dillon blew out his cheeks and
sighed.  He now realized why the Tuchanq looked so strange.  They were
wearing costumes.  Intricate constructions of fur and feathers, skin,
scales, and bone.
     Costumes.
     Shorn off their costumes the Tuchanq looks superficially like
Colonial humans.  They were naked.  The shortest was two and a half
metrons tall, rake thin, with enlongated limbs and a short torso.  Their
faces were enlongated too, thin, with no eyes.  Instead, they had mottled
patches that wrapped around at least half of the circumference of their
skulls.  A ruff of spines in place of ears wrapped around the backs of
their long necks.  There were males and females in the delegation; so
thin were they that only the obvious differences told them apart---and
they weren't all that obvious.  Their skin colors ranged from a brilliant
canary yellow to a pale chocolate brown.  In each the skin of their palms
and faces was lighter than at other parts of their bodies.  As she
watched several dropped onto all fours.  As they did this their necks and
shoulders seemed to stretch, bone and muscle altering configuration
easily to adapt to a horizontal rather than a vertical weight
distribution.  Knees slid upward toward the belly, elbows pointed back
toward the knees.  Now Dillon saw why, unlike human limbs, the Tuchanq
arms and legs were the same length.
     "Um---welcome to the battlestar Galactica," Dillon said again, more
quietly this time.  Unfortuantely, he forgot to turn down the
languatron's volume and so his softly spoken words came out rather like
the howl of a timber would.  A child in the crowd started to cry.
     The nearest Tuchanq oriented to face Dillon, her spines moving
delicately around her head much like those of a sea urchin in water. 
"Thank you for taking the trouble to program your languatron with our
language.  But we learned Colonial Standard from the Nomen.  I think it
would probably make a lot of sense to use that, don't you think, Colonel
Dillon?" Her accent was flawless.
     "I can go with that.
     Initial surprise and curiosity fading, the crowd had already begun
to disperse.  
     The Tuchanq seemed to be studying Dillon. As much as a creature
without eyes could be said to study anything.  "My name is Vi-El.  I
think I speak for all of us here when I say we are pleased to make your
acquaintance."
     Dillon smiled. "Likewise.  As I said, I am second-in-command here on
the battlestar Galactica.  I would like to welcome you on behalf of the
Council of Twelve and Commander Troy.  If you wish, I can show you to the
guest quarters, help you get squared away, that sort of thing.  Later we
can arrange a preliminary hearing with the commander and the Council to
address your requests."
     Vi-El tipped her head again.  "Thank you."  She turned to face the
rest of the delegation.  Each reached into his or her costume and
withdrew a thin, curved, wickedly sharp dagger.
     Right at that moment Dillon got his next indication of the trouble
to come.  It came far too late of course.
     The Tuchanq formed a circle and dropped to all fours on the deck. 
Each placed the point of his or her knife against he side of his or her
neck, approximately where the carotid artery would kill a human.
     What kind of felgercarb is this?
     "Uh..."
     That was as far as Dillon got before the Tuchanq, as one, pierced
the skin of their throats with their knives.
     A female Colonial Warrior in the crowd screamed.
     There was rush of people away from the Tuchanq.
     Blood that was too red for Dillon's liking pattered onto the deck. 
He flinched, but the expected arterial sprays never came.  A few more
drops of blood pattered harmlessly onto the deck and ran together to form
a small puddle, Vi-El then began to smear the blood into patterns on the
deck.  Lines and circles and more lines and yet more circles.
     Then they began to sing again.  Quietly.  Wordlessly.  A whisper of
sound in time with the rhythmic pattering of blood and scraping of
Vi-El's finger across the deck.
     Dell stared at the Tuchanq delegation as they bled onto the
slate-gray deck of Landing Bay Alpha.  Oddly he felt not so much horror
as an unlooked-for sense of awe and wonder.  Adrenaline flushed his body. 
He felt invigorated, a sensation he had not experienced since his first
encounter with that backwater human settlement on Vexxus more than a
quarter of a century ago.
     And all of a sudden he found himself smiling, felt a sense of
connection he hadn't felt for yahrens, as if he had an identity beyond
that which he knew as himself, as if some part of him was capable of
reaching out to other cultures and, if not indentifying with them in a
physiological way, then at least acknowledging them together, they and he
and all the other human and non-human races, were what made the universe
such a...such a real place.
     Dillon came to with a little start when he realized that the whole
of the Admissions area had frozen in place for the second time. Queues of
disembarking passengers and warriors all stared at the bleeding Tuchanq.
     Nearby, a male warrior was staring at the growing patterns of blood
with undisguised horror while a female med-tech was staring in the same
direction with undisguised interest.
     The man sucked in a nervous breath and backed away.  The med-tech
puckered-up her pretty face in disgust.
     Get a grip, Dillon.  The Tuchanq may have touched you in a
fundamental way, but it doesn't change the fact that their still bleeding
all over the tarmac.
     Vi-El rose from a cross-legged position.  "Thank you, Dillon.  I may
address you in the familiar, yes?" A single drop of blood ran from her
throat.  She mopped it up with a finger and then liked the finger with a
tubelike tongue.  "It is our custom to return something of ourselves to
the Land in thanks for its nourishing us."
     Dillon nodded. "Right."
     "I know technically we are not on Land, but"---Vi-El made a gesture
curiously like a shrug---"still we are already nourished simply by being
permitted to breathe your air."
     Dillon licked his lips.  "And the patterns?"
     "That is our Journey. Our words were the Song of our Journey.  From
the moment of our birth on the planet of our birth, from nomadic warriors
to a civilized community, through love and hate and joy, through birth
and death and birth, to war and famine and despair, and beyond them to
here.  To this place of new life and new hope.  To the Fleet."
     Dillon found his mouth was dry.  "Ritual."  Around him the disturbed
mutterings of the crowd faded, lost in the moment.  Troy had once told
him that Dr. Zee had shown him one moment of perfect beauty.  Dillon was
beginning to feel he may have must seen another.
     Vi-El tipped her spines in agreement. "All life is ritual."
     And Dillon knew that Vi-El was right.  And he realized how what he
had seen related to himself as part of the human race.
     Ritual.
     That's what it all boiled down to in the end.
     It was midwife to our birth on the planet Kobol; it kept throughout
our violent youth, from the cradle of civilization right through to this
very moment he himself was part of.  Now here we are, five thousand
yahrens and seven-thousand-twenty-two light-yahrens from the fallen
cities of Kobol, on the biggest single epic voyage undertaken by
humankind, and still ritual holds sway.
     The ritual of acceptance.
     Not everyone was capable of understanding its subtleties.
     Some people, Dillon realized, when a single voice lifted angrily
from the crowd, were not even prepared to try.
     "Somebody pass me a laser gun so I can kill those---those things!" 
A human voice.  Female.  A sentiment Dillon might have shared five
thousand yahrens ago.  Not now.  Not here.
     "They're plague carriers!" Another voice.  Another human.  A man
this time.
     Another voice cried, "We're all plague carriers, good buddy.  You've
got more viruses in your gut than I've had hot meals."
     "Yeah, but they're Colonial viruses."
     "Come to think of it, you've got more gut than I've had hot
dinners."
     "Come here and say that, daggit-meat!"
     "Consider yourself put on report for that remark, warrior!"
     "Aw, crawl back into your cave, why don't'cha!"
     "I said get me a laser gun!"
     "Asswipe!"
     "Racist!"
     There was the sound of a punch.  That was all it took.  In moments a
fistfight had started that threatened to spread through the crowd like
blight through an agroship.
     A yell went up from the crowd, part anger, part outrage.
     They're going to kill each other!
     A civilian human in brightly-colored clothing fell into the ring of
empty spaces around the Tuchanq, a uniformed warrior at his throat. 
Dillon stepped forward, wrenched the civilian away from the warrior,
dragged him to his feet.
     "Thanks, Colonel, bloody daggits are everywhere..."
     Civilian in one hand, warrior in the other, Dillon brought his arms
together with a frightening yell.  Skulls cracked.  Both antagonists went
limp.  Dillon held both up by the hair at arm's length.  "All right!" he
yelled at the top of his lungs.  "Anyone else want more of the same?"
     His voice had not the slightest effect on the crowd.
     "Frak!  Well, I can't say I didn't try."
     Dropping both civilian and warrior, Dillon drew his laser pistol and
fired a low-level blast over the heads of the brawlers.
     The crowd shut up almost immediately.
     "Well?  Anyone else got a view they'd like to air about human-alien
relations?"
     Faced with Dillon's expression and his laser gun, the crowd
revealed, predictably, no takers.
     "Very well, then."  Dillon holstered his laser pistol and called
security to cart away the unconscious warrior and civilian.  He turned to
the Tuchanq, shrugged an apology.
     Two security guards turned up that point.  "Colonel.  Are you okay?"
     "I'm fine.  Everything's under con..."
     And that was when all hell broke loose.
     A voice from the crowd shouted, "There's a Nomen skull on that
costume!  They've killed Nomen!  They're as bad as the Cylons!"
     The Tuchanq turned as one, spines angling toward the voice.
     "Murderers!" a Tuchanq yelled and sprang into the crowd.  "Killers
of the Land!"
     Someone screamed.  The Tuchanq howled.  A Nomen voice cried out in
pain.  There were more angry yells from the other Nomen in the crowd. 
About half the Tuchanq sprang into the crowd.  In microns, they'd
vanished from sight.  The rest milled around in the little circle of
space they'd made for themselves, smearing their own blood on the deck
with their feet and erasing the record of their Journey.
     Dillon grabbed the security guards and charged through the crowd. 
He didn't have to force a way.  The crowd parted before him, streaming
away from the scene of the riot.
     Eight or ten Tuchanq with knives.  Five Nomen armed with a bad
attitude and nothing else.
     Someone was going to get hurt.
     The Nomen were thickly muscled and fierce, but they were built for
stamina, not speed.  The Tuchanq were all over them in microns.  Unable
to fire for fear of injuring the Nomen, Dillon could only watch in horror
as they were cut down.  One of the security guards holstered his laser
gun and waded in with his shocksticdk.  He put down one of the Tuchanq
before the rest bore him down.
     A Nomen grabbed one of the Tuchanq, crushed her skull.  A Tuchanq
drove his knife into the Nomen's back; he dropped with an agonized sigh.
     Dillon drew his laser gun and set it to stun.  He aimed at
fighters---then lowered the weapon.  If he fired now, even on a low
setting, he might worsen the injuries of the downed guard.  Holstering
the laser gun, he called to the other guard, "Call for backup!"  He dove
into the fight, grabbed the bleeding security guard, began to drag him
clear.  There was movement all around him, a blurred frieze of knives,
snarling faces, retractable claws slashing, arcs of Nomen blood splashing
his uniform.  A knife slashed his shoulder, drawing blood.  A Nomen fist
crashed into the side of his head.
     That's it.  Now I'm really annoyed.
     Dropping the guard, Dillon staggered clear of the flight, drew his
laser, set it to its lowest setting, yelled as loud as he could to the
remaining guard, "I've had it with this!  Stun the lot of 'em!'
     Two blasts of low-level energy later it was all over bar mopping up
the blood.
     One Tuchanq was missing a handful of spines; three Nomen were
bleeding heavily from multiple stab wounds.
     One of the Tuchanq was dead, skull crushed.  A Nomen died from blood
loss while they were waiting for the med-techs.
     Dillon swore.  What a mess!  Troy was going to jump down his throat
feet first for this.  He examined the wound on his shoulder. 
Superfiical.  But the sleeve on his uniform was gone and that was going
to take serious cubits to fix.  He swore again.
     "Dillon---what have you done?" Vi-El was beside him, with the
remaining members of the delegation, having finally pushed through the
crowd.  She was staring at the mass of stunned bodies, Nomen and Tuchanq
alike, the ripped-out spines, the blood.  Her voice was absurdly high. 
Surprise?  No, more like outrage. Panic.  Fear.  
     Dillon whirled.  "What in Hades is it with you people?  One war not
enough for you?  Look at that.  One Tuchanq dead.  One Nomen dead."  He
struggled to remain calm. "Look at my sleeve!"
     Vi-El said nothing, merely stared, trembling, at the unconscious
bodies.
     "Well?"
     A member of the Tuchanq delegation, a male slightly over three
metrons tall, said breathlessly, "A torturer can cut off my spines; allow
me to breed and my child will be born with them.  So with instinct!" He
studied Dillon closely, as if weighing up her ability to understand his
answer.  "We did not start the war."
     Dillon rubbed his eyes tiredly.  "I don't care if your old granny
started the war!  One more incident like this and I'll rip off your damn
spines---and beat you to death with the wet ends.  Understand?" Without
waiting for a reply Dillon turned, caught sight of a familiar figure
pushing urgently through the crowd, laser pistol drawn.  "Hey, Choal. 
Great timing as always."
     Captain Kanon, strike commander of the Galactica since Troy made
Commander, studied the human and alien wreckage thoughtfully.  "Holy
frak, Colonel.  Are you trying to make someone a packet?"
     Dillon stared at the captain.  
     Kanon raised his hands apologetically.  "Hey.  Offense, right?  Just
my little joke."
     He stared at him.
     "Okay.  I'm outta here."  Choal holstered his laser gun and began to
clear a way through the crowd for the arriving med-techs.
     Dillon sighed.  At least he could still get the last word around
here, even if he didn't actually get the last word.
     It was a vain hope.
     Vi-El was still standing beside her, trembling as the medics tended
the injured Tuchanq and Nomen, then placed them gently on stretchers and
carried them away.  She tipped her spines toward Dillon.  "Are they
dead?"
     Dillon sighed. "What do you take me for?  Of course they're not
dead.  They're just stunned.  They'll wake up in half a centon or so with
a bit of a headache, but that's all."
     Vi-El tipped her spines to the right, and that was when Dillon began
to get a bad feeling.  A feeling that the trouble had only just begun. 
"Dillon, you don't understand.  You have broken their Songs of Being. 
Driven from them their lives and homes and families.  When the Tuchanq
you have stunned awaken, they will be dead."
     Dillon frowned. "What?"
     "Dead."  Vi-El's spines shuddered in confusion.  "In your
terms---socially---dead."  Vi-El's spines settled as she found the right
terms to explain her words.  "They will have no sense of responsibility
toward society."
     "You mean insane?"
     Vi-El crouched onto all fours and began a keening song, breaking it
only once to stare at Dillon. "Violently insane!  Psychotic!"

*****

CHAPTER 3

     Kar stared unblinkingly at Troy and tried not to sigh.  That was for
Colonists.  But like everything else they did these days, the Nomen
seemed to have unconsciously assimilated the gesture, thus, losing
another tiny piece of their own racial heritage.  The thought made Kar
frustrated and that in turn made him angry.  He blinked again, wondered
momentarily if that was another unconsciously assimilated gesture, then
dismissed the thought angrily.
     "Commander Troy, I wish to protest in the strongest manner."  Kar
made a tremendous effort to keep his voice calm.  "One of my
people---people as you know, for whom I am responsible---has been
brutally killed.  In public.  In the Admissions terminal.  He was a
refugee for Quan's sake!  One to whom you offered sanctuary, if you have
not forgotten."
     "I haven't forgotten my promise, Kar."
     "Then, on behalf of my community, I demand that reparation be made."
     Troy sighed. "And what reparation would that be?"
     "I have discussed several options with my advisors.  After some
deliberation, I request that the Tuchanq be removed from our battlestar
and their request for help denied."
     Troy hesitated.  Kar waited as the Commander tipped his head to one
side, steepled his fingers, sighed.  Rubbed his left eyebrow.  Placed his
arms on the desk and rubbed the forefinger and thumb of his left hand
together.  More gestures.  The humans seemed to have an endless supply of
them.  Almost meaningless little bits of body language most Nomen would
find offensive if they could even configure their thickly muscled,
heavily-boned bodies to imitate them.  Some part of Kar knew that he
really ought to be studying these little gestures and signs with more
diligence---he had heard others say that in some cases you could tell
whether a human was lying or not simply by studying his skin moisture
level.  The truth was---and Kar was honest enough to own up to it, to
himself at least---the truth was that almost all alien body languages
were just too subtle for him to interpret.  Kar found the experience
frustrating in the extreme---to be able to see that there was a whole
subtext to most exchanges, even interspecies exchanges, but never able to
divine its meaning.  And to Kar frustration was an enemy almost as deadly
as the Cylons.  
     Kar stared at Troy.
     He was still deliberating.
     "Forgive my impatience, Troy, but I really must demand that you
address this situation.  It is of extreme importance."
     Troy spoke at last.  "I know, Kar.  And I'm sorry that one of your
people has died."  A hesitation, another thing the Colonists did which
seemed finely calculated to allow them to avoid getting to the point. 
"And I understand the need for retribution."  Another hesitation!  "Kar,
I consider us friends.  Which makes it all the more difficult to say this
to you."
     Oh, get on with it!
     "I cannot take any action in this matter which would threaten our
negotiations with the Tuchanq."
     Kar found himself spluttering angrily.  It was something he did a
lot around humans.  "I don't understand!  You are the commander of the
fleet!  You are in charge of its security! Your grandfather, yahrens ago,
gave my people sanctuary when no one else would.  Now one of them has
been murdered and you will do nothing!  How can you take such a
contradictory stance?"
     Troy rose from his desk, licked his lips.
     You'd have thought with all that moisture in their skin they'd have
found a way of transferring some of it to their lips without the need to
have to stop talking to do so.
     "Well, Troy?"
     "Here's the gravity of the matter, Kar.  The Tuchanq have come to us
for help.  A rogue faction of your people have ruined the ecology of
their planet, Mars, with their ill-gotten life-support technology and
been directly responsible for the deaths of a significant portion of the
population."
     Kar shuffled his feet---another human gesture---wondering how much
Troy knew about the Nomen aggression on Mars.
     "I can see how the Tuchanq would feel"---a shrug---"well,
antagonistic toward your people.  Another sigh. "And yet according to
Colonel Dillon's report and eyewitness accounts taken by Captain Choal,
it was the Nomen who started the fight."
     Kar had been expecting this.  "I too have accounts and reports," he
said firmly.  "And those reports say the Tuchanq attacked first---and
that their provocation was that a Nomen observed there were Nomen skulls
attached to Tuchanq clothing!  Nomen skulls!"
     Troy rubbed his nose, began to pace.  He looked at the floor, the
porthole, anywhere but Kar.
     Kar pressed home his advantage. "Troy, many yahrens ago, forty Nomen
tried to make a new Borella out of that ball of red dust beyond the
confines of the Galactica, and nobody's ever heard from them again.  I
believe they were murdered--- and the one who actually killed them is
probably with us on board this battlestar! I promise you, she was not
someone defending herself from attack, but a bloodthirsty killer!" 
     Troy nodded. "Please don't jump to conclusions, Kar."
     "Conclusions!  You speak of conclusions when a Nomen has just been
murdered!"
     "Killed, Kar.  A Nomen has just been killed.  We don't know that it
was murder.  In any case, Vi-El has assured me the incident will not be
repeated?"
     "And you believe her?"
     "Kar, until a sectar ago the Tuchanq were effectively slaves of the
Nomen.  Their hostility is understandable.  But, to answer your question,
yes.  I believe Vi-El when she says there will be no more attacks.  She
has promised to keep the Tuchanq delegation away from the Nomen
population.  And you can help matters by making sure your people don't go
anywhere near the Tuchanq.  If we all work together on this, keep them
separate, there is no reason why we cannot work out a peaceful solution
to the problem."
     Kar felt a surge of anger and confusion. "Captain, let me make sure
I understand you correctly.  You intend to limit my people's freedom in
order to prevent someone else's people from committing a crime?"
     "Kar, it's a big Fleet.  There's room enough for everyone if we
handle it right."
     "But..."
     "Look, Kar.  The Tuchanq have come here asking for help.  Why would
they compromise that?"
     Kar was about to make an angry reply when the door bleeped.  Troy
sighed, shrugged an apology. "Enter!"
     The door opened.  Kar cast an irritated look in its direction, then
hissed with anger.  Mollary!
     Sire Mollary stepped into the room, medals jangling arrogantly on
his cloak of office.  "Troy."  He beamed expansively.  "Allow me to
apologize for being a few mili-centons early for our appointment.  I have
come here to..." He stopped, seemed to notice Kar.  "Troy? I am right
about our appointment, am I not?"
     Troy checked his link.  "Yes, Sire.  A couple of mili-centons either
way aren't going to make a difference."
     Mollary's eyes glittered.  "Then may I ask what Citizen Kar is doing
taking up valuable time allocated to buriticians?"
     Kar found himself trembling with rage.  Mollary!  His arrogance
bordered on the psychopathic.  Kar said angrily, "I have come to
Commander Troy to complain about an attack on my people, if it's any
business of yours!"
     Troy sighed.  He began, "Mollary, Kar, perhaps we could..."
     But Mollary interjected with that oily smoothness of his, "You see
now, Troy?  Your grandfather had been told and told that the Nomen would
be trouble if he gave them sanctuary.  I, myself, have said we would have
been better off leaving them to the Cylons.  Had your grandfather
listened, you would not have the...administrative trouble...that you do
now."  Another pointed glance at Kar.  "And, since the Nomen share the
same ideas about racial superiority that the Cylons do, it is unlikely
the Alliance would have exterminated them."
     Kar shook with rage.  "Pay him no mind, Troy.  If it were all left
up to this...this being, Nomen would have no more rights than livestock
in Fleet society!'
     Mollary's eyes glittered angrily and his lips compressed to a thin
line.  He seemed about to respond when Troy cut through the anger with a
question of his own.
     "Just what is it you want, Sire Mollary?"
     Mollary hesitated, cast a sideways glance at Kar.  "It is a human
matter."
     Troy rubbed his eyebrow again.  "That isn't telling me what you
want, Sire! If it affects Kar or his community, he has just as much right
to listen as I do."
     "Very well, if you insist. I came here to arrange a meeting with the
Tuchanq delegation."  Another sideways glance at Kar.  "Considering their
recent history, I think we have a lot to discuss."
     Troy sighed with relief.  "Yes, well, you'll have to talk to Colonel
Dillon about that.  He's handling all ambassadorial duties for me at this
time."
     Mollary nodded politely.  "Very well.  I will do that.  Thank you,
Troy."  Mollary turned to leave.  At the open door, he hesitated, turned
back for a last look at Kar.  He smiled thinly. "A good bovine is a
better member of any society than the average Nomen."
     That's it!  Enough is enough!
     Fists clenched, Kar moved toward Mollary, but the buritician was
already gone, the door hissing shut in his place.
     Anger unvented, Kar turned to Troy.  "How can you stand for that? 
Did you see what he did?  How he abuses his position and twists the truth
to his own advantage?  How can you tolerate such behavior?"
     Troy raised his hands in what Kar took to be a placating gesture. 
"Kar.  I know.  Now calm down.  You won't serve your people by letting
Mollary annoy you so easily."
     Kar made a tremendous effort to regain control of his anger. "You
are right." He walked to the office window, glanced out at the panoramic
view.  He finally got his anger under control and, turning away from the
porthole, continued, "Commander Troy, I admit I do not have the
ambassadorial authority that I once did, but surely you must see that my
request cannot go unfulfilled."
     Troy threw up his hands.  "Kar, your request is for the Tuchanq to
be kicked out of the Fleet!  If I do that, where will they go?  To whom
will they turn for help? Nobody, least of all the Earth people, have the
technology to reengineer that ecology of an entire planet.  If I do as
you ask, not only will you have been responsible for genocide, but I will
have been a party to it."  A pause, more pacing, more rubbing of the
fingers, then finally a direct look.  "No.  As I said, I'm sorry that one
of your people was killed.  But I cannot and will not allow justice to be
perverted for individual gain.  Not for one---or even one hundred dead
Nomen.  Are we clear on this?"
     Kar nodded bitterly.  "Very clear, Captain."
     "And I want no further reprisals against the Tuchanq either, no
personal attacks or vendettas from your people.  Is that also clear?"
     "Painfully clear."
     "Then I think we've nothing more to say to each other."  A pause. 
Another sigh. "Kar, for what it's worth, I really do sympathize with you
on this one.  Your people have put through the wringer as it is, what
with thirty yahrens of running and..." he shot a look at the office door
through which Mollary had exited---"well, everything. I understand how
you must feel."
     "Do you?"
     "If it's any consolation, you know that one of the Tuchanq died as
well. Vi-El has apologized and assured us the incident will not be
repeated.  It would be best if we left it at that, for now."
     "Then truly, you do not understand."  Kar turned to leave, caught
himself sighing as he did so.
     I swear one day I'm going to turn into a damn Colonist.
     The door to the commander's quarters hissed shut behind him, cutting
off Troy and his sympathy behind a wall of blank steel.

*****

CHAPTER 4

     Arc jerked awake with a scream.  
     She was alone!  Alone and dying in songless nevermore.  Without even
terror for company.  Without friends, family, home, a sense of place,
without even herself.
     No. No.  That wasn't true.  It was fear that put those words into
her.  And if she had fear she wasn't she wasn't alone.  And if she wasn't
alone---where was she?
     What had happened?
     She angled her spines, tasted the air; the human medics.  She hummed
the Journey, the Arrival.  The Dillon.  Nomen blood.  Then fear, anger,
violence---death!
     Then what?
     Nothing.  No song.  No sense of self.  Nothing.
     And now she was here.  Alone in this wilderness of strangers.  Her
Song of Being broken! Alone!  
     And then a voice.
     "Hey, hey, calm down.  Do you want to fall off the ---oh hell, now
you've done it.  Chovak, help me here, will you, her wound's bleeding
again.  We'll have to get her back on the gurney.  I may have to sedate
her."  Words.  Threat?  Maybe.  Fear?  Anger?  Don't know.  No Song.  No
Song.
     Arc crouched on all fours, hands and feet scrabbling for purchase on
the deck.  Before her stood---she spread her spines, tasted the air---a
human.  Female.  Frightened.
     And beyond the human, Arc's own family.  Unconscious! Dead!
     "The Family."  She spoke urgently, her voice laced with grief. 
"Their songs are broken."
     The human spoke again.  "All right, all right.  Calm down, okay?  We
have to get you back on this gurney."
     "Their songs are broken!  They are mad!  You must kill them: begin
the Song of Birthing for their new lives."
     Chovak, I need your languatron, this one's broken.  The junk they
issue here, nowadays.  How in Hades can anybody understand anything?  Now
listen.  My name is Araz.  I'll be your doctor.  I'm going to give you a
relaxant. It won't hurt but you will go to sleep for a while."
     Arc shivered.  Words without Song. Frightening.  Threatening.
     "Now, don't get all uppity about it.  I just want to help you."
     Arc tasted the moving air as the human approached.  Already on all
fours, she crouched defensively, belly scraping for the Land.
     "Chovak, give me the hypo."
     Uncoiling her spine, Arc stood.
     "Good Kobol!"
     The human fell backward.  Sweat.  Body movements rapid.  Frightened. 
She was frightened.  Poor human.  Poor Arc.  Frightened.  Alone. No Song.
     Alone and comfortless, Arc began to hum the only Song that remained
to her: the Song of Journey.
     Chovak, where the hell is Security?"
     And another voice, a male: "Security?  I think we've got a situation
here.  One of the Tuchanq is here. It's got a knife, took it out of some
kind of abdominal pouch. It's singing.  Just like before.  And it's big!"
     Arc tasted the tension in the humans, read their fear and anger and
moved. The humans fell back with a cry, but there were others in her way
now.  Others who didn't taste frightened.  Who ran toward her, shouting;
words without Song.
     Arc moved again, the knife slashed, a human fell, blood spurting
from a severed artery.
     Arc sang her Journey, dropped to all fours, leapt over the humans,
galloped naked through the steel and plastic of the Land.  
     The voices, the fear and anger, faded behind her.
     Arc moved as fast as she could through the battlestar, wounded and
starving as she was.  A veil streaming backward from her head, her spines
flipped this way and that, scanning the way ahead and behind, to each
side, tasting the air, responding to scent and color and movement. 
     What was that?  A bunch of humans? But what kind?  Were they scared?
Virgons? Picons?  Sagittarans?  Were they a threat to her?  Capricans? 
Taurans?  Cancerans?How fast were they?  Scorpians? Librans?  Leos? Were
they chasing her? Aquarians? Gemonese?Arians?  Not yet.  It wasn't
surprising.  
     The many different peoples of this Land sang strangely.  
     Her feet and hands slapped against the deck, their light patter the
sound of blood falling from an open throat to map the Land with Journey. 
The Song of Journey flowed out of her, connecting her to the deck, the
battlestar, everything.  The Song flowed backward in time, through the
Admissions terminal to the disembarkation point, the commodities
freighter, the jump gate, to her home, her family, her birth, and each
link in the chain was forged with the blood of Nomen.  Of Nomen, and now
of human.
     She sang louder, the Song of Journey swelled around her, evolving,
defining her own place in this new Land to which it had brought her. 
     But something was wrong.
     Her Song of Journey was not enough.
     Her Song of Being was gone, silent, broken by the humans in the
Admissions terminal.  The humans who had killed her.
     She was alone now.  Alone and afraid.  And with the fear came
knowledge.  To live she must begin a new Song of Being.
     No!
     She must take a new Song of Being from someone else.
     Not from her own People.  She needed a Song that would help her live
here, in this new Land to which the Song of Journey had brought her.
     She would begin the search immediately, before she became weakened
with hunger.  Her spines tasted thousands of beings within a quarter mile
of her.  Working, talking, loving, sweating.  Thousands.  They were like
stars in the night sky. Alone, and yet all together.  Their Songs were
strange.  But one of them, surely, would be right for her to take?
     She wondered then if it was possible for these Peoples to share
Songs.
     No.  That was impossible.  Songs could only have one singer.
     She would have to kill to take what she needed.

*****

CHAPTER 5

     When Sire Mollary left Commander Troy's quarters, he linked in to
Core Command and asked for an update on Colonel Dillon's position.  He
decided to meet him in person, make his request to see the Tuchanq
delegation formally, face-to-face.
     Mollary walked through the corridor toward a nearby turbo-lift,
boarded it, and eventually arrived at his destination.  Gamma Sector,
starboard.  
     There was a crowd.  Not often you got them on the battlestar, not in
Gamma Sector anyway. It was the service sector, after all, and there was
generally little to see.  Now there was a crowd.
     Mollary inched carefully through.  A space opened for him as if by
magic.  It was impossible to ignore both the space and the expressions on
faces around him: the lips curled with disgust, the eyes turned away, the
open hostility directed toward him.  There was a lot of sympathy on the
Galactica toward the Nomen situation, and that meant resentment of the
one buritician that openly opposed their presence in the Fleet, namely
him.
     Ignoring the looks, Mollray kept edging forward until he could see
through the crowd.
     It didn't look good.  A group of med-techs and gurneys, one
overturned. One of the medics was sitting on a gurney, wrapped in a
blanket.  Dillon was there, too.  He seemed to be overseeing a second
group.  A number of aliens were strapped to the gurneys.  They were
thrashing and screaming hysterically.  Another group of aliens, the same
species, stood over them with---Mollary gaped.  With drawn daggers!
     No wonder the prisoners were struggling.  They were going to be
killed.
     And Dillon and the med-techs and the security contingent that was
holding back the crowd seemed about to let them get away with murder!
     Mollary tried to get closer, but the line of security guards blocked
his views.  He edged sideways, then stopped at the sound of a familiar
voice.
     "You're looking rough, Sire.  Guess you need some sleep."
     "Captain Kanon."  Mollary attempted a smile, but it fell flat.  "How
are you?"
     "I'm fine.  But I don't think you want to be coming through here. 
If you're on your way back to Theta Sector, you'd better try another
route."
     "Oh?  And why, pray tell, should I do that?"
     "Alien trouble."
     "I see.  And would the aliens in question be the Tuchanq
delegation?"
     "They would."
     "Then perhaps you could let me through."
     "Well---I'm not so sure that's entirely appropriate right now."
     "Why do you say that?"
     "Because they're---well, killing each other.  At least that's what
they're calling it.  It's something to do with them being reborn."
     Mollary studied Kanon closely.  How much could he count on his
fast-dissolving friendship with the  Blue Squadron leader? "Kanon,
please.  I ask to be permitted to come forward.  I do it on my own
cognizance." He spread his arms peacefully.  "I can do no harm, now can
I?"
     "That's a matter of opinion, Sire."  Kanon did a quick take on the
crowd nearby.  "But if the looks on some of these faces are anything to
go by, you'd be in trouble if I didn't let you through.  Come on."
     Kanon beckoned.  Mollary followed him through the line of security
guards.
     Behind them, a disturbance in the crowd seemed to merit attention. 
Someone was screaming to let the aliens kill each other.  Kanon said,
"Wait here," and turned away.
     Mollary immediately walked close to the group of aliens and
med-techs.  He moved next to Dillon.  "Colonel."
     The blond executive officer half-turned, gave a curt nod. "I'm
rather busy, Sire."
     "No doubt.  What exactly is happening here, if you don't mind my
asking?"
     Dillon gave a little sigh, then shrugged.  "It's no secret.  The
Tuchanq don't sleep.  I stunned them.  I broke their Songs of Being.  Now
they're insane."
     "And this is why they're threatening their comrades with daggers?"
     Dillon shook his head.  "Uh uh. No.  They're the sane ones, the ones
I didn't stun.  They have to break the Song of Journey of the insane
ones, or those individuals will be permanently psychotic."
     "Fascinating."
     "That's debatable.  When both Songs are broken, Vi-El---that's their
Family Mother---will pronounce them dead and they will begin new Songs of
Being and Journey.  As I understand it they will be born again.  Fully
grown individuals with---well, with all their life experience deleted. 
As if they were newborn babies."
     'And they will no longer be insane?"
     "Apparently not."
     "Psychologists on could learn something from this technique, I'm
sure."
     Dillon nodded curtly again. "Possibly, Sire.  Possibly."
     Mollary nodded, waited an appropriate few seconds, and began again. 
"Colonel, I've come to see you on the suggestion of Commander Troy.  I
would very much appreciate it if you could facilitate a meeting between
myself and Vi-El, on behalf of her delegation.  I wish to..."
     Mollary broke off suddenly as the Tuchanq began to sing.
     "Commander, what are they doing now?"
     "Singing.  The Song of Birthing."
     "Ah."
     Mollary lapsed into silence and watched as the Tuchanq inscribed
their knives in the air over the writhing bodies of their comrades.  Then
the knives descended and the inscriptions met the flesh of the Tuchanq. 
The knives moved quickly, inscribing in blood what seemed to Mollary
almost to be maps on the pinioned Tuchanq bodies.
     Then with a final movement, the maps were slashed through with a
single line of blood. 
     By now the pinioned Tuchanq were screaming, but the singing from the
knife-wielders was even louder.  And somehow the two seemed to merge, to
meld into a whole that soared through the decks until Mollary felt it
must surely weave its way out into space.
     The med-techs stared openmouthed at the scene.  One turned to
Dillon.  "Colonel, they're killing each other!  You can't allow this!  At
least let us get them to Life Station.
     "There's no time."  Dillon signaled the med-tech to be quiet.  "You
can see how violent they are.  Their ceremony has to be performed here
and now."
     The screams of the pinioned Tuchanq faded slowly as their blood ran
out of their chests and pooled on the gurneys.  As the screams faded, so
the Song sung by the others became muted, descended both in pitch and
volume.
     The singers slipped their daggers back into the pouches, descended
slowly onto all fours.  By the time they were fully crouched the pinioned
Tuchanq were all unconscious through blood loss.
     There was dead silence in the section.
     Then a voice from the crowd yelled, "Frakkin' aliens, let them kill
themselves if that's what they want!"
     Mollary turned in time to see Kanon wade back into the crowd.  There
was the sound of a punch and the silence was complete again.
     Blood began to patter off the gurneys.
     At exactly the point Mollary was going to ask what was supposed to
happen next, Vi-El rose and approached Dillon, then crouched until his
face was level with the human's.
     "Dillon, the ceremony is complete.  The Songs of Journey have been
broken."
     "What happens now.  We can't leave half your delegation bleeding all
over the deck."
     Vi-El tipped her spines to the left in agreement.  "I would be very
grateful for any help your medical staff could provide in treating our
new Family.  If they do not bleed to death they will awaken and begin new
Songs, just as I have told you."
     "Good."  Dillon heaved a sigh of relief.  "But there's just one
problem."
     Vi-El straightened to her full two and a half metrons.  "The escaped
one.  Arc she calls herself now.  It means killer.  She must be found and
brought to us for the Song of Birthing."
     "Our warriors are already on to it, but the Galactica is a big ship. 
It's going to take them a while to find her."
     "You must find her quickly, Dillon.  Don't forget she is insane,
now.  In your terms, psychotic.  Her Song of Being is broken.  She has no
morals and no compunction.  She is the reason you have never heard from
that illicit Nomen colony in yahrens: she slaughtered them all.  That was
an execution, rigidly defined and sung by my Family.  Now it is
different.  The urge to kill will undoubtedly surface again.  This time
there will be no Song to stop her."
     Dillon swore.  "I know, Vi-El.  We've already got a ship-wide alert
out for her."  The sound of a punch and a cry of pain made her turn.
"Kanon!  Quit punching that guy and get over here.  You've got a job to
do."
     Mollary allowed himself to drift into the background of the scene. 
He listened closely.  Vi-El's conversation had suddenly opened up many
interesting possibilities. So the Tuchanq needed help, did they?
     Well.
     Sire Mollary and his cronies were always willing to help.

*****

CHAPTER 6

     Tegates, a planetologist, exogeologist, and cyberologist, paid
through the nose for sex.  He did this because he liked unusual sex. 
Well.  He wouldn't have called it that.  As far as he was concerned, his
interests were simply a manifestation of a perfectly normal and healthy
urge.  Others disagreed.  Others had called it weird.  Others had called
him weird.  And worse things too.  Pervert.  Racist.  Exploiter.  Some
even called him an alien-lover.  This last certainly wasn't true, in a
literal sense, if no other.  But then, why shouldn't love (and its
obvious corollary, sex) be transmissible across frontiers?  Across
species as well as races?  Tegates saw himself not as a visionary, a
poet, a rule breaker, a pervert, a masochist, though he had been
described by some as all of these.  Simply put, Tegates thought of
himself as a perfectly normal man with a perfectly normal job and a
perfectly normal family.
     And a perfectly normal, healthy interest in sex.
     With non-humans.
     Of course there were problems associated with his perfectly normal,
healthy urges.  But nothing a good scientific head couldn't get around
with a little application.
     Hence the business trips to the battlestar Galactica.  Tanelle hated
shuttling; the kids were still at school on the Syria.  So a
twice-a-yahren business commute to use his intellectual skills to help
the Colonial Warrior defend the Fleet and the unsuspecting planet Earth
was the perfect way to (a) get away from his family duties so he could
(b) improve the Galactica's computer programs and help chart all the
celestial bodies in the Earth system and (c) spend some of his
hard-earned cubits in a way he found both satisfying and rewarding.
     "Oh, don't get me wrong," he would say on the occasional times when
the subject was raised by curious colleagues.  "I love Tan and the kids. 
Would never leave them for anything. But---you know---humans just don't
have what it takes.  Never did, for that matter."
     The responses were predictable; what the frak, you had to be
broad-minded about these things.  No point in sweeping it under the
carpet.  Adama tolerated those socialators because he felt they were good
for the fighting spirit of the Colonial Warriors who lived on the
battlestar, in effect, making them "legal." The only reason he hadn't
"fessed up" to Tanelle was that he knew she'd feel inadequate, and he
loved her too much to upset her like that.  No.  It was best this way. 
This way she could spend his two lots of three sectans every yahren
living her on life, getting on with her hobbies, seeing her girlfriends,
generally doing whatever she liked with no comeback from him, while he
could spend his spare time in those same six sectans lying nex to, on or
over, wrapped around the body of a succulent female member of the Fleet's
non-human "minorities," blissfully unaware of every little difference
between them.
     And all it cost him was a bit of cubits.
     Well, all right, it was quite a lot of cubits, actually, but it was
worth it.  And he could afford it.  The Galactica needed men like him. 
Recently, he had even sold their resident "mutant," Dr. Zee, on the idea
of installing a passive defense system of his own design on the
battlestar, a defense system which could identify authorized personnel by
their pheromones and let them pass while trapping intruders via the use
of a harmless narcotic gas.  Okay, Dr. Zee had said there were a few
flaws that had to be corrected yet.  During a trial run of the system,
one sensor had failed to recognize  Captain  Fulvius, of the Silver Spar
squadron, and had gassed him.  Unfortunately, the quantity of gas emitted
had been incorrectly gauged for a being with the same body mass as an
Ovion, rather than a human.  Fulvius's wingman, Flight Sergeant Cajetan, 
had entered the central armory and found his superior officer lying on
the floor, dead.
     But all things considered, Tegates was a happy man. Especially
today.  Today he was going to see Belladonna.  Oh, Belladonna.  With
iridescent tentacles like jeweled snakeskin and suckers fit to bring a
man to tears.
     If a man could fall in love with a being shaped like a cross between
a three-metron-wide starfish and a baby giraffe, then Tegates was
smitten.
     Belladonna had been the wildest, funniest, gentlest, most
intelligent, sensitive, and sexually gifted of his many trysts.
     And he had the data crystal to prove it. 
     He had the data crystal to prove it!
     Tegates wished he could meet her somewhere other than Down Below.
This is probably a Nomen internal matter.?
     Oh, why couldn't more people see how wonderful this was?
     And the best thing was that he had been able to see a room-to-room
defense system to Galactica's crew during his stay here.  That had put up
his profit and allowed a credit margin for a big blowout tomorrow, that
being his last day on the battlestar.
     Tegates found himself grinning.  Not only had he been having the
best sex of his life, he was also loaded as never before.
     Oh, Lords of Kobol, thought Tegates, you are kind to me today.
     He reached into his pocket and patted the data crystal fondly. 
Tonight he would add to its holographic record.  It would be expensive,
but again, worth it.  He'd thought of some more interesting things for
him and Belladonna to do together.
     Tegates looked around him as he walked.  Three years he had been
coming to the Galactica, and Down Below had never lost its fascination. 
All right, it certainly wasn't the pristine cabin aboard the Syria that
Tenelle kept; nonetheless, for Tegates, it held its fascinations.
     The heat came from the heat exchangers and processors which fed down
from the upper levels.  The light came from whatever bulbs could be
scrounged from topside.  Occasionally narrow beams of starlight blazed
through the portholes.  Once every twenty-four centars, Sol, the Earth
sun, shone through those portholes, but its light was diffused by
distance and by grime on the crystal alloy panes.  Even so it lit up Down
Below in a series of shafts to splash ovals of light on the walls,
ceilings, the people, the machinery, the service ducts and stalls.
     The stalls, where a real good time could be had for the right price.
     The lurkers could be dangerous, but if you kept your head down and
didn't look anyone straight in the eye you would probably get by.
     And the alien "minorities."
     The spine-tingling, heart pumping adrenaline rush of human and
non-human alien life that lived, ate, fought, loved and died here.
     Down Below as a shrine to the Unlike.
     Tegates came here to worship; the money he paid was an offering.
     Tonight it would buy him Belladonna.
     Tegates made his way slowly past a line of moisture reclaimers
sucking condensation off a bulkhead wall.  The reclaimers gurgled noisily
as they processed foul sludge into drinking water at various rates of
efficiency.  Three Nomen stood guard over them armed with spears made out
of beaten and sharpened conduiting.  They assessed Tegates, watching him
suspiciously until he vanished from view, walking innocently into the
semi-darkness of Down Below, walking until he at least came the
marketplace.
     The marketplace of Down Below was vast, an amorphous mass of scent
and sound, a layering of tents and wheeled stalls, cloth, fabric, and
bric-a-brac.  Tegates passed happily into it, cast his eyes around for
some trinket or doodad, something one of the kids might like.
     The marketplace opened to take him in and then closed around him.
     "Illustrate your body.  Skin animations here.  Holographic or good
old-fashioned 2D.  Only twenty-four centars old.  Guaranteed only minimal
bruising.  Three cubits per bunch."
     "Used water  reclaimer.  Minor fixup.  Eighty cubits."
     "'Get your bamboo here. Genuine bamboo, brought back by the Colonial
Warriors from the planet Earth. Hundred and eighty cubits per stem."
     "Languttrnnsr!  Ddu cts slangurtrrns here!  Hardware
guaranandgsdgbhhhh! Only sixty flgkikt."
     "Hey, man, you want stims?  Reds. Blues.  Any damn color you like! 
Ten cubits an' I'll even box 'em for ya!  Another cubit an' I'll paint
'em too!'
     "Eggs for sale!  Three cubits!"
     "Hand-rolled fumarellos!  Two cubits!?
     "Sugar!  Real sugar!  Only sixty cubits a pack!"
     "Used software, minimal virus!  For cubits per disk!"
     "Drinking water! Minimal virus!  Two hundred cubits per litron!"
     And so, every vendor tried to stop him and sell to him and all of it
hyped out of the normal price range for his benefit.
     Tegates smiled cautiously, nodded his thanks, allowed himself to be
stiffed for a trinket here and there, a nest of speech-sensitive gloppit
eggs for the kids, a holographic jigsaw for Tenelle.  Cubits were nothing
but chump change for him.
     The vendors smiled good-naturedly back, pestered him to the utter
limit, allowed him to pass when it was obvious he wasn't in the market to
buy, lost interest instantly when other customers came along.
     Tegates smiled to himself.  The odd trinket.  That was okay. 
Tomorrow was presents for the family day.  Today he had better things to
spend his money on.
     The marketplace ended in a diagonal shower of starlight wafting down
through a wide grilled window above his head.  He smelled incense. 
Peach-colored smoke drifted through the shafts of starlight.
     He stood in the light, letting it play on him.  
     Belladonna was waiting for him beyond that light.
     He moved forward, greeted by new sounds.  New voices.  Figures
posing in cages of light.
     "Hey, man, you wanna do business?"
     "You wanna get to know me?  I'm a pretty smooth operator."
     "What's the matter, man?  I'm not your type?"
     And breathless sighs and distant shrieks of pleasure or pain and the
rustle of cloth as they tried to stop him and sell themselves to him.
     But he only wanted Belladonna.
     She wasn't there.
     Half a degree beyond the light, standing before a tend community
illuminated only by flickering blue electric candles, a half-naked human
male told him why.  "Naw, man.  Belladonna's legal.  Takin' business from
us.  We move her on.  You go too if you want it legal."
     "Where did she go?" Tegates felt disappointment gathering in the pit
of his stomach.  Down Below was located in the very underbelly of the
great battlestar.  It was three levels deep,  and three maxims long.  How
was he going to find her?
     "Who cares, man.  Greener pastures."  The man laughed.  In space it
was a bad joke and the man knew it.
     Tegates frowned.  "I thought you were all legal these days."
     The man laughed louder.  "Some is, some ain't.  Depends.  Now you
wanna do business or you gonna mosey on outta here an' stop wastin' my
time?"
     Tegates tried to hide his disappointment.  "Are you sure you can't
tell me where she's gone?  I've got money, you know.  Hard currency, just
the way you like it down here."  He reached for his money bag but the man
stopped him with a gesture.
     "I see ya loaded, or I wouldn't be talkin' to ya.  Now tell me what
ya want an' pay up fer it or git."
     "Well, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll try my luck
elsewhere."
     "Whatever."  The man turned away, hesitated, turned back.  "Just one
thing, right?  I like the look of ya.  Got a dad your age.  So this is
free, right?  Don't go flashin' that money bag around like it was a
torch, okay?  Otherwise the only light you'll see is the light of heaven
as they slit you from ass ta neck and take the clothes off yer back, and
probably the skin off yer back, too. I hear it makes fine lampshades. 
That's just a rumor, though."
     Tegates shivered.  "Is---is that really true?"
     "Do I look like the kind who'd lie to ya?  I may not be legal, but I
am a professional"
     "Yes.  Yes of course you are."  Tegates shivered again. Maybe today
would be a good time to go looking for family presents on the better
ships in the Fleet after all. "Thank you, Mr...er...well, thank you very
much. I'll bear that in mind."
     "Yeah, well.  You better."  The man walked back down the line of
tents and vanished into the peach-scented smoke and starlight.
     Tegates shivered.  In something less than two mili-centons Down
Below had lost about eight percent of its appeal.  It was definitely time
to go shopping.  
     On a ship that wasn't the battlestar Galactica, that is.
     Avoiding the starlit cages and their tempting contents, Tegates
turned away to the left.  And stopped suddenly.
     An alien was standing directly in front of him, blocking his path. 
The alien was incredibly thin and tall, nearly three metrons.  A ruff of
spines feathered out from---her?  Yes, her skull.  Some formed a shifting
veil down her back, others stuck out in a fan around her head.  Her skin
was pale yellow, patterned with attractive brown streaks and splotches. 
She had no eyes.
     She was naked.
     Her spines angled to study Tegates.
     Tegates craned his neck to meet the alien's "gaze."
     The alien said: "You have cubits."
     Tegates said cautiously.  "Maybe."
     "I give nothing away for free."  The alien spoke as if to clear up
any misunderstand. "You pay me cubits."
     "H-h--have you been following m-m-me?"
     The alien tipped all her spines to the left. "Yes."
     Tegates was beginning to feel more at ease with this startling
non-human female.  "What is it you want to be paid for?  What don't you
give away for free?"
     "My Song.  If you would intertwine your Song with mine, you must pay
me for it."
     Tegates laughed. "Well, I've never heard it put that way before."
     The alien made a complex gesture with her hand, almost as if
inscribing a map in the smoky air of Down Below.  "I must continue the
Song of Journey."
     Tegates nodded.  He was beginning to understand.  "Now, don't take
this personally, but I notice you haven't got any clothes on."
     The alien tipped hers pines again to the left. So far so good.
     "You're naked and you need cubits and you need to go to another
ship.  You're a socialator, right?  A legal, just like Belladonna. 
You're legal and they've moved you on just like they did her.  You know
where she'll be."
     Again the spines tipped, this time to the right.  Who needs
languatrons anyway?
     "Thought as much.  So.  Here's the deal.  I've give you cubits if
you take me to Belladonna.  That all right with you?"
     The alien said, "I must continue the Song of Journey.  I must take
your Song of Being and continue the Song of Journey."
     Tegates smiled. "Exactly my thoughts.  My...er...Song and
your...Song.  We'll go together.  You lead and I'll follow."
     To Tegates surprise the alien led him not back into Down Below or
forward through the marketplace but directly out of Down Below and back
toward the legal sections of the Galactica.
     Odd.  Still, Tegates was not prepared to give up his night of joyful
debauchery just yet.
     After a while they reached the personnel lift by which Tegates had
come to Down Below.
     And passed it by.
     Tegates found himself following the alien up three levels on foot to
a freight elevator.  According to the specs stenciled on the outer walls,
the lift was designed to move cargo or heavy artillery such as laser
cannons or equipment like energizers to various destinations, anywhere
from the forward weapons batteries, the port or starboard launch bay, or
the Cargo bays.
     At first Tegates was surprised by this, but the more he thought
about it, the clearer it became.  If Belladonna was legal, then it stood
to reason she might have moved to better surroundings.  And since she was
probably the most exotic alien he had ever seen, it stood to reason she
might actually prefer to live in any of a number of the really run-down
sections of the battlestar, maybe someplace where the artificial gravity
hadn't worked in yahrens.
     His mind settled, Tegates happily followed the naked alien to the
lift.
     An overhead loading system was busy shuffling crates through the
open doors of the elevator.  Tegates ducked as the last crate slid past
overhead, slotted neatly into a racking system inside the lift.  Now
there was only a few maxims of floor space in which to crouch as the
crates swung gently but massively above.
     The doors clanged shut behind them.
     The lift accelerated upward.
     Tegates sat heavily on the deck.  Beside him the alien crouched on
all fours; her back and limbs seemed to alter subtly as her weight was
distributed.  Tegates was impressed.  Very supple.  Very interesting. 
Distinct possibilities.  Maybe he'd find her again later, after he'd seen
Belladonna.
     "What's your name?"
     "Arc."
     Tegates nodded politely.  "Pleased to meet you."
     The aliens spines tipped also.
     Above his head the crates creaked and swung on their racks,
occasionally clunking solidly together as the lift changed direction. 
Tegates hoped their fastenings were secure.  One loose crate at this
level of gravity would flatten him.  A flatbed autotrolley waited
patiently to one side.  A panel on the trolley's side warned the machine
was under computer control, running a fixed program.  Tegates realized it
would move automatically when the lift doors opened and made a mental
note not to get in its way.
     He looked back at the alien, hunkered down until her belly was
touching the floor, elbows and knees nearly meeting, both rising above
the level of her back.  She was big.  Her head was still level with his
chest.  The light from the trolley's infopanel spilling gently onto her
eyeless face and waving spines gave her the air of a pet that needed a
good meal.  Tegates nodded to himself.  It was a look some socialators
cultivated deliberately in an attempt to engender sympathy in their
clients.
     Tegates watched the light patterns play across her skin for a
moment, then caught himself frowning.
     Something was...something was not quite...
     He turned.  Read the sign on the trolley again.  I thought so!  The
trolley was in transit from the launch bays to Cargo Bay Seven.
     What would Belladonna be doing in Cargo Bay Seven?
     A sick feeling grew in the pit of his stomach.
     ---the only light you'll see is the light of heaven as they slit you
from ass to neck and take the clothes off yer back---
     Tegates found himself sweating, suddenly terrified.
     ---and probably the skin off yer back too---
     The alien tipped her spines toward him.
     ---I hear it makes fine lampshades---
     Tegates reached in his pocket for his homemade laser gun.  Small
enough to fit in the palm of his hand, Tegates considered the laser the
best kind of personal defense system.
     But he couldn't find his laser gun.  His pockets were full of junk. 
The gloppit eggs.  The jigsaw.  The data crystal.  His money bag.
     Which pocket had he put the damn gun in?
     The alien gave the impression of observing him closely.  She didn't
move.  But Tegates became aware the attractive brown mottling on her skin
suddenly looked less like skin coloring than it did dried blood.  Yes. 
Very much like dried blood.
     There!  He found the laser.  He took it out.
     The lift lurched, slowed, and stopped.
     Suddenly nauseated, Tegates found himself thrashing helplessly
around in the narrow space between the doors and the nearest crate.  It
was as much as he could do to keep hold of the little laser gun.
     Bracing herself against a crate, the alien stood.  Her spines angled
toward him, quivering eagerly.
     The lift doors clanked open.
     Tegates grabbed hold of a crate to steady himself and then performed
a daring leap into the air to escape from the lift through the open
doors.  He had jumped, apparently into what looked like the airlock of a
bulk cargo loader.
     The airlock was ten metrons long and already partially full of
crates.  Tegates pulled himself to the far end of the lock as the
transport system unloaded more crates one by one into the air lock.  He
stood up against a wide metal door.  In all probability there were people
on the other side of that door---the loader's crew---waiting to move the
crates in the holds.  The loader would them ferry them off-ship to, say,
the freighter Orion.
     He shouted.  "Hello?  Anyone there?  I'm stuck in here!  Hello?"
     No response.  Of course not.  The door was probably five or six
centimetrons thick.
     Tegates turned, tried to see back into the lift.  Was the alien
still there?  Had she come out?  Had she really intended to attack him?
     From somewhere beyond a staggered wall of crates Tegates heard the
lift doors shut with a clang.
     Tegates sighed with relief.  He'd made it clear of the lift.  Clear
of the alien.  Roll on, tomorrow.  The lads at the office will laugh
their heads off when they hear about this little adventure.
     He wedged himself against the inner air lock door and waited for it
to cycle.
     It stayed closed.
     The loader lurched.
     It was moving.
     Tegates banged hard on the door, bounced back from the reaction,
fell with shoulder-bruising force against the nearest crate.
     This wasn't good.  He could end up anywhere.  And  you could bet it
would cost him his remaining cubits to get a transport pilot to return
him to the Galactica.
     There were thumpings and clankings as the dock moorings unclamped
from the loader.  Then a deep silence broken only by a vibration that was
transmitted through the deck and into his body via the crate he was
clinging to.  Tegates imagined the loader's engines firing up, its
thrusters edging it away from the dock, leaving the Galactica for another
ship.
     Tegates rubbed his shoulder.
     Oh boy.  This wasn't good.  Not good at all.  He had an image to
maintain.  What was he going to do now?  Bang on the door like a lost kid
until they let him in?  Was that something a man of science would do? 
Mind you, getting trapped in a by a mad alien while looking for a
six-legged socialator something a man of science would do?
     His thoughts were interrupted by a sound behind him.
     He turned.  
     The alien!  She was in the chamber with him!  Clinging to a craft
not four metrons away!
     Tegates felt his stomach lurch again, felt the fear punch back into
him.  Scrabbling in his pocket he pulled out the laser again, struggled
to turn himself so he could bring it to be ar.
     The alien moved. Reached into her stomach and...
     Tegates felt something thud into his chest.
     ---knife that thing used a knife on me I'm stabbed I'm bleeding---
     His fist clenched convulsively on the laser gun, which discharged
wildly into the air.  The bolt of energy pierced a crate, flickered over
the inner door and the control systems beside it.  There was a puff of
smoke and a smell of burning from inside the crate.  Beside the inner
lock door the control panel shorted with a electrical fizzing sound.  The
door began to open.
     Distinctly Tegates was aware of a clam voice telling him fire had
been detected in the airlock.  There were some instructions about
activating the boraton mist fire control system. Tegates was, quite
simply, far too terrified to pay the voice any mind.
     Tegates felt the laser gun recharge, tried to bring it to bear on
the alien, but she wasn't there anymore.  No.  She was next to him now,
spines waving gently in the currents of air sweeping through the lock. 
Tegates struggled.  Felt a wrenching sensation in his chest and then
another blow.  No pain yet.  Thank Kobol, the wounds were probably only
superficial.  He still have a chance.
     The alien moved again.  This time Tegates couldn't follow the
movement because there was something in the way.
     Pain.  Red liquid.  Oozing out of him.
     Dear Lords of Kobol, the end is near!
     He felt hands at his chest, pulling, felt himself turned, his shirt
opened and claws scrabbled across his money bag, she's after my money
bag, my cubits.  I knew I shouldn't have tried to cry out but managed
only a liquid gurgling. And it was hard to breathe.  There was something
in his throat.  Blood.  There was blood in his throat, and that was no
good, because he would choke on it and then he would die and the kids
would never get their gloppit eggs and Tenelle her jigsaw and he would
never get to see Belladonna again and she would never do all those
delicious things that made him cry out and gasp for air, and he was
choking, vomiting, as the pain finally hit him, jackknifed him over a
crate toward the opening air lock and someone was jabbing needles into
his skin, into his ears, and his eyes, and the pain spread through his
neck and chest and his limbs shook convulsively as he tried to draw
breath and he felt the laser gun discharge again as he screamed with the
pain, the awful pain and his body thrashing silently and blood I don't
want to look at it, at my blood I don't want to look at my own.

*****

CHAPTER 7

     Dr. Franklin awoke from a dream of death to  the sound of his link
buzzing instantly on the wall beside his bed.  He rolled over onto his
back, reached up to turn on the monitor, grabbed at the covers to stop
himself falling out of bed. "What is it?"
     "Franklin!  I've paged you three times now."
     "What the---? Tomas?  What's the big idea?  What time is it?"
     "It's time for you to get up.  We've got a situation here."
     Franklin sighed.  "Get Araz to handle it.  I've only just got to
sleep."
     "Check your chronometer.  You've been asleep six centars."
     Franklin jerked himself into a sitting position.  "You're joking!"
     "There's no time to joke.  We've got a red alert in Cargo Bay
7-Beta."
     Franklin rubbed his eyes with the back of a hand.  "7-Beta?  That's
zero-gravity.  No atmosphere.  On the superstructure."
     "Yep."
     "Hades' hole!" With an effort, Franklin threw off the covers and
clambered to his feet.  He lurched into the bathroom, scrabbled for a
bottle, slapped on a stim.  Hesitated, slapped on another.
     "Franklin?  You still there?"
     "Yeah.  Sure.  Just getting dressed."  The stims hit and Franklin
suddenly realized he was dressed.  He'd slept in his clothes.  He'd only
been on shift for thirty centons.  Surely he couldn't have been that
tired.
     "Bright boy.  You taking stims?"
     "No."  Franklin leaned against the shower unit while the stims took
hold of his head.  "Okay, give it to me."
     "Scoss reports an accident in one of the auto-loaders in transit
through the docking bay.  Lock malfunction.  We got both hatches open,
multiple loader-crew injuries, all minor, suit decompression...we got
cargo crates all over the show, the big ones.  One crush injury from
that.  The loader impacted with a dock crane and we got three dockworkers
still trapped inside the crane, with decompression and crush
injuries---we got at least one fatality, suit rupture, there's cargo all
over the show---it's machinery, massive inertia stuff---and it's adrift. 
There's many half a dozen more people in the loader, nobody seems to know
for sure because it's still decompressing.  Also, there are reports of at
least two Jondoes, one human, one alien, no suits, either stuck in the
loader lock or drifting through the bay with the cargo.  They're probably
fatalities.  That's it so far."
     Franklin reached for his medical case, then abandoned it.  A bunch
of painkillers and some dopamine placebos would be worse than useless in
this situation.  "Get anyone you can with zero-gravity experience out to
7-Beta.  Get Araz out of bed if you must.  Tell her to prep for suit
surgery.  And med-techs, as many as you can get.  And make sure they've
all clocked time weightless.  I don't want some nervous Nellie who'll
upchuck in his suit and give us a choke injury to worry about.  Everyone
else to run interference for you in the Life Station.  Got that?"
     "No sweat."
     "All right then.  Get my trauma kit.  I'll be in 7-Beta personnel
lock in fifteen mili-centons.  Franklin out."
     Quarter of a centon later, Franklin floated fully suited outside the
personnel lock and tried to ignore his own body odor while attempting to
get his bearings.  
     Cargo Bay 7-Beta was located some four hundred maxims across from
the starboard landing bay wing, on the skin of the battlestar, a
zero-gravity environment. Loaders ran from it over the side of the
Galactica and into free space whenever one of the transports had a
shipment to pick up, or when, as now, the core was fully hooked by the
other transports.  The bay ran lengthwise along the primary hull, just
across from the top of the landing bay wing.  It was divided into sixteen
smaller bays, four to each wall, designated "Alpha" through "Pi."  Each
of the smaller bays had eight docks, two docks per wall, leaving a
passage wide enough for two loaders to pass from stem to stern. Interior
access to the bays was via cargo and personnel airlocks on the
battlestar's hull.  The whole complex was normally kept depressurized,
open to space to facilitate the loading and unloading of cargo.
     The main personnel access lock to bay 7-Beta was situated on the
battlestar-side wall.  From here, Franklin could see all the way along
the bay toward the main channel which ran at right angles to the dock and
led to space.  There were cranes, loaders, abandoned cargos, figures in
suits running service modules or working on repairs to the dock
structures.  Franklin tried to take it all in quickly.  It wasn't the
first time he'd been here, but, as ever, the sheer scale of the
battlestar's exterior was overwhelming.  He had to get his bearings fast,
as lives could depend on it. 
     He looked around for the damaged loader.  It wasn't hard to spot. 
It was drifting slowly out of the dock, partly hidden within a mess of
tumbling crates, some of which had split to spill their contents into the
bay, others of which had bounced off nearby dock structures and were
currently spinning in all directions.  A number of suited figures could
be seen weaving in and out of the drifting cargo.  As Franklin watched
one of the figures narrowly avoided being hit by a spinning crate, which
went on to impact against the battlestar-side wall and burst open in a
shower of broken machine parts and vaporizing packing grease.
     Another group of suited figures clustered around the nearest dock
crane, which also seemed to have sustained severe damage.  It had, in
fact, become separated from the dock and was now moving slowly toward the
battlestar-side wall.  The glare of metal cutters reflected off the crane
and the dock, the slowly-spinning crates and their cargo of heavy
machinery, the loader tumbling into the distance. 
     Franklin switched on his comm. system.  It was a mess of chatter.
     "...no, forget that get them all out..."
     "...hades is that cutter?  I said..."
     "...there with the other goddamn tools..."
     "...out for that junction box!"
     He switched to the emergency medical channel.  "This is Dr.
Franklin.  I'm at the 7-Beta personnel lock.  Who's in charge around
here?"
     The radio crackled.  "Dr. Franklin?  I'm Scoss, chief dock hand."  A
figure separated itself from the crowd surrounding the crane and
approached.  Franklin could see little puffs of vapor from a personal
thruster as the figure sped toward him.  Scoss spoke and flew at the same
time.  "We've got a bad one here, Doctor.  We managed to get some of the
suit decompression and crush injuries to the coordinator's office---that
it bolted to the wall twenty metrons to your left---the rest are still
out there."  Franklin saw the figure gesture beyond the dock, toward the
crane and the tumbling loader.
     At that moment, the inner lock cycled and the medical team arrived:
Tomas and Araz, half a dozen nurses and an anesthetist.  All of them held
medical equipment.  Two nurses were carrying a stack of collapsible
stretchers.  
     Scoss arrived at exactly the same time as the medical team,
reversing his thruster and settling gently beside Franklin.  
     Tomas stared out-dock, let her gaze travel from the tumbling cargo
loader to the slowly moving crane.  "That's the crane?  Your riggers are
in there?"
     "Yep." Scoss nodded inside his helmet.
     "It's a goddamned mess.  How the hell are we supposed to get to
them?"
     "I've got a team working on the crane, trying to cut a way through
the wreckage to the trapped workers---but we've got a problem there, too. 
The loader ruptured a fuel tank when it hit and we had a blowout.  Zero
atmosphere in the cargo bay meant that there was no fire but the moorings
snapped.  The crane is on the move.  Its own systems are snafu and it's
heading for the battlestar-side wall of the cargo bay."
     Tomas said, "So it'll get a little dented, so what?"
     "You don't understand.  That crane weighs eighty laxars.  It'll go
through the wall like a laser beam through packing grease.  There are
equipment bays and crew quarters on the other side.  All pressurized. 
We'll get a major hull-breach for sure."
     "Frak!" said Tomas.
     Buzzing with the stims, Franklin felt his mind race ahead, assessing
the possibilities and options.  "How long to impact?"
     "Fifteen, maybe twenty mili-centons.  We tried to lasso it and that
slowed it a little, but then the cables snapped.  Too much momentum, too
little time."
     Tomas leaned forward to get a better look at the crane.  "Well, what
damage will it do to the wall?  For that matter, what's on the other side
of the wall?"
     "Equipment bays, weapons storage, machine shops, that sort of thing. 
They're all evacuated for three levels in-ship.  But it's the riggers
trapped in the cranes that I'm worried about.  I don't know if we can get
them out in time.  If the crane hits and they're still inside, they'll be
crushed."
     Franklin didn't bother to nod.  "We can't do anything about the
riggers in the crane until you've cut through to them.  Dr. Araz is the
zero-gravity surgeon; she'll handle that side of things.  Apparently,
you've got people still in the loader?"
     Scoss hesitated. "I don't know.  Look, this place is a mess.  I
jetted through more space in the last ten mili-centons than I have in the
whole last sectar."  He shrugged; the suit twitched. "One or two of the
loader people managed to get into suits---they said there were people in
the cargo lock.  Sure, the crew numbers don't tally, but that doesn't
mean they're inside the loader.  They could be floating out there." 
Another gesture out-dock, to the drifting mess of crates and cargo.  "If
they're inside the loader, then they might be alive; some compartments
may still have air---those that weren't damaged by impact with the
crane---but your guess is as good as mine."
     Franklin had heard enough.  "All right. I see you've got personal
thrusters here."
     Open, and he would have gotten it, with his... "Sure.  AE-I's."
     "I can run an AE.  Get me a set.  I'm going out to the loader."
     "Look, Doctor, I got crews out there already..."
     "And how many of them know how to treat decompression injuries or
amputate a limb through a spacesuit without killing the patient?  I
haven't got time for an argument.  I can handle myself in zero-gravity. 
If I can't help when I get there I'll get my ass out of the way.  Now,
are you going to get me that thruster set, or shall we just stand here
and have a nice little chat while your people are dying?"
     It took five minutes for Franklin to reach the debris surrounding
the loader.  By that time he was sweating.  That was the stims.  Hyping
the metabolic system, collapsing time.  It was why his sleep was terrible
lately.  Franklin knew the dangers accompanying overuse of stims.  He
could handle them.  Sometimes it was the only way to get the work done. 
He turned up the suit dehumidifiers, tried to remember to stop grinding
his teeth.
     Together with two nurses he jetted carefully through the tumbling
crates and drifting bits of machinery.  He slipped between a crate and an
exo-powerloader with defect stickers plastered all over the seat and
console just before the two collided.  The loader on its own weighed as
much as a standard civilian shuttle.  The crate burst open with the
impact and more flying junk appeared.  Evaporating grease sprayed over
Franklin's visor.  He wiped it clear.  Something with multiple hydraulic
rams nudged him firmly to one side.  He slipped out from beside the
machine as it smacked solidly into another crate and bounced away
spinning slowly.  A toolbox on its side burst, , spraying him with a
shower of small trash, fuses, bulbs, ceramic insulation plugs, some
spanners, a pair of pliers.  He ignored the stuff, sprayed gas from the
thrusters, moved steadily through the junk toward the loader.  The nurses
followed.
     Twenty metrons from the loader he saw a pair of suited dockworkers. 
One was running interference for a second who was holding a body stuffed
into the clear plastic of an emergency environment bag.  The body was
wearing blood-soaked civvies and no spacesuit.
     One of the dockworkers waved to Franklin.  "Hey, you a med-tech? 
You wanna see this boy here?"
     Franklin jetted over.  "He's been too long without a suit."
     "But he's movin' man."
     "They do that.  It's just fluid and air escaping from the body."
     "Kobol!  We've been carrying him for gods knows how long."
     "Shall we dump him?"
     "Someone else'll just waste time on him.  Take him to the office and
put him with the rest."
     "Sure.  Listen.  Sorry to..."
     "Forget it."  Franklin switched frequencies.  "Tomas?  We found the
first Jondoe.  Couple of dockers are bringing him in now."
     "What's his condition?"
     "Dead."
     Tomas sighed. "Okay."
     Franklin said, "Araz, how're you doing at the crane?"
     "We're talking to the trapped riggers.  Two are conscious.  Minor
crush injuries.  One has got bad bleding from the femoral artery.  He's
unconscious and his suit's filling up.  I doubt he'll go the distance."
     "The cutters?"
     "Still going great guns.  We've got about fifteen mili-centons until
the crane hits.  We're standing by."
     "Keep me informed."
     "Yes, Doctor."
     By now Franklin had reached the loader.  He signed off and grabbed
the edge of the airlock. The hatchway was blocked by a crate wedged
sideways in it.  He positioned himself so he could see through the gap.
     Something moved.
     A piece of jigsaw hit his helmet visor.
     Franklin moved his arm, batted aside the debris.  The jigsaw drifted
away into the loader airlock and then back, wafted past his helmet and
out into the bay.  Airflow.  There was airflow here.  He grabbed hold of
the crate and pulled himself through the gap.
     More trash.  Machinery, bolts, nuts, a screwdriver, pieces of broken
crate, hinges.  Bits of jigsaw.  A home-made laser gun.  Was that a
gloppit egg?
     Franklin moved through the lock, pulling himself by the crates,
followed by the nurses.
     He saw the alien as he pulled himself past yet another crate.
     ""Decius, Thark.  We've got a live one here.  Get me my oxy mask and
an AE bag!
     The alien was wedged against the wall beside the inner airlock
hatch.  Franklin's eyes widened as he recognized the species.  "Tomas! 
I'm about to bag our second Jondoe.  It's one of the Tuchanq."
     "The runaway?"
     "The very same.  And she's alive.  Unconscious but alive."
     "That's a neat trick, if you can do it."
     "There's air venting from inside the loader---she must be breathing
that."
     "Why didn't it blast her out like the other guy?"
     "She's stuck to the wall, somehow---ah, I see.  Um. There's a laser
gun loose in here.  Someone's shot her.  Probably the other Jondoe.  Hit
her arm.  Her skin's welded to the wall."
     "Lucky lady."
     "That's one way of looking at it.  She may lose the arm."
     A crackle as someone else clicked into the emergency channel. 
"Franlin?  Scoss here.  Listen.  The loader's about to fetch up against
3-Epsilon dock.  We can't stop it.  You don't want to be there when it
happens.  You've got three mili-centons."
     Franklin swore.  Acknowledging Scoss's warning, Franklin told the
nurses to check the interior of the loader.  They offered no argument,
moved quickly through the lock.
     Franklin looked more closely at the alien's arm and side.  Could he
ease the limb away and minimize physical trauma to the muscle and
subcutaneous tissue, or was he going to have to cut?
     The alien's arm---indeed, her whole body---was a mass of bruises and
decompression contusions.  It was a miracle she was still alive at all. 
At least the oxy mask meant she was breathing a little more easily.
     Franklin took hold of the alien's arm, pulled gently.  The limb show
no inclination to come free from the wall.  Franklin took a laser scalpel
from his trauma kit and began to explore the extent of the skin damage.
     "Two mili-centons, Doctor."
     "Thank you, Scoss."
     Franklin told the nurses to get out.  They appeared dragging a
bagged, semiconscious decompression victim.  He wasn't bleeding too
badly; he might make it with a bit of luck.
     "We found this one in the turbo-flush."
     "Lucky guy.  Get him out of here."
     Taking a firmer hold on the laser scalpel, Franklin began to slice
away the skin from the alien's arm and side, where it was fused to the
wall.  Blood welled out of the wounds and vaporized.
     "One mili-centon."
     "I hear you."
     Too slow.  He wasn't going to make it.
     Abandoning finesse, Franklin wrenched the limb free of the wall,
slapped three or four medpacks over the long wound, bagged the alien, and
dragged her to the lock.  He shoved her outside and followed quickly,
grabbing the body again and pushing himself away.
     He didn't hear the loader crash into the dock and but he turned as a
burst of flame quickly extinguished as the loader's air was consumed,
briefly lit his suit and the surrounding debris.
     More trash flew quietly past.
     Franklin oriented himself so his feet were toward the explosion.  An
impact on his left foot wrenched his leg painfully and set him spinning. 
Then the eager hands of dockworkers grabbed him and the alien was carried
away by nurses.
     Almost immediately his radio crackled. "Franklin?  We're through the
crane."  It was Araz.  "I've treated two of the riggers for minor crash
injuries.  The nurses are bringing them out now.  The third is going to
be a problem."
     Franklin shivered, wished briefly he had another stim.  "Give it to
me."
     "The guy's leg is caught in the superstructure."
     "Amputation?"
     "Uh huh."
     "Can you do it in time?"
     "I think so."
     "Be sure."
     "I can do it.  I could use some help, though."
     "I'll be right there."
     By the time Franklin arrived at the crane, the top strut was
frighteningly close to the dock wall.  Maybe fifty metrons.  The whole
thing was creeping along in eerie silence.  He wouldn't like to guess how
little time they had before impact.  He jetted carefully toward the knot
of suited medics and riggers, arriving as the second rigger was
extricated from the tangle of wreckage surrounding the cabin and carried
away by nurses.  Attended by the remaining nurse, Araz herself was
half-inside the cabin, suited legs sticking out, making an examination of
the third patient.  He tapped her on the foot and she wriggled carefully
out.
     "Anesthetic?" He asked the question tersely, as there was no time
for chitchat.
     "Affirmative.  Three litrons gas through the suit breather.  His
vitals are about as steady as they can be.  I need you inside to clamp
the suit and direct the surgery.  I can't see from here and I can't
operate from there."
     "No problem."  Wasting no more breath on speech, Franklin pulled
himself carefully through the narrow gap and into the cabin of the crane. 
The first thing he was aware of as he entered was the sound, the creaking
and popping of structural membranes as the crane moved slowly toward the
wall.  The sound was carried to him by direct contact between his suit
and the crane itself, transmitted through the structure and then through
the air in his suit to his ears.  It was a frightening sound.  The
riggers had lived with that sound for nearly twenty mili-centons
now---and that in itself was unusual in an environment where, if you
heard a sound like this at all, it normally meant you had just seconds
left to live.
     Switching to the common channel, he asked Scoss how long they had
until impact.
     Breakfast menu?
     The answer did nothing to cheer him.  "Five microns, probably less."
     He twisted himself around so he was facing the rigger.  He could see
where the man's leg was trapped: it had vanished into the footwell of the
control seats.  The front of the cabin had been squashed in the impact,
destroying the control systems and sending a tangle of metal to crush the
man's shin and foot.
     "In position."
     He heard Araz sigh above the noise of the crane.  "You see the leg?"
     "I see where it was.  The suit is intact.  Hand me the clamp."
     A micron later he had assembled what looked like a half-meter-wide
jubilee clip around the suit leg.  He activated the hydraulic ram and the
clip closed slowly over the upper leg.  The suit ballooned momentarily,
then collapsed as the clamp shrank until it was tight.
     "Clamp in position.  How long until impact?"
     "Four mili-centons."
     Now Araz climbed partially back into the wreckage.  Normally the
cabin was big enough for three---now Franklin felt like a rat in a cage. 
He was just glad the rigger was unconscious.
     "You got hold there?" she asked.
     "Affirmative."
     "I'm puncturing the suit below the clamp.  Stand by to tighten the
clamp until we lose internal pressure."
     Using power shears, Araz cut through the material of the suit. 
Franklin felt the pressure go immediately, squeezed the trigger of the
hydraulic ram to tighten the clamp further.  Blood spurted out of the cut
Araz was making, vaporizing in the zero pressure of the cabin.
     Araz stopped, called for suction, used a slender hose to suck away
the blood from inside the suit leg.  It took only microns but even so
Franklin had to wipe away a thin layer of sublimed blood from his visor.
     He heard Scoss say, "Where'd all that frakkin' blood come from?"
     Araz's voice was as calm as her hands as they cut methodically
through the suit.  "The blood was in the suit already.  He's been
bleeding for a while.  I think the fact his leg was so badly crushed
actually saved his life.  The wreckage had mostly pinched off the artery.
     "Will he be okay?"
     "He will be if I have anything to say about it."
     Araz handed back the suction hose and finished cutting away the suit
leg.  "Okay, I'm through.  Laser scalpel, please."
     Franklin switched to the medical channel and said, "Make it quick. 
No points for neatness if we're smeared all over the dock wall."
     "Right.  Nurse, make that a heavy laser scalpel.":
     Switching channels again, Franklin asked Scoss, "Time to impact?"
     "Three mili-centons."
     Franklin said, deadpan, "Dr. Araz.  I don't want to rush you, but I
could really do with some breakfast, so if you could just hurry it along
there I'd be more than grateful."
     "Frankln, you're just no fun when you're on stims."
     "Fine.  Whatever.  Just cut."
     Another spurt of blood, smaller this time.
     "Suction."
     Globules of vaporizing blood vanished into the hose.
     The light from the laser scalpel glittered in Araz's helmet.
     "Two mili-centons."
     More cutting.  Franklin felt his teeth grinding together.  Got to
stop that.
     "Okay, I'm through the muscle.  Give me a bone saw."
     "One mili-centon."
     Switching back to the common frequency, Franklin said, "Everyone not
directly involved with surgery move away from the crane.  Now.  Dr. Araz
and I will finish this.  Move it, people!  Nurse, give me that suction
unit.  Scoss.  Make sure my staff are clear of that crane."
     "I heard that, Dr. Franklin."
     Araz said, "Suction.  Thanks.  Okay.  Yeah, that's good.  I can see
now."
     "How are we doing?"
     "Goddamn riggers, what are their legs made out of anyway? Meganite?
I'm gonna bill this guy for a new bone saw."
     Scoss said, "We're outta time!"
     Araz renewed her efforts.  
     Too late.
     The first indication that the crane had hit the wall was a metallic
screeching sound transmitted to Franklin through his contact with the
structure.  The crane shook as, twenty metrons away, the balance gantry
crashed into the wall in slow motion.  With an effort he ignored both
noise and shaking.
     "Araz.  Talk to me."
     "Almost through.  Almost..."
     A sudden jerk.  Movement all around.  Steel rippled, girders bent,
paint scraped away to hang in a lazy cloud of drifting particles.
     The metal screamed.
     And Araz gave a cry. " Jesus!  I've got a red light!  My suit's
punctured!"
     Franklin grabbed the bone saw from her.  "Get out.  Now!  Scoss! 
Get the hell over here now with a suit repair kit and get Dr. Araz out!"
     A moment and she was gone, protesting.  He ignored her voice.  He
reached into the footwell to get at the rigger's leg.  At that moment the
crane collapsed even more; the cabin buckled, finished the job for him by
squeezing the leg in two as if it were paste pinched off from a tube of
cream.
     There was a trickle of blood, but the suit clamp held.  The rigger
moaned and wriggled, then lapsed back into unconsciousness.  Franklin
grabbed the rigger, tried to pull him clear.  He came easily now, nothing
to hold him back.  He turned to the opening through which he'd entered
the cabin.
     It was gone, closed off by the collapse of the cabin.
     They were trapped inside the crane.
     He swore at the top of his lungs.
     The crane continued to impact with the wall.  Metal bent and
cracked.  The cabin compressed even further.  Then the ceiling split and
the crane's central mast came down through the roof, between Franklin and
the rigger, punched the floor out, continued on into the superstructure
of the crane for several meters, then jammed tight.
     Wasting no time on thought, Franklin pushed the rigger through the
jagged hole and followed him through, just as the cabin itself smashed
into the wall and was crushed flat.
     Now he was in the central structure of the crane, actually inside
the gantry.  Still no way out but at least he could move away from the
wall.  Pushing the rigger ahead of him, wiping his visor free of blood
every few meters, Franklin pulled himself along inside the crane.  Cables
tangled his limbs. Sweat misted the inside of the visor.  Every time he
touched steel, he heard the crane dying behind him, smashing continuously
into the wall with a sound like a hundred metal foundries.
     He pulled himself along hand over hand, vaguely aware of voices
screaming in his ears, ignoring them because he knew he had to move or
die, crushed as the part of the crane he was in hit the wall.
     He gave the rigger in front another push.  The suited figure didn't
move.  They'd reached the end of the crane; the winch house where all the
heavy machinery was housed.  He felt around past the rigger for a hatch. 
Couldn't find one.
     Then he realized the winch house was moving.  Toward him.  Of
course, it massed so much more than the superstructure, had more
momentum.  It wouldn't stop moving just because everything else had.  He
was going to be crushed flat between the winch house and the wall!
     Grabbing the body, Franklin pushed himself back the way he had come. 
The length of girders was twisting, winding together.  Metal screamed
constantly.  Blood trickled from the rigger's clamped leg, misted the
space around his visor, made the girders slick beneath his gloved
fingers.  Franklin felt metal press against his back and legs, felt
himself squashed into a fetal position by the winch house and the
twisting girders.
     Hades' hole!  This is not good.  This is not good at all!
     Franklin managed to gather the rigger against him and held on tight,
as if the two of them could stave off the inevitable.
     It was useless, naturally.
     A girder clunked against his helmet.  He heard the crane screaming
as it died.  A mass of cables hit the back of his knees.
     He heard himself screaming.  Not pain, that would come later. 
Defiance.  A refusal to die.  For all the good it would do him.  AT least
he wasn't grinding his teeth anymore.
     Helmeted figures pressed against the crane.  Scoss.  Tomas. 
Separated by less than a metron of buckling metal girders, yet as
unreachable as Nurse Dianos's quarters.  Visored faces stared at him,
eyes wide.  A gloved hand reached for him.  He tried to reach back, but
couldn't move.
     He saw mouths moving behind visors, heard vague snippets of noise. 
The scream of metal drowned everything.
     Just then, one of his suit seals had given way.  Air leak.
Decompression.
     The way this metal was shifting he wasn't going to be alive long
enough to suffocate.
     Then the pressure was gone.  The central structure of the crane
burst open like a squashed paper lantern.  Franklin tried to pull himself
toward the hole but already suited hands were there to drag both him and
the rigger clear as the winch house smashed past where he had been and
impacted with the tangled mess that was the rest of the crane and, in
terrifying slow motion, punched both itself and the wreckage through the
dock wall and into the battlestar beyond.
     The section blew out in a great gout of air and moisture and loose
trash.  But the area had been sealed off and the damage was contained. 
Only two sections depressurized.  No lives were lost.
     Fifteen mili-centons later, Franklin stood inside the personnel lock
changing room with Tomas and stripped off his suit.  His body ached from
head to toe, and there were some decompression contusions around his left
knee where the suit seal had given way.  All in all his injuries were
minor.  A hot flush of energy from adrenaline, and from the stim tabs,
made his skin come out in goosebumps.
     He leaned against the metal wall of the changing room and tried to
catch his breath.  "You know, Tomas, the more a think about it, the more
the idea of breakfast sounds like heaven."
     Tomas studied him closely as she took off her own suit.  "Looks to
me like you already had breakfast, Franklin."  She pinched her fingers
and thumb together to indicate something the size and shape of a
medication tab. "On prescription.  Know what I mean?"  She wasn't
smiling.
     Franklin felt anger well up inside, controlled it with an effort. 
For Sagan's sake!  How many would have died if he hadn't...never mind. 
Forget it.  Let it go.
     But he couldn't, not quite.  "Look, Tomas, I know you're just doing
your job, looking out for your patients."  He stared at her.  "Just don't
make the mistake of thinking I'm one of them."
     Angrily, he turned away from her and began to dress.

*****

CHAPTER 8

     Troy felt the day was unraveling faster than he could tie it
together.  It was the Tuchanq.  Shelter had seemed like such a simple
request to grant.  Then the deaths started.  Now here he was in Life
Station looking at the result of death number three.  Tegates,
planetologist, exogeologist, and cyberologist.  Death by slow
decompression.
     Actually it wasn't quite that simple.
     Together with Franklin and Kanon, Troy watched from the observation
room as Tomas autopsied Tegates' body, giving a running monologue as she
did so.
     "Subject is a forty-five-yahren-old human male.  No deformities. 
Apparent cause of death was by slow decompressioin, that is to say,
suffocation.  Face, neck, and hands show major bruising caused by blood
loss through the capillary walls and the skin.  Eyeballs show desiccation
and full fluid loss.  Blood loss from ears, nose, and mouth indicates
possible internal trauma including but not limited to brain and lung
hemorrhage.  In addition there is medium-grade bruising to all parts of
the body covered at the time by clothing."
     As Tomas spoke she selected instruments from a nearby trolley,
replacing new ones with those she had used.  There wasn't much blood.
     "Although death was caused by decompression suffocation there is one
qualifying factor.  I see two wounds in the upper chest region.  Wounds
are consistent with that of blows from a curved blade."
     Troy and Kanon exchanged looks.
     "I suspect my day just got a whole lot worse," Kanon muttered.
     "Your day."  Troy shook his head wearily.
     They watched as the autopsy continued.
     Beginning with a bone saw to divide the breastbone, Tomas worked in
through the layers of the chest.  Skin, subcutaneous tissue, muscle, all
were reflected and clamped so that the extent of the two puncture wounds
to the chest could be examined.
     The wounds were deep.
     "I'm no doctor, Doctor, but I'd say those were killing wounds, am I
right?"
     Franklin nodded to Kanon. "It's why I called you both down here." 
He frowned and then continued.  "Although we have no way of knowing what
went on in that airlock, it looks very much to me as though the Tuchanq
intended to murder Tegates.  The airlock blowout was simply an accident
that complicated matters."
     Troy frowned.  "I don't understand.  They come here asking for help. 
Then they attack the Nomen.  And now this."
     Kanon glanced at Franklin.  "You saw laserblast damage in the
airlock?"
     Franklin nodded.  "Even saw his homebrew laser pistol."
     "Well then, it seems clear what happened.  The Tuchanq rolled
Tegates for a reason we'll probably never know.  Tegates tried to defend
himself.  Hit the lock controls with a stray laser beam and---whoopee! 
We warriors end up with one less civilian technical assistant."
     It wasn't good enough for Troy.  "This whole situation is getting
way out of control.  Now, I brought the fight between the Tuchanq and the
Nomen to the attention of the Council and they seem content to let me
handle matters.  This new death is going to have be reported, and it'll
surely complicate matters.  But how?  Attempted murder?  Actual murder? 
Self-defense?  Death by misadventure?  However it goes in the report
it'll affect the Council's vote on whether or not we help the Tuchanq."
     "In any case.  We do have a star witness."  Kanon jerked a thumb at
the intensive care unit where the Tuchanq was almost hidden behind banks
of monitors and medical equipment.  "But of course there's a problem."
     "Isn't there always?" Troy looked at Franklin.
     Franklin nodded.  "The Tuchanq suffered decompression just as
Tegates did.  She was lucky in that she managed to stay breathing long
enough for us to bag her.  But she wasn't one-hundred percent lucky. 
We've been monitoring her since having treated her wounds.  It seems very
likely she has suffered major trauma to the brain."
     Troy frowned.  "You're telling me she's brain damaged?"
     Franklin nodded. Anticipating Troy's next question, he added, "Right
now she's comatose.  The extent of the damage won't become clear until
she awakes, if she ever does.  But if she awakes, it is my belief that
the damage could be personality altering."
     Oh, felgercarb!
     "Also, there will undoubtedly be some memory loss.  Whether she'll
have knowledge of the incident is problematic at best.  But don't count
on it."
     "It's actually irrelevant what she remembers.  The fact is she may
have killed someone!" Troy sighed, apologized for his outburst.  "When
will you know for sure?"
     "Hard to say.  Depends on whenever she wakes up and someone asks
her."
     "That's a lot of help," muttered Kanon.
     "Under the circumstances, I'm afraid it's the best I can do."
     Troy thought for a moment.  "We could have her scanned."
     Kanon pursed his lips. "Lyta?"
     Troy nodded.
     Franklin said, "Lyta?  I didn't know she was still onboard."
     Kanon shrugged.  "You do now."  He added to Troy.  "Last I heard she
was hiding in Down Below.  She's been terrified of reprisals ever since
she revealed Talia was really working for Nightwatch."
     "Can you find her?"
     Kanon removed one hand from his pocket long enough to rub his chin. 
"I can find a rainy day on Cimtar."
     Troy nodded.  "All right, then.  That's one avenue of approach."  He
thought for a moment.  "What else can we think of?"
     Kanon scratched his head, and shrugged.  "Not a whole lot, I'm
afraid.  Scoss has dug the cargo loader black box out of the wreckage. 
But parts of the data have been corrupted.  Oniu down in communications
is trying to reconstruct what he can of it now.  I don't know how long
it'll take but if it works we could have a full vid of the fight in the
airlock---if there was a fight," he added.  "What we do have are the
personal effects removed from Tegates body---and those found floating
among the wreckage."
     "And they are?"
     "We've got standard ID, which I've been able to identify.  Tegates
was at least one of a thousand civilian technical assistants we've
recruited to help improve the Galactica's defensive and offensive
capabilities over the yahrens.  He was currently working on a
sophisticated personal defense system for our warriors who are currently
working undercover on Earth"
     "What else?"
     "He had the standard bunch of junk in his pockets.  Odd bits of
paper.  A paper notebook supplement to his link---it seems he was a bit
old fashioned like that.  There were some odd bits of jigsaw.  And a
gloppit egg."
     "Gloppit?  I..."
     Kanon glanced at Franklin, who shook his head as if to say Not now,
Kanon!
     Kanon said "It's nothing.  A child's trinket.  It's not important. 
One thing was odd, though."
     "What?"
     "He was carrying  twenty-two-thousand cubits in his money sack. 
That's twice the number of cubits than is usually needed for use on the
Galactica."
     "Where on this battlestar was he going to spend that much money?"
     "Only one place I can think of: Down Below.  He must've bought some
of those things we found on him off some Lurkers."
     "Maybe not.  He may have been a collector.  You know, coin of the
realm and all that felgercarb."
     Kanon held up a data crystal.  "No, he's been to Down Below all
right.  And recently, too."
     "How do you know?"
     Kanon held up a data crystal.  "I found this on him."
     "What is it?" Troy caught the data crystal as Kanon flipped it to
him.
     "It's---interesting."
     Troy waited and Kanon continued.  "Apparently Tegates had a thing
for sex with aliens.  Hence his trip here."
     Troy cast a quick look into the autopsy room at the body of Tegates. 
"Interesting."  He tossed the crystal into the air and caught it again.
     Kanon frowned. "It's not exactly one of the family album."
     "He had family?"
     Kanon nodded. "A wife and two kids.  The supercruiser Syria."
     "I'll need their compartment number."  Troy flipped the data crystal
again and shook his head.
     Kanon nodded, took the data crystal back from Troy, hefted it
thoughtfully.  "If he's been with any socialators, they're going to be
billing his family for their, uh, services."
     Franklin shrugged. "Why not?  They're legitimate businesswomen."    

     Troy looked quickly from Kanon to Franklin and back again.
     Troy frowned.  "I'll be in my office trying to work out what to tell
the Council if either of you should come up with any other relevant
information."
     Troy left the Life Station without speaking.  He had a report to
make and next of kin to notify; he'd lay a sectar's wages to a fresh
sunfruit he was going to like neither response.

*****

CHAPTER 9

     Nightwatch is mother, Nightwatch is father.
     Lyta snuggled deeper into the gloom of Down Below and tried to
remember the voice, the voice that held her to this time and place.  The
voice.  The music.  The Song.  Oh, it was lovely, the Song.  As lovely as
the voice of Down Below was ugly.  It had given her strength in times of
need.  It had given her hope and joy and purpose.  It had kept her alive. 
It had changed her.  Motivated her.  Driven her.  It had made her the
woman she was.
     But the voice was fading.  Soon it would be gone.  In a tiny corner
of her mind Lyta wondered whether the strength and purpose the voice had
given her would fade with it.  She did not know the answer to that
question.  It was driven from her by need.  The need to escape capture by
Nightwatch.
     Ltya was on the run.  A fugitive from the secret psychic underground
that had sheltered her and nutured her, taught her to develop her skills
as a telepath.  Now they wanted her back.  Not even dead.  Just back. 
They wanted to open her min d up like a flower, extract the essence that
was her experience and knowledge, the essential core that was Lyta.
     They wanted to find out what she knew about the Seraphs.
     About the mysterious Seraph called Dr. Zee, who led the rag-tag
fugitive fleet to Earth.
     She couldn't let them do that.
     She wouldn't let them do that.
     Allow that one moment of perfect beauty to be corrupted by
Nightwatch?  She would rather die.
     Lyta snuggled deeper into the gloom, tried to gather the darkness
around her like a shroud.  Her mind opened, setting traps and blocks,
searching the darkness around her for a hunter's thoughts, prepared to
deflect a search if she detected one or withdraw if the hunter was too
powerful.
     Lyta couldn't hear the sounds all around her, the rumble of
machinery, the drip and clank of the moisture reclaimers, the hustling,
the begging voices, the screams.  Deaf since early childhood, she know
only the inner voices.  The mind talk.  Deaf, she could hear better than
anyone alive.
     The mind-voice of Down Below was ugly with pain and need.  
     Nightwatch is mother!  Nightwatch is father!  You're dead!  You hear
me, Lyta?  You blew my cover---you're dead!  Another voice bellowed into
her mind.  Talia.  Nightwatch plant.  Deep-level personality graft. 
Talia was dead; the old Talia was dead.  And the new Talia was living
among the primitive Earth people, in the city called Los Angeles, safe,
and Nightwatch was hunting Lyta down like an animal.
     Like an animal she had been forced to hide, move slowly, carefully,
run when necessary.  Troy had helped her by arranging passage for her on
Dr. Zee's AG-ship, on its next run to Earth.  All she had to do was
survive reprisals until the next mission and then she'd be gone for good.
     But she knew there would likely be a Nightwatch operative arriving
on the next shuttle to the Galactica; time was running out.  One attempt
had been made on her life already.  She had no idea when another would
come.  Rejecting Troy's offer of sanctuary, she had retreated Down Below,
where she hid like a cowed daggit.  Hid because was the only way to stay
alive and because she had to stay alive to reach Earth.  Even though she
didn't know why she had to go to Earth.
     She looked up suddenly, even though she saw nothing in the gloom. 
Dim starlight glimmered through a row of portholes.  Faint beams shot
laser straight through coiling smoke and dust.  Distantly came the voice
of Down Below, fear, pain, anger, hunger.
     And something else.
     A question.
     How am I going to find her in this mess of poverty and human crap?
     A familiar voice.
     Kanon.
     She reached out and touched him as he passed.  He whirled, laser gun
at the ready. He was nervous as hell.  He didn't like it down here. 
Didn't really how---anonymous how---safe it was.
     "What in Hades---Lyta?  Is that you?"
     She nodded.
     "You look like shit."
     "Is the AG ship leaving now?"
     "There's going to be a delay.  You have time to do me a favor."
     "A telepathic favor?"
     "Yes."
     "There are other telepaths on the Galactica."
     "None that I trust."
     She sighed.  "Do I get to turbo-wash first?"
     "I'd say that was mandatory."
     She took the turbo-wash in the Blue Squadron's quarters, one of only
two dozen on the Galactica where hot water replaced sonic projectors. 
Afterward, he took her to the Life Station, told her what he wanted on
the way.
     "So this Tuchanq, Arc, is unconscious, possibly brain damaged.  You
can't tell how badly so you want me to scan her."
     "I know it's againgt the code but you can't say you haven't done it
before."
     "And look where it got me." She waited for a response but there
wasn't any.  "You know, Kanon, every time I see you my life takes a turn
for the worse."
     Kanonn shrugged, hands thrust deep in his pockets.  "What do you
want me to say?  We live in interesting times."
     They reached the Life Station and he ushered her inside.  She looked
around.  The complex was just as she remembered it: large, many roomed,
with divisions sealing off isolation areas.  Doctors, nurses,
technicians, and orderlies moved efficiently about their jobs.
     She bit her lip.  Stopped herself turning and laving right there. 
"People."
     Kanon stared questioningly. "Yeah.  We have them here.  What about
them?"
     "Too many.  You, me, Franklin, Arc.  That's all.  Or I'm out of
here.  Everyone else leaves."
     Kanon looked at Franklin, who shook his head.  He said, "I can't do
that, Lyta.  These people have jobs to do."
     She nodded, turned to leave.  "Thanks for the turbo-wash, Kanon. 
Let me know when my ship leaves."
     "Uh, wait a centon!" Kanon muttered something to Franklin.
     Lyta listened in to the thoughts behind the words, interrupted their
conversation.  "The iso-lab will be fine.  The division is fireproof so
no one could shoot through it."  She nodded to herself.  "It'll do fine."
     She watched as Arc was transferred on a wheeled gurney to the main
iso-lab.  Franklin dismissed the orderlies, then beckoned her and Kanon
inside.
     She entered the iso-lab through the rotating airlock, shivering as
she did so.  The last time she ahd been here had been more than two
yahrens earlier to scan Dr. Zee as he lay critically ill after an attempt
had been made to assassinate him.  That moment she had spent in contact
with Zee had changed her life.  Now there was another figure where Zee
had been, a lanky alien with a ruff of spines and a body which seemed to
be one solid mass of decompression injuries.
     According to Kanon, the alien had been on a ventilator.  That wasn't
the case now.  Her chest rose and fell with a slow but sure rhythm.  She
was obviously in no danger of dying.  Regaining consiciousness, however,
seemed to be another matter entirely.
     She stepped closer to the alien, glanced at Franklin and Kano in
turn. "What am I looking for?"
     "Evidence."  Kanon shrugged when she narrowed her eyes
questioningly, passed the comment over to Franklin to answer in detail.
     "I need to assess the level of personality change.  This is
determined by both the amount of brain damage and detectable memory loss. 
I'll need an accurate report of the way in which Arc perceives herself,
whether there are any memories directly related to the murder, or to any
time before the murder.  Really, anything you think is relevant."
     She pursed her lips. "You do realize nothing I find out will be
admissible in tribunal."
     Kanon nodded.  "I know.  And I know than an uninvited scan is
against a telepath's moral code as well. So don't think I'm ungrateful. 
I'm hoping that when Arc regains consciousness we can confirm your
findings with evidence that can be presented in a law tribunal.
     "And if she doesn't regain consciousness?"
     Kanon shrugged, thrust his hands deep into his pockets.  "Then the
problem goes away. Permanently."
     She nodded impatiently.  "All right.  The quicker we get started the
quicker I can get out of here."
     She moved closer to Arc, closed her eyes.  She opened her mind to
the alien, felt for points of contact.  She wondered what she might find. 
She'd once been anchor for a telepath who'd scanned a killer's mind. 
Even peripherally the experience had been terrifying.  And this time
there was no anchor to bring her back if she lost herself.  Did either
Franklin or Kanon have any inkling of just how much it cost her to scan
under these conditions?"  Probably not.
     She shook her head.  Why in Hades was she doing this anyway?  She
could get killed. Or worse.
     She had a momentary flashback---a memory of her second and last
meeting with Dr. Zee.  The last time she had seen him outside his
auditorium.  His voice had been strong then, churning in her like a
choir, an orchestra of light.
     There is one more thing you must do before you leave this ship.
     She nodded inwardly.
     For you, Dr. Zee.  Not for them, not even for me.  I'll do it for
you.
     She reached out to the mind of a killer, searched for the fvoice,
the fear, the pain, the anger, the hunger to kill, the images of death,
the blood, the terror.
     And found nothing.
     No voice.  No memory.  No self.  No song.
     No death.
     She broke contact, hardly needed to make an effort to do so.  She
centered herself, shut down her receptors, put the blocks back up again. 
When she opened her eyes, both Franklin and Kanon were staring curiously
at her.
     She took a breath, licked her lips.  Shook her head.  "She's like a
newborn child," she answered Franklin's unspoken question.  "No memory,
no experience, no nothing.  I can find no trace, conscioius or
subconscious, of any intention to murder."
     Franklin pursed his lips.  "Are you sure?"
     She sighed impatiently. "Doctor, if someone questioned your
professional competence, what would your response be?"
     Franklin grinned self-depricatingly.  "I'd probably tell them to go
to hades."
     She said nothing.  Franklin got the point.
     "Well, I'm glad that's settled.  Kanon, perhaps you could take me
back..." She stopped.  Something...something was...
     Singing of death.
     She whirled.  Beyond the transparent dividing wall the main area of
the Life Station was filled with figures.  Aliens, tall like Arc, spines
waving gently, stirred by currents of air and by their own movements. 
Dillon was with them. 
     Lyta felt her breath catch in her throat.  Her head was pounding. 
Here was the fear she had sought!  Here was the anger, the intention to
kill!
     The leading alien had approached the entrance to the iso-lab.  The
lock cycled and she entered.  She reached into her pouch and withdrew a
dagger.
     Lyta felt the world reduced to chaos around her, felt her head pound
with the Songs of death.  She grabbed Kanon, swung him around to face the
aliens.  "They're going to murder her!  They're here to murder Arc!"  She
pointed at Dillon, who had just entered the iso-     She saw Dillon stare
at her, eyes narrowed.  Fear.  Surprise.  He's scared of me.  He's angry
with me.
     No.  He's amused.
     Kanon rubbed his chin.  He laughed softly.  Lyta heard the laughter
in her mind and suddenly realized that she'd made a mistake.  She sighed
with relief.
     The aliens weren't going to hurt Arc.
     They were just going to kill her.
     After that she'd be fine.
     She sighed again, felt a chuckle force itself out.
     Aliens.
     At least it wasn't her problem anymore.
     She glanced quickly at Kanon.  He didn't need to be telepathic to
get the message.  "Come on.  I'll take you back to Down Below."
     As she followed him out of the Life Station, she heard Franklin say,
"Colonel Dillon, I want to know what this female is doing in my iso-lab
and what in hades she intends to do with that dagger and I want to know
right now!"
     Lyta shot a quick glance at Dillon as she left the iso-lab.  Dillon
pointedly ignored her.  Lyta shrugged, followed Kanon out of the Life
Station and back to Down Below.
     She smiled as she walked back into the darkness.  His voice was
coming back.  The Song was coming back.  She hadn't lost it after all. 
Now there was nothing between her and Earth.  Nothing but a few hundred
light-yahrens of empty space.  And she knew how to deal with that.
     He'sHhHHH

*****

CHAPTER 10

     Troy took the Gold Channel transmission from Sire Lin in his
quarters.  He had a moment to study the councilman as the transmission
locked in.  What he saw didn't exactly set his mind at ease.  Though well
into his sixties, Lin normally gave the impression of energetic
youthfulness, optimism.  Not so this day.  As the transmission decrypted
Troy could see that he looked careworn, exhausted.  In short, he
presented the aspect of a man whose age had caught up with him at long
last and with terrible cost.
     Typically, Lin wasted no time in getting to the point.  "Troy, the
President has asked me to inform you personally of a change in the law
that affects our situation, especially here on the Galactica."
     Troy frowned.  "Go on, Lin."
     "The reinstatement of the death penalty for the crime of muder was
officially ratified earlier this morning at a full meeting of the
Council.  It will be announced to the public over the IFB later today."
     Troy began to feel a bad case of indigestion coming on.  "I'm not
sure I understand.  The death penalty is the ultimate punishment,
normally considered only for treason.  Have you evidence of treason on
the Galactica?"
     Lin shook his head impatiently.  "You misunderstand.  Treason is not
the issue here.  The issue is murder.  The murder of a Colonist by a
member of an alien delegation."
     "You mean the Tuchanq?"
     "I do.  Your report on the situation has reached the highest
levels."
     Troy nodded agreement.  "And I was advised to use my own judgment in
the situation."
     "Which situation has now changed, as you very well know."
     "Lin, I..."
     To Troy's surprise and annoyance, Lin cut him off.  "Commander Troy,
do not misunderstand me.  While the matter concerned only the Tuchanq and
the Nomen, your jurisdiction was clear.  Now a Colonist has been killed. 
I should say murdered.  The new law is very explicit in such
circumstances.  Therefore, we are obliged to bring the alien in question
to trial and punish  her for the crime she has committed."
     "Are you telling me that Arc is to be executed under the terms of
the new law?"
     Lin nodded.  "The directive comes from the President himself."
     Troy pinched the bridge of his nose, wished he could put the
transmission on hold long enough to slap on an antacid.  "Sire, I'm not
sure you are aware of the full circumstances here.  If I might..."
     "Your report was very thorough, Troy.  Believe me, all aspects of
this case have been considered."
     "With respect, Sire, I must disagree.  As you can see if you study
the appended medical report, Arc has suffered brain damage.  Her
personality has been drastically altered, bringing the responsibility and
culpability for any crime prior to her injury into question.  And there's
the larger picture to consider.  The Tuchanq have come here to ask for
help.  If the President was aware of these facets, I'm sure he would not
have considered..."
     Once again Sire Lin cut Troy off in mid-speech.  "I assure you,
Commander, that all aspects of this case have been considered.  In full."
     Troy held his temper in check with an effort.  "Sire, please hear me
out.  Arc has no memory of the murder, no memory of her previous life. 
Her mental functions have been reduced by over eighty percent.  She's
like a child.  Medically speaking, Arc can no longer be considered the
same being who committed murder.  Even setting aside the wider
considerations I have already mentioned, it would be immoral for her to
be punished as such."
     Lin sighed impatiently.  "Regrettably, that is a judgment you are
not empowered to make."
     Troy held back his anger with an effort.  "Sire Lin, it seems to me
that the Council of Twelve is determined to make an example of Arc simply
to illustrate a change in the law.  Is that in fact the truth?"
     Sire Lin's anger was plain.  "Troy, you overstep the bounds of your
authority!  I am sure I do not need to remind you of your responsibility
to the Council, let alone your obligations as military leader of the
Fleet."
     Troy pursed his lips angrily.  "No, Sire.  That's something you
don't have to do."
     "Then the matter is closed.  The tribunal will take palce at the
earliest opportunity.  If necessary, the execution will follow
immediately thereafter."
     Troy frowned.  "You mean here on the Galactica.?"
     "Of course."
     Troy felt his hands clench in frustration.  This whole business was
going from bad to worse.  "There is neither precedent nor structure here
to carry out the President's instructions.  The Tuchanq have
ambassadorial status and as such cannot be tried by a civilian judge."
     "Not so, Troy.  Diplomatic immunity can be revoked by Presidential
order under the terms of the new death penalty.  After all, if that were
not the case how could the law be applied fairly to all?"
     Troy's indigestion was burning a hole in his gut.  "Let me make sure
I understand you correctly.  You are asking me---as Commander of the
battlestar Galactica---to pass judgment in this case.  To effectively
sentence someone to death?"
     "Considering the importance of the matter, it could hardly be
assigned to anyone else."
     Troy shook his head.  If it wasn't so serious the situation would be
laughable.  "Sire, I request permission to speak to the President
directly on this matter."
     Lin shook his head.  "Impossible.  The President is, at this time,
engaged in executing his other duties."  Troy was about to protest when
Lin continued, "The man who holds the position of State Executioner is
scheduled to arrive on the Galactica within the centar.  You will see to
it that his arrangement for the tribunal and execution are carried out in
full."
     Troy could hold his anger in no longer.  "I must protest.  This
whole situation is proceeding without due consideration for basic human
rights and with a regard for the law that borders on---on the ludicrous!"
     "Troy!" Lin cut Troy off.  "Let me emphasize this: this matter is
not under discussion.  It is not a request.  It is a Presidential
directive."  A pause.  "As I have said before, I needn't remind you of
the consequences to your career if you fail to comply."
     Troy controlled his anger.  "No, Lin," he said bitterly.
     Lin hesitated, seemed about to speak, paused again, sighed. 
"Commander Troy, all I can say is this: If thise case proceeds according
to the law to an acceptable conclusion, then both the Galactica and you
personally wil have been granted an instrumental role in the creation of
a better future for the human race."  Another pause.  "I'm sorry, but
there really is no other alternative."
     The transmission ended.
     Troy sat heavily at his desk.  He got up.  He paced.  He thought of
Jamie.  He went to the porthole.  He stared out into space, at the stars
themselves.  
     Why wasn't I just born a worm?
     He realized he'd spoken out loud when a voice behind him said, "You
are late."  The voice was soft, gentle, childlike; it hung trembling in
the air like the scent of orange blossom.
     He turned.
     Dr. Zee.
     "I'm sorry.  I've missed my lesson."
     "No."
     Troy frowned. "I don't understand."
     "That is your second mistake."
     Troy stared at Dr. Zee, at the etherallly handsome  young man in his
trademark angelic white gown, the material glittering in the harsh light
of the commander's quarters.  He had stopped wondering long ago where Dr.
Zee had truly come form, and what he truly was.  He knew: He was hope,
rage, terror and wonder.  A Song whose lyrics seemed accurately to
reflect his life at this point in time.  And suddenly he knew.  He knew
he couldn't keep it all in anymore.  He wasn't built for this. Not for
this.  He was a warrior.  A moderately important cog in a big machine. 
If he tried to keep the truth in anymore, he would simply explode.
     He licked his lips.  "Dr. Zee.  Things are happening. I have no
control over them.  Um..." He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I'm
scared."
     "Fear is a mirror."
     Troy blinked.  Whatever he had expected it hadn't been that. Fear is
a mirror?  What kind of felgercarb was that?  He began to speak again,
angrily this time, but Dr. Zee had already turned away.  The mysterious
genius glided from the office and although the warmth and strength of his
voice lingered for a moment, Troy felt more aline than he had since first
hearing of Jamie Hamilton's death.  No, not alone, not quite. 
     There was still the fear, the anger.
     And the Dark Ones.

*****

PART TWO

February 12, 1994 (Earth Time)
Nighttime

CHAPTER 1

     Tenelle shuffled slowly closer to the Admissions terminal.  Her head
was whirling with a confused mixture of emotions.  Half her adult life
had been dominated by Tegates.  Now he was gone and all it left her was
more problems.  More questions.
     She rummaged in her big for her ID and Military Clearance documents. 
Paperwork.  Everything was paperwork.  All rules and regulations.  She
hated them.  Hated them.  Tegates loved them of course.  Perhaps a love
of red tape was endemic to Colonial men.  She smiled.  The thought
appealed, though Tegates would never have found it funny.
     When the message from the Syria's captain had arrived informing her
of Tegates death aboard the Galactica, her overriding feeling had been
one of surprise.  Not fear. Not pain.  Surprise---and the tiniest hint of
relief.
     The feelings were confusing.  Her husband of six yahrens was dead. 
The father of her children was dead.  Shouldn't she feel upset?  Ravaged
by his loss?  Enraged and shocked?
     Before she could answer those questions she became aware of a voice
approaching.  "Here.  Canto, she's over here.  Come on!"  The voice was
human, female, slightly aggressive. Pushy.
     Tenelle turned when the voice stopped beside her, found herself
face-to-face with a woman in her early middle age with a cute bob and a
determined light in her otherwise too-friendly eyes.  The woman beckoned
and a man approached carrying a video recorder.  He aimed the recorder at
her face and began to line up a shot.
     Tenelle blinked, felt the glitz of the Admissions terminal begin to
drain away.
     The woman said, "Tenelle?  You are Tenelle, aren't you? Indara,
Inter-Fleet Broadacsting News Service.  I presume you are here to collect
your husband's body for transport back to the Syria?"
     Tenelle nodded. "That's right I..."
     Indara nodded sympathetically.  "I understand the restraining order
the Council of Twelve has placed on the body must be particularly
distressing."
     Tenelle blinked. "I beg your pardon?" Her stomach rumbled.  How long
had it been since she had last eaten?  Twelve centons?  More?
     "You mean you don't know that the Council of Twelve has restricted
the movement of your husband's body to aid the autopsy and provide direct
evidence, if required, for the tribunal?"
     Tenelle felt the crowd surging around her slow and then come to a
stop.  Eyes regarded her almost---hungrily.  "Tribunal?  What tribunal? 
What are you talking about?  My husband died.  I'm here to bring his body
back to my ship."
     "So no one from the Council or any of the Galactica's executive
officers has spoken to you about this?"
     "No.  Tegates has to be buried in space, same as everyone else.  I
paid for my own flight here.  No one said I couldn't come.  No one said
anything, in fact."
     "And how do you feel about the fact that information regarding your
husband's death and his ---proclivities aboard this battlestar---has been
withheld from you?  Do you think it was accidental or deliberate?  Do you
think it could have any bearing on the newest change in Fleet law---that
pertaining to the death penalty?"
     Indara pressed insistently closer and Tenelle found herself backing
nervously away.  What was all this?  Tegates was dead.  That was all she
knew.  What were these other things?  The death penalty? 
Proclivities...?  What proclivities?
     Had he been up to his old tricks again?
     Tenelle felt her face fold into a scowl.  An old anger surged inside
her.  She felt the last of her sense of wonder slip away, to be replaced
by a set of very familiar feelings: emotional numbness, anger, betrayal. 
"You mean did I know that Tegates had been sleeping around?  Yes, I knew
that."
     Indara almost leapt with delight.  "So what you're saying is that
you knew your husband was renting sacktime with the socialators here. 
How do you feel about that, Tenelle?  What is it like to know your
husband is enjoying sex with non-humans?"
     Tenelle felt her anger intensify.  The crowd seemed to press in
around her with stifling intensity.  The video camera seemed just
centimeters away from her face.  Indara pressed closer with her
microphone, using her body language to demand answers to her questions.
     More members of the press arrived.
     She was assaulted with questions.
     "How did you feel about Tegates's death?"
     "What will you do if they refuse to release his body?"
     "Have you considered the political ramifications?"
     "Why do you think Tegates was screwing aliens?"
     "What was he like in bed?"
     The anger flared suddenly.  Who were these people?  They weren't
people.  They were animals, a pack of animals crying out for blood, her
blood, her feelings.
     "Please---I just came aboard.  I can't think.  My husband's dead.  I
don't know anything.  Why don't you speak to the commander?"
     It did no good.  The questions rained endlessly around her.
     "Did your husband do this often?"
     "How did you feel when you first found out?"
     "What was his favorite position?"
     "Have you told the children yet?"
     And suddenly she couldn't take it anymore.  It was too much.  Tears
came in a flood and then she was barging her way out of the line.  Hands
grabbed at her, demands to look at this camera or that camera, a barrage
of questions that she heard only as the sound of thunder.  She almost
dropped her bag, struck out when someone came too close, ignored the cry
of pain as the reporter---she thought it was Indara---fell backward, lost
herself in the crowd of humans and non-humans crowding the Admissions
terminal.  Her legs and back ached horribly.  It was too much.  She had
come here for Tegates and now it would be on the news and the kids would
see it, see her crying, and why couldn't they leave her alone because it
was all just too...
     A hand took her arm then.  A polite but firm male voice spoke
directly to her, introducing himself as a Colonial Warrior. "I'm sorry
about all this," he said.  "I'll get you through the landing bay.  If
you'll come with me, please."
     She went with the warrior.  But her anger didn't fade as the crowd
parted to let her through.  It was as if the space the warior created
around her didn't exist.
     The press was forbidden to follow---but their questions weren't.  
     And as the questions assaulted her, so her anger grew.

*****

CHAPTER 2

     Arranging a meeting with the Tuchanq delegation had not been a
problem.  Sire Mollary had assigned the task to his aide and Vir had done
a superb job.
     Now here they all were, himself, Vir, Vi-El, her Chorus, all in the
same room, one of the spare storage closets that could be converted into
a makeshift conference room for the right price.  Mollary smiled inwardly
when he remembered a particular occasion in the past when his propensity
for gambling had left his funds insufficient to book the room.  Now his
credit was unlimited.  As far as the proprietors of the Rising Star's
gambling chancery were concerned, he could do no wrong.  Mollary was
beginning to like the feeling.  There were balances, of course, but
weren't there in everything?
     Mollary became aware that Dillon and Vir were both staring at him. 
Vi-El was speaking.  Oh, yes.  That was right.  Now what had she been
saying?  Something about getting to know a representative from the
Council of Twelve at least.
     He mumbled a polite nothing, smiled ingenuously.
     Vi-El responded almost as he had expected.  A tip of the spine, a
leaning closer, as if to pay closer attention.  Mollary felt a thrill
slip along his pouched testicles.  The predictability of it all was more
satisfying than a rigged deck in a game of pyramid.
     Well, almost.
     Vi-El said, "I have waited a long time to meet a representative of
your Council of Twelve.  If only to redress the lie the Nomen told us
about you Colonials."
     Mollary winked at Vir, put on his most agreeable voice.  "Ah, yes,
the Nomen.  An honorable race."  Mollary placed an ironic emphasis on the
word honorable.  "One so honorable they used stolen Galactican weaponry
and a handful of renegade humans to subdue your planet, and then accuse
our enemies, the Cylons, of their crime."
     Vi-El's spine fluttered in agitation.  "They are our bane;
destroyers of the Land."
     Mollary sighed, shook his head.  "Let us speak no more of the Nomen. 
Before this centon, we knew nothing of the atrocities they committed
while establishing their little settlement on your world.  I, on the
other hand, am here as duly appointed representative of the Colonies,
with a genuine officer of friendship.  Of help for your people."
     Vi-El tipped her spines interestedly toward Mollary.  "Go on, Sire."
     "I have been authorized to offer our help.  We can provide engineers
to rebuild your Land, undo the damage those gallmonging Nomen did to it."
     Vi-El hummed quietly to herself.  "And what would you Colonials
require in exchange for this service.  I warn you, we are by no means a
wealthy culture."
     Mollary shrugged, beamed expansively.  "Why would we want anything
in exchange?  We are all friends here.  Intelligence is the province of
maturity.  We can help you, so we will.  And---just between you and me,
Vi-El, I have had words with the Council---I am a member, as I expect you
know---anway, I have been able to extract an additional promise from the
President."  A pause for effect.  "We are prepared to station a small
phalanx of warriors on Mars.  In order to demonstrate our---friendship,
should the Nomens or the Cylons or anyone else feel that they can take
advantage of our friends."  Peripherally, Mollary was aware that both
Dillon and Vir were keeping their faces carefully blank.  Good.  It
seemed professional behavior was finally beginning to count for something
around here.  He beamed even more expansively at Vi-El, widened the look
to take in her Chorus.  "Now, what could be fairer than that?"
     Vi-El considered.  Her spines tipped toward the other members of the
delegation, including, Mollary noticed, those who until very recently had
been pronounced insane.
     Vi-El angled her spines back toward here.  "Your offer is generous
and we thank you.  However, Commander Troy has already promised the
unconditional help of his Colonial Warriors, and it therefore renders
your offer redundant."
     "Vi-El, the help I offer is unconditional as well."  Mollary pursed
his lips.  "The Nomen destroyed the Land, brought starvation upon its
people.  When the old and infirm died they were put into machines and
reprocessed as food for the remaining population."
     Vi-El shuddered.  Excellent.  His words were hitting home.
     "I am sure I do not need to remind you of this.  The Nomen are your
enemies, and those people and my people just barely mix.  We Colonials
wish to be your friends.  We can feed you.  We can remove those machines
that were illegally imported to your world, take them away to be broken
or destroyed, or put to more profitable use.  We can give you back the
Land that was once yours."
     Vi-El consulted again with her Chorus.  "Sire, there is much merit
in what you say.  But we must consider fully all aspects of the help you
offer."
     Vi-El tipped her spines to the left, rose along with her delegation. 
The meeting was at an end.  Dillon cast a bright look at Mollary as she
followed the delegation from the room.  Too bright.  Mollary frowned. 
The Tuchanq weren't going to accept his offer.  The President would not
be pleased it that eventuality came to pass. And though the effects of
that anger might be slow in coming, Mollary knew too well on whom the
eventual punishment would fall.
     He thought quickly.  "Vir.  Please be so kind as to find Morden for
me and inform him I need to speak with him in my quarters.  Urgently."
     Vir's expression  was unreadable.  Still, Mollary had an inkling of
what his aide might be thinking.  No matter.  Let them hate him, let them
all hate him.  He would submit for approval only to posterity.  Let the
future judge him.  He knew what the verdict would be.
     Mollary left the room with a faint smile playing gently about his
lips.
     The future beckoned.

*****

CHAPTER 3    

     Troy met Tenelle at the entrance to his quarters, ushered her inside
with a word of greeting, studied her as he followed her inside.
     She was tall.  Thin.  Attractive in a harsh way.  Her face was calm
but the set of her body revealed the emotional toll the last twenty-four
centars must've taken on her.  Troy felt every sympathy.  He offered his
hand.  Her grip was surprisingly strong.
     He showed her to a comfortable seat facing his desk.  "Can I get you
anything?  A beverage?  Have you eaten?" Troy thought carefully about
what to say to her.  Under normal circumstances her husband's body would
have been shipped back to the Syria for a burial in space.
     These weren't normal circumstances.
     He wondered how much of the truth it would be fair to tell her;
probably quite a lot more than he was going to tell her.  He offered a
slight smile, but she didn't return it.
     "Commander, I have come here for my husband's body.  I do not want
anything to eat or drink.  The trip was almost prohibitively expensive. 
My flight back is booked for sixteen centons from now.  When I return I
will have to arrange the dispensation of my husband's business.  So if
you will be kind enough to take me to the Life Station, I would like to
see Tegates once more before he is taken aboard the shuttle."
     Her voice was calm, emotionless.  Troy knew that was sometimes the
case.  Relatives would be unable to express emotion until actually seeing
the deceased.  Tenelle had probably been unable to acknowledge that her
husband was truly dead.  After all, the last time she had seen him he was
alive, probably excited to be off, worried about what to pack, telling
Tenelle he would miss her and the kids, promising them presents.  Oh yes. 
He understood her need to see her husband. But shipping him back to the
Syria was going to be a whole different problem.
     "Tenelle, I can arrange with Dr. Franklin for you to see your
husband's body.  But..." he hesitated.  "I am afraid you won't be able to
take the body back to your home ship just yet."
     Tenelle blinked.  "I don't understand."
     Troy took the seat beside her.  "How much do you know about your
husband's death?"
     Tenelle licked her lips, half closed her eyes, remembering.  "I made
him promise to take a holiday when he got back.  A month away together in
a rental holo-suite, complete with our choice of programmable
environments.  He didn't want to.  I knew that.  To be honest, I was glad
he was going away.  Things were strained between us.  We'd been married
six yahrens, most of them bad.  It wasn't going to last.  Now he's dead." 
Tenelle shifted her gaze from the desk to Troy.  "What do I know about
his death?  Only that I am not surprised by how little I miss him."  She
sighed.  "I think perhaps I'll have that drink you offered.  A Soylent
Green if you have it."
     Troy pulled a dusty bottle from a glass cabinet.  "Rank has its
priveliges.  I managed to get this shipped out from an illegal distillery
on Agro Ship No. 5."
     She did not respond to his small talk, took the drink neat,
swallowed it in one gulp.  She held the empty glass in one hand, turning
it endlessly with her long fingers.  A moment of silence, then: "You said
I couldn't take Tegates home with me."
     Troy nodded. "That's right."
     "Why?"
     "Tenelle, your husband was murdered by a member of an alien
delegation currently petitioning for help to restore their society.  As
you can imagine, this complicates matters."
     "I see."
     Troy watched Tenelle closely.  Was she sitting up a little
straighter?  No.  She was in shock.  Who wouldn't be?  Struggling to
understand.  To comprehend how politics could stop her from burying her
husband and mourning his death.
     Once again she surprised him.  
     "There will of course be a tribunal.  The Tuchanq in question will
be charged with murder.  The change in the death penalty makes it
inevitable."  A hesitation.  "Tegates' body has to remain here as
physical evidence of the crime.  In case the tribunal
becomes---complicated."
     He felt her gaze harden as she answered his unspoken question.  "I
found out about it the moment I came aboard.  From a reporter who wanted
to interview me."
     "The IFB."  Troy sighed, remembering his own experiencw ith the
media almost exactly four sectars' before.  "Tenelle, I am so sorry that
you were subjected to..."
     She cut him off with a bitter gesture.  "That's perfectly all right,
Commander.  I couldn't get the information I wanted from the Galactica
via Syria's executive officers.  Indara was the first person who seemed
to know the facts surrounding my husband's death."
     Troy considered. "Did you give her an interview?"
     Tenelle smiled thinly.  "I think you could say I gave her something
she'll remember for a while."
     "So---if you spoke to the IFB then I presume you know about
the---other details of the case?"
     "That my husband was---what's the phrase?  'Renting sack time with
socialators?' Yes, I've known for some time.  He never realized, of
course."
     Troy studied Tenelle closely.  So far she seemed capable of casually
defeating any expectations he might have had of her. If this was to work
out the way he hoped, it seemed sensible to make no more assumptions. 
"Forgive me, but you seem..."
     "Cold?  Somewhat distant?  Do you blame me?  I fell out of love with
my husband a long time ago."  Tenelle put down her glass.  "Commander
Troy, As chief executive officer of the battlestar Galactica, I hold you
responsible not only for Tegates's death, but the suppression of the
facts surrounding his death, the desecration of his body by an autopsy I
did not authorize, and now the refusal to release his body for burial."
     Troy stood, tried to keep his voice calm despite the frustration he
felt.  "That's not fair.  The death of your husband is a pivotal event in
the upcoming tribunal.  The reason you weren't informed about the facts
surrounding the death is  that we've only just found out the truth
ourselves."  Troy sighed as he found himself on the defensive.  He wanted
to scream out the truth, force her to hear and accept it.  The case goes
deeper than you might think.  The change in the law regarding the death
penalty is a political expedience.  Your husband's death is being used by
the Council as a lever to secure the office of a racist President!
     He could say nothing, of course.
     "The press seemed to know all about it."  Her voice was bitter.
     Of course they do, it was probably leaked to them by a member of the
Council!
     "It's their prerogative to know."
     Tenelle stood, anger blooming across her angular face.  "Have you
any idea who condescending that is?"
     Troy spread his hands, wished he could vanish forever from the
battlestar.  "I'm sorry, I didn't intend that..."
     "I'm sure you didn't.  Now listen to me, Commander.  I don't care
about politics and I don't care whether some alien culture can or cannot
take care of their own home planet.  My husband is dead.  I want him home
for burial and I am going to take him home.  On the shuttle in which I
booked passage.  In sixteen centons.  Do you understand?"
     Troy sighed again.  "I simply can't let you do that.  This is a
precedent-setting case under a wide-ranging change in the law.  The
Council has been very specific about their requirements as has the
President."
     Tenelle trembled angrily.  She seemed about to scream, to race
across the room and strike out at him in her rage.  She did neither. 
Instead she was silent for quite a while before speaking again.  "I
assume I am free to talk to the IFB about this?  Or have you the power to
detain me as well?"
     "Of course not."  Troy raised his hands in a placatory gesture. 
"Tenelle, I had hoped that wouldn't be..."
     "I'm sure you did," she cut him off.  "Well, now it is necessary. 
And I shall make sure both your part and that of the Council in this
matter is very clear to Indara and her news team."
     Tenelle turned to leave the office. 
     Troy let her go.
     After the door had whoosed shut behind her, he took the bottle of
Soylent Green and a glass to his desk and sat down.  He poured himself a
drink.  Only the second in as many sectars.  He wondered what Indara
would say if she could see him now, bottle in hand, drinking to relieve
the stress of his rank.
     The anger began then.
     He had only done what he had to do, what he had been forced by the
Council to do.  He wondered if Tenelle would see it that way---afterward. 
jIf she would understand the part he had forced her to play in this
political charade.  How he had used her.  
     Humans, were one of the few races who liked... Probably not.
     The guilt began then, swamping the anger.  
     Troy reached for his drink.

*****

CHAPTER 4

     Franklin entered his office, dimmed the lights, satat his desk.  He
cradled his head in his hands.  Thought about taking another stim.  He
reached for the bottle, put it back in the drawer unopened.  Too much of
a good thing.
     He was beginning to get the sweats again.  The tabs were wearing
off.  He knew all the signs.  Headache. Irritability.  A pounding in his
ears as his blood pressure compensated for the drug being sweated out of
his system.
     He blinked.  Even with the lights dimmed it was too bright.  There
were too many shadows, too much contrast.  Franklin suddenly felt he ws
in the grainy world of an old black and white photograph, a prisoner in a
single two-dimensional slice of time.  He felt compressed.  Crushed. 
Like the riggers in the crane.  Felt everything was bearing down on him,
squashing him into his own little life, his own little time and place.
     Oh yeah---that was the other symptom of stim abuse: depression.  
     Franklin dimmed the lights even more, wondered if he dared take an
upper to compensate for the stim withdrawal.  Just the one would do it. 
Just while he was on duty.  As soon as the dockers had been treated he'd
clock out, go to his quarters and just crash.  Ten or twelve centons of
natural sleep should set him to rights.  Then a healthy
breakfast,roughage and fruit juice, balanced vitamins, all the amino
acids and protiens five thousand yahrens of human evolution hadn't
managed to obviate the need for yet.
     Yeah, that would do it.  Sleep.  Sleep and breakfast.  Just what the
doctor ordered.
     But not now. Oh, no, no no.
     The dockers needed him.
     He stood up, shook himself awake.  The dockers needed treatment.  He
was needed.  He reached for the stims.
     The door bleeped.
     He licked his lips, put the bottle back in his desk drawer for a
second time.  "Enter."
     The door opened to reveal a cloaked figure.  Human.  "Lights."  The
room brightened and Franklin saw the visitor was a human male dressed in
the robes of a high-level buritician.  "Can I help you?"
     The figure came in.  "I hope so."  His voice was firm but gentle. 
It was the voice of a professional.  A doctor's voice.
     Franklin studied the visitor.  "Come in.  Take a seat.  Get you
anything?"
     The man shook his head.  "No thank you.  Dr. Franklin, I have come
here to talk to you.  To ask for your help."  He shrugged. "Possibly to
ask for your blessing."
     Franklin stood, swayed slightly, gripped the desk for support.  "I
don't understand."
     "Then permit me to explain."  The man stepped forward.  Franklin
looked closely at his face.  Mid-fifties.  Laughter lines.  A youthful
face despite its obvious age.  The face of a teacher or---somehow,
Franklin couldn't get the idea out of his head his visitor might be a
doctor.  "I have been sent by the Council." He offered a wallet.  "My
ID."
     Franklin examined the ID.  It seemed genuine enough.  One curiosity:
No name was given.  "I see you have Gold Level clearance.  Shouldn't you
be talking to Commander Troy?"
     The man shook his head. "It's you I need to see."
     "Well then, why don't you just go ahead and tell me why?"
     The man nodded. "I need to use the life-giver machine."
     Franklin sat heavily. "How do you know about that?  I've only had it
a year.  I've told no one about...' He shook his head. "Why?" He knew the
answer even before the man spoke.  "No, don't bother to answer that. 
You've come to kill Arc, haven't you?  You're the damn Executioner.  That
was why there was no name on your ID."  Franklin licked his lips.  "My
God, the fools.  Didn't they read my report. Didn't you read my report?"
     "Of course."
     "Then even the summary should have..."
     The man held out his hands in a placating gesture.  "I understand
your report in full."
     Curiously, Franklin felt no surprise.  "I thought you were a
doctor."
     "I am."
     "And yet you can do this?  Wipe someone out?  Kill them in cold
blood?"
     "Oh, yes."
     Franklin stood again, boueyed upward on a rush of adrenaline and
rage.  "My God, man.  You're a doctor.  Don't the Hallowed Vows of 
Jonasta mean anything to you?  Arc is not a criminal.  She's brain-dead. 
She's a different person now.  A child.  She cannot bear responsibility
for her actions.  Executing her is immoral!"
     "Execution is mandatory.  The President has sanctioned it.  The
people of the Fleet need it."  A sigh.  "Dr. Franklin, in every state, in
every period of history here has been a place for state-sanctioned
execution.  It is a punishment and a social ritual.  It gives the people
a sense of place, helps them to define themselves.  It is a comfort---and
it is very necessary.  Some might say that the root cause of social ills
in recent yahrens could be attributed to a lack of capital punishment."
     "What?"  Franklin was dumbfounded, outraged.  "What kind of
justification is that?  You're saying reintroducing the death sentence
for muder will improve the quality of Fleet life? Is that what your
saying?  That's a load..."
     The visitor frowned,  interrupted.  "I am under no obligation to
debate the issue with you, Dr. Franklin.  What's more, I am not permitted 
to form an opinion on the matter either way.  I am simply here to do a
job.  I have the authorization to take what I need to do that job."  
     "We'll just see about that!" Franklin pulled out his comm. and
activated it.  "This is Dr. Franklin in the Life Station.  Intruder
al..."
     The visitor snatched the comm. out of Franklin's hand and
deactivated it.  "You give that back to me, right now!"
     "I am an Executioner.  I take what I need."
     Franklin blinked.  
     The visitor continued. "Captial punishment rules have existed for
thousands of yahrens.  The First Lord of Kobol drew up the first recorded
version.  He rejected barbarity, stabilized his planet.  He made capital
punishment a public spectacle and ritual in order to demonstrate the
power the State had over those who would attack it."
     "Arc hasn't threatened the 'State!'  She killed a Colonist---and
even that hasn't been conclusively proven."
     The visitor ignored Franklin, continued.  "In the past, Arc's
execution would have become a celebration for life.  With your help, and
use of the life-giver, that will be true literally as well as
philosophically."
     Franklin shuddered.  "What next?  A public procession?  Fruit
throwing?  Why not put it on IFB?  Broadcast it to the ships of the
Fleeet!  That'll really deter the masses, won't it?"
     The visitor sighed.  "I'm sorry you feel that way, Doctor.  I know
you have the life-giver.  I know you took it from the woman, Pesolise and
I know you used it save the life of Captain Kanon just under a yahren
ago.  By Presidential order, the machine is now to be reinstated in its
original capacity, as the state-sanctioned method of execution."  The man
caught and held Franklin's eyes.  "You must agree. It's more civilized
than a hangman's noose or spacing."
     "Agree?  No way!  And there's no way you're going to use that
machine to take someone's life.  I'd rather destroy it."
     The man sighed again. "I had hoped you wouldn't say that."  He
pulled out a comm. of his own, activating it.  "Whoever has responded to
Dr. Franklin's call may come in now."
     As Franklin watched, amazed, Kanon and two warriors entered his
office.  "What in Hades?  What is this?  Kanon?  What's going on here?"
     "I'm sorry, Doctor.  I don't like this any more than you do.  But
he's in charge of the execution.  I gotta do what he says."  Kanon
shrugged. "And what he says is, hand over the machine."
     Franklin spluttered, felt himself sweating, wished he'd had time to
swallow another stim.  
     Kanon turned to the Executioner.  "I'll get the machine.  You wait
here."  He beckoned Franklin out of the office.  Dazed, Franklin
followed. 
     "Just what do you think you're doing, Kanon?  You know he's going to
use that machine to kill Arc?"
     Kanon sighed, removed one hand from his hips long enough to rub his
chin.  He leaned closer to Franklin and said quietly, "Look, Doctor.  I
said you had to give him a machine.  I didn't  say which one."
     "But he'll know what it looks like.  He knows everything else."
     Kanon pursed his lips, said quietly, " 'Who watches the watchmen?' 
Coupla shifts ago I got wind of some black market information sales via
channels no one knew I was monitoring.  I couldn't pull the transmission
because that would tip the receiver off that his source had been rumbled. 
But I could tweak it a little to limit the damage."
     Franklin stared at Kanon with a mixture of surprise and outrage.
"Why didn't you tell me?  How did you know where to look for the
information?"
     Kanon tucked his hands into a uniform pocket.  "Call me suspicious. 
Call me naughty," he said with obvious and deliberate vagueness.  "The
point is we can fob him off with something.  Sagan, look at all this gear
you've got in the Life Station.  If it was me, I wouldn't be able to tell
if I'd been given a lethal device or my old granny's sewing machine." 
Kanon raised his eyebrows and grinned. "Think of it as a kind of
mechanical placebo.  Know what I'm saying?"
     Franklin frowned. "I'm beginning to get the picture."
     Kanon nodded.  "Good."  He jerked a thumb back toward Franklin's
office.  "Now, the man with no name in there tells me he'll be visiting
the Sunstorm Shrine to pray for guidance after he has the machine.  So
we'd better not keep him waiting, had we?"
     "Whatever."  Franklin looked around for something that might fool
someone who lacked intimate knowledge of the specific alien technology in
question.  He ought to have the components here to fake up a pretty
lifelike substitute for the truth.
     Who knows?  He just might enjoy it.

*****

CHAPTER 5

     Troy found Delenn in the verdant gardnens of Agro Ship No.1's third
dome, meditating.  She seemed to be doing that a lot lately.  He briefly
wondered why, but the thought was pushed aside by more urgent matters. 
     "Commander Troy."  She rose, moved toward him on quiet feet,
apparently delicate, yet possessed of a strength one would be surprised
to find immutable.  Strength, intelligence...and something else,
something Troy had difficulty admitting to himself existed in women since
the death of his mother, Serina, on the planet Kobol a long, long time
ago.
     Beauty.
     Dark, exotic beauty, such as only Siress Delenn, widow of Adama,
step-grandmother of Troy, once known as Boxey, possessed. 
     "Troy."  Her voice was quiet, yet he knew it would command attention
even in the most crowded of situations.  He found it soothing, like a
cool hand upon his brow.  "How may I be of help to you?"
     "Grandmother.  I've been handed a political sun by the Council of
Twelve."  Troy shook his head, laughed ironically.  "A sun that's so hot
it's practically ready to go nova."
     "Go on."
     "Sire Lin has given me a directive from the President to try and
execute a member of the Tuchanq  for the crime of premeditated
termination."  Troy rubbed his eyes tiredly.  "They want me to make an
example of her.  But I don't think they realize what might be at stake
here.  The existence of  what may be the only other intelligent life in
the Earth system rests in the balance.  And there is the moral
consideration of executing someone for a crime that she can no longer be
considered to have committed."
     Troy watched Delenn for a reaction.  He expected sympathy,
understanding at the very least.  He got nothing.  Had she missed the
point?
     He continued.  "It's all so obvious; they're not even making an
attempt to rationalize it.  Through me the President can be seen to be
implementing a crackdown on crime, thus reinforcing his own position
while at the same time gaining more support for his policies regarding
Colonial-Earth-alien relations.  And if it all goes to the wall, well,
it'll only be me in the line of fire.  There's nothing clever about it.
And nothing I can do to avoid it."
     Troy stared hard at Delenn, willed her to understand.  "I
feel---browbeaten by this whole situation.  None if it is my doing and
none of it is right.  The President is valuing his agenda way above the
truth and the little people are getting caught in the political
crossfire."
     Delenn was silent.  She probably knew what he was about to ask.  
     "Grandmother, I appeal to you as the former president of the Council
of Twelve to help me.  Use your influence to make them see reason.  You
can go through higher channels that I can.  Together we can beat this
thing---and maybe save an entire people from oblivion."
     Troy was held by Delenn's gaze.  And he suddenly knew what her reply
would be, suddenly realized just how far he had been railroaded by his
own government.  
     "They've got to you, haven't they?" His question was rhetorical. 
"Asked you to help support the law by upholding their decision.  That's
why you came here, isn't it?  Who did you speak to? Sire Lin?  Sire
Kobold?"
     Delenn lowered her eyes briefly.  "Sire Galymant spoke directly to
me on behalf of President Crord."  She hesitated.  "You have to
understand.  My influence is not what it was. I am no longer the
President, thus the Council would in all likelihood pay my request no
heed.  If I supported you in defiance of the new President I would likely
be overruled, and the remaining eleven members of the Council would
support Crord's decision to execute Arc."
     Troy frowned, felt his anger returning along with his indigestion. 
"That's just great, Grandmother.  I thought I could count on you.  I
thought I was your grandson."
     "I fear that politics and familial relations are worlds apart."
     "So...what?  We'll applaud loudly when the Executioner for the State
administers Arc's lethal injection and then have a party afterward to
celebrate the enhanced safety of the public at large, is that it?"
     Delenn said nothing, plainly embarrassed by this outburst.
     Troy turned away, embarrassed himself by his lack of control over
his anger.  
     After a moment's silence, Delenn turned to leave.  "I'm sorry.  I
think it would be better if I were to..."
     Troy turned quickly. "No, Grandmother.  I'm the one who should
apologize.  I was way out of line.  This problem is mine. I have no
business foisting it off on you."
     Delenn looked back at Troy.  "I did not only come here to discuss
this situation.  But perhaps now is not an appropriate time to ask if you
would care to dine with me this evening."
     Troy felt a rush of emotions, chiefly confusion.  The last time he
had dined with Delenn it had been an experience and a half. "Dinner.  Um,
I'd love to, you know that.  But...' He shrugged his shoulders. 
"Grandmother, I enjoy your company very much and I look forward to our
time together.  But it wouldn't be fair for either of us if our thoughts
were on Arc.  Would it?"
     Delenn nodded, seemed about to speak, then fell silent.  She turned
to leave and this time he didn't stop her.  At the entrance to the dome
she turned and said, "I understand."  The  door closed behind her with a
pneumatic wheeze only slightly softer than her voice.
     He was left with only her words for comfort.
     They were no comfort at all.

*****

CHAPTER 6

     The Galactica's Rejuvenation Center, located deep in the interior of
the warship, had been radically transformed since the dreadful day of the
Cylons' suicide attack on the battlestar more than thirty yahrens ago. 
In the old days, it was merely one  room, filled with twelve types of
tabletop and computer games.  Today, it was a spacegoing amusement park,
occupying an area the size of a sports coliseum! It now boasted
spectacular high-tech rides as well as traditional Colonial games.  It
was not only popular with all the children and civilians aboard the
Galactica, many off-duty warriors could often be found here as well,
using the rides and games as a means of improving reflex action, hand
coordination, and building endurance.
     Kar walked through the crowd at the Rejuvenation Center, past food
vendors, arcades, souvenir booths, the first aid office.  In the distance
he could see the pre-fab building that housed the Sunstorm Shrine, where
patrons could view a computer simulation of the spectacular Gemonese
Sunstorm, which occurred on the planet every seven yahrens.  Glancing
around at the different rides, he decided that the most impressive was
the "Rocket to Cimtar", which was housed in a 150-metron high carbosite
tower, and Horror Castle, which looked like a real castle complete with
moat, drawbridge, walls, and towers with pennants flying form them.  Kar
decided he'd drown his sorrows in the leisurely tram ride called "The
Infinity Trip."  
     He got in line for the tram, which consisted of a series of gondolas
suspended from a steel cable, held above the floor by a series of pylons. 
When the attendant called "Next," Kar jogged up onto the platform and
stepped through the open doors.  
     As the tram got underway, Kar found himself staring out the window
at the layout of the clever Rejuvenation Center below.  Microns later,
Kar took his eyes away from the view, concentrated on the interior of the
gondola.  Soft plastic, muted lighting, chromed safety bars.  Kar could
warp one of those bars in his fist with almost no effort.  He sighed.  It
was so easy to be strong, to fight and kill.  So much harder to be at
peace, to live in hope for the future.
     Harder still to live without hope at all.
     There were some three-thousand Nomen living in the Fleet.  Despite a
plea from the late Commander Adama not to escalate the tension, the Nomen
had formed a loose resistance movement.  Cut off from their home planet
they might be, but powerless they were not.  Currently more than three
quarters of the Nomen population held critical jobs in the Fleet.  That
was Troy's doing, Quan bless his immortal soul.  When Mollary demanded
that the Borella withdraw from the Fleet, Troy had spearheaded the
refusal to comply.  And he had won his case, too.  Although Kar had lost
his powers of Ambassador at Large, he had gaimed something equally
valuable to his people.  The friendship of Troy, Dillon, Kanon, Delenn,
and the others.  Their friendship---and their unspoken help.  All that
Troy had asked in return was that Kar use his influence over his people
to maintain the peace in the Fleet---a peace that was brittle at the best
of times, threatening to explode into violence at the slightest
provocation.  Still, Kar had kept his promise.  So far there had been
only minor incidents of violence toward the Colonists---none of which had
been traceable back to the Nomen.  And that was acceptable to Kar.
     The tram stopped at one of the platforms and a number of other
patrons came aboard, including one human in official robes who took the
seat next to Kar.
     Kar studied the human for a moment. Kar nodded to him, "An
impressive ship, is it not?"
     The human nodded.  He didn't seem to want to speak.
     "Is this your first time aboard the Galactica?"
     "Yes."  The man's voice was curt.  He really didn't want to talk.
     Nodding acknowledgment, Kar left the human in peace.
     The tram pulled into another station and more patrons came aboard. 
Kar glanced at them absently, then hissed quietly with annoyance.
     Four of them were Tuchanq.
     Too tall by far for the human-standard restraints, the Tuchanq held
onto the chromed safety bars, swaying back and forth with the motion of
the car.
     They stared at him.
     He stared back, felt himself become even angrier.  But the anger was
tempered with guilt.  For Kar was honest enough, with himself at least,
to recognize what the Nomen had done to the Tuchanq---what he had done to
them---was only marginally different from what the Cylons had done to
Twelve Colonies of Mankind.
     But no.  The similarity was a passing one only.  The Nomen were a
benevolent people compared to the Cylons.  Everyone was benevolent
compared to the Cylons.
     Kar looked back at the Tuchanq.
     They moved closer.
     Kar said nothing, felt for his harness release, touched the control
that unlocked the safety bards restraining his shoulders.  
     Other passengers in the tram picked up on the tension.  One by one
their conversations lapsed into silence.
     One of the Tuchanq leaned over the human sitting next to Kar.  There
were no other seats so he stood beside the double doors and clung to a
safety strap.
     The Tuchanq scrunched down into the seat next to Kar.  Kar felt
something sharp press against his side.  He looked down, saw the cold
glitter of metal.
     The Tuchanq was holding him at knifepoint.
     The other Tuchanq came closer.
     Kar remained as still as he could in the gently swaying car.  He
glanced sideways and up at the Tuchanq.  "What do you want?"
     The Tuchanq said loudly, "Revenge.  You devastated our planet,
killed our people.  You must die in return.  All Nomen must die.  The
Tuchanq crave revenge!"
     Kar moved fast, slamming the harness upward into the chest of the
Tuchanq in front of him.  He leapt forward.
     Too late.
     A quiver of muscle, a cry of hate.  The knife slammed home into his
side.
     The scream that was torn from his lips was as much due to
embarrassment as pain.  He had been caught out.  He was a Warrior of the
Code and he had been caught out.  Never assume there is safety in neutral
territory!  Never!
     Pain ran along his side; he felt skin and tunic tear as he wrenched
himself away from the Tuchanq.  The car had erupted into movement and
screams.  Three dozen individuals got up as one and ran to the farthest
point of the tram, pressed in a huddle beneath the rear window.  One of
the Colonial Warriors threw a punch aimed a the second Tuchanq's head. 
The punch seemed to connect but the Tuchanq ignored it, whirled, slammed
her knife into his chest, thrust him backward with contemptuous ease.  He
sagged to the floor, groaning, blood pumping from what looked to be a
terminal wound.
     Kar made use of the moment.  Swung a fist himself.  He may not have
been the fastest of movers, but he was strong.  The blow should have
crushed the Tuchanq's throat like a paper lantern.
     The blow never landed.
     Kar blinked.
     He was sure he had...
     The third Tuchanq closed in.  Kar twisted clumsily away from his
dagger, which tore a hole in the tunic covering his thigh.  He felt the
knife sink in, screamed as it scraped against the bone.  He fell, pain
flooding his mind.  He wasn't going to die here.  Not here, not like
this.  There was too much left to do.  Too much!  Die now and Mollary
would laugh at his funeral.  No.  No! No!
     Kar scrambled upright, grabbed the nearest patron for support,
nearly fell again when the woman---Flight Sergeant Haenites, Red
Squadron---pressed herself even farther back into the mass of stunned
patrons.
     The Tuchanq ran forward, spines rigid, knives at the ready.
     Kar glanced past them out of the forward window, then did the only
thing he could do.  He pulled the emergency handle beside the doors.
     They slid open, admitting a blast of cold air.
     The tram continued, entering a support pylon; increased pressure
drove a blast of air into the tram.  Patrons reeled, grabbed seats,
restraints, each other for support.
     Kar felt the blast of air rock his bvody.  He was ready for it
because he had seen the pylon approaching.  He braced himself against the
shock and when the Tuchanq reeled helplessly he leapt.  Crashing heavily
into the nearest Tuchanq, Kar smashed a fist into his chest as they both
reeled sideways into the wall and bounced back toward the doors.  The
Tuchanq fell with a cry, blood flooding from his body.  Kar grabbed the
knife, plunged it into the alien, withrdrew the weapon, and hurled it
clumsily at the next nearest aggressor.
     The knife missed, clattered harmlessly against the end window.
     The reaction to his throwing the knife bounced Kar against the
doorframe and back into the body of the car.  The Tuchanq wasn't so
lucky. He slid right out of the doors, fell against the wall of the pylon
tunnel, was whipped abruptly back along the five-centimetron gap between
the tunnel and the car.  A single scream, the cracking of bones, and the
Tuchanq was gone.  The mashed body smeared across the outside of the
windows, punching the glass out in a rush of blood.
     The remaining Tuchanq scrambled to their feet, knives poised.  Backs
to the forward-facing window, they leapt toward Kar.
     He didn't move.
     The tram emerged from the pylon.
     The air pressure inside the tram fell abruptly as it equalized with
that outside the pylon tunnel. It only took a micron, but that was
sufficient.  Carried forward by their own momentum, the Tuchanq were
caught with no means of anchoring themselves.  They were swept toward the
door.  One managed to grab a passenger, who flailed for support.  Other
passengers reached for them but it was too late.  Tuchanq and passenger
were sucked out of the doors, began the three-quarters-of-a-lexon fall to
the floor.
     Kar grabbed hold of the nearest seat harness, hung on tightly, tried
to decide whether the scream he could hear was that of the falling
figures or simply the air current.
     Someone hit the door control;  they hissed shut.
     Blood drenched his side and leg.
     His breath came in short, agonized bursts.
     Stunned, the patrons made a kind of collective sigh, half fear, half
relief.  Someone began to cry.
     Kar sagged to the floor.  His blood followed more slowly.  He sucked
in a breath, winced as pain shot through his side.
     He checked his chronometer.
     The entire incident had taken place in less than a mili-centon.
     Ignoring the pain in his leg and side, he pulled himself to the
remaining Tuchanq.  The alien wasn't moving.  Kar reached for his neck to
check for a pulse.  
     His hand slipped through the flesh as if it were mist!
     Kar jerked back in shock.  No wonder most of his blows hadn't
connected properly.  This wasn't a Tuchanq at all.
     It was someone wearing a Changeling Net!
     Kar groped for the real body inside the illusion, ran his hands
along the bloody chest, touched the control mechanism and activated it.
     The body rippled, bluured---and changed.
     In microns there was a human lying in place of the Tuchanq he had
seen.  A human dressed in old, soiled clothes and the mesh of the Net.  A
human who moaned with pain and stirred briefly before lapsing back into
unconsciousness.
     A lurker.
     Kar allowed himself to relax.  He activated his comm..  "This is
Ambass---this is Kar.  I'm aboard a tram in the Rejuvenation Center.  I
wish to report an attempt on my life."
     Only after he had given all the details and been assured that a team
of med-techs would meet him at the disembarkation point for the "Infinity
Trip" tram ride did Kar allow himself the luxury of wondering who would
want to kill him---and why?

*****

CHAPTER 7

     "We found the first body pulped against the south side of the
Sunstorm Temple," Kanon exclaimed 
     Seated at the desk in his quarters, Troy steepled his fingers, shook
his head.  "And the others?"
     Kanon cocked his head to one side, a tiny movement equivalent to a
shrug.  "There were four.  Kar killed one, another managed to get himself
smeared all over the inside of a pylon in the Rejuvenation Center's
'Infinity Ride.'  The other landed on the ultra-cricket pitch."  Kanon
licked his lips.  "And on the first day the newly-organized Green and
Purple teams can compete against each other, a dead body hurtles down
from the ceiling, totals the autopitcher, spraying buckets of blood
everywhere! Not good."
     Troy sighed.  "I suppose not.  What about Kar?"
     "Doctor Franklin fixed him up good as new.  Well, all but.  I expect
he'll limp for a bit, but then a good limp never hurt anyone."
     "Is that your full report?"
     Kanon pursed his lips, thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. 
"Nope.  Two things.  Both of which you're gonna like about as much as a
Cylon attack."
     "Tell me."
     "First thing: Kar reported being attacked by members of the
Tuchanq."
     "Oh, not again!"
     "Mm, but that's not all.  You see---they weren't actually Tuchanq at
all.  They were lurkers.  Humans, actually.  What remained of their ID
suggested they might have affiliations with that anti-alien group we've
been having trouble with for the past ten yahrens, the Star Chamber."
     "Oh, felgercarb."
     "But wait, there's even more.  Kar says he was attacked by humans
disguised with Changeling Nets to pass as Tuchanq.  Witnesses confirm
this.  Problem is---there weren't any Nets.  Not on the bodies, not near
the bodies, not within a hundred metrons of the bodies; I checked.  No
debris either.  But we did find one body in the tram car."
     Troy frowned thoughtfully.  "Changeling Nets can alter someone's
appearance, but they can't just vanish into thin air."
     "I know.  Now hold onto your hat for this: One of my warriors
thought he saw a movement in the body that landed on the ultra-cricket
pitch.  He said it looked to him like the body was lying on top of
something.  But then the body just sagged.  He got a glimpse of something
glowing underneath...but when he went digging there was nothing that
could have supported the body---nothing under there but the dead guy's
shadow."
     Troy licked his lips.
     Dark Ones.
     "So the implication is that in this instance when the user died, the
Net self-destructed.  Which would mean whoever is responsible for the
killings is really serious about not being found out," Troy said.
     Kanon nodded.
     "What else?"
     "Second thing: this."  Kanon dug into his pocket, produced a plastic
evidence bag, dumped a bloodstained ID onto Troy's desk.  "One of the
bodies was that of the man the Council sent her to execute Arc."
     "Damn!" Troy studied the ID, turned it over in his hands.  Portrait
of a killer.  Portrait of a dead man.  "This situation is getting way out
of hand."
     Kanon nodded. "You said it.  The President wants Arc executed for a
murder she can't be held responsible for, and the body count's now up to
eight, one of whom was the Executioner."
     Troy sighed.  "This is crazy.  We have to stop this thing now."
     Kanon agreed.  "Guess I shouldn't have booked that furlong after
all."
     "The situation needs to be investigated."
     "Right.  We'll need to know who brought the Changeling Nets aboard
and who hired the lurkers to kill Kar."  Kanon thought for a moment.  "I
think it's time to have a chat with the one person in the Fleet who knows
something about everything."
     "Grath?"
     "Who else?"
     "That'll mean a trip to Kreg's Pleasure Ship."
     "It'll also mean a mountainous peak in my pay voucher for this
sectan."
     Troy smiled thinly.  "Keep me posted, all right?"
     "You got it."  Kanon left Troy's office.
     When the Captain was gone, Troy reached for a bottle of headache
tabs.

*****

CHAPTER 8

     Hands thrust deeply into pockets, Kanon went through the swinging
doors of the Zocalo Bar, located on Deck M7 of Kreg's Pleasure Ship.  It
was a shabby enclosure, a few men grouped around the counter and at the
tables talking in a desultory way; in one corner a pyramid game.  The man
behind the counter came toward Kanon, rubbing his hands on a towel. 
     "I'd like some ice water, please, if it's not too much trouble," the
warrior said flatly.
     "That's all you want?  Water?"
     Kanon nodded.
     The man shook his head.  "That's an unusual request," he said, "at
least on this ship it is."  He went to a shelf, took a pitcher standing
there and putting a mug in front of Kanon, filled it.  Kanon reached to
belt level for his money bag.
     The bartender caught the motion and raised his hand in a gesture of
refusal.  "No," he said, "water's free on this ship.  That's perfectly
all right. Don't thank me."
     Kanon found the booth where Colonel Dillon promised to meet him. 
The two men, both drinking the same thing, mugs of ice water, began a
discussion.
     "Getting in touch with Garth is problematic at the best of times,"
said Dillon.  "It'll take you some time to set up a meet."
     "I had a talk with Captain Kreg before I came down here," Kanon
replied.  "He said he'd set the wheels in motion.  He's currently
scanning Deck H10 and, when he's located Grath, he'll call me."
     Kanon took another sip of his water.  There were days when he longed
for the silken burn of a good ambrosa in his gut.  Most days he could
shut out the thought.  Today looked like it was going to be one of those
days when trying to forget the past was harder than usual.  
     Dillon tucked away another sip of his ice water.  "So, what happened
down in the Rejuvenation Center?"
     "I scraped a guy off the Sunstorm Shrine roof today."
     "Ugh!  That must've been messy."
     Kanon nodded. "For him and me both.  Still.  It'll teach him to go
after Kar armed with just a knife."
     "What was it you wanted to know about the Tuchanq?"
     "Well, it's like this.  Commander Troy wants to avoid a diplomatic
incident.  Especially since he feels Arc cannot be held morally
responsible for murder."
     Dillon nodded. "And I agree with him, don't you?"
     Kanon frowned.  "It's not as simple as that for me.  I'm a warrior. 
And I believe in the law.  If Arc is guilty, she should be punished."
     Dillon put down his mug.  "Are you trying to tell me you think Arc
should be executed?"
     Kanon pursed his lips.  "If she's found guilty---and if it's what
the law demands. Yeah, I guess so."
     Dillon seemed taken aback.  "Kanon, this doesn't seem like you. 
What about the moral issues?  If Arc is brain-dead, surely she's been
punished already."
     Kanon sighed.  "Colonel, that's..." He struggled to find the words
to express what he thought.  "That's a great philosophy.  But I deal in
reality.  It's my job, it's who I am, I mean...what's the point in having
laws if you don't abide by them?"
     Dillon frowned. "Well, at the very least you must admit that the
mere existence of execution as a punishment devalues human life."    
Kanon thought about that one.  "I'd say it means the exact opposite. 
Look at it this way: By carrying out an execution, we're saying that we
value life so much we're gonna use the ultimate punishment against anyone
who commits murder."
     Dillon uttered a short, humorous laugh.  "I..." He stopped, began
again.  "That's..." He shook his head.  "Never mind." He began to drink
again.
     Kanon began drinking again himself.  The water seemed to have lost
its cool comfort.  Dillon was staring at the table.  What had begun as a
straightforward conversation had somehow turned into a rather disturbing
examination of Kanon's own morals and beliefs.
     He lifted his mug to his lips, forced himself to drink.
     The silence dragged on.
     Eventually he put down his mug.  "Look, Dillon. People, they're all
different.  Politics.  Religion.  It's different for everyone.  But we're
friends, right?  We can agree that we both want justice for the guilty,
protection for the innocent. That's gotta be true, otherwise, why would
we even be here?"
     It was an apology, but Dillon ignored it, instead lowered his mug to
the table and looked up angrily from his drink.  "How can you say that? 
Now you're twisting the truth and playing on our friendship to get me to
agree!  There's a word for that. It's blackmail.  Emotional blackmail! 
And, as your superior officer, I won't stand for it!"
     How the hell did we get from an apology to this?
     "Hang on a centon.  I only meant..."
     "I know what you meant did.  But that's all right  You just keep
thinking might is right and justice is on the side of the innocent.  I
wouldn't want to disillusion you now, would I?"
     Kanon felt his anger rise.  "Don't be stupid.  That's not you
talking, it's some prolife propagandist with more literary skill than
common sense!"
     Dillon's face suddenly lost all expression, a sure sign of extreme
annoyance.  "Kanon, I can't believe you just said that!  Don't you
believe in the basic right of an individual to happiness and justice?"
     "Not when they get them at the cost of someone else's life I don't,
no."
     Dillon began to say something, bit off his comment, stared silently
at the table.
     Kanon struggled to control his anger.  "Look.  Colonel.  All I meant
to say was..."
     He was interrupted as his comm. bleeped.  "Kanon. Go."
     "Captain Kanon?  This is Captain Kreg.  I've set up that meeting you
wanted with Grath.  He'll be on Deck H10 in a centar; he'll meet you at
the Asalus Memorial in the Hanging Garden."
     "Check."  Kanon thanked Kreg and signed off.  He looked at Dillon. 
"Look, I was about to say I'm..."
     Once again the Colonel interrupted.  "It's all right, Kanon.  You
don't have to explain, and you certainly don't have to apologize.  It's
your politics and your opinion.  Now, if I don't mind, I'd rather not
talk about it."  A momentary silence, then, "I don't know what's going on
around here lately.  Ever since the Tuchanq came to the Fleet, things
have been..." He sighed.  "Getting way out of control."
     Kanon hesitated, then, "Yeah, well---like I said---I'm sorry."
     "Sure."
     Kanon rose.  "Um...guess I'll be going, then."
     "Catch you on the Galactica."
     "You do that."
     Kanon left the Zocalo Bar feeling unsettled and depressed.  He was
right.  Just lately the whole damned thing was going to hades in a
handbasket.
     Abruptly Kanon shook his head.  Frak this!  You're on a vital
mission for the Galactica.  Concentrate on that.
     Sure.

*****

CHAPTER 9

     Alone in the Galactica's central observation gallery, Vir sat
cross-legged on the floor and gazed at the distant stars. 
     He shuffled sideways, eased the pressure on his knees, moved his
robes of office so that he could get a wider view of the stars.  
     Secrets.
     He was surrounded by them; his family's secrets, Galactican secrets,
Nomen secrets, Mollary's secrets.
     Vir hated them all.
     He hated what his life had come to represent.  He was a Tauron. 
Shouldn't he be proud of that?  Mollary was a Tauron and he was proud. 
Then again Mollary was flawed.  Vir knew that well.  Too well.  He'd seen
what his mentor was capable of, how far he had fallen in his reach for
glory. 
     Vir was a Tauron and he was not proud.
     He turned at a sound beside him in the gallery.  
     Kar.
     The Nomen glanced at Vir, said nothing.
     Vir scrambled quickly to his feet.  He hadn't had occasion to see
Kar since---well, since that time in the lift a sectar or so ago, when
he'd tried to express his sympathy for the ex-ambassador's plight, and
that of his people.  The Nomen looked older now, his skin rougher, his
lips compressed to a thin line.
     Vir forced himself to meet Kar's gaze.  The Nomen's eyes were a
penetratring blue.  Obsessed eyes.
     Kar held Vir's gaze for a moment, looking the latter straight in the
eyes.  "The stars are beautiful today," said the Nomen.
     Vir nodded, unable to think of a response.
     Kar continued. "Every culture has a concept of Heaven.  Somewhere
better to go when all is lost.  Quan tells us Heaven for the Nomen is
gold.  Earth's sun is gold, therefore it must be Heaven."
     Vir nodded quickly.
     Kar shrugged, a massive gesture.  "Of course, that may have
something to do with the fact that I was nearly sent to Heaven some few
centons ago."
     Vir swallowed nervously.  Everyone knew the Nomen were not exactly
tolerant of Colonists anywhere in the Fleet, not even on the Galactica. 
Had the ex-ambassador taken it into his head to...
     "Is it true?" Normally deep and sepulchral today, Vir realized,
Kar's voice held a roughness and a liquid gurgle that spoke of injury. 
For the first time, Vir became aware that Kar's posture was slightly
hunched, as if he were in pain.
     "I don't understand.  Is what true?"
     Kar pulled aside his tunic to reveal a set of bandages enshrouding
his chest.  "Is it true that I was attacked by lurkers---humans in the
pay of your mentor, Sire Mollary?"
     Vir cleared his throat...another nervous gesture.  Sometimes his
life was nothing but nervous gestures.  "I---I'm afraid I don't know what
you're talking about.  I heard, of course, that you were attacked, and
I'm---well, I'm glad to see that you are still alive, obviously, but..."
     Kar sighed impatiently.
     Vir rused on.  "I have a suggestion: ask Sire Mollary himself."
     "You speak as if he would give me an honest response."
     Vir swallowed again, elected not to reply.
     Kar pursed his lips at Vir's silence.  "Of course he wouldn't.  And
you should know better than to suggest such a thing.  Need I  remind you
that Mollary no longer speaks to me, for he no longer recognizes me as an
equal."  A bitter silence, then, "Or, more probably than not, as a life
form of any significance by any means."
     Vir bit his lip, blew out his cheeks.  This was so unfair!  Couldn't
Mollary see what he was doing?  The problem was, of course, that Vir
could well imagine Kar's accusations to be true.  Hiring someone to
attack a private citizen was outrageous behavior, but no more outrageous
than anything else Mollary had done in his personal reach for a place in
human history.
     Vir tried to find the words to express his sympathy and yet make Kar
understand the limited extent of both his knowledge and his influence. 
What came out was a kind of nervous gurgle.  
     Kar twisted his muscular face into a frown.  "Vir, as Captain Kanon
says, I have no evidence.  I demand nothing from you.  I only ask for 
your help."  A pause.  Blue eyes held Vir's unwaveringly.  "A little over
a sectar agao, you expressed sympathy for my plight.  If you mean what
you said, then you will help me now."
     Vir felt himself shaking. "I can't...um...I can't help you."  More
wo rds came in a rush.  "Not because I won't help you, Kar, or because I
don't sympathize, you have to believe that, but because I simply don't
know!"
     There was a long silence.  Despite himself, Vir could simply find no
words to fill it.
     Kar seemed to shrink inwardly.  In such a massive being, it was a
pathetic sight.
     "I should have expected no less from a Colonial."
     Abruptly he turned and left the gallery.
     Vir stood quite still, shivering as the hatch sealed behind the
Nomen.  Kar was right.  He was useless.  He had no courage; no destiny
that wasn't bound up with that of Mollary and Morden.
     Vir let his eyes adjust to the prevailing starlight.  He wished he
could just leave all this behind, go to Earth.  Get sealed to an Earth
woman and just forget about Mollary and Kar and the terror, guilt, and
shame that he felt every time he thought of either.
     Impossible, of course.
     Because Kar would continue his own investigations.  Vir knew enough
to realize that at least was true.  Knew also word of the investigation
would find its way back to Mollary via other channels.  Then Mollary
would find out about his own conversation with Kar.  And no matter what
the truth was, Mollary would believe the worst of Vir.
     And Vir knew then that if he was not to compromise his own
self-appointed position as Mollary's whispered conscience, he must betray
Kar's confidence himself.  He must warn Mollary that Kar was becoming
suspicious---and that he had been talking to Kanon.
     Vir considered his options---which were really no options at all. 
In the process, he began to understand exactly what real responsibility
was.  In the process he had just the tiniest inkling of how Mollary must
feel about his relationship with Morden.  With the understanding came a
self-knowledge that was both hateful and terrifying in its honesty.
     Vir wondered if Mollary hated himself as much as Vir was coming to
hate him.

*****

CHAPTER 10

     The chapel was simple in construction: a cube-shaped annex to the
Life Station, three metrons on a side.  Its walls were draped with dark
cloth.  Rows of pews took up the room.
     Tegates lay on a raised dias in front of the seats.  He was covered
from ankles to neck in a white shroud.
     Tenelle stood in the narrow space between the seats and the dias. 
She breathed deeply, shudderingly, feeling her nerves fray a little
further.  If Troy could have seen her now, she thought, he would be
surprised.  Surprised that the cold, aloof, faintly arrogant woman he had
spoken with could stand here trembling, on the verge of tears, before the
body of a man she did not love.
     There were probably a lot of things about her that would surprise
Troy.  He was a battlestar commander.  A red-tape man. Oh, he came across
as sympathetic enough but what did he really know about it?  He wasn't
married, as far as she could tell.
     Tenelle dismissed these self-indulgent thoughts by looking around
the chapel.  An odd name for a room containing nothing of any greater
religious significance than a few old curtains.  Then again, she
supposed, if they had tried to place icons in here there would be no room
for visitors---or the deceased for that matter.
     The deceased.
     Tegates.
     Tenelle licked her lips and---finally---lowered her eyes to the
shrouded body, the face.  His face.  Tegates's face.
     He was not as she remembered him.
     He was pale.  The skin was bruised.  There were contusions on the
cheeks, a cut above the eyebrow.  Tegates was a big man.  Well, wide,
anyway.  In life he had been given to sudden movements, dramatic, if
somewhat clumsy.  Now he seemed somehow shrunken, as if death had robbed
him of more than just his life, as if it had somehow managed to---to dull
his presence even in her memories of him.  As if it had taken the full
color stereo image she had of him in her mind and reduced it to a flat,
black and white copy, grainy and insubstantial.
     Or had she done that by not loving him?
     It didn't matter.  What did was the fact that Tegates was gone. 
When he was shot into space here life would be her own again.
     Shse sighed, settled wearily into one of the pews, sighed again as
the ache in her legs and back subsided a little, then felt guilty at the
sense of relief.  Tegates hadn't had any relief.  How had he felt?  Had
he known he was going to die?  Had he had time for a final thought?  What
had been his last sensations?  Feelings.
     How could she ever know?  How could she ever even presume to
understand?
     Tears came then.  She rested her head in her hands and surrendered
to the feelings cascading through her, all sense of time and self washed
away in a confusing torrent of emotions, until eventually there were no
more tears, just a confused, vaguely uncomfortable emptiness that seemed
desperately to cry out for something, some emotion to fill it.
     There was nothing.  She was bare.  Worn out.
     When the sound of pews creaking told her there was someone beside
her, she looked up.  A figure was sitting in the front row, an arm's
length away from Tegates.  A human, dark-skinned, wearing doctor's grays.
     "Dr. Franklin, I presume?"
     He nodded, glanced from Tegates to her and back again.  "It sounds
morbid, I know but...you can touch the body.  If you want.  Sometimes it
helps.  To let go."
     "Doctor, I haven't 'touched' my husband for nearly three yahrens." 
Despite her grief and confusion, Tenelle found herself giggling, wondered
briefly what Franklin must think of her, then instantly dismissed the
thought from her mind, the smile from her face.  "Believe me, letting go
is no problem."
     Franklin shrugged. "Whatever you think is best."
     She nodded agreement.  "What's best is for me to take Tegates home
and give him a decent burial."
     Franklin sat perfectly still, said nothing.  She felt something from
him though.  Irritation?  Embarrassment?  Surely not---shame?
     "I'm...uh...I'm afraid I can't let you do that."
     Another flash of anger.  "So the choice is yours, is it?"
     Now it was Franklin's turn to utter a humorless laugh.  "If it was
up to me, you could leave on the next shuttle."  A hesitation.  "The
directive comes from the Council."
     "I understand.  They're in charge.  You have to do as you're told." 
Where had that bitterness in her voice come from?  Did she really care
whether Tegates's burial was delayed a few centons or days?  Did it
really matter in the long term?  Or at all for that matter?
     Yes. It mattered to her.
     She just couldn't say why.
     Franklin nodded. "I'm sorry you feel that way.  You should know it
isn't like that.  Both Commander Troy and myself have..."
     " '...every sympathy.'  Yes.  I know.  He said that too."
     She watched his eyes then, saw into his head.  Saw his doubt about
her strength.  Saw herself as he saw her: confused, upset,
impressionable, shocked, lonely.  The image angered her, made her even
more determined to let no one else make assumptions about her, her state
of mind, ever again.
     Starting from now.
     "Doctor, I told Commander Troy, and now I'm telling you.  I have a
flight booked in fifteen centons.  My husband and I will be on that
flight.  Or half the Fleet willl know via the IFB why not."
     Franklin sighed, seemed about to speak.  She didn't wait to hear
what he had to say.  She simply rose and left the chapel, too upset to
discuss the matter further.

*****

CHAPTER 11

     Vir stood in the entrace to the Officers' Club and studied the crowd
of warriors and civilians drinking, talking, and gambling.  He couldn't
help but notice that there were five very young female warriors among the
crowd, sharing drinks, just like the men, and engaging in spirited
discussion about battles they had taken part in.
     "The lateral shot was what worried me the most..." 
     "They moved so fast across my field of vision you knew it wasn't
going to blink on the attack computer so all I could do was make a guess
and count down from three..."
     "I'm glad I didn't have to try one of those.  I didn't do so well
out there..."
     "Hey, you're alive, aren't you?  That means you did fine..." 
     Good Lords of Kobol, thought Vir. They're practically green pilots
but after just one day out, they're already trading war stories like
seasoned veterans.  Just goes to show you how one day in space, alone,
changes you forever.
     Vir forced his way through the crowd.  He'd expected to find Mollary
playing  pyramid with a group of warriors, a simpering female on each
arm, a hand of cards in one eager hand, a large glass of ambrosa clutched
firmly in the other.
     Not today; today Mollary was doing the other thing he did well.
     He was propping up the bar.  
     Vir watched him.  He looked so alone.  His back was hunched
defensively, his eyes were downcast, his whole demeanor seemed heavy with
sadness.  He stirred his drink absent and sipped it.
     Even the beautiful young Colonial Warrior who glided  by his seat
seemed unable to attract his attention.
     Vir felt unlooked-for empathy.  Sitting there, quiet, alone in the
crowd, Mollary reminded him very much of himself.
     He shok his head, put aside the maudlin thoughts.  He pushed through
the crowd toward his mentor, took the next seat.  It didn't escape his
notice that he was sitting too close to Mollary, and it was obvious that
it hadn't escaped Mollary's notice either.  He looked up as Vir sat, a
mixture of surprise and pleasure at the thought of company.  His face
fell when he saw who it was.
     "Oh, it's you, Vir."
     Vir ordered drinks for them both.  "It's still early.  I thought you
would have been talking to the Tuchanq delegation."
     "They are still considering my offer."
     The android bartender placed a drink in front of each of them.
Mollary lifted his immediately to his lips.  "Have you completed your
work for today, Vir?"
     Vir shook his head.  'I have found something out which, I am afraid
to say, distresses me greatly."
     Mollary uttered a short, humorless laugh.  "Look at all these happy
smiling people around you, Vir.  Do you think they would be here if they
were truly happy elsewhere?  Everyone is distressed about something.  Do
you not think I would understand that?  I am one of these people, after
all."
     Vir sighed inwardly.  Since the appearance of Morden on the
Galactica, Mollary had become increasingly withdrawn.  He had suffered
terrible mood swings.  Elation and depression.  Incredible highs followed
by desperate lows.  And Vir had been drawn into those mood swings with
Mollary, at times admiring the buritician, at other times pitying him, at
still others laughing uproariously at some bit of outrageousness as the
old and altogether too rarely glimpsed Sire Mollary shone through the
darkness that his life had in recent sectars become.
     Vir licked his chops.  "Forgive my saying so, Sire, but---just
lately you seem---well, a little down."
     Mollary downed half his drink.  "Don't you worry, Vir. It's a
passing phase."
     "Perhaps it would pass more quickly if you saw Dr. Franklin, asked
him for a prescription...perhaps something to help you sleep...?"
     "No!" Mollary answered quickly.  Too quickly.  "The only medication
I need is right here in the Officers' Club."  Mollary finished his drink
and ordered another.  "So," he added as he waited for the drink to
arrive.  "What brings you to my little drunken aerie, this fine and
glorious day?"
     Vir shook his head, somehow unable to bring himself to confront
Mollary with Kar's accusation.
     Mollary pointed a finger at him.  "Vir, let me give you a bit of
friendly advice.  Never let them see you hesitate."
     Vir shook his head, uttered his own version of Mollary's humorless
laugh. "I was merely attempting to guard your feelings, Sire."
     Mollary sat up straighter on his bar stool, slopping his drink over
his robes as he did so.  "And that's another thing you must learn, Vir. 
When to go for the throat.  To play the game of life, you must learn when
to strike and when to hold back."
     Vir nodded.  Mollary was very drunk.  Perhaps he'd speak to him
later.  He got up to leave, felt Mollary's hand on his arm holding him
back.
     "So tell me, Vir.  Here were are, both of us together in an infernal
situation, and I am four-fifths drunk.  So you tell me.  Is this a time
to go for the throat?  Or is it a time to hold back, consider the
situation, listen and learn?"
     Vir frowned.  "Sire, I don't understand what..."
     "My dear Vir, of course you don't!" Mollary interrupted in a slurred
voice, spreading his hands and slopping his drink as he did so.  "That is
why I am the buritician and you are the attache!" Mollary beamed
expansively and took another slug of the drink.
     That was when Vir began to get angry.  "All right, Sire, if that's
the way you want it.  I had thought to mention something which has come
to my attention, but seeing as how you are obviously--- "
     "Obviously nothing, Vir!" Mollary interrupted again.  "Just get on
with it, will you?"
     Vir tried to temper his anger.  "I have spoken with Kar.  He accuses
you of trying to have him terminated. Is this, in fact, true?"
     Mollary blinked, then abruptly laughed out loud.  "Why, Vir.  I
think you may have actually learned when the time is right to go for the
throat after all!"
     Vir felt his hands clench uselessly by his sides.  "Is it true?"
     Mollary took a deep breath, finished his drink and ordered another. 
Vir wasn't halfway through his drink yet; Mollary was already on his
third since Vir had joined him.  He stared at Vir, a direct stare, eyes
too wide, too bright.  Not for the first time Vir had an impression of
what it might be like to make an enemy of him.
     "Vir, let me tell you something.  We sit here together and you see
an old drunken Tauron.  One with delusions of grandeur, perhaps.  One
whose control over his gambling and drinking is slipping; oh just a
little, but slipping nonetheless.  You see a fat old Tauron with his mind
locked in the past while his ambition reaches past his talents into the
future.  Well, let me tell you something, Vir.  My vision is not unique. 
If you were any sort of Colonist yourself you would share that vision.  A
vision of Mankind's new rise to glory on a new world.  As it should be. 
And let me tell you, Vir, anything I can do to make that vision happen, I
will do.  Knowingly, willingly, with joy."
     Vir felt sick.  His mouth worked silently as, for the second time in
as many centons, the right words simply would not come.
     "Nothing to say, Vir?  Well?  Is it time to go for the throat?  Or
time to hold back?  Why don't you tell me, Vir?  Show me what you've
learned in your time here with me."
     Vir found himself shaking.
     "Sire---"
     "Yes?" Amusement. Indulgence.
     "Mollary---"
     "Yes?" Irritation now.  And impatience.
     "Did you do it?  Did you have Kar attacked?  Did you try to have him
terminated?"
     And Mollary laughed, loud and long. "Oh, no, Vir, no, no, no. It
seems I was mistaken about you.  That was the wrong time to go for the
throat.  You should have waited, listened, learned.  Perhaps offered me
another drink. Loosened me up even further.  I'm sorry, Vir.  You were
wrong.  But never mind.  At least you've learned that there is still much
to learn.  I tell you what: Let me buy you another drink to commiserate." 
Mollary waved drunkenly at the android barman.
     Vir said quietly, slowly, "Do you remember when my family tried to
have me removed from office, taken back to my home ship?  You helped me
then.  Threatened to leave if I was made to leave.  You said I was
indispensible to you.  I thought we could trust each other.  I thought we
were friends."
     Mollary sniffed, drank deeply from the freshened glass.  Avoiding
Vir's gaze, he stared at the bar top. "We live in dangerous times, Vir. 
Forming friendships is unthinkable," he said eventually.
     Vir could control his anger no longer.  "Is that more of your
self-styled advice?  Or your self-pity speaking?" He got up to leave. 
"Perhaps it's the ambrosa speaking?" He stared at Mollary very hard,
willing him to understand. "Then again, perhaps it's not you at all.
Perhaps it's someone else, talking."
     Mollary raised his eyes to regard Vir with something akin to shock.
     "In any case, I'm both afraid and ashamed to say that you're right." 
Vir pushed through the crowd and left the Officers' Club.
     He had some serious thinking to do.

*****

CHAPTER 12

     Kanon stoped by his assigned lodging aboard Kreg's Pleasure Ship to
pick up an old bag of cubits he kept lying around for bribes, briefed
Kreg quickly on his itinerary, then, donning an AE suit, he jumped onto a
lift that shot down to Deck H10. 
     H10 was a deck Captain Kreg designed specially designed for any
alien passengers he might pick up.  The idea was you stepped through one
airlock, crossed a short stretch of deck, and then entered the
environment of your choice through another airlock.  
     Kanon cycled the lock that let him into the Hanging Garden. The
room's atmosphere was mainly methane ammonia, the second most commonly
occurring atmosphere besides the oxygen-nitrogen variations.  Running
almost the length of H10, the Hanging Garden got its name from
various-sized spheres of soil that were hanging down from the ceiling,
suspended above the floor long, thick chains.  Growths of phosphoresencet
alien vegetation ranging from bush- to tree-size clustered in lumps
around these tethered balls of soil, their fronds spreading out in slowly
waving masses.  The bright globes of vegation receded into the depths of
the chamber until their color was leached away by the foggy atmosphere. 
Aliens and Colonists glided through this environment, their AE suit
lights winking through the fog like clouds of glowing pollen caught in
shafts of sunlight.
     Kanon moved into the fog.  He had arranged to meet Grath at the
Asalus War Memorial, located halfway across the chamber.  
     Grath was a Tracal, a methane-breathing insectoid whose natural home
had been the upper middle atmosphere of one of the gas giants orbiting
Saevat.  Nobody seemed to know when Grath had actually joined the
population of the Fleet.  He seemed always to have been here.  But if you
wanted something, Grath could get it. Hardware, software, secrets,
mushies.  Anything was up for grabs.  If you had the money.
     A Changeling Net would cost a lot of money.  Four of the things
would damn near bankrupt anything less than a medium-size government. 
That didn't leave many possible buyers.  Grath would know who.
     There was a problem, of course.
     When Kanon reached the War Memorial, it was to find Grath dying.
     The Tracal was loosely tethered by one mandible to a patch of
vegetation some metrons away from the Memorial.  The other three
mandibles were waving feebly in an attempt to attract help.
     He was bleeding to death from a laser blast to his throat.
     Kanon chinned his helmet commswitch and linked onto the Fleet Med
Channel.  "This is Captain Kanon aboard Kreg's Pleasure Ship. I've got a
medical emergency on Deck H10, in the Hanging Gardens.  It's Grath. 
Laser blast to the thorax.  We're by the Asalus Memorial.  You better
send a shuttle here fast.  There's a lot of blood."
     He looked quickly around.  The attack had only just taken place. 
The edges of the wound were still hot.  Not only that but a crowd had
only just begaun to gather.  The attacker was here.  Somewhere close.
     Grath began to struggle.  Kanon tried to hold him still.  Was he
convulsing? Having a heart attack?
     No.  He was trying to talk.
     Grath scraped his mandibles together; his languatron, miraculously
undamaged, waited fifteen microns and then faithfully repredoced the
scraping noises as Colonial Standard with a thick Cylon flavor. 
"Kanon...someone...kill me."
     "Did you get a look a them?"
     "...Tauron..."
     "Why did they do this?"
     "...don't..."
     Kanon thought fast while trying to keep pressure on Grath's wound. 
The alien was not exactly without influence throughout the Fleet.  Anyone
who wanted him fried would have to be prepared to deal with the
consequences.  "Listen, Grath.  I need information.  Do you know who
hired some lurkers to kil the ex-Nomen Ambassador Kar?"
     "...Tauron..."
     "Yeah, yeah.  That's who tried to kill you.  I need to know---"
     "...no...Tauron...hired..."
     Kanon smiled grimly. "The Tauron hired the lurkers?"
     "...yes..."
     "And Changeling Nets?  Did you supply them?"
     "...don't..."
     Kanon swore.  If Grath didn't know of any Changeling Nets, then
there weren't any in the Fleet to know about.  So where did that leave
him?"
     "Grath.  Do you know who attacked you?  Do you have a name?"
     Grath scraped his mandibles together.  The translator hummed and
clicked.  "...wouldn't give...found out anyway..."
     At that moment the med-techs arrived.  The doctor---a human---cut
into Kanon's frequency.  "We'll take over now, thank you.  Nurse Elin,
get an IV line here...large bore.  And stand by to ventilate.  With all
this epidermal damage his remaining spiracles will be hard pushed to
supply enough methane to his body.  He could go into respiratory arrest
at any time."
     Grath was still struggling with Kanon's question. 
"...name...Aschar..."
     The doctor said, "Captain Kanon, if you please.  We have a job to do
here."
     Kanon muttered an apology, moved aside to allow the med-techs access
to Grath.  As Colonist doctor and Nomen nurse began to work, Grath
scraped his mandibles weakly together again.  
     "...no opportunity to...bargain...double the cost for..."
     Kanon moved closer, said, "Don't you worry.  Walk out of Life
Station in one piece and I'll pay you three times what this info is
worth."
     "Kanon...you're...full of..."Grath scraped his mandibles again but
the languatron just produced nonsense sounds.
     Kanon allowed himself to drift away from Grath.  He drew his laser. 
There was a slim chance the assassin was nearby, waiting to see if his
attempt on Grath's life had been successful.  He placed a call to
security for backup, then moved away from the med-techs, thinking hard as
the drifting figures slowly receded into the fog.  So.  Someone had tried
to kill Grath.  That meant they knew someone would try to find out who
hired the lurkers.  That meant they'd know about him being here now.  If
that was the cse, they'd probably try to kill him next.
     A sudden movement caught his eye.  A glint of light on metal.
     A gun barrel---
     Zap!
     The laser blast burned into his AE suit and smashed him into the
glowing canopy of a nearby globe of vegetation and
     the suit my suit's ruptured my faceplate's cracked I'm breathing
methane I'm burning my face I'm burning up I'm gonna puke I'm gonna die
and my face it's burning my face and chest and
     hands took him and held him and jerked him free of the clinging
foliage and then a bright light burned into his eyes and a vaguely
familiar voice was calling for help on the Fleet Med Channel and for a
long time that was all he remembered.

*****

CHAPTER 13

     Kar dimmed the light in his quarters to a ruddy ochre glow, walked
painfully to the bloodstone altar he'd brought with him to the Galactica
from Borella.  He lit the black ceremonial candles, let incense drift
into the air in pungent clouds.  It was too painful to bow before the
altar so he pulled a low stool forward and sat on that instead.
     He studied the Tome of Quan laid on the stone table before him.  The
answers to everything could be found in the Tome, if one looked hard
enough.
     Kar had been looking for answers almost since the day he came aboard
the Galactica.  
     All he had found so far were more questions.
     Take tonight, for example.  It had been just six centars since he
lay bleeding on that tram down in the Rejuvenation Center.  News had
already reached him of Kanon's investigation.  Now more information had
arrived brought by Elin, a Life Station nurse who also happened to be
part of the Underground.  More news of Kanon's investigation.  Evidence. 
A name.
     The name of the Tauron who had hired the lurkers to kill him.
     Aschar.
     With the knowledge had come a question: What should he do with the
name now that he had it?
     The investigation had proven dangerous for Kanon---someone had tried
to kill him.  No doubt the same person who had tried to kill  Grath . 
The same person who had hired the lurkers to kill him.
     Kar touched the Tome, ran his meaty fingers as gently as he could
across the clumsy bindings.  The Tome was old, had been in his wife's
family for generations.  That was the tradition: to pass the Tome from
mother to daughter down through the yahrens from the past into the
future.  Ntiel had given him the Tome when his appointment to the
position of Ambassador to the Council of Twelve had been ratified.  The
Tome had not been a permanent gift, rather a loan, a responsibility he
knew would be passed to his firstborn daughter.  At the time, Kar had not
known how to respond to the honor his wife bestowed upon him except to
reiterate in action how much he loved her.  Now his world was dead, and
probably Ntiel with it, and Kar had very little hope that he would ever
hear the cries of babies, much less of a daughter.
     Not knowin hurt the most.  Not knowing if Ntiel was alive or dead. 
Because he couldn't pray for her soul.  Not yet. In case she was still
alive.
     Kar inhaled the incense, felt his head reel.  Dr. Franklin would
probably have advised against use of ritual incense so soon after
medication.  To Uarthonn with Franklin.  And all of the Colonists for
that matter.  Everyone!
     Especially Taurons.
     He breathed more deeply.  Considered which passage of the Tome to
study for the answer for his dilemma.
     He opened the Tome, flipped the thick pages, became more impatient
as no solution presented itself.  Eventually, as the candles began to
burn low, Kar realized the truth.  The Tome had never held answers.  The
only answers were to be found within himself.  The Tome was not even
really a guide.
     Just an emotional prop.
     A tool.
     As, say...a dagger was a tool.
     Kar snuffed out the candles and in the pungent darkness he reached
for the only other object on the altar.  The bloodwood case containing
his ceremonial dagger.
     He opened the case, removed the elements of the dagger; the blade,
the hooks, the stone handle, the leather bindings.
     With each part his feelings grew more intense.  Love, fear,
frustration, anger.
     As he assembled the dagger and bound the parts tightly together, so
his emotions fused into a terrible rage.
     Dagger assembled, Kar lurched stiffly to his feet.  He swallowed two
of Franklin's painkillers---normal tabs were unable to penetrate his
skin---and leaned against the stone wall while they took hold.
     Then quietly, very quietly for such a huge man, Kar left his
quarters.
     He found the Tauron, as he had been told he would, a centon later at
a window party in the central observation gallery.  
     Light came in through the hull via three equally-spaced ports,
running almost all of the gallery's length.  The ports were rectangular,
subdivided by mirrors into transparent sections.  The starlight, deemed
beneficial for the psychological well-being of the passengers and crew of
the battlestar, was directed via the mirrors onto strips of floor, so the
gallery was divided into three "light" areas and three "dark" areas. 
     The Tauron in question had booked floor space in one of the
observation galleries which ran along the edges of the windows.  The
galleries were particularly popular at 1700 centons, when the stars, as
seen through the window, were spectacular.  Access to the galleries was
by steps which ascended from floor level.  Now Kar peered down the raised
half-level to the gallery.  About a dozen Colonists, some Gemonse, some
Capricans, but mostly Taurons were there, sitting on prayer mats,
standing around chatting, or gazing out the window into the void.
     Kar glanced quickly over tables loaded with fast disappearing
beverages and victuals and concluded that the party must be nearing its
end.
     Good.  He wouldn't have long to wait.
     Kar looked around until he spotted the Tauron in question.
     Aschar was a young, arrogant example of a Colonist if he'd ever seen
one.  He was leaning on the gallery, posing unconsciously as he glanced
casually down and out into space via the mirrors.  
     Kar settled himself onto a bench close to the edge of the window,
overlooking the gallery.  The ritual incense pulsed in his blood, in his
brain.  His wounds pulsed in his chest, his side, his thigh.
     A centon passed.
     The party began to dissolve.
     Kar waited, meditating on the question that would soon be answered.
     The mirrors shifted in the windows; across the central observation
gallery "light" and "dark" switched places.
     Kar found himself plunged into an eerie twilight.  The gloom
deepened as he strolled as casually as his wounds allowed toward the
gallery.  He found Aschar leaning against the railing, staring down into
the window and out across the depths of space, even as he finished his
drink.
     He was alone.
     Kar spared a moment to wonder why he had remained her when all of
his fellow Taurons had gone.  Was he staring out into the void and
considering his destiny?  His place in Mankind's future?  Kar would show
him his place in the future.
     He padded silent up behind Aschar.
     The Tauron sipped his drink.
     Kar drew his dagger.
     ---Aschar turned---
     ---and Kar plunged the dagger into his chest.
     The Tauron blinked, gasped.  He tried to scream; Kar's hand over his
mouth stifled all noise.  He began to struggle.  He dropped the drink,
which spun away into the window and shattered, spilling broken glass and
thick red wine across the blackness of space.
     Kar eased Aschar down onto the deck and shuffled sideways with him. 
He jerked in Kar's arms.
     "If you struggle, the knife will merely penetrate your body more
deeply."
     Aschar became still.  His eyes, wide open with fear, stared up at
Kar unblinkingly.  
     Kar gave a little sigh, settled himself more comfortably on the
floor beside the Tauron.
     "Do you know," Kar began conversationally, "I have personally taken
the lives of more than twenty-five Colonists since my father's death."
     Kar studied the bleeding Tauron thoughtfully.  "When I was a child I
used to imagine what it was like to be a killer, a murderer.  I never
could.  Of course that was then."  He smiled. "Since then I have become
intimately aware of the human body.  Where the killing blows should land. 
How deep to cut, whether to ---wiggle it about a bit before pulling it
out."  The smile widened.  "The blow has penetrated your heart's outer
ventricle.  At the moment, blood is pumping into your chest cavity.  You
may have noticed a dizzy feeling.  That's due to blood loss.  At this
time the blow is not fatal.  But you only have a few moments at the most
before lack of oxygen to the brain ensures that your life, should you
retain it, will be nothing more than that of a vegetable.  Now---" Kar
helped the Tauron sit upright, carefully pulled out his communicator and
and held it up before his pain-filled eyes.  "I am going to ask you a
question.  If you answer me honestly, I will call the med-techs and tell
them where you are.  A word of warning: Hesitation will only bring
unconsciousness that much closer.  And if you are unconscious you cannot
answer the question, do you see?"
     The Tauron began to cry.
     Kar studied the tears thoughtfully, saw mirrored in them the tears
of a Nomen adolescent die by the hands of a drunken Colonial.  
     A moment, then Kar said, "Here is my question: Who ordered you to
hire lurkers to terminate me?"
     Aschar blinked.  His pupils were contracting.  Consciousnes was
receding fast.
     "Do you understand my question?"
     Aschar noded.
     "Do you have an answer for me?"
     Again the Tauron nodded.
     Kar said, "I am going to remove my hand from your mouth, now."
     Aschar gasped, sucked in a huge breath, then grunted with pain as
his chest moved.
     "Well?  I am waiting."
     "Mollary.  It was...Sire Mollary that ordered me to have you
terminated.  He gave me...Changeling Nets...he said...he
said...please...help me...call the...med-techs...please..."
     Kar licked his lips.  He handed Aschar his link back.  "Hold this
for me, would you?" He lifted the Tauron, felt tears against his neck as
he walked him to the railing overlooking the window.
     Aschar was fumbling with the communicator, couldn't quite make it
work.
     "You said you...you would..."
     Kar frowned. "Yes, I did, didn't I?  Ah, well.  Compared to murder
lying is a minor sin, don't you think?"  Taking hold of his dagger, he
pulled it from Aschar's chest.  The Tauron sighed as fresh blood bubbled
from his chest and mouth.  He dropped the communicator.  "Please---I have
a family---"
     "I'm sure you do."
     And Kar picked Aschar up and heaved him over the railing.  
     He watched as the Tauron fell five metrons to crash against the
steel-gray floor, painting it with a Rorschach pattern of blood.
     Kar looked down at the body for an indeterminate time.  He tried to
take satisfaction from the Tauron's death,  to tell himself it was a tiny
thing, only to end up feeling sickened by the sight of his own violence.
     He turned away, cleaned his knife on one of the Tauron prayer mats,
placed it back in his pouch.
     Kar wondered how long it would be before lurkers ventured out into
the gallery via the maintenance access Down Below and took away the body. 
They would rob the Tauron of his clothes and trinkets to sell at market,
probably dump the body itself into the moisture reclaimers.  In another
sectan a quarter of a million people would probably have consumed a few
molecules of the being who had tried to have him terminated.
     Kar was able to take no comfort from that thought either.  Not from
any misplaced sense of morals, but simply because he knew the job wasn't
finished yet.
     There was still the buritician called Mollary to reckon with.
     And then of course, there would be his own ritual suicide to
consider.
     But that was for later.
     For now, there was just the incense sparking in his brain and the
pain of his wounds to tell him he was still alive, that he wasn't the one
who had died.
     That and the thought of revenge.

*****

CHAPTER 14

     When Tenelle left the chapel and the Life Station, she found herself
unsure which way to go.  The problem was, she ddin't know what she wanted
to do.  But then again, was that any wonder?  She'd come here to get
Tegates, take him home and bury him in space.  That was simple enough,
wasn't it?
     Not for the battlestar Galactica's executive officer corps  it
seemed.
     Tenelle supposed she would have to think about renting a room,
calling home to tell Janna, her neighbor, she was going to be longer than
they'd thought and would she mind looking after the kids for another day?
     And would she mind making sure they didn't watch any IFB news
broadcasts?
     Her mind made up, Tennell began to walk toward the Theta Section
turbolift.  She turned a corner---and walked into a demonstration.  The
corridor was filled with humans and some aliens carrying banners and
chanting.  Writing on the banners proclaimed:
     Protect Innocence!
     Save the Tuchanq!
     Love the Alien!
     Free Arc!
     She stopped short.  In that moment she was sweapt up int the group
and tumbled along a number of corridors, even deeper into Theta Section. 
With more space the press of people around her eased slightly, but only
slightly.  The demonstration was drawing a crowd.
     Tenelle tried to get her bearings, turned, attempted to walk out of
the demonstration and through the crowd into a space clear of people. 
Signs indicating the way to the turbolift caught her attention.  If she
could reach that---
     Before she took more than a dozen steps she was confronted by a
young woman.  The woman thrust a plastic badge into her hands.  The badge
reiterated the slogans painted on the signs and chants.
     "Love the alien, save the Tuchanq," the girl chanted, whirled away
into the crowd.
     Tenelle tried to get her bearings, struggled even harder to get her
feelings under control.  Save the Tuchanq?  It was a Tuchanq who had
killed Tegates.  Who had terminated Tegates.  This Arc about whom the
demonstrators were chanting.
     Tenelle felt herself jostled with increasing violence as more people
joined the growing crowd of prolife protestors.
     And suddenly it wasn't just her body being assaulted by the noise,
the banners, the chanting; it was her mind as well.  Because until now
she hadn't had much time or inclination to thik about the conditions
surrounding Tegates' death.  He was gone.  That really was what mattered. 
Now she was not so sure anymore.  Now the circumstances surrounding his
death seemed very important indeed.
     Another demonstrator thrust a fistful of scrappily printed
literature into her hand.  "Save Arc, protect innocence!" the man
chanted.
     Tenell felt her confusion grow into rage.  She grabbed the man by
his lapels, shook him as hard as she could.  "Save Arc?  She killed my
husband!"
     But the man had broken away without hearing her words.  She caught a
glimpse of a disgusted expression splashed across his face before the
crowd hid him from view; horror, pity.  He thought she disagreed with his
ideals.  Thought she was a racist.  A Star Chamber vigilante.
     Tenelle finally managed to push her way clear of the crowd.  She
realized she was crying again when a woman slung her arm around her
shoulders and comforted her.  "I know you're upset.  We're all upset. 
It's a political fiasco.  We won't stand for it.  Come with us to Ceti
Section and picket Security Control.  They've got Arc in a cell there. 
We'll show the Colonial Warriors that the people have a conscience even
if the Council of Twelve doesn't.  We'll show them we won't stand for
this kind of immoral behavior toward an intelligent being."
     Tenelle shook off both arm and words, ran as fast as she could
toward the doors to the turbolift.  Her chest ached; her legs and back
were in agony.  She had to stop.  Just stop and rest.  Just for a moment.
     No.  She had to go on.  She had to see for herself the being who had
killed Tegates, who had fundamentally reshaped her life.
     She had to see Arc.
     No matter what it cost her.

*****

CHAPTER 15

     Kar stood outside the door to Sire Mollary's quarters, wondered how
two yahrens of striving for peace had managed to bring him to this moment
of violence.
     He shivered.
     The Colonials would say he was back to square one.
     That wasn't quite true.  Now he had purpose.  That and the dagger;
he could feel its weight against his waist, cold, comforting.  A tool
with which he would define both the following few moments and afterward,
his life, his future.
     Fresh bandages wrapped his chest and thigh beneath clean clothes. 
He had removed the old, bloodstained ones before he left the central
observation gallery, replacing them with the others he had carried with
him in a small kit bag.  The bloodstained clothes were now shredded,
dumped into the recycler in his quarters.  That would cost him an extra
ten cubits for energon usage this week---but then again he could afford
it now.
     Very soon he would have no need of affording anything ever again.
     Kar banged on the door to Mollary's quarters.  There was no reply. 
He banged again, more loudly this time.
     Mollary's voice echoed irritably from within.  "Whoever it is---go
away.  I've got a hangover.  I want to be in pain by myself."
     Kar allowed himself a thin smiled. "Mollary. It is Kar."
     Long silence.
     Kar drew himself up to full height and said, "I have come here to
negotiate the terms of the Borella's withdrawal from the Fleet."
     Another long silence.
     The door slid open.
     Kar entered.
     The door closed behind him.
     Kar found himself looking around Mollary's quarters, the opulence,
the vanities, the expensive luxuries.  All unnecessary now.
     Mollary emerged from the bathroom wearing a sleeping robe.  His eyes
were puffed, rheumy, his hair bedraggled.  He had obviously been fast
asleep only a few minutes before.
     Mollary waited for Kar to speak.
     "It has been many sectars since we have talked with anything
resembling civil tongues," Kar said quietly.  "So I would be grateful
if---"  Then he stopped.  He was here to kill someone.  Not conduct
pleasantries with them.  And anyway---standing here, staring at
Mollary---all he felt was rage. He was despotic, corrupt, materialistic
and greedy.  To such a man civil words would have no meaning---and in any
case the time for words had long since passed.
     Mollary adjusted his robe, waited for him to continue.
     Kar said nothing, felt Mollary's eyes on him.  Did he suspect?  This
buritician may be a sop but he was nothing if not observant.
     Kar cast his eyes submissively toward the rich carpet.  How much had
that carpet cost to Mollary to ship to the Galactica?  And how much the
commission of his portrait hanging upon one wall; artist's time was
valuable.
     Mollary said impatiently.  "You said you're here to discuss terms. 
Do so!"
     Kar felt himself growing angry.  The arrogance of the man!  To even
consider casting his people out into the wilderness of space while still
dressed in his pajamas.
     Kar lowered his eyes even further.  Mollary must believe him
implicity.  "Can we not at least have one drink together before we
negotiate terms?"
     Mollary considered.  "Evictor to evicted?" He pursed his lips,
rubbed sleep from his eyes, thoughfully preened his crest of hair. 
Eventually he nodded.  "Why not?  It would be only...polite."  He half
turned away from Kar to walk toward the kitchen area.  "I will
prepare---" Mollary stopped then, as if suddenly aware of the position he
was in.
     Too late.
     Kar pulled the dagger from his pouch, lurched painfully across the
intervening space, and slammed the dagger up to its hilt in Mollary's
back.
     Mollary let out an agonized wail and sank to his knees.  Kar pulled
the knife free.  Mollary's hands arched back toward the wound as blood
soaked into his robes.  On all fours, he managed to turn to face Kar. 
His eyes were bright with a terrible rage.  "You...daggit!"
     Kar smiled. "Now you understand.  Your greed and arrogance have laid
you at my feet."
     Mollary struggled to speak.  Blood bubbled from his lips instead. 
He collapsed into a sitting position, shaking violently with shock,
making choking noises, trying to suck air into his ruined lungs.
     Kar stood over him, asked softly.  "Do you know why I hate you so
much?"
     Mollary gurgled, eyes wide with pain and rage...and now fear.
     Kar explained it to him.  "I have lain awake at night for months
trying to work it out.  At first I got nowhere.  We were so different,
you see.  You the corrupt buritician, myself the innocent victim.  I
could never understand what would drive an intelligent man like yourself
to want to rid the Fleet of all Borellian Nomen.  But then, slowly, with
your help, I began to see the truth."
     Kar held Mollary's shoulder, pushed the dagger firmly into his
chest, twisted it, pulled it out again sharply.
     Mollary let out an agonized squeal.
     Kar released the buritician, and he slumped onto his side.  His head
slammed into the floor, sending strings of spittle and blood to stain his
expensive carpet.
     Kar said, "Today I killed a Tauron in cold blood.  Stabbed him in
the back. Without honor.  Without fair warning.  Does this sound in any
way familiar, Sire?"
     Another choking gurgle.
     "No?  Substitute for a dagger four lurker assassins disguised as
Tuchanq and see if it becomes any clearer then."
     Mollary's eyes widened.  Shock?  Fright?  Probably both.
     "You see, Sire, the lowly Nomen has intelligence after all."  Kar
kneeled beside Mollary, showed him the dagger with his own blood smeared
along the blade, said bitterly, "I hate you because I'm like you.  We are
the same.  And you have made us that way."
     Kar lowered his face close to Mollary's, inhaled deeply.  "Let me
taste your last breath, sire.  Let me taste the fear, the anger---the
injustice, the humiliation of being stabbed in the back."  He paused,
smiled. "Let us share one last moment together: evictor to evicted."
     Kar looked into Mollary's eyes, pushed the dagger back into his
chest.  Mollary jerked backward with a cry.  Blood welled from the new
wound, soaked into his robes.
     Kar bent even closer, listened for the last sound Mollary would
make, the rattling sigh in his throat as death finally claimed him.
     Instead he heard a faint bleep.
     Mollary whispered  "...Vir..."
     Kar looked into Mollary's eyes, pushed the dagger back into his
chest.  Mollary jerked backward with a cry.  Blood welled from the new
wound, soaked into his robes.  
     Kar bent even closer, listened for the last sound Mollary would
make, the rattling sigh in his throat as death finally claimed him.
     Instead he heard a faint bleep.
     Mollary whispered "...Vir..."
     Kar looked down the length of Mollary's body.  Quickly he wrenched
aside the robe, snarled angrily.  There was a communicator taped to
Mollary's chest.  It was active.
     "...Vir!..."
     How long had the comm. been active?
     Kar wrenched at the knife buried in Mollary's chest.  It moved an
inch and jammed between his ribs.  Kar rocked the dagger.  It wouldn't
come free.
     There was a soft sigh of noise from the floor level.
     Mollary was laughing.
     Kar stood, scrambled backward away from the dying buritician,
pressed his back toward the door.
     Mollary spoke, though how he summoned the strength to form words,
Kar was unable to imagine.  "...not...die...yet..."  A gurgle, then,
"...together...die together...yahrens from..." The words turned into
laughter, as if Mollary had shared a joke he knew Kar could not possibly
understand.  A moment, then his laughter bubbled away into silence.  
     Behind Kar the door opened as his elbow hit the control.  The
corridor beyond was empty.  For how long?
     Kar stumbled from the room into the corridor beyond, his head
whirling.  Not die yet?  Die together?  Yahrens from---?  What was that
supposed to mean?  Damn Mollary!  Even in death the Tauron mocked him.
     No matter.  Mollary was dying; that much was obvious.  Revenge was
his after all.
     Kar jumped as the door closed behind him, sealilng off Mollary's
dying whimper.  He hurried away from the buriticians' section.  He
couldn't afford to be discovered yet.  There was still one death to
arrange.
     His own.

*****

CHAPTER 16
     
     Kanon jerked awake with a cry---at least he tried to cry out.  
     His throat wouldn't work properly.
     He became aware of a figure at his side.  "Hey, there, take it easy. 
You've been unconscious for nearly three centons."
     Franklin.
     He was back on the Galactica, in the Life Station.
     But the laser beam---the ruptured faceplate---
     He began to struggle again.
     There was the sting of a needle as Franklin administered an
injection.  "Kanon, you're more trouble than you're worth.  Calm down or
I'll put you under again."
     Kanon struggled to get his throat working. " You and whose army?"
     Franklin did not smile.  "Drink this.  It'll take the edge off that
pain in your throat."
     Kanon allowed himself to be helped into a sitting position, took the
cup and swallowed the contents.  "What happened?  I was shot. I should be
dead."
     "The AE suit absorbed a lot of the blast.  You've got some ammonia
burns because the suit was breached.  That's what the pain in your throat
is.  Basically. You're lucky to be alive."
     "I don't get it.  I remember getting tangled up in the trees, the
mask coming off---Franklin, I was a goner.  How did I survive?"
     Franklin indicated a figure sitting beyond a glass wall in the ward
visitors' area.  "Guy over there pulled you out, took you to the
med-techs treating Grath---who, before you ask, is going to be fine after
a few weeks' regen therapy.  Which is what you really ought to have on
that throat."
     "Want to see him."  Despite Franklin's protests Kanon levered
himself out of bed, managed the feet by sheer willpower.  He stood in
pajamas and bare feet on the cold floor, tottered weakly across to the
visitor's area.  Franklin sighed, went with him in case he fell.
     He reached the visitors' area.  The figure had his back to Kanon.
     Kanon began without preamble.  "Hey, I guess I owe you a favor for
saving my life---"     
     He broke off as the figure turned.
     That smile.
     It was Morden.
     He stood, nodded to Kanon, left the ward without a backward glance.
     Kanon shivered.
     Franklin helped him back to bed.
     "Where's my comm.?  Gotta speak to the commander."
     "I'll inform him you've regained consciousness."
     Kanon nodded, sank into the bed.  He sighed.  Franklin was right, he
shouldn't have moved.  His throat was killing him.  And his chest.  And
his face.  And his back.
     Kanon let his head fall back onto the pillow, closed his eyes. 
Morden.  The guy from the Icarus that Troy had made such a fuss over only
a couple of sectars ago.  Morden had been trouble then; Kanon had no
reason to suppose he'd be any different now.  So what had the guy been
doing on Kreg's Pleasure Ship, Deck H10 and saving his life?
     Kanon's thoughts were interrupted by a sound like someone breathing. 
"Hey, Franklin, back already?  I guess you just couldn't keep away,
right?"
     He opened his eyes.
     It was not Dr. Franklin.
     It was Dr. Zee.
     "Obligation is a hangman's noose."
     Zee's voice sounded almost like music.  Then, while Kanon was trying
to frame a suitable reply, he simply turned and glided out of the ward.
     Kanon watched him go and shivered.  Suddenly it seemed very cold in
the ward.  Very cold indeed.

*****

CHAPTER 17

     Blood.
     Dear Lords of Kobol, how could there be so much blood?
     Vir stared down at Mollary's body and saw in its handled, pathetic,
blood-soaked form a vision of the future. 
     So clear.
     Humans.  The Fleet.  The Galactica. Earth.  Cylons. Nomen. 
Everything gone.  Just blood and memories and blank void where stars
shone brightly and planets spun silently around their stars.
     The process had already started with the destruction of the
Colonies.
     The future was coming.
     Vir knelt beside his mentor.  The carpet squelched as his knees
touched it.  He was kneeling in Mollary's blood.
     Mollary gurgled softly.  Still alive.  For how long?
     A micron passed.  The stench was foul.  Vir expected to want to be
sick---was surprised when the feeling never came.  He studied the body
dispassionately.  What would Mollary say if he were Vir now?
     There's a time to go for the throat.
     Acting member of the Council of Twelve.
     Short-term powers; Vir was realistic enough to know his temporary
position as a Council member would never be ratified.  But short-term
powers; what could be accomplished here and now with short-term powers?
     Some good?
     Maybe.
     If Mollary died.
     A bubbling sigh.  "...Vir..." A tiny movement.
     Vir saw the knife then, and everything changed.
     A Nomen ceremonial dagger.
     Kar's dagger.
     Vir felt his world lurch suddenly.
     His fault.  This was all his fault.  If he hadn't been put off by
Mollary's drunken aggression, if he'd made sure he was safely back in his
quarters, if he'd realized for one moment that there was a real danger
associated with Kar, then...
     Mollary would not be lying here.  Bleeding.  Dying.
     And the choice that lay before him would not exist.
     Because Vir really did sympathize with Kar, his people.  Because
Morden cast shadows over all he touched, and right now both Mollary and
himself were as far into darkness as it was possible to go and still have
minds of their own left to acknowledge their guilt.
     Vir's mind skittered over the implication of the dagger in Mollary's
chest.  That Kar had used it was obvious...but why had he left it here to
incriminate himself?
     What if he hadn't used it?  What if someone else had left it here to
incriminate him?
     Vir put out a trembling hand and touched the dagger.
     The hilt was warm, had accepted the heat of Mollary's body, was
bleeding it out of him, and with it his life.
     Mollary jerked reflexively at his touched, let out a bubbling sigh
of pain.
     Vir let go of the dagger.  If he removed the blade now the wound
would be worsened.  If he didn't Kar would be implicated in what surely
what must amount to murder.
     Vir pulled out his comm., activating it.  "Vir to Life Station.  I
have a medical emergency in Sire Mollary's quarters.  Sire Mollary has
been stabbed and is bleeding to death.  Please send help immediately."
     Without waiting for acknowledgement from the Life Station, Vir
grasped the dagger.  Pulled it.  Mollary jerked, cried out weakly.  The
blade would not come free.  Licking his lips, Vir twisted it, finally
yanked it free with a scrape of metal against bone and a rush of fresh
blood.
     Mollary jerked, cried out again.
     Unwiling to admit his motivations even to himself, Vir managed to
hide the dagger in his robes just moments before the med-techs arrived.

*****

CHAPTER 18

     Troy sighed as the door to his quarters beeped.  He had hoped for a
short rest; it seemed such was not to be.  "Enter."
     It was Dillon.
     And Vi-El.
     The Tuchanq was not happy.  "Commander Troy.  The Dillon has told me
of the situation.  He has told me that Arc is to be tried and executed
for murder.  Is this so?"
     Troy clambered stiffly to his feet, feeling as if he'd spent more
than three straight centars on a triad court.  "You have to understand. 
There has been a change in the law which---"     
     "---law which doesn't affect the Tuchanq!"
     "This is arguable."
     Me neither, sister!
     Troy licked his lips.  "Look. Politically my hands are tied. 
Morally, I agree with you.  Executing someone who cannot be considered
culpable for a crime she may not even have committed is a moral outrage. 
But I'm under orders from the President."
     "The same President to whom, through you, we are appealing for
help."
     Troy rubbed his eyes and nodded helplessly. "That's right."
     Vi-El said bitterly. "We thought the Nomen were bad.  At least their
motivation was within our comprehension.  Yours is truly alien.  I don't
know if we will ever be able to understand it."
     Troy held out his hands, palms uppermost, in a beseeching gesture. 
"Vi-El, please.  I'm not done with this thing yet."
     Troy caught Dillon's eye.  His look said it all.
     Don't count on it.
     Vi-El angled her spines to study him.  "Commander Troy, the Dillon
speaks highly of your abilities and your trustworthiness.  As our first
meeting in this Land I trust his judgment in this.  But understand me:
your own moral considerations are irrelevant.  Arc has undergone the
ceremony of birthing.  You say she is not responsible for her crime.  I
say the person who committed the crime is dead.  Arc is a totally
different person.  If you execute her you will be guilty of murder
yourselves.  We will be forced to withdraw our request of your Colonial
Service and turn to Sire Mollary and his fellow Taurons for help."
     Troy spread his hands, felt like screaming.  This is ridiculous!  I
agree with you!  Instead he said more calmly, "Trust me, Vi-El.  Nobody
is going to be executed while I'm in command of the Galactica."
     Vi-El tipped her spines to the left, hesitated.  She began to speak,
but stopped when the wall monitor bleeped for attention.
     He answered. "Troy.  Go."
     The face of the communications duty officer blinked onto the screen. 
"I have an incoming call for you, sir.  Gold Channel.  Ultraviolet
priority.  It's Sire Lin."
     Troy rubbed his forefingers and thumbs together.  No matter what Lin
said he was in for an argument.
     "Put him through."
     But the screen flashed up the words: INCOMING MESSAGE RECORDED.
     The message was short and to the point.  "Commander Troy, this
message is in regards to your recent testimony before the Council of the
accidental death of the Executioner for the State.  We have reviewed the
facts and have judged the matter of Arc's guilt or innocence unsuitable
to be tried in civil court.  As highest-ranking Colonial Service officer,
you have been appointed to preside over a military tribunal.  I am
authorized to inform you that you are hearby appointed Executioner for
the State pro tem.  By Presidential Order it is now your personal
responsibility to sit in judgment at the tribunal and, if necessary,
carry out the punishment of the alleged murderer Arc.  As of this time
you are now acting for the Council as judge, jury, and executioner in
this matter."
     The transmission ended.
     Troy turned to face Vi-El.  He began to speak, found he couldn't.
     Vi-El said, "It seems my trust was misplaced after all." She
hesitated.  "Perhaps it would be better if we asked for help from Sire
Mollary's people."
     Vi-El turned and left the room.
     Dillon stayed behind, his expression shocked.  Troy waved him after
Vi-El.  As soon as he was alone he reached for the Soylent Green still on
his desk.  Reached for it---poured it---then tipped it back into the
bottle and put it away, this time in the drinks cabinet where it
belonged.
     Some solutions were too easy.
     He had to think.
     Kobol, he had to think.

*****

PART THREE

February 13, 1994 (Earth Time)
Daytime

CHAPTER 1

     Tenelle rode the turbolift to Ceti Section, followed the floor
markings to Security Control.  There she identified herself to a tall man
with kind eyes set into a tired face, who introduced himself as Deputy
Security Chief Fayl.  He took her to an office off the main
administration room.  The office was dimly lit by a couple of dozen
monitors, some of which were situated on the glass surface of the large
desk which dominated the center of the room.
     Fayl gestured for her to take a seat, then sat himself, behind the
desk.  "What can I do for you, Tenelle?" Fayle was polite, his voice
showing neither sympathy nor any judgment of her.  She was grateful for
that, at least.
     "I understand you have the alien who terminated my husband here."
     Fayl rocked backward in his chair, considered her words.  "Why?"
     She big her lip.  Shrugged. "I...You'll probably think me very
stupid. The truth is, I don't know.  I just got caught up in a
demonstration.  Apparently a lot of people want to see my husband's
killer get away with her crime.  I want to know why."
     Fayl studied her closely.
     A moment of quiet, broken only by the faint audio feeds from the
various monitors.
     Fayl nodded thoughtfully.  "I can't let you into the cell.  I can
show you Arc on a monitor.  Will that do?"
     "If it's all you can do."
     Fayl glanced narrowly at her then.
     Had he expected an argument?  A flood of tears and anger directed at
Arc?  If that was the case he was going to be surprised.
     Fayl switched channels on a monitor.  The picture resolved to show
the alien crouched in her cell.  Like a daggit she was curled into a
ball, back arched, arms and legs drawn inward.  Her ruff of spines fanned
slowly across her neck and around her head.  She appeared to be sleeping. 
Sleeping and dreaming.  Like a daggit, she jerked occasionally.  Tenelle
watched for a few moments, trying to work out how she felt about this
alien who had changed her life.  As before, when looking at Tegates's
body, the overwhelming sensation was one of confusion.
     After a few moments Arc uncoiled her limbs and Tenelle realized she
had not been asleep after all.  Fayle told the camera to zoom in.  Arc
scrambled to all fours, shuffled to one side; the camera picked up a
pattern on the floor.  The pattern was a random swirl of lines and arcs. 
The patterns shone, as if freshly painted, except that was impossible
because there was nothing there to paint with---
     Tenelle glanced at Arc and suddenly recoiled.  A wound on the
alien's throat leaked slow blood.
     She had painted the patterns in her own blood.
     Tenelle glanced at Fayl. "Is that normal?"
     Fayl shrugged.
     Tenelle was about to push for more details when, on the screen, Arc
suddenly threw back her head and howled.  Even trough the monitor's
imperfect reproduction Tenelle could hear the pain and loss in the
alien's voice.  The howl rose in pitch and stretched out into a terrible
scream, almost one of physical pain.
     Surely that sound couldn't be made by an intelligent being?
     Arc began to move then, suddenly leapt sideways, began to run around
the cell.  Round and round, faster and faster, howling and squealing,
leaping at the walls, scratching and scrabbling, muscles bunched, back
rippling with muscle and tendon, leaping to howl at the monitor, to smash
the wall with her body again and again until, exhausted, bruised, she
flopped to the deck, crawled back to her pattern of blood, curled up
around it and became still except for an intermittent, dreamlike jerk.
     Her howls faded to a faint whine.
     Arc's posture reminded Tenelle of that of her youngest child curled
up in baed with a hot water bottle or teddy bear, huddled up with a
familiar toy against the grim reality of life in a rag-tag fugitive
fleet.  Arc shivered; Tenelle felt herself shiver in sympathy.
     Phone the kids back on the Syria.  They'll be scared to death, what
with me rushing off like this.
     "I thought the Tuchanq were an intelligent species?"
     "There was an accident.  Arc suffered brain damage in an airlock
blowout during---the attack."
     "I see."  Should she feel triumphant at that?  Be pleased that some
kind of punishment had already been exacted on Tegates' killer?
     She felt nothing.  Was that due to shock?  Indifference?  Where was
the rage?  The guilt?  She lowered her head, waited for the tears to come
again, felt nothing.
     Nothing.
     Thanking Fayl, she left Security Control.
     In the corridor she stopped, aware once again that she had no real
plans.  Nowhere to go, nothing left to do.  Fourteen centons remained
until her shuttle was to leave.  What was she going to do in the
meantime?  Was there any reason why she should make good on her threat to
speak to the IFB?  Was there any reason why she shouldn't?
     Oh to hades with this line of felgercarb!
     She would rent a room.  Phone the kids.  To hades with the expense. 
It would be a comfort for them.  Hades, it would be a comfort for her.
     Yes.
     Room.  Then kids.
     Worry about introverted questions later.  Much later.
     Mind made up, Tenelle asked directions from an off-duty warrior
about how to reach Admissions from Ceti Section, and proceeded to head
that way.

*****

CHAPTER 2

     Troy stared through the glass wall of the observation room into the
Life Station, where Dr. Franklin and his staff were operating on the
comatose form of Sire Mollary.  Troy shook his head wearily.  What in
hades was going on?  The Tuchanq, Arc, the deaths of Tegates and the
Executioner, all these were bad enough.  Now Mollary had been
stabbed---in his own quarters.  It was as though a collective madness was
running rampant throughout the battlestar.
     A madness stemming from Arc.
     With Troy in the observation gallery was Vir.  The attaché hovered
nervously, his hands clasping and unclasping across his expansive belly. 
Troy glanced sideways at Vir, wondering what he was thinking.
     Troy smiled at Vir; the Tauron's face crumped into a hesitant half
smile, before resuming its worried expression.  Troy frowned.  Vir wasn't
much more than a kid, really.  To walk into Mollary's quarters and see
the buritician just lying there in a pool of blood---without a doubt it
would be a traumatic experience.
     "Do you think he'll be---" Vir broke off before completing his
sentence.  Troy wasn't surprised.  It was obvious from the frantic
activitiy within the theater that Mollary's chances weren't good.
     Troy shook his head. "I don't know, Vir."
     Vir nodded.  "The Council will have to be told of the attack."
     Troy pursed his lips.  "Yes.  When will you do it?"
     Vir shrugged.  "I'd like to inform the President from my quarters.
Privacy, you understand.  If I tell him in person...well..."
     Troy nodded sympathetically. "I understand.  I don't suppose a few
mili-centons either way will make much difference."
     Vir nodded.  The movement was a little too fast, a little too
desperate.  "No.  No, Commander.  I'm sure you're right.  I don't suppose
they will."
     Vir turned his attention back to the operating theater then and
watched in silence for a few more mili-centons, before turning away and
taking one of the seats normally occupied by medical trainees under
Franklin's tutelage. He put his head in his hands, sucked in a deep
breath.  Apart from that he was silent for a long time.
     Troy looked back into the theater, at the masked and gowned
surgeons, nurses, an anesthetist, all working with dizzying speed around
the open body of Mollary.  Scalpels flashed with laser light, monitors
twinkled.  A nurse mopped sweat from Franklin's brow; another handed him
a fresh scalpel, took the bloody one from him and laid it in a tray full
of other such used instruments.  A moment and then the scalpel was
replaced again.  Troy saw Franklin's mouth working behind the mask; a
nurse stepped forward with a suction hose.  Clamps followed, then
sutures.  All this carried out in deathly silence on the other side of
the gallery wall.  Troy momentarily considered turning up the sound to
get a better idea of how surgery was proceeding but then cast a sideways
glance at Vir, trembling, head in hands, and decided it would probably
not be a good idea.
     Troy sighed.  He knew he should really be talking to the Tuchanq,
not watching the operation.  There was nothing he could do here, after
all.  He'd left Dillon on his own to deal with the alien delegation
throughout the whole crisis and that was hardly behavior befitting the
ranking officer of the battlestar Galactica.  Still he was their first
point of contact and, as such, their requested liaison.  And he knew
Dillon was more than capable of dealing with any---tension that might
arise inside the delegation.  Still, it hardly seemed fair to either the
Tuchanq or to Dillon to have him ask them on Troy's behalf to wait while
one of their member was tried and possibly executed.
     Yet even if he did see them in person, what real good would it to? 
He'd still be telling them the same old story.
     A footstep nearby told him someone else had come into the gallery. 
He turned.  It was Kanon.  The warrior was wearing pajamas.  A bruise
spread high across one cheekbone.  His face and hands looked red and
sore.
     Troy said, "Kanon.  Shouldn't you be in bed?"
     "Nah."  Kanon attempted to shove his hands in his pockets---then
realized the pajamas didn't have any pockets.  "Snuck out while Franklin
was operating on Mollary."  He frowned. "Bad business."
     Troy nodded. "How are you feeling now?"
     Kanon shook his head and frowned, then winced as his cheek moved. 
"How do you think?  I was on Deck H10 aboard Kreg's Pleasure Ship.  I got
shot."  He made a concise report, relating his visit to Grath, the
discovery that some Tauron had hired the lurkers who had attacked Kar.
     "Typical." Troy frowned.  "So the one person we could get more
information from---Mollary---has been attacked himself."
     Kanon managed a painful smile.  "Knowing Mollary, I wouldn't be
surprised if he stabbed himself just to  keep from answering certain
awkward questions."
     Troy thought sometimes Kanon's humor was just a little too morbid. 
"I'd be surprised if the two attacks are unconnected."
     Kanon nodded.  "Knowing Mollary and Kar, I wouldn't be surprised if
they attacked each other."
     Troy thought about this.  "It's an attractive theory.  Mollary
attacks Kar through intermediares.  Kar finds out about it and strikes
back in revenge.  It makes sense."
     "But why would Mollary want to kill Kar to begin with?"
     Troy raised his hands.  "Right now, your guess is as good as mine. 
Great, isn't it?  What with the Tuchanq thing going to trial half the
Fleet seems to be at each other's throats.
     "Yeah, well, here's another bit of good news for you."  Kanon
coughed, rubbed his throat.  "Got a little visit from Fedar, the
communications officer on the bridge, while I was laid up.  He's managed
to clean up the data from the loader's black  box."
     Troy sighed with relief.  "Finally.  Some real data."
     "Yeah. And it doesn't look good for Arc.  According to the vid
record she stabbed him all right.  From where I was watching it sure
looked to me as if she wanted to kill him."
     "There's no chance the vid record was tampered with?"
     Kanon shook his head, winced.  "Sorry, no.  Fedar's a good man.  He
knows CGI. If he says it's straight, it's straight."
     Troy absorbed all this information with mixed emotions.  "You know
what this means, don't you?"
     Kanon nodded.  "Arc will go on tribunal for murder.  The evidence
will condemn her---"
     "---and I'll have to find her guilty and execute her."  Troy gritted
his teeth.  "Damn.  Kanon, damn it all, why did the Council have to pick
now to illustrate a point of law?"
     Kanon shook his head sympathetically.  "I know, I know---but hoping
for a change in the law now is wishing for a return voyage to the
Colonies. You've got to face it: The Council's got you by the poggies."
     "I know, and I don't like it."
     Kanon shrugged. "Yeah, well, anyway---it looks like Franklin's going
to be a while in there.  If you don't need me for anything else for a
bit, I'm going to go and get into my uniform.  Then I guess you'll want
me to look into this attack on Mollary."
     Troy nodded.  "I'm sorry, Kanon.  I know it's been a long day
already.  But when the Council finds out what's happened they're going to
want answers and they're going to want them fast.  If anybody here can
supply those answers, you can."
     Kanon nodded, turned to leave.  At that moment Franklin left the
theater and came out into the observation gallery.  He nodded to Vir and
Troy as he pulled off his mask and smock.  His gaze lilngered on Kanon,
but before he could say anything Vir leapt up from his seat and moved
quickly across the gallery.
     "Doctor?  Doctor can you tell us how bad it is...will Sire
Mollary..." Vir seemed to gather his strength for the question.  "Will he
live?"
     Franklin sighed, led Vir toward Troy and Kanon.  "What you have to
understand here is that Mollary was badly injured.  He suffered knife
wounds to his chest and back.  Two of those wounds punctured vital
organs.  Both liver and spleen have been irreparably damaged.  He has a
cracked rib and the outer wall of his heart was torn."
     Vir gasped.
     "Now the heart damage was superficial, luckily. I was able to repair
it.  The rib was standard stuff, no bother.  But the other organs---well. 
I did all I could; in the end the damage was simply too great."  Franklin
shrugged. "Maybe if whoever had attacked him hadn't pulled out the knife
I'd have been able to...well.  That doesn't matter now."
     Troy glanced at Vir.  He was pale, shaking.  Was it any wonder? 
There was a catch in his voice as he spoke.
     "I don't understand---are you---are you saying Mollary's going to
die?"
     Kanon added, "Good question, Franklin.  If that's the case, why all
the activity in there?"  He jerked a thumb at the theater, where surgeons
were still working on Mollary.
     Franklin nodded. "Well, it's not quite so cut and dried.  At the
moment the damage is terminal.  Too much damage, too much blood loss, not
enough time before brain death occurs, lack of donor organs..."
     Vir looked up. "Organs?  Have you forgotten we have a hospital ship
in the Fleet, Doctor? The Talon Crusier.  I can radio them, have donor
organs brought here within...within centons."
     "It's too long, Vir.  We just can't keep him alive that long."
     Vir's face crumpled again.
     "But, as I said, there is a chance."
     Troy said gently, "Go on."
     "Well.  We could use the life giver.  The alien machine which I used
to save your life, Captain Kanon."
     Troy studied Franklin's face.  "What's the catch?"
     Franklin hesitated.  "To save Mollary would take a vast amount of
life energy.  It would cost the donor his own life."
     Troy saw what was coming.  "But if you could use many different
donors, each sacrificing a small portion of his own life energy..."
     Franklin nodded. "Then Sire Mollary could be saved, yes.  But the
thing is, it would take more than a dozen volunteers to safely provide
the life energy required."
     Troy considered. "In that case, you had better start looking for
volunteers."
     Franklin looked directly at Vir.  The Tauron looked away.  "I would
offer my services of course, but---I expect the Council will declare me
an Acting Member until a new councilman is elected to fill the vacancy."
     Troy said, "That may be true. But remember, this is a battlestar. 
Our warriors are trained to understand that, at some point, they may have
to sacrifice their lives for the good of their country.  Talk to them. 
I'm sure you'll find some willing to help."
     Vir nodded.  "I hadn't thought of that.  Yes, of course.  I'll
organize a search right away!"
     As he turned to leave, Franklin said, "We're going to be Mollary in
a cryotube.  Lowering his body temperature drastically will reduce the
chances of brain damage and enable us to keep him alive longer." 
Franklin shrugged. "But that's just delaying the inevitable.  We need
those donors.  And we need them quickly."
     "I understand, Doctor.  And thank you."  Vir hurried from the
gallery.
     "I'd better get back; they'll be needing me soon to help prepare the
life giver."  Franklin nodded to Troy and Kanon and left the gallery.
     Kanon began to follow him out, but Troy stopped him.  "Kanon.  Hold
on."
     "Sure.  What's up?"
     Troy took a small device from his under his commander's robes and
activated it.  He saw that Kanon recognized the device as being the
surveilliance device General Heria had left with them last time he'd
visited the battlestar.  The time Troy had let Kanon, Franklin, and
Dillon in on his secret: General Heria's investigation of the Council,
and of the conspiracy surrounding Commander Adama's death.
     Kanon nodded at the device.  "I take it this is about the Council?"
     Troy nodded. "I didn't want to say anything while Vir was in the
room.  But while you were unconscious I've been doing some digging of my
own.  General Heria was helpful.  I've found out my reason behind the
President's decision to make an example out of Arc.  Crord is running way
behind in the polls.  Sire Cluvo is taking advantage of this lapse of
public confidence to make another bid for the presidency.  Crord is 
going to resign and call for a vote of confidence---after a public
display in which he can be seen to be cracking down on crime."
     Kanon nodded. "I'm with you.  And we're the display.  Or rather Arc
is."  His face twisted with disgust.  "Crord is using us to get back into
power."
     "That's right.  He's hoping such a display will heighten public
confidence enough for the people to vote him back into office."
     "That's..." Kanon searched for the most damning word.
     "Politics."  Troy finished for him.
     "Yeah, right.  So what happens now that the evidence proves Arc is
guilty of murder?"
     Troy sighed. "There'll be a tribunal.  The evidence will be
presented.  If I find Arc guilty of muder, then the law is very clear on
the matter.  The Council will demand an execution and they'll be within
their rights to do so.  And I'll have to carry it out."
     Kanon's face crumpled into a look of sympathy. "Oh, man. Now I know
why I never wanted to be a commander."
     Troy found himself irritated by Kanon's remark.  "It's no laughing
matter."
     "Yeah, sure. Sorry."
     Troy nodded an apology himself.  He switched off the jammer, shoved
it back into his pocket.  "Look.  You'd better start working on how to
handle security for the trial and---afterward.  The Council want the
press in on all of it.  They want a televised trial, special programs,
the works."
     Kanon looked shocked. "You're joking.  Even leaving the Star Chamber
out of things it'll be a three-ring circus.  We'll have riots from here
all the way back to the Celestra."
     "I know. And it's down to you to ensure the public safety during the
whole sorry mess."
     "And all of this on top of trying to find out who attacked Mollary."
     Troy frowned. Something Kanon said made him---no.  Not something
Kanon had said.  Something Vir had said---or rather something he hadn't
said.
     "Kanon---about this Mollary business.  You might want to start by
talking with Vir."
     "Why him?"
     "It might be mothing, but in all the time he and I were here
watching the med-techs operate, he never requested an investigation to
discover who carried out the attack." Troy hesitated, visualized Vir's
behavior over the last hour.  "It was as if he never even thought of it. 
Or thought one was unnecessary..." Troy shrugged. "Of course it might
just have been the shock of finding Mollary drove all other thoughts from
his mind."
     Kanon narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "It's a possibility.  I'll
have Colonial Security look into it."
     "Thanks."
     "No problem."
     "Right.  Well, I suppose I'd better get back to---"  Troy broke off
as his comm. beeped. "Troy."
     "This is Ensign Troken on the Bridge, sir.  We've just had a report
that maintenance workers in Epsilon Section found the body of a dead
Colonist, a Tauron, they think.  He's been stabbed, sir.  Terminated."
     Troy covered his comm., glanced at Kanon.  "I haven't even had
breakfast yet.  What else could go wrong?" Uncovering his comm., Troy
continued, "I'll get Captain Kanon to look into it.  Is that all?"
     "I'm afraid not, sir."  Troken's voice held a not of apology. 
"We've got problems with the presss.  One Indara from IFB News is asking
to conduct interviews with all executive officers."
     Troy sighed. "As if we don't have enough to worry about.  Please
inform Indara that she can speak with the most important officers
immediately.  And then direct her to the life-support techs in Omega
Section.  Troy out."
     Kanon grinned his agreement. "If the sewage engineers aren't the
most important people on Galactica, I don't know who is."
     Troy stared hopelessly at Kanon.  "I swear, there are days when I
wish I never had..." He shook his head wearily.  "Never mind."

*****

CHAPTER 3

     Kar was alive.  Every  moment, every breath, every tiny sensation he
experienced told him this.
     He very much did not want to be alive.
     He wanted to be dead.
     He wanted to be with his family.
     There was a problem.
     The dagger.  The blade he'd left in Mollary's body.  He could not
commit ritual suicide without it.
     Kar paced.  He sighed.  He shuffled.  He did all the things the
Colonials did.  He sat, banged his fists against the bloodstone altar,
then put his head in his hands, then got up and did the whole thing over
again.
     No dagger.  No death.  No dagger.
     This is ridiculous!
     He walked stiffly to a closet, withdrew his holster and sidearm,
took the gun from the holster, put the barrel against his temple.
     Now.  Do it now before you lose your nerve!
     Kar hesitated.  He seemed to hear Mollary laughing at him.
     Not die yet.  Die together.  Yahrens from now.
     Mollary had been laughing.  At him.  Laughing.
     Why?
     Kar put the gun back in the holster, put that back in the cupboard. 
He walked stiffly back into the prayer room and sat awkwardly before the
altar.  He pressed a thick hand against the mass of bandages covering his
chest, felt his heart thumping solidly underneath as it had all his life,
pumping blood around his body and into his brain.  The motion was firm,
decisive; no confusion there.
     Tonight he had acted according to his heart.  Tonight he had killed
a sworn enemy.  He had pushed a blade into Mollary's body and bled his
life out onto his own carpet.  He should be celebrating.  He felt no
remorse at the job; slaughtering animals would hold more guilt.
     So why this confusion?
     Why the fear?
     Was the fear that of discovery?  Of how he might be perceived by
others?  Of what might happen to him?
     Was the confusion derived from the fact that even now some part of
his mind was telling him peace between Nomen and Human was possible, even
vital?
     Kar asked these questions and more, directed them to the altar in
High Borellan, the ancient tongue of Quan.  He listened in his room for
many hours, but there was no response.  He studied the holy texts but
found no comfort in their fables and half truths.  He lit bowls of ritual
incense but, enraptured, knew only the evils of past and futur, both of
which cast deep shadows across the present.
     And when the candles had burned low and the texts had been closed,
when the incense had faded, dimming the fire of rapture in his mind, then
Kar knew that he was truly alone.  Alone with his questions, his
wondering, his despair.  Alone in the night.
     The door bleeped.
     "Who is it?" Was that his voice?  Slurred with a lack of sleep and
incense.
     "Troy."
     Kar nodded to himself.  So. They had found the knife.  Found it and
come for him.  So be it.  The decisions, the questions, the need for
answeres and the desperate fear of shadows, all had been taken from him.
     Thank Quan.
     He opened the door.
     Troy nodded and came in, eyes watering with the remains of the
incense in the air. "Kar, I---" Troy coughed, wiped his eyes, began
again.  "I could always come back."
     Kar waved Troy into the room. "No, Troy, that will not be necessary. 
My rituals are completed for the evening."
     Troy nodded, drew a breath.  "Well then, I have some news which I
thought you might want to know."
     "Indeed?"
     Oh, just get on with it.  Arrest me, condemn me, just get it over
with!
     "There has been an attack on Sire Mollary."
     Troy waited for a response; Kar was simply too tired to give him
one.
     "You don't seem surprised."
     "I'm not.  He has many enemies."
     Troy frowned. "Someone stabbed him three times: twice in the chest,
once in the back.  He's in the Life Station now.  Doctor Franklin doesn't
hold out much hope. I thought you might want to...well...look.  I know
what he's done to your people, but you have worked together here and I
thought...I thought you might want to see him before...well, before he
dies."
     "That was a kind thought, Troy."  The words came out automatically,
a platitude and he could see Troy knew it.  The truth was he was confused
all over again.  Evidently Troy had not come here to arres him or accuse
him.  In fact he seemed completely ignorant of the truth.  Then again,
perhaps Quan had denied him a ritual death for a reason: perhaps Troy's
arrival here had prompted the answer he had been seeking.  He thought for
a moment before speaking further.
     "Commander Troy, let me tell you something about Sire Mollary. 
Something you may not know.  Earlier today he hired some
lurkers---humans---supplied them with Changeling Nets with which to
disguise their appearance and told them to kill me."
     Troy frowned. "I didn't know you were so well informed of Captain
Kanon's investigation," he said pointedly.
     Kar avoided the implied question by asking one of his own.  "You did
not ask why Mollary should attempt to have me killed."
     Troy seemed to consider pursuing his previous line of inquiry,
hesitated, then said, "You're going to tell me, though, aren't you?"
     Kar considered.  It must be deliberate.  "Think about it. I am
killed, apparently by members of the Tuchanq, who have every reason to
hate me. After all, I was instrumental in establishing an illegal colony
on Mars, wasn't I?  Thus, the Colonials would have every right to take
back all their stolen technology, along, perhaps with some integrated
Tuchanq technology.  You Colonists have never seen Tuchanq technology
before, so whoever could unlock its secrets, without permission of the
Council of Twelve, obviously, could make handsome profits selling it to
any Fleet citizen willing to pay the steep prices that would no doubt be
charged." Kar studied Troy's reaction; the Colonial wasn't slow.  He was
getting it very clearly.  "By 'whoever', I mean, of course, Sire Mollary. 
It would be in his best interest to execute the one person who could
recognize the party that is unlawfully making money off the Tuchanq's
dilemma."
     Troy seemed to think about this. "You do realize that you just made
yourself a prime suspect for this attack, Kar?"
     Kar felt the bandages tighten painfully about his chest. "I talk too
much, I'm afraid."
     Troy nodded in agreement.  "The shape of the wounds inflicted on
Sire Mollary match that of a Nomen ceremonial dagger."  He hesitated. 
"May I see your dagger, Kar?"
     "Just because I said I talk too much does not mean I invited you to
point a finger of accusation at me, Troy!" Kar boomed.
     Troy sighed.  "Kar, sooner or later someone is going to come asking
these questions.  Would you rather it be me or Colonial Security?"
     Kar shook his head, took his dress uniform dagger from its place
beside the uniform in the cupboard.  He offered the dagger hilt first to
Troy.
     Troy studied the blade for a moment, refused to take it.  No wonder;
it was twice the size of any wound the ceremonial dagger could have made. 
Then again, Troy could not know this was Kar's ceremonial dagger, could
he?
     Or could he?
     He was certainly studying the blade closely.
     "Why are the bindings missing?"
     Startled, Kar almost dropped the blade.  "Er...well...they have to
be replaced regularly.  I had discarded the old set of bindings fifteen
yahrens earlier.  Now of course---there can be no new ones shipped from
Borella."
     Troy nodded. "I see."
     I'm sure you do.
     Kar offered the blade again.  "Please.  Make a closer examination."
     "Thank you, that won't be necessary."  Troy turned to leave and Kar
put the dagger back into its sheath, resting both on the nearby altar.
     Kar studied the Colonist thoughtfully.  So much had changed about
the man since he became commander.  And what had happened to the dagger
he had left buried to its hilt in Mollary's chest?  Had Troy hidden it? 
Had he come here simply to fulfill a duty, to---what was the
phrase---tick boxes for the Council of Twelve?
     How much did he really know about the attack on Mollary?
     "Troy."
     Troy turned.
     "I just wanted to say...thank you."
     Did Troy's eyes narrow suspiciously?  It was so hard to tell with
Colonists.
     Kar continued quickly, "For informing me of Mollary's plight."
     Troy seemed to relax.  "Can I tell Dr. Franklin to expect you in the
Life Station?"
     Kar considered.  "Yes.  Of course."
     "Then I'll be going."  At the door Troy turned, and it was as if he
could see right through Kar, right through him to the core of his being. 
"One thing, Ambassador: Sire Mollary is dying.  I consider us friends,
Kar, I really do.  But make no mistake: If there was evidence you had
committed a termination I would have no choice under current law but to
arrest you and put you on tribunal.  And---well, you'll find out soon
enough what that would mean."
     Without waiting for a reply, Troy left.  As the door closed quietly
behind him, Kar found himself shaking.  Troy had just delivered a
warning.
     But if he hadn't found the dagger, who had?  And what would that
someone do with it?
     When would Kar have to pay the price for his revenge against
Mollary, and how great would that price be?
     More questions to which Kar had no answers.  And, lacking answers,
he returned to the altar, lit more candles, burned more incense, inhaling
deeply until his mind sparked with a familiar and welcome chemical fire.
     The incense tasted of the past, of his father, slowly strangling on
a ceiling girder in a dark and dismal cargo bay on the Borella, as
maggots ate away at his still-living flesh; and it tasted of the future,
of evil gathering unimaginable distances away, approaching, casting it
shadow back in time across the present moment, a shadow that Kar
sometimes wondered if only he could see.
     A shadow that was cast across them all.

*****

CHAPTER 4

     Vir stared at the Nomen ceremonial dagger.  Such a simple tool, a
blade, yet when wielded with intent it could shape power and personal
destinies.
     Vir cleaned the blade slowly, trying to understand fully the
implications the use of this particular weapon had already had upon his
own power and destiny.
     The session before the Council had gone about as well as could be
expected.  Sire Refa had confirmed that a new councilmen should be
elected within ten centons.  Until then, Vir had the powers of Acting
Councilman.  The last thing Refa had said to Vir before the meeting
adjourned had apparently been in the nature of friendly advice.
     "This is a heavy mantle for one so young to wear.  My advice is---to
avoid making complex decisions until the new councilman is elected."
     Refa had smiled reassuringly when he'd said that, one Colonial to
another, one buritician to another.  But Vir knew Refa.  He understood
the truth behind the words.  And the truth was simply this: Refa didn't
want Vir to upset the status qou by exercising any of the powers he now
officially possessed.
     If for any complex decisions you substituted the phrase any
decisions at all, you would have an accurate summation of the meaning
behind Refa's apparently friendly advice.
     Vir had spent the next twenty mili-centons in thoughtful
contemplation of the Nomen dagger and the implications it held.
     Now he looked at the dagger and wondered if it would not perhaps be
sensible to allow Mollary to die.
     The answer to that must be no.
     The Capricans had a saying: Better the devil you know.  Mollary had
his own slight variation on that them: Better the devil who owes you a
favor. Now Vir could understand the distinction.  If Vir became
responsible for saving Mollary, then the buritician would be in debt to
him.  And that debt could be used to good advantage at some point in the
future.  Perhaps it would even allow Vir to reverse Mollary's decision to
ally himself with Morden and his associates.
     His mind made up, Vir placed a number of calls to various places on
the Galactica, requesting captains and lieutenants from various squadrons
to visit him in the VIP section immediately.
     He concealed the dagger just as the first arrived.
     Twenty mili-centons later they had assembled, the dozen or so
captains, all except Blue Squadron's Captain Kanon, from the Galactican
viper squadrons.
     Vir had them sit and explained the situation to them, made the
request for volunteers.
     Almost before the last words left Vir's lips one of the delegation
was standing.  Captain Kantell, Orange Squadron.  A man hardly known for
his support of others.
     "Vir.  The news of this unfortunate affair has already reached my
brother warriors.  A request for help was not unanticipated. 
Unfortunately...none of us can do what you ask."
     Vir clasped his hands together.  "But---I thought you warriors were
sworn to give your lives, if need be."
     "And so we are.  But only in times of combat.  Sire Mollary's plight
hardly qualifies as such a time."
     Vir tried to contain his surprise, his frustration.  "Are there none
among you who would spare just a little of their life energy to help save
Sire Mollary?  I have been assured the process is quite painless."
     Kantell smiled, overbright, overgenerous.  "We're not afraid of any
pain, Vir.  It's just that...there aren't any among us who wish to be
seen as too close to Sire Mollary.  It's known that he
has---acquaintances---and---well, let's just say that there are some
among us who belive that these acquaintances may have been responsible
for the attack on Mollary's life."
     Vir had a sudden image of himself kneeling in a pool of blood,
pulling the dagger from Mollary's chest and hiding it.
     Kantell continued.  "I think you'll find that fear of these
acquaintances will prevent any Colonial Warrior from helping him."
     Vir felt anger rise to swamp the guilt.  You mean you want Mollary
to die in the hopes that you might be able to befriend his acquaintances
and reap the power they bring for yourselves!  He said nothing, however;
one did not accuse honored Colonial Warriors of such things, especially
not a man in his position.  Instead he tried to control his anger,
scanned the eyes of the warriors before him.  As one they were carefully
neutral, lacking in sympathy or understanding.
     "How many of you took advantage of Sire Mollary's generosity during
the last yahren?  Aldan, you asked his help to pay off your gambling
debt, as I recall.  You, Fentin, were in danger of being dishonorably
discharged from the service until Mollary spoke on your behalf to Troy."
Vir felt his voice strengthen, bolstered by his anger.  "All of you were
quick enough to ask Mollary for favors that none other than he could
grant.  Yet now when his life hangs in the balance, none of you will
help!"
     Vir waited.  Some of the warriors' eyes were downcast in shame or
embarrassment.  For the most part they remained stony, emotionless.
     Vir felt his anger turn to disgust.  "Get out! All of you!  And be
thankful that I am not the vengeful man that some in my position could
be!"
     When the warriors had gone, Vir sat behind Mollary's desk and placed
his head in his hands.  He felt like jumping up and down, screaming with
rage, frustration.  The ungrateful daggits.  May they and all their
family and their friends and their family's friends die without rank
and---
     His comm. bleeped.
     Vir jumped at the unexpected sound, realized how tense he had
become, had the first inkling of the true responbility of a councilman.  
     It was Franklin.  "Vir.  Have you made any progress finding some
volunteer donors?"
     Vir blinked, glad the doctor couldn't see his face.  "I am working
on the problem, Doctor.  How is Mollary?"
     "Not good." A pause. "Vir, I didn't think finding volunteers was
going to be a 'problem.'"
     "Neither did I, Doctor. I hope to have some news soon.  Vir out."
     He signed off.  He looked around the suite, searching for some
inspiration.  The Colonial Warriors wouldn't help.  Refa and the new
councilman were half a day away.  That left Vir holding the ball.
     What was he to do?  Go from ship to ship, begging help from total
strangers?  If the warriors wouldn't help, what hope could there be that
the general civilian population would?
     Vir switched on the comm..  "Vir to Siress Delenn."
     A moment, then a male voice answered.  "This is Lennier, Vir. 
Siress Delenn is unavailable right now.  May I be of assistance?"
     "It is a matter of some urgency, Lennier.  Life and death, in fact."
     "Then you will find her aboard Agro Ship No.1, in the third dome."
     "Thank you, Lennier."
     "You are welcome."
     Vir gathered himself together, rose to leave the suite.  At that
moment the door bleeped.
     "Enter."
     It was Kanon.  Vir nodded a hurried welcome.  "Captain Kanon.  What
can I do for you?  I'm in rather a rush, so if you could make it quick,
I'd be grateful."
     Vir felt Kanon's gaze on him, noticed for the first time the
warrior's weary demeanor.  Was his face a shade redder than normal? 
     "Finding the robes of office a little heavy, Vir?"
     Vir uttered a companionable laugh which he felt afterward probably
came out more distraught than friendly.
     Kanon came into the suite and the door closed behind him.  "Vir, I
know you've got a lot of work to do.  But I have to ask you something."
     Vir sat down behind the desk, sighed. "Ask away, then."
     "What do you know about the attack on Sire Mollary?"  Kanon's
unwavering eyes held him.
     Vir felt the weight of the dagger in his cloth pouch, concealed
within his robes.  "I---don't know what you mean."
     Kanon frowned thoughtfully.  "You found the body.  You haven't filed
a report with Colonial Security yet."
     "I was waiting to be contacted by them.  That is the way things are
done, isn't it?"
     Kanon shrugged, clapsed his hands behind his back.  "Well, right
now, as far as you're concerned, I'm Security.  So you might as well
consider yourself contacted."
     Vir pursed his lips.  "Well, it's like I told Commander Troy.  I'd
been working.  I went to Sire Mollary's quarters to check on some
information and...there he was.  Lying there.  I thought he was dead."
     "Is that all?"
     Vir shrugged. "I called the Life Station immediately.  What else do
you want to know?"
     "Did you see anyone leaving Mollary's quarters?  Anything else
suspicious?"
     "No." Vir hesitated; the dagger seemed to be increasing in weight
beneath his robes.  "Nothing."
     Kanon sighed. "Ah well.  Perhaps when you're ready you can come to
Security Control and file a full report."
     Vir nodded eagerly.  "Of course I will, Captain Kanon.  I'll be sure
and do that.  Now, if you'll please excuse me, I really do have pressing
business."
     "Are you still looking for volunteers?"
     Vir nodded, found himself suddenly able to return the warriors'
frank gaze.  "Captain Kanon---you and Mollary were friends, were you not?
Perhaps you should consider..."
     Kanon shuffled uncomfortably. "Look, Vir. Don't think I don't
appreciate Mollary's position.  I---" A long pause.  What was Kanon
thinking?  "Look, Vir, it's like this.  Mollary and I haven't realy been
getting along so well lately, and well..." Another hesitation.  Kanon's
face smoothed into a familiar neutral expression. "Look.  I'm just too
busy right now.  I'm going out on patrol in a few centons and I've got to
try to find out who attacked him before I go.  Do you understand?"
     Vir nodded. "I do."  He wondered how much of his bitterness showed
in his voice.  Not that it mattered.  Not to Kanon, anyway.
     After Kanon left, Vir sat at the desk for a few more moments, trying
to regain his composure.  Vir had heard it said that Kanon was a good
friend and a dangerous enemy.  Vir was beginning to understand the truth
of those words.
     He got up then, left the suite, boarded the first shuttle for Agro
Ship No. 1.
     He found her, as Lennier had said he would, in the vast gardens of
the third dome.
     She looked up as he approached. "Vir. I was meditating on the
fortcoming tribunal."
     Vir nodded politely; inwardly he was screaming with impatience at
the niceties.  "It is an important matter, Siress.  And worthy of some
thought."  He hesitated. "I have no wish to interrupt you, but---"
     Delenn smiled. "Please join me."
     Vir sat beside her on one of the many benches which encircled the
expanse of neatly plowed sand and precisely positioned stones.  He felt
her gaze on him as he sat.  Unlike Kanon or Kantell, no hint of judgment
in the gaze.  No condemnation, no accusation.  Merely patience and
acceptance and a joyful curiosity.
     Vir made no pretense of understanding the significance or importance
of the fields of the third dome; he nonetheless had the sudden and
absolute conviction that Delenn was perfectly within her element here.
     Delenn smiled gently.  "You have come here to ask for my help."
     Vir uttered a humorless laugh.  "Is there anyone in this Fleet who
doesn't know more about my business than I do?"
     Delenn's smile widened, then smoothed into an attentive expression. 
"Ask your question, Vir."
     "Sire Mollary is dying in Life Station.  No one else will help by
volunteering even a little of their life energy so that he may live. 
Will you?"
     Delenn appeared to consider.  For a moment, Vir caught the briefest
flicker of emotion on her face.  Was it anger?  Fear?  Triumph?  Whatever
it was, it was gone so fast that later he would question whether he had
really seen it at all.
     Delenn turned away from Vir, looked back across the vast green
field.  Beyond the far edge some agro-workers were busy harvesting their
crops.  Beyond the dome was the vastness of space, broken only by a view
of the picturesque ringed planet the Earthmen called Saturn.  
     A gentle wind blew across the field; thermal currents from daytime
to nighttime areas in the dome ensured a gentle wind always blew in the
field.
     When Delenn spoke, her voice was gentle as the wind, but her words
were uncompromising.  "Vir.  I take it you are unaware that I am a member
of the Aristaeusi sect among the Capricans.  We believe that the soul is
sacred and must not be compromised."
     Vir blinked. "I am not asking that you donate your soul, Siress."
     "I know that, Vir.  But for us Aristaeusi, the soul and the life
force that you refer to are one in the same thing.  If I were to offer
even a portion of my life energy to save Mollary, then my soul would be
compromised.  And I cannot allow that to happen under any circumstances."
     Vir nodded. "A religious conviction.  I understand.  But---will no
one in the Fleet help poor Mollary?"
     Delenn's expression was almost unreadable. Vir got the feeling he
was missing some subtlety.  Or that Delenn was deliberately holding
information back, inventing an excuse or obscuring the truth in some way.
     Her voice was quiet and very serious when she eventually spoke.  "I
cannot speak for the others, only myself.  You are, of course, free to
speak to whomever you wish.  Good luck in your quest for aid; I can say
nothing more."
     Vir nodded.  "I understand, Siress."  He hesitated, went on
bitterly.  "It seems your much-vaunted interest in helping others has
been exaggerated."
     Delenn's lips compressed to a thin line. "I am sorry you feel that
way, Vir."
     "I'm sorry that I have to feel that way, Siress."  Vir fell silent. 
Somehow his words left him feeling as if he'd been unfair to Delenn. 
Well, maybe he had, but he had a life to save, a job to do.  If
bitterness and unfairness got the job done, then so be it.
     Vir got up then and left Delenn with her rows of green and her
hidden truths.
     On the way out of the dome he almost walked into Dr. Zee, gliding
like a ghost in the direction from which Vir had come.
     Vir stared at the Galactica's resident super-genius.  Abruptly he
said, "Uh, excuse me, Dr. Zee?"
     Zee stopped, turned to face Vir.
     Waited mutely.
     Vir blinked. "Uh...actually it was nothing, Dr. Zee. Please. Don't
let me keep you from your business."
     Without acknowledging Vir's words in any way, Zee turned and resumed
his movement away from Vir.  He hadn't said one word during the entire
exchange---but still Vir shivered.  Someone's just walked over my grave,
he thought.
     Vir shivered, hurried away.

*****
     
CHAPTER 5
     
     Renting a room turned out to be quite affordable after all.  Tegates
might be dead, but his cubits were still good.
     The room was small, containing little more furniture than a bed, a
chair, and a communications terminal.  A small bar held kitchenware and
appliances.  A smaller cubicle contained the bedroom and bathroom
facilities.
     Once in the room, Tenelle wasted no time but dialed immediately into
the Fleet communications net and opened a line to the Syria.  She spent a
few mili-centons updating Janna on her situation, then asked to speak to
the kids.
     Jacy came to the screen.  At five yahrens she was two years older
than her brother, thin, normally bubbling over with raucous energy. 
Today it was obvious she was subdued, though excited to see her mother.
     "Hello, Jacy. Where's Robey?"
     "Mum!  He's asleep.  Janna said not to wake him up. Janna said you
were on th' Galact'ca!  Is Daddy there?"
     Tenell felt her heart melt.  She hadn't told either of the kids yet
why she had left.  Time enough for that when she got back. 'No, hons,
he's---he's working."
     "Did he get me a gloppit egg?"
     Tenelle bit her lip. "I don't know, honey. I'll ask him."
     "Okay."
     "Now listen, Jacy.  I just called to make sure you were being good
and not giving Janna any trouble."
     "We're not."
     "I'm glad to hear it, Jacy.  I have to go now, because this call is
very expensive."
     "More expensive than a gloppit egg?"
     "Yes, lots more.  But I'll be home tomorrow.  Look after your
brother for me, okay?"
     A long silence.
     "Jacy?"
     "I will."
     Tenelle began to get a cold feeling in her stomach.  "Honey?  Are
you okay?"
     Jacy bit her lip, said nothing.
     "Jacy, darling.  Tell Mummy what's wrong.  Janna hasn't had to smack
you, has she?"
     Jacy blinked, seemed on the point of tears.  Quite suddenly, she
shouted, "You said Daddy had a gloppit egg.  You said that, Mummy, but
how can Daddy have got me a gloppit egg?  How can he do that when the man
on the televisor said Daddy's dead?"
     Tenelle felt her heart lurch.
     "Honey, I...Daddy is..."  She felt her own face crumple, tears
falling, a mirror to Jacy's.  "Where did you hear that?"
     "On the IFB.  While Janna was putting Robey to bed.  I know I wasn't
supposed to but..."
     "It's okay, honey.  That's okay, I'm not cross."
     Oh dear Lords of Kobol, they need me. They need me now and I'm on
another ship!
     "Now, Jacy, I want you to listen very carefully.  It's true that
Daddy has had an accident. I'll be back tomorrow to explain everything. 
In the meantime, I want you to take care of your brother for me.  And I
want this to be our secret.  Do you understand?  I don't want you to tell
Robey."
     "You don't want me to tell him about Daddy?"
     "No, honey.  Can you do that for me?  Keep a secret?"
     "Yes."
     "Okay then.  Now be good for me, okay?"
     "Yes."
     "Good.  Can you get Janna again for me?"
     "Yes."
     When Janna realized what had happened she was appalled.  "Ten, I'm
so sorry.  I didn't have a clue she could operate the televisor tank
without the remote."
     "She's a smart kid."
     "I know.  Oh, Ten, what are you going to do?  What do you want me to
do?"
     "Just---keep them under control until I get back.  I'll be home
tomorrow  on the Athena.  I'll tell them then, myself, properly."
     Janna nodded, seemed about to burst into tears herself.
     Tenelle said goodbye and cut the link.
     The images of her daughter's accusing, tear-streaked face remained
imprinted on her mind long after she had flung herself on the bed and
surrendered to an uneasy, dream-filled sleep.

*****

CHAPTER 6

     Franklin was waiting for Troy when he returned to his office after
leaving Kar.  The doctor did not look happy.
     "Is there a problem?"
     "You could say that.  Between the two of us, Vir and I have
approached everyone we could, warriors, technicians, chefs, you name it. 
No one will volunteer even the least little bit of their life energy to
save Mollary."
     Troy sighed inwardly.  How did I guess you were going to say that?
     Franklin went on.  "I don't know what it is.  Some refuse on
religious grounds, others give no reason.  You want my opinion?  I think
they're all scared."
     "Of the procedure?"
     "No.  Of Mollary.  I don't know if it's escaped your notice lately,
but it sure hasn't escaped mine.  Mollary seems unpopular with far more
than just the Nomen.  Even our warriors are somehow---scared of him.  Our
warriors!"
     Troy steepled his fingers.  "I am told the new councilman will not
be elected for another six centons yet."
     "That's too late, of course."
     "So.  What can we do about it?"
     Franklin rubbed his chin, leaned forward.  "You're the commander. 
If you ordered some of our warriors to volunteer---well---they wouldn't
have any choice, would they.  And it's not as if the procedure would harm
them..."
     Troy stood.  "I can't do that, Doctor, and you know it.  Sure, I'm
the commander of this battlestar.  But if I give someone a direct order
to donate his life energy, I'm no better than..."
     President Crord.
     "...the Cylon Imperious Leader himself.  In any case.  How would I
enforce such an order?  And how would I justify it morally?"
     Franklin uttered a short, humorless laugh.  "You're worried about
morals?  There's a man's life at stake.  Now I know he's not the most
popular person in the Fleet right now, but he is a person nonetheless. 
It's within your power to save him by ordering volunteers forward.  Will
you do it?"
     Troy didn't hesitate.  "No." He held up a hand to stem the
anticipated outburst.  "But I can authorize a Fleet-wide appeal.  There
are a quarter million people in this Fleet.  We only need a dozen."
     Franklin's lips thinned angrily.  "And how long do you think it will
take for the message to disseminate among the population, for any
potential volunteers to present themselves?"
     The question was rhetorical and Troy knew it.  "It's the best I can
do, Doctor."
     Franklin said angrily, "It's not the best you can do. It's just the
best you can do without compromising the image of yourself."
     Troy opened his mouth to respond angrily, then stopped. Was Franklin
right?
     "Doctor..." He began an apology, aborted the attempt before it had
even begun.  "I suggest you prepare a data crystal for broadcast."
     Frnaklin reached into his pocket and produced a data crystal.  He
placed it on the desk between them.  "Your appeal."
     Without another word, Franklin turned and left the office.

*****

CHAPTER 7

     Kanon got his first inkling of the violence to come shortly after
returning from his patrol.  
     As he was crossing the Gamma Sector Plaza heading for a turbolift,
he was accosted by a group of Colonists and aliens, several dozen in all. 
They were waving prolife banners and chanting.
     One of the group pressed a plastic badge into his hands.  "Love the
alien, Warrior.  Come to the tribunal.  Be part of the voice of the
people."  A smile and the girl was gone, whirled away by the mad rush of
demonstrators.
     Kanon glanced at the bade.  It was cheap, a home-stamped thing of
plain gray plastic with words written on its surface in scrappy
handwriting.

Love the alien!
Justice for all---not some!
Save the Tuchanq!
Free Arc!

     Kanon stared at the words with some bemusement.  Wherever the human
race went, there went the crackpots, the misguided idiots with more
cubits than sense and a misplaced sense of ideals.  Sure Arc should be
saved---if she was innocent.  But the evidence didn't look that way to
Kanon.  He sighed, shook his head, slipped the badge into his pocket,
resumed his walk toward the turbolift station.
     What was amazing was not so much that there were groups prepared to
go to any lengths, however misguided, to protect the interests of aliens
simply because they were aliens but that the news of Arc's guilt and
impending tribunal had hit the corridors so damn quickly---
     His thoughts were interrupted by screams from behind.
     He turned.  Across the plaza the group of prolifers had run into a
smaller but considerably more vicious group made up of humans only.
     "What are you playing at?"
     "Humans only!
     Let the Aliens burn!"
     Star Chamber vigilantes.
     With a muttered curse, Kanon activated his comm., called in the
incident to Core Command, and ran back toward the group.
     By the time he got there blows had been exchanged.  The girl who had
given him the badge was on the deck bleeding from a head wound.  The rest
were going at it as if they were fighting Cylons instead of their fellow
humans.
     Kanon drew his laser and fired a warning blast into the air.
     "Now listen up!  You got thirty microns to disperse before I have
the lot of you arrested!"
     "They started it!
     "Damn alien lovers!"
     "What do you know about love anyway?"
     And it started all over again.  Punches were thrown, the prolife
signs were torn down and trampled underfoot.
     A lump of plastic popped out of the melee.  Kanon ducked, glimpsed
the words Protect Innocence! as it sailed overhead.
     This was dumb.  Someone was going to get seriously hurt---probably
himself.  Time to take the bull by the horns.
     Kanon scanned the group, isolated the main protagonists, waded in. 
He took more punches than he gave, but when he emerged from the group it
was to leave two deeply unconscious humans, one from each camp, lying in
his wake.
     The rest calmed down then.
     Kanon dusted his hands, looked around for the backup he had called
for.  Found himself face-to-face with a minicam operator and a barrage of
questions.
     "Captain Kanon, isn't it?  Indara, IFB News.  With the tribunal of
Arc set for less than a centon from now, and violence, such as that we
have just witnessed, on the increase, what are your plans for keeping the
peace?  Do they include more violence of the kind you have just
demonstrated?  Captain Kanon, for the record, just how does it feel to
use violence to subdue a fellow Colonist?"
     Kanon raised his hands to ward off the camera and questions.  "Whoa! 
Someone let the animals out of the zoo."
     "Captain Kanon, would you care to expand that comment for IFB
viewers?"
     Kanon gathered his wits and took stock.  Facing him were a news
team.  And an irritatingly attractive female reporter.  She was staring
intently at him, a hand mike thrust almost into his face.  "Captain
Kanon, is there any truth to the rumor that Arc's tribunal has been
rigged?  That her guilt is already predetermined and the verdict reached? 
Captain Kanon, once again, would you care to tell our viewers what it
feels like to subdue a fellow human being by violence?"
     Kanon struggled to hold his temper in check.  He jerked a thumb over
his shoulder to where the remains of the mini-riot were being mopped up
by security.  "Don't you believe in freedom of speech?"
     "Yes, but..."
     "That guy was a racist.  I disagreed with his politics.  Call it a
discussion."
     Indara's laugh held not a teaspoonful of humor.  "Captain Kanon,
that's hardly the point.  You hit that man in the face---twice.  I have
it on bid.  Now what is your comment on that?"
     By now Kanon had recovered his breath.  And his wits.  He glanced at
Indara again and laughed.  "By the look of that black eyes you ought to
be asking someone else that question, not me."
     Indara's lips compressed to an angry line.  She turned to face the
camera, blocking its view of Kanon.  "That was Captain Kanon, Blue
Squadron, strike commander of the Galactica and one of the members of the
crew I have been trying repeatedly to meet with for several hours.  Now
we know why he is so often unavailable for comment."
     She turned and threw a nasty grin and Kanon.  "Thanks, champ."  She
turned away again and Kanon heard her saying to her cameraman, "Are you
sure CGI can erase the bruise before we go on air?  Gods, I'll kill
Tenelle if I have to do another voice-over---"
     Kanon wiped a hand across his face.  It came away bloody.  And
somehow, the collar of his buckskin-brown flight jacket had gotten ripped
half off.
     Turning away, he began to disperse the crowd which had gathered
around the incident.  For the most part the people he told to move on
took one look at his bloody face and did just that.  When the crowd was
dispersed and the last of the profilers and Star Chamber were being
tagged for a  night in the cells, Kanon began to think about moving on
himself.
     That was when he became aware that Indara was still talking.  The
man she was talking to looked familiar.
     It was Morden.
     "So tell me...Morden, is it?  As a member of the public what do you
feel about the events here today?  Do you feel a kinship with your fellow
Colonists in the Star Chamber?  Or are you prolife?"
     Morden produced a bemused expression.  A little smile.  As if he was
surprised to find himself on the receiving end of so pointed a question. 
"I suppose I would have to say that all life is important in some way."
He nodded to himself.  "Yes.  That's what I believe.  Life is important. 
If you know what do with it."
     Indara grinned. "Amazing.  Okay, Tob, shoot some of these smashed-up
signs and we'll call it a wrap."
     Indara and the cameraman moved slowly away, getting interesting
angles on the cleanup squad bagging the debris of the fight.
     Morden walked unhurriedly toward Kanon.
     Kanon met his eyes and shivered.
     That guy jars my chips.
     "Captain Kanon."  Morden nodded.  His eyes were cold, flat, belied
the warmth of his smile.  "And what do you think of the violence here?"
     Kanon felt compelled to answer, if only because the man had saved
his life the previous night.  "I'm prolife, if that's what ou mean. 
Assuming the accused is innocent, of course."
     "Of course." Morden nodded thoughtfully.  "Take your friend Sire
Mollary, for instance."
     What was this?
     "Mollary?  What about him?"
     "I've heard he's dying.  You were friends, weren't you?  You could
save him."  Morden hesitated. "Call it a favor returned."
     Kanon stared at Morden.  "Now just wait a centon.  It would take a
dozen people to save Mollary."
     "Or just one.  One who was prepared to sacrifice himself for his
friend."
     Kanon uttered a short laugh.  "You're insane!"
     Morden said nothing.
     Kanon felt compelled to add, "I'd die."
     Still Morden said nothing.
     Obligation is a hangman's noose.
     Kanon felt the blood drain out of his face.
     Morden shrugged suddenly.  "Then I'll consider the debt yet to be
repaid."  He smiled. "Join me on the turbolift?"
     Kanon shook his head slowly, wondering as much at the sudden wave of
guilt which washed over him as he did about Morden's outrageous
suggestion.  "Thanks, I think I'll walk off these bruises."
     Morden nodded, turned away, resumed his unhurried pace toward the
terminal.
     Kanon watched him for a moment, then turned and walked in the
opposite direction.  His comm. beeped as he did so.  "Kanon.  Go."
     "Troy here.  We need to talk."
     "I heard that.  Be with you in ten mili-centons."
     Kanon severed the link.  As he did so his foot crunched down on the
sign that had been thrown at him earlier.  Protect innocence! proclaimed
the blood-smeared words.  He stumbled over the sign, realized the IFB
cameraman was recording him, recovered his balance, and moved on.

*****
     
CHAPTER 8

     Kar stood in the Life Station, stared down at Mollary's body
cocooned in the medical cryotube, saw in the pale skin stretched tightly
across brow and cheekbones the face of his dying father.  Granted the
skin was a different color, the shape of the skull and flatness of the
brow totally alien; what linked the two in Kar's mind was the
ever-present shadow of death that hovered nearby.  In both cases death
was inevitable.  No donors had yet come forward to help Mollary, even
though Dr. Franklin's appeal was being broadcast to newspoints and public
vids fleetwide almost constantly.  The appeal was running alongside the
announcement of Arc's trial, set for half a centon from now, hoping to
gain sympathy from the profilers who might be watching.  
     Kar knew the truth.  No one would volunteer to help Mollary.  Not
even prolifers.  The buritician had dug his own grave with selfishness
and greed, was doomed as surely as if Kar's blade had pierced his heart
with the first blow.
     With that thought, Kar remembered the dagger.  Remembered the
bloodk, the rasp of steel against bone.  Mollary's dying cry as he had
fallen, bleeding, to his knees.
     What had he done?  Quan, what had he done?  To kill with honor, in
combat or war, this was acceptable. To strike from behind, then to
torture, to prolong the agony---and twice in one day.  This was
unpardonable.
     Kar was damned. Only ritual suicide would balance the scales---and
that was impossible.
     Because the dagger was still missing.
     He felt a presence beside him.  Franklin, or some nurse checking on
Mollary's vital signs.  They would go away, eventually.
     He waited.  The figure remained.  He turned.
     It was Vir.
     The Tauron was staring at Mollary's face with an unreadable
expression.
     Kar followed his gaze.  Tried to ignore the presence at his side. 
Couldn't. Vir was a Colonist, a Tauron. One of the invaders of his world,
enslavers of his ancestors.
     Suddenly unable to stand the presence---even the smell of the
Colonist beside him, Kar turned to leave.  Vir looked at him then and he
stopped.  He met Vir's gaze, found it as unreadable as ever.
     "Do you know, Vir," he said slowly, precisely.  "Someone once asked
me what I wanted.  I said I wanted all humans reduced to ashes. 'And
after that?' he asked.  And do you know what?  I didn't know.  I hadn't
looked that far ahead."
     Vir shuffled nervously from foot to foot, clutching his hands
together as if holding something out of sight beneath his robes.
     "Now I am looking that far ahead---and there's nothing to see.  No
future at all.  Because there's nothing left to have a future.  Just the
ruins of civilizations, the burned-out husks of planets where life once
teemed in all its many forms." He stared at Vir, caught the Tauron's gaze
with his own, willing him to understand.  "I have seen the future and it
holds nothing.  Nothing but shadows of the things that might have been."
     A moment of silence in which the life-support systems surrounding
Mollary clicked and hummed quietly to themselves.
     Kar continued, quietly, wearily.  "Who to blame?  That's the
question.  Humans?  Cylons?  Nomen? Once I was sure.  Not anymore."
     Kar turned away from Vir and Mollary.  Began to walk toward the
entrance to the Life Station.
     "Kar, please wait."  Vir's voice trembled.  Guilt?  Fear?  He was
right to be afraid of Kar.  I could crush his skull with my bare hands. 
End his life in a moment.  But what good would it do?  It was a question
Kar had never asked himself before.  A question he could not even begin
to answer.
     Kar looked at Vir again.  Saw sympathy in the Tauron's expression. 
Sympathy in his weary eyes.  Sympathy in his very submissive stillness.
     "I don't need it!" Kar's should had the medical staff peering in his
direction.  A moment, a shrug of apology.  Let them all think he was
referring to the tragedy of Mollary's death.  Vir knew what he meant. 
The knowledge was there in his eyes.  In his expression.  The
understanding.
     I don't need your sympathy.
     Vir nodded.
     I know.
     He moved then.  Took something f rom beneath his robes.  A slim
shaped wrapped in a Colonial religious cloth.  He offered the parcel to
Kar.
     "I said I was sorry."
     As Kar took the parcel, Vir turned to leave the Life Station.
     Feeling the faint stirrings of an emotion he would have been
hard-pressed to describe, Kar unfolded one end of the cloth.  
     The emotion was fear.  The emotion was guilt.  The emotion was
horror.
     Vir had given him back his own ceremonial dagger.
     The very blade with which he had taken Mollary's life.
     Not Troy or Kanon.
     Vir.
     He imagined Vir finding the dagger, pulling it from his dying
master's body, hiding it from sight before the med-techs arrived to treat
Mollary for his injuries.  Imagined the horror on his face, the thoughts
running through his head as he had cleaned the dagger, wrapped it, walked
through the corridors to bring it here.  To give it back.
     Kar quickly rewrapped the dagger and slipped it underneath his
robes.  He stared at Mollary again, let his eyes wander across the pale
skin, the wasted flesh.
     Even in death the thrice-damned Colonists reach out to torture me.
     Vir had saved Kar.  What would he want in return?
     Whatever it was, it was unimportant.
     Nothing mattered anymore.
     Kar chuckled, drawing curious looks from the medical staff.  He
ignored them.  How could they know the ironic truth?
     Kar stared at the tall figure and nodded acknowledgement which the
dying buritician would never see.
     It would no doubt amuse Mollary greatly to know that in attempting
to protect Kar from discovery, Vir had merely made it possible for him to
perform the ritual suicide his belief now demanded of him.

*****

CHAPTER 9

     Tenelle watched the tribunal of Arc from the public gallery of the
People's Court in Ceti Section.
     She had never been in a courtroom before.  Even the public gallery
was a surprise.  For a start everything was made of wood---well, plastic
shaped and finished to look like wood.  Secondly, the gallery was packed. 
This in itself was no surprise bearing in mind the contentiousness of the
case.  What was a surprise was that the mass of human and non-human
figures---some hundred or so in all, she supposed, that were squashed
into the gallery---were so quiet you could have heard a slow leak in a
spacecraft's hull.
     Beyond the gallery the court was filling with people.  The Clerk of
the Court sat in front of the Bench, his back to the Judge's chair. 
Facing the Clerk, with their backs to the dock and the public gallery,
were the protectors and opposers, together with their assistants and
witnesses.  One whole row of seats to the right of the court was filled
with members of the Tuchanq delegation.  A man in Colonial Executive
Officer's blue wearing the rank of Colonel sat beside them.
     There was no jury; its dismissal had been a requirement for a
military tribunal.
     The Judge's chair was, as yet, empty.  The Judge would be the last
person to enter court---after the defendant had been called to the dock.
     Members of the press stood with cameras and recorders, in a line
that stretched around the courtroom, between the front of the public
gallery and the stairwell through with Arc---the defendant---would be
called.  Some of them were recording images of the evidence.  This was
laid out in plain view on a table beside the court baliff.  It consisted
of the black box recording of time immediately prior to the termination,
Tegates' little laser gun, his money bag, and the murder weapon itself,
Arc's dagger.
     All of these items were bagged in clear plastic.  Spots of dried
blood could still be seen on them.
     Tenelle shivered.  Perhaps coming here had not been such a good idea
after all.  She thought about leaving, but the way was now blocked by
several more members of the public who had come to watch the tribunal.
     Putting aside her uncertainty with an effort, Tenelle looked around
for a seat in the public gallery.  There were no spaces.  She found a
place at the back of the gallery to stand.  Already her back was
beginning to ache again.
     What was she doing here?  Did she really give a frak what happened
to Arc?
     She had found herself pondering these questions more and more
intensely in the last few centars.  She still had now answers.
     She had tried to arrange another meeting with Troy, to find out
exactly when she would be able to move her husband's body.  He had been
constantly unavailable.  Despite repeated requests, the administration
had provided her with no information whatsoever.  It was as if, as far as
they were concerned, both she and Tegates had simply ceased to exist---or
be important anyway.
     Unable to stay in her room after awaking there from a troubled
sleep, Tenelle had spent the last few centars visiting the public areas
of the battlestar and trying to find something interesting going on in
which to involve herself---in between watching the bulletins as they were
broadcast on the public vids.
     Several centons had passed inthis manner.  The battlestar Galactica
was big---but it wasn't so big you could wander around it for more than a
couple of centons before running into an area listed as off limits to the
civilian population. 
     Tenelle was not sure when her desire to actually go to the trial, as
opposed to watching the broadcast, was born.  Whenever it was, it must
have been at that point that she really began to examine the implications
of Tegates's death, then that she began to deal with the shock and
consider the options available to her that brought her mind inevitably to
the subject of her husband's killer.  The Tuchanq: Arc.
     Because the alien's actions had changed her life.  There was no
doubt in Tenelle's mind about that.
     And suddenly, but with a growing curiosity, Tenelle began to wonder
about Arc's motivations.  Her reasons.  What was it that had driven her
to kill?
     That was when Tenelle had found a seat in Theta Section Plaza, and
began watching the public broadcasts dealing with the preparations for
the tribunal.  It was here that she had watched the preliminary hearing
in which Troy had been named Judge.  It was here, also, when the young
man with the intense expression and a clipboard had come up to her and
asked her to sign a petition to "Free Arc."
     Tenelle had stared a long time at that clipboard---the plain sheet
of white paper half covered with signatures.  Had stared at it for so
long, in fact, that the young man was on the point of moving away from
her with an impatient look when she took the offered pen and quickly
scribbled her name at the bottom of the list.
     That was the moment in which she realized how she felt about Arc. 
And somewhere during the centons she spent watching the bulletins in
Theta Section Plaza, the decision to actually attend the tribunal---until
now only a remote possibility in her subconscious mind---crystallized
into a firm decision.
     At that moment the Clerk of the Court called for the defendant to be
brought in.  Tenelle felt herself being elbowed to one side as more
people crowded into the public gallery.  She became aware that humans and
aliens all around her were suddenly pushing forward toward the front of
the gallery.  A collective sigh encircled the gallery as Arc was led, in
restraints, into the courtroom.
     The Clerk of the Court bade everyone rise, then called for the
Judge.
     Troy entered and sat in the Judge's Chair.
     In the ensuing quiet, the Clerk read aloud from a prepared
statement.
     "In the case of the Council of Twelve vs. Arc of the Tuchanq the
following charges are prepared before this court: One, that the defendant
did willfully attack with intent to murder the civilian scientist
Tegates.  Two, than in so doing the defendant was responsible for the
loss of life and injury to Galactica  personnel then working in the cargo
bays.  Three, that in so doing the defendant was responsible for damages
to Colonial property and private cargo amounting to one point eight
million cubits."
     Pushing aside the pain in her back and legs, the tired fuzziness of
her mind, Tenelle tried to concentrate on the proceedings in the
courtroom.  She stood up straighter in her position against the back wall
of the gallery, so as to get the clearest possible view of Arc.
     The Tuchanq was shuffling uneasily in the dock, her spines tipping
this way and that, tasting the air.  She seemed nervous, confused.  She
whined constantly, occasionall gave a little bark.  Her back seemed
strained, as if she was trying to crouch on all fours, as she had when
Tenelle had watched her on the security monitor some centons earlier. 
The restraints prevented this movement.
     The opposer rose and made his opening statement, to the effect that
he represented the Council of Twelve and that he would show the defendant
guilty of premeditated termination.
     The protector followed this speech with one of equal precision and
politeness in which, she said, she would demonstrate the exact opposite.
     There being no witnesses to the actual termination, the oppose
produced as his first piece of evidence the black box recording of the
time immediately prior to the termination.
     The lights were dimmed in the courtroom and the recording began to
play.  Tenelle found herself watching, from a point near the ceiling of
the loader's airlock, as Tegates entered along with several crates of
cargo.
     "You will note that the inner lock door is sealed at this point.  No
other persons are in the chamber.  Until Arc enters, that is."
     And Tenelle watched as Arc entered the airlock.  Tegates was att he
innermost end of the lock and couldn't see the alien.  Tenelle felt her
stomach lurch.  Found herself mouthing a warning.  It was no good, of
course.  Tegates could no more hear her voice than her children could
back on the Syria.
     Arc crept forward, moving around the crates toward Tegates.  He
still hadn't seen her.  Tenelle felt herself sweat.  She clenched her
fists, felt her nails bite into her palms.  Why didn't he move?  Surely
he could see something, hear something---
     Then he did move, alerted by a sound, perhaps, or a movement seen
from the corner of his eye.
     Too late.
     Arc was on him.  The dagger plunged into his chest, once, twice. 
Tenelle felt her breath catch in her throat.  She let out a little moan,
a mirror to Tegates's grunt of surprise and pain.  Beside her, another
Colonist turned and stared at her.  She made an effort to unclench her
hands, to relax her breathing.  To her surprise, it took her only a
moment to accomplish this.
     She returned her eyes to the record, saw then that Tegates had a gun
in his hand---the same laser gun that lay bagged on the evidence table
next to the court baliff.  There was no blood on it yet, of course.
     The record unfolded.  Tegates struggled, Arc moved in close, the gun
discharged, the figures separated in a cloud of debris.  Money, bits of
jigsaw, a gloppit egg all drifted in a cloud around Tegates.  And blood. 
He was bleeding; ribbon after ribbon of scarlet shot out of his body. 
Then Arc moved again, the gun discharged again, and static obscured the
picture.
     The opposer halted the recording and brought up the lights.
     Tenelle let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding.
     The opposer said, "At this point the recording ends.  It is my
contention that the second laser blast, which destroyed the lock sensors
and allowed both doors to cycle open, also destroyed the link between the
camera and the recorder."  The oppose had the recording rewound to a
still frame of Arc stabbing Tegates.  The frame was ghostly, overlaid by
reflections from the courtroom lights.  Tenelle found herself staring at
a faint reflection of the public gallery in the screen, saw herself in
miniature mapped over the image of her dying husband.
     The opposer continued, "Although the victim's autopsy determined
that decompression injuries contributed toward his death, it is clear
that the killing wounds were in fact those inflicted with the dagger you
saw, by Arc herself."
     The opposer sat.
     Troy nodded. "Does the protector have anything to say in response to
this evidence?"
     The protector rose.  "Your honor, I simply wish to  reiterate that,
at the time the record stops, Tegates was, in fact, still alive." She
sat.
     "So noted," Troy nodded.  "The opposer may proceed."
     The opposer stood.  "Although there are no material witnesses to the
actual termination, I would like to call on a relevant testimony.  I call
Vi-El to the stand."
     A whisper of surprise swept the court.  It was clear this
development was unexpected, to say the least.
     As Tenelle watched, the leader of the Tuchanq delegation rose
somewhat uneasily from her place on the benches.  She glanced at the man
in Colonial Service blue seated beside her.  The man looked serious but
nodded.
     The Tuchanq took the stand and was sworn in.
     The opposer began by asking, "Would you please state your name and
position for the record."
     "My name is Vi-El.  I am Elder Stateswoman for the Tuchanq."
     The opposer asked, "You are responsible for the Tuchanq?  You are
their leader?"
     The Tuchanq's spines trembled almost nervously.  "That is correct."
     "I see.  And are you familiar with the defendant?"
     "I am.  It is Arc, formerly known to us as---"
     "Thank you, Vi-El.  As an associate of yours, you have known Arc
for---what, sectars? Yahrens?"
     "Several yahrens.  The Song of her Family and my own have been---"
     "Yes, thank you.  So.  Having known the defendant for yahrens, you
must have known her when she carried out the cold-blooded termination of
more than forty Nomen settlers in their then-illicit attempt to colonize
your planet?"
     Tenelle bit her lip.  Arc had killed how many Nomen?
     ""Did you know the defendant when the terminations in question were
committed?"
     "Yes, but---"
     "And as such you could testify that the terminations were in fact
committed by the defendant?"
     "Yes, but ---"
     "Thank you.  A simple yes or no will suffice."
     Vi-El's spines rippled in agitation.  "Yes."
     "And that the terminations were carefully and deliberately planned,
and executed without compunction or any trace of mercy?"
     "Your Honor, I would like to---"
     Troy tapped the gavel lightly.  "I must ask you to confine yourself
to answering the question."
     Vi-El stood up straighter.  "Yes."
     "In other words the defendant has shown on over forty separate
occasions that she is fully capable of the crime of premeditated
termination?"
     "I protest!" The protector rose.  "The opposer is leading the
witness."
     "Upheld."
     "The question is withdrawn.  Vi-El, if Arc had been brought to trial
on your own world for the crimes she committed there, what would have
been the result?"
     "She would have been found guilty of murder and executed.  But that
was why we---"
     "Thank you.  That will be all.  No more questions."  The opposer
sat.
     Troy glanced at the protector.  "Your witness."
     The protector stood.  "Vi-El, is it true that your people do not
sleep?"
     The opposer stood.  "I protest.  Her question is irrelevant."
     Troy considered.  "Overruled.  Vi-El, please answer the question."
     "Yes.  We do not sleep."
     "Why?"
     "I do not understand the question."
     "Excuse me. Your Honor, I'll rephrase the question.  Vi-El, what
happens to a Tuchanq if they sleep?"
     "Our Songs of Being and Journey are broken."
     "Vi-El, could you explain that in terms my learned friend, the
opposer, and the members of the press would understand?"
     "We die.  Not physically, but in our minds, we die.  Then we are
born again.  Like all newborn, we have the sensibilities and manners of
children."
     "And all this happens if you sleep?  If you lose consciousness in
any way, for any reason?"
     "Yes."
     "What if only one Song is broken?"
     The opposer stood. "I protest!"
     Troy did not hesitated. "Overruled.  The protector may continue. 
But understand that this court will allow no indulgences."
     The protector nodded. "I am leading up to something, Your Honor. 
Vi-El, if you would answer the question."
     "In such a case the individual is considered insane until the
ceremony of birthing can take place."
     "I see.  And in your experience has loss of consciousness occurred
to any of your delegation?"
     "Yes."
     "Since you arrived aboard the Galactica?"
     "Yes."
     "And when was this?"
     "Shortly after we arrived.  There was a fight.  Some Nomen and
humans---"
     "I don't think we need bother with the details.  In short, there was
a fight."
     "Yes."
     "And then?"
     "The Dillon---that is, Colonel Dillon---shot all those participating
in the fight."
     "She stunned them?  Rendered them unconscious?"
     "Yes."
     "Everyone that was involved in the fight?"
     "Yes."
     "Including the members of your own delegation?"
     "Yes."
     "And what happened then?"
     "We held the birthing ceremonies and the members who were rendered
unconscious were reborn."
     "All of them?"
     "No."
     "How many were not reborn?"
     "One."
     "And is that person here in court today?"
     "Yes."
     "And who is that person?"
     "It is Arc."
     "And bearing in mind what you have already said regarding the
disposition of one of your people who has been rendered unconscious but
not reborn, how would you describe Arc's condition at the time of the
murder?"
     "In your terms her behavior would be considered psychotic."
     "Can you expand that statement for the court?"
     "Yes.  In almost all cases where loss of consciousness occurs but
only one Song is broken, the Tuchanq in question awakes with an
overwhelming desire to replace the Song that is broken."
     "And how can this be accomplished?"
     "There is only one way."  Vi-El seemed unwilling to continue.
     After a moment Troy prompted here. "Please answer the question,
Vi-El."
     Vi-El said, slowly, "The only way to take another's Song is to kill
the singer."
     "The protector came closer to the stand.  Her voice softened.  "And
in your opinion is that behavior befitting a sane being?"
     "No.  As I have said, Arc is not sane."
     The protector nodded. "To use your own words, then, being psychotic,
Arc's overwhelming desire would have been to take another's Song and thus
save herself from both madness and---in your terms---death."
     "Yes."
     "So she would have killed another Tuchanq?"
     "No."
     "Oh?  Why not?"
     "Because the battlestar Galactica is not the---our---Land.  We are
the aliens here.  You---all of you---are the People.  Arc would have
needed to take a Song of Being, it is true, but the Song she would have
needed would have had to come from someone of this Land."
     "A human?"
     "Not necessarily.  I will try to explain.  This Land is inhabited by
many different People.  All of whom are part of it.  Arc would have
needed Songs from all different strains of Human here.  But no one can
sing more than one Song of Being. So Arc would have been instinctively
drawn to the one whose Song intertwined with as many other species as
possible.  In your terms---the person who had the most intimate
experiences of as many life forms as possible.  You would say---a
representative of the many Peoples of the Land."
     "I see.  Someone such as Commander Troy or Colonel Dillon?  Perhaps
a member of the medical staff?"
     "No.  If that were the case, then one of the people you have named
would have been attacked."
     "I see.  So in other words, because of his liasisons with aliens,
Tegates seemed to Arc, in her madness, the most suitable person from whom
to take a Song of Being?"
     "Yes."
     "And thus kill."
     "Yes."
     "And she would not have done this if she were sane?"
     "No."
     "Thank you, Vi-El.  No more questions."
     Troy nodded. "You may stand down." Vi-El returned to her seat. 
Tenelle saw that she was trembling as she walked.
     Troy asked if either opposer or protector wished to call further
witnesses.
     The opposer declined.
     The protector stood. "I call Dr. Franklin."  
     Tenelle watched him take the stand.  Tall, slightly unsteady, he
seemed overtired---exhausted might have been a better word.  His voice
was slurred as he was sworn in.
     "Dr. Franklin.  Would you please describe for the court the current
mental condition of the defendant."
     "She has brain damage."
     "Could you be more specific?"
     "She has suffered oxygen deprivation resulting in a significant loss
of function to the areas of her brain which deal with behavior, with
self-perception, and with memory."
     "Is this function recoverable?"
     "No."
     "And how would you place her mental age?"
     "In Colonial terms?  A child.  No more than five or six yahrens
old."
     "Thank you. No more questions."
     The opposer stood to cross-examine.  "Dr. Franklin, is is true that
this brain damage occurred as a directly result of the attack made on
Tegates?"
     "I protest!  The opposer is leading the witness!"
     "Upheld."
     The opposer reconsidered.  "It is your stated medical opinion that
oxygen deprivation caused this brain damage."
     Yes."
     "And you have no doubts about this?  Are you sure the damage might
not have been caused by a blow to the skull?  Or a disease?  I understand
the Tuchanq were fed members of their own population during the yahrens
Nomen occupation. If there is a possibility that one of the reprocessed
individuals had a transmissible degenerative disease such as Wodar's
Syndrome, then the disease could have been contracted by eating the
reprocessed body."
     "Definitely not.  There is no medical evidence to suggest either of
these as possible causes for the damage.  And as for your suggestion---it
is so remote that it might as well be considered fiction---and pitiable
fiction at that."
     "So in other words there is no doubt in your mind that the brain
damage that the defendant suffered was caused by oxygen deprivation?"
     "None whatsoever."
     "Thank you.  No more questions."
     Troy told Franklin he could stand down, then asked the protector and
opposer to sum up.
     The protector stood.  "Your Honor, the accident that rendered Arc
insane happened before the attack on the scientist Tegates.  It is this
protector's contention that at the time the murder was committed, the
defendant was, in the words of her own people, psychopathic.  It is clear
that the defendant cannot be held responsible for the crime she is
supposed to have committed.
     "Further, taking into account Dr. Franklin's medical evidence, it is
clear that the defendant cannot be expected to understand any punishment
which this court may see fit to impose upon her, and that to punish her
would not only be futile in terms of a deterrent to future criminals but
would also be the height of moral injustice.  I therefore move that this
case be dismissed on grounds of insanity, and that the defendant be
returned permanently to the care of her own people."
     The protector sat.
     The opposer thought for a moment, then stood.  "My learned
colleague's determination of insanity is based upon a philosophy that is
alien, and thus not recognized in this---a Colonial---court.  We are not
here to determine whether Arc is morally responsible but actually
responsible.  Whatever the philosophy of her people, the evidence points
unavoidably to the premeditated nature of her crime.  Arc needed to
replace her Song of Being.  To do this she needed to terminate Tegates. 
And only Tegates.  It has been shown that Arc has previously been
responsible for more than forty other terminations.  The premeditated
nature of this case is clear.  It is this opposer's contention that Arc
fully intended to terminate Tegates for personal gain; indeed that she
carefully planned the termination and carried it out without thought of
mercy.  As such we must demand the most severe punishment the law can
provide.  Your Honor, the crime is termination.  The punishment must be
death."
     The opposer sat.
     "If both parties rest then I declare a recess for one centon, at
which time court will reconvene and sentence will be passed."
     The gavel crashed against the block.
     Tenelle saw Arc jerk against her restraints at the sound of the
gavel, felt the sound as if it were a blow to her own face, was assailed
by a sudden, complete identification with the Tuchanq female, an empathy
so strong it made her dizzy.  And suddenly Tenelle saw the truth: that it
didn't matter if Arc was guilty of termination.  It didn't matter what
she had been like before.  Only what she was like now. And Tenelle had a
sudden awareness that Arc was no more capable of committing violence
than---well, than Tenelle's own children.
     Whatever her crime might have been, she had already been punished
enough.
     The centon passed slowly for Tenelle as it passed for the others in
the public gallery.  Her back and legs were now in some pain.  The press
of bodies in the gallery was becoming claustrophobic.  Once again she
found herself questioning her motivation in attending the trial.
     She was still searching for an answer when court was reconvened, a
centon later.
     The cameras swung to cover Troy as he stood to announce the verdict.
     "Arc of the Tuchanq, I find you guilty on the counts of damage to
Colonial property and injury to Galactica personnel.  On the count of
termination, I also find you guilty."
     There was a moment of shocked silence in which the only sound was
the whirring of cameras.  Tenelle felt the mood of the crowd begin to
change.  Shock to outrage to anger.  Then a man in the middle front row
of the public gallery stood and yelled. "It's a travesty!  A damn
travesty of justice, that's what it is!"
     A moment of shocked silence and then pandemonium erupted in the
courtroom.
     A burst of sound erupted from the gallery: outrage, dismay, anger,
the voice of the people crying out at this perceived injustice.
     Troy was banging his gavel and calling for order.
     The cameras whirred, swung from side to side, their operators
eagerly jostling for the best angles.  
     Someone jumped over the barrier dividing the gallery from the
courtroom.  Cameras swung over to cover the movement.  The man was waving
something, yelling.
     "This is a petition!  This is a---let me speak!  This is a petition
signed by---"
     Warriors grabbed the man and tried to hustle him away.  Immediately
a dozen more people leapt the barrier into the courtroom.  A fight
started.  And now the public gallery was emptying like a toppled jug into
the court.  More than a hundred furious onlookers, outraged and terrified
and offended, screaming for justice, not termination.
     The warriors went down under the sheer weight of numbers.
     Troy banged his gavel.
     Cameras whirred.
     Tenelle was swept forward, felt herself topple over the barrier,
landed on a news cameraman and tumbled to the floor in a tangle of arms
and legs.
     Dimly she was aware of the thud of shocksticks, the cries of those
stunned or trodden on.
     Then a heartrending screech that cut through the general melee.
     Arc.
     The sound brought a lull in the pandemonium.
     Panting breaths and moans of pain, groans from those shocked into
unconsciousness.  Shuffling as they were dragged away.
     And a voice spoke out firmly.  "This is a petition signed by more
than a thousand people, including the wife of the termination victim,
Tenelle, demanding the release of the prisoner.  This verdict would not
have been brought against a Colonial!  Protect innocence!  Free Arc!"
     A cry of approval from the crowd.  The cameras whirred, panning to
capture the moment of appeal.
     It was all for nothing.
     Troy was on his feet, gavel crashing loudly.  His voice rang out
into the courtroom.  "Order in court!  I will have order in this court!'
     His voice held the crowd, not because of his authority over
them---it was very clear to Tenelle that as far as these people were
concerned he had none---but because his was the voice that would pass
sentence.  
     Silence grew then.  Gradually a calm settled over the restless
court.
     The cameras whirred.
     Troy waited until he had the attention of everyone present, then
spoke.
     "Arce of the Tuchanq.  You have been found guilty of the crime of
murder.  It is my duty to pass upon you the only sentence the law can
pass for such a crime.  You will be taken immediately from this place via
a public route to a place of execution where you will suffer death by
decompression.  And may whatever gods you believe in have mercy upon your
soul.  Take her down."
     If Tenelle had thought that previous outcry was pandemonium, it was
nothing compared to the shout that went up as the sentence was announced. 
The cry held more emotion than she had ever heard.  Terror, rage,
incomprehension, a primal scream of outrage and denial echoed by the
Tuchanq delegation and by Arc herself as she was dragged from the court.
     Then, like the eye of a hurricane, a moment of utter calm among the
barrage of voices---and Tenelle realized there was a camera pointed
directly at her face.  Close by a businesslike voice was saying, "---for
the IFB News in the courtroom with Tenelle, wife of the murdered
scientist Tegates.  Tenelle, is it true that you signed the petition
demanding the release of your husband's killer?"
     Tenelle bit her lip. "Yes.  It is true."
     "And how do you feel now that she has been condemned to death?  Are
you please?  Has your husband's death been avenged?  Has justice been
served?"
     Silence.
     No one spoke.
     No one moved.
     The cameras whirred.
     "Tenelle, can you answer the question?  Has justice been served here
today?"
     And suddenly she knew why she had come here, to the tribunal.  She
had not come to witness the judgment of a killer but to celebrate her own
freedom as a person, as a woman.  Freedom from her husband.
     Freedom Arc had made possible.
     Summoning a strength she was little aware that she possessed,
Tenelle loked directly into the cameras and through them to the Fleet. 
"Even if she is guilty of a crime, Arc has already been punished enough. 
However long it may be, the rest of her life will be determined by the
injury she sustained through her attack on my husband."  She paused. 
Silence.  They were hanging on her every word.  "The decision to execute
her is a moral travesty of justice.  The  petition should be presented to
the Council immediately and a request made for mercy in this case." 
Something leapt in her heart then, just opened like a flower and leapt
into space, as if the words had been an anchor and saying them aloud had
been the trigger to release herself from their grasp.  "The law is
supposed to protect the innocent."  She stared across the crowd, to Troy,
the warriors and security personnel, Indara, hanging on her every word,
and then looked back to the camera.  "Protect innocence." The words
became a chant.  "Protect innocence!  Free Arc!"
     The chant was taken up by the remnants of the people around her,
quickly became a collective shout.
     "Protect innocence!  Free Arc!"
     Tenelle stumbled then, her strength failing.  Her back and legs
ached, and she struggled to draw breath.  She had to get out of here. 
Now.  Get out and sit down before she fell down.
     The cameras panned to take in the chanting people, the wrecked
courtroom, and Tenelle backed away into the crowd.

*****

CHAPTER 10

     As Franklin watched, Arc was brought into the Life Station in
restraints.  Surrounding the alien were a group of warriors, Kanon at
their head.  About a dozen or so reporters and camera operators from the
IFB accompanied the group, shooting vid footage and rattling off a
barrage of questions to anyone who came within earshot.  More guards kept
the crowd of prolife protestors that had formed outside from pushing
their way into the Life Station.
     Arc was awake, held upright by the warriors.  Franklin could see she
was trying to get down onto all fours, perhaps because that configuration
of her body was more comfortable---or comforting.  Her spines rippled
around her head; darting, agitated, frightened movements that mirrored
her own very obvious emotional state.
     Franklin told the warriors to take Arc to the iso-lab.  The alien
was placed whining onto a medical gurney and wheeled away, followed by
the camera-happy news crews and a new contingent of medical staff.  As
the group vanished into the heart of the Life Station, Franklin felt his
heart catch.  Arc's whine was that of a battered animal, uncomprehending,
afraid, in pain.
     He turned as Troy pushed through the crowd and entered the Life
Station.  Troy said nothing as he made his way over to Franklin.  For his
own part, Franklin thought silence a good idea.  Right now he was very
much afraid that if he spoke at all, he would merely tell roy exactly
what he thought of the whole outrageous situation.  He knew why the
warriors had brought Arc here.
     Followed by the press, they headed through the sickbay toward the
iso-lab.  They passed by the room where Mollary lay, pale, drawn, one
step away from death.  Troy nodded toward the dying buritician.  "No
donors yet?"
     Franklin just kept walking.  "What do you think?"
     Arriving in the iso-lab, Franklin confronted Troy.  "You'd better be
here to tell me you want to try to alleviate Arc's suffering.  Putting
her on trial like that was outrageous."
     Troy wasted no time on niceties.  "Doctor, I'm sorry that the
situation has come to this.  We all know what we think of the situation. 
But the law is the law and must be upheld."
     "At any price?"
     Troy sighed. 'I don't have the luxury of being able to argue the
case any longer.  The sentence was quite specific.  Unless it is
overturned by the Council after they have considered the petition, Arc is
to be executed two centons from now by decompression.  In light of her
debilitated state and her potential violence I ask that she be sedated
from now until the moment of execution."
     Franklin felt a surge of anger rise up to choke him.  "What you're
doing is immoral.  A political expediency.  You're a puppet for the very
government you're invest---"     
     Troy glared at Franklin.  So did the cameras.  Franklin shut up
then.  It was useless.  He had lost.  So had the Tuchanq.  So had Arc.
     So had Troy for that matter.  But that wasn't something that could
be paraded before the press.
     Franklin was aware that reporters were directing questions at him. 
He ignored them for as long as he could.  Finally he shook his head. 
"Kanon.  I want them out.  All of them.  Now.  This is a hospital, not a
circus."
     Kanon looked at Troy, who shook his head slightly.  "I had granted
members of the press full acces to all aspects of the
execution---including the sedation."
     "Is that so?" Franklin's voice was cold as a Boshian ice crystal. 
"Welll, let me tell you something.  The day you qualify for a medical
residency is the day you can give orders about what does or doesn't
happen in my damn Life Station."
     There was a moment of silence in which the only sound was a faint
whine as Arc picked up on the emotions running high in the room.  She
began to shake, first trembling, then jerking hard against her
restraints.  Convulsions.  She could be having a heart attack, a stroke,
anything.  And they wanted to kill her!
     The cameras swung to cover the new movement.  Questions still
rattled around the iso-lab, a distant background mush of noise swamped by
Franklin's anger---his rage.
     A nurse brought him a sterile tray on which lay a loaded syringe. 
His anger and amazement increased again.  "Who orderd this?"
     The nurse looked away.
     "Nurse." Franklin's voice was like ice.  "I said who ordered this
hypo prepared?"
     The nurse shivered.  "Commander Troy asked me to---"
     "That's enough!  You're on report!  Commander Troy; his is my
facility.  You want something done, you go through me.  Is that clear?"
     Kanon touched Franklin on the shoulder, seemed about to offer
support or advice.  Franklin shook off the hand.
     Troy said, in a dangerously quiet voice, "Whether you like it or
not, Doctor, the sentence of the tribunal will be carried out."
     Franklin grabbed the hypo and thrust it into Troy's hands.  "Fine! 
Do it yourself!"
     The cameras swung again.  Troy.  Franklin.  Back to Troy.  He held
up the hypo and stared at the liquid sloshing inside it.
     The questions ceased.
     After a moment Troy moved forward toward Arc.  Her spines angled
toward his and she began to tremble.  Her whine rose to a series of
meaningless barks.
     The warriors took hold of Arc, held her tightly so she couldn't
move.
     Troy placed the hypo against Arc's neck.
     The camera's swung, focused, whirred.
     With a cry of disgust, Franklin grabbed the hypo and pushed Troy
aside.  "Give me that."  His voice was heavy with bitterness.  "You'll
inject into a muscle or put air in a vain.  You wouldn't want Arc to die
of an embolism before sentence was carried out, would you?"
     Troy allowed himself to be pushed aside.
     Franklin administered the injection, placed the hypo on a nearby
tray.  He stared at Troy, and said as sarcastically as he could manage. 
"If there's anything else I can help you with I'll be in my office."
     Franklin turned to leave the iso-lab but Troy stopped him with a
gesture.  "Thank you."  His voice was an apologetic whisper.
     Franklin uttered a short, humorless laugh.  "Give my regards to your
friend the President."
     As Franklin left the iso-lab he was shaking with anger, his teeth
grinding painfully.  His vision was blurred and grainy.  He needed sleep
badly. Very badly.
     Instead he slapped on another stim, tried to get himself ready for
what was undoubtedly to be one of the worst days of his career.

*****

CHAPTER 11

     Kanon oversaw moving Arc into the corridor outside the Life Station,
then dropped back, allowing Lt. Thax to take over crowd control.  He
lounged against the wall, waited for the group to move away toward Theta
Section Plaza.  The crowd moved fast, following Arc, chanting, singing,
in some cases, screaming.
     Kanon watched the group until it vanished.  Only then did he relax. 
But not for long.  There was something else he had to do.  Something
vitally important.
     He activated his comm..  "Bridge, Kanon.  Can you give me a position
on Tenelle?"
     The answer came back in a moment.  Tenelle was recently booking
cargo space for her husband's cryotube in the shuttle Kanaris due to
depart for the Syria in less than six centons.  Kanon thanked the bridge
and signed off.
     He turned, began to walk back to the Life Station.  As he walked, he
couldn't help thinking of Mollary, strapped in a cryo-unit in intensive
care, dying by inches.  How long before his brain shut down or his heart
gave out?  How long before the person Mollary had seen happy as a
space-rat and high as a comsat became a two-metron chunk of meat, cooling
slowly in the morgue?
     Kanon didn't bother with the obvious questions.  Who had attacked
Mollary and why?  They would be answered eventually.  For the moment he
could do nothing about them.
     Anyway, he had something more important to do.
     He reached the Life Station, entered, moved slowly through the
hospital complex, halted the first familiar face he saw.  "Dr. Tomas. 
Could you help me, I'm looking for..."
     He stopped.  Out of the corner of his eye: a movement.  Slow,
relaxed.  Someone walking casually out of the corridor which led to
intensive care.  A movement as out of place in Life Station as a daggit
in a spacesuit.  He turned.
     It was Morden.
     The man saw Kanon, smiled, walked on, lost himself in the bustle of
the Life Station.
     Kanon felt something cold grab the inside of his head and squeeze.
     Mollary.
     At that moment a life-support sign flashed red above the entrance to
IC.
     Mollary.
     He ran for the ward, Tomas trailing him.  He ran fast, dodging
med-techs, nurses, paitents, slapped a hand over the corridor access,
waited impatiently as the hatch cycled, ran through, room after room,
locked or empty, until there was one left to check and that was Mollary's
and he was sure that---
     Morden had come from Mollary's room.
     Kanon pushed open the door to Mollary's room and dashed inside. 
Tomas followed quickly, took one look around, stuck her head back out
into the corridor and bellowed, "Charge Nurse!  I need some help in
here!"
     Kanon found himself staring in amazement.
     Sire Mollary was sitting up inside the deactivated cryotube, rubbing
his eyes tiredly.  He looked weak, shaken, but very much alive.  Mollary
stared at him with rheumy, bloodshot eyes.  "Captain Kanon, must you
shout so loudly?  I am a sick man, you know."  As Kanon wwatched, Mollary
seemed to become fixated on the flat line of a now-deactivated brain
activity monitor.  "Apparently, I'm a terminally sick man."
     Medical staff came in then, stood stock-still in befuddled
amazement, staring at their patient, one which until two mili-centons ago
had been dying without hope of reprieve.
     Mollary returned their looks with a kind of hung-over dignity, said
in a cracked and tired voice, "If, as these instruments suggest, I am
dead, there will be no harm in my having an ambrosa, will there?"
     Mollary's feeble grin reminded Kanon of Morden's smile as he had
left the isolation ward.  He shivered, suddenly cold beyond the residual
chill caused by the cryotube.
     "What's going on here? Who brought this unit in here?" Kanon turned
at the sound of Tomas's voice.  The doctor was standing at a trolley
tucked away in the corner of the room.  A trolley containing a familiar
swirl of alien technology.  A machine that had saved Kanon's own life
less than a yahren before.
     The life giver.
     Tomas turned to face the medical staff surrounding and checking
Mollary.  "This is supposed to be kept in the research lab. Who brought
it here?  Who authorized its use?"
     There was no answer from the medical staff.  Just a kind of muddled
silence.
     Kanon wasn't muddled.  He didn't need an answer.  He knew who had
brought the machine here, who had used it to save Mollary.
     Morden.
     Except that it was impossible, of course.  Because, as Franklin had
said, it would have taken life energy from a dozen people to save the
dying Tauron.
     Kanon shook his head slowly.  Either the best medical practitioner
in the universe was stone-cold wrong or---
     Morden had saved Mollary on his own.
     And walked away smiling afterward.
     The medical staff resumed work on Mollary.  They seemed, quite
naturally, obsessed with the question: How had he been saved?
     More important to Kanon was the question: why?
     Kanon left the intensive care unit then, turned quietly and slipped
away unnoticed by anyone.  That was good. He still had work to do.  Work
which, although distasteful and somewhat immoral in its own right, was
not half as frightening as the impossible resurrection he had apparently
just witnessed.

*****

CHAPTER 12

     Kar entered his quarters.  The dim red light, the steamy air, the
heat: a tiny piece of his home ship. Maybe the only piece of his home
ship he would ever see again.
     His mind firm, Kar moved into the altar room, lit the candles, began
to burn the ritual incense.
     Shadows were coming fast now, he could feel thelm.  Perhaps just
moments away.  
     He unwrapped the dagger, laid it on the altar.  It was covered in
Sire Mollary's blood. He scraped drops of the blood into the incense
burner.  His fate and Mollary's.  Joined forever.
     He opened the Tome of Quan, read from the appropriate passage; the
rituals brought him no comfort.  He made them for the sake of form.
     Kar opened his ceremonial robe, peeled the bandages painfully from
his chest to reveal the healing wound there.
     Placed the point of the dagger directly over his heart.
     Father, forgive me for running from my responsibilities.
     He gripped the dagger tightly.
     Breathed the incense, felt it spark inside his head.
     Father, forgive me for running from the future.
     Kar felt the point of the dagger against his skin, focused on the
pain, focused, breathed the incense.
     Blood.  Bruises.  Contusions.  Bitten lips.  Staring eyes.  Burst
capillaries.  Limbs contorted with metal restraints.  Ruffs of blood at
wrists and ankles, mouth and ears.
     Kar's father slumped in death.
     The past.
     Blood.  Bruises.  Staring eyes.  The insane laughter of Sire
Mollary. Laughter and screaming shadows beckoning him to a terrible
destiny.
     The future.
     Unable to bear the approaching darkness any longer, Kar uttered an
earsplitting howl and pushed the dagger harder against his chest.  He
felt the point pierce his skin, trickle from the blade, begin the long,
slow fall to the distant floor.
     The ritual incense was running his vains, coursing through his mind
like a milky fire.  He felt connected to the past, the future, saw
himself as one link in the chain of history leading from his distant
ancestors to his own children.
     No.  He had no children.  Would have no children.  There was no
future and without a future the past had no meaning.  He had no meaning.
     Unless he remained alive to create the future he wanted.
     The future his father, his family, would have wanted.  That his
children would have wanted.
     The future that Mollary would not want.
     The drop of blood reached the floor, splashed in a silent concussion
of sound.
     Kar lowered the dagger from his chest.
     He knew the truth then.
     He was simply too afraid of the future to die.
     Kar let out another moan then.  He sagged to the floor, breathing
deeply.  After a while he rebandaged his chest.  Then he stood, dressed
in his finest robes of office.  He sheathed and buckled on his ritual
dagger.
     He left his quarters.  The time for fear was over.  Now it was time
for courage.  Kar felt his back straighten and his weariness tumble away
as he strode from his quarters.
     I go to shape the future.

*****

CHAPTER 13
     
     He was gone.  Tegates was gone.  This was ridiculous.  No. It was
outrageous, one more indignity to add to the insults she had already been
subjected to.
     Tenelle left the chapel, reentered Life Station and grabbed hold of
the most important-looking person she could see, a Charge Nurse waring a
name tag that read Dratha.  "I want my husband. I have waited to take him
home.  Not through choice, mind you, but I have waited nonetheless.  Now
the tribunal is over and passage is booked and what do I find?  Tegates
is gone.  Missing.  Not in the chapel, not in the Life Station.  So where
is he?  Answer me that!"  She attempted to shake Dratha for emphasis.
     Dratha broke free easily.  "Tenelle, I don't know where your
husband's body is. It might be---being packed for shipping.
     "And how do I find out?" Her voice was cold and angry.
     "I'm afraid you'll have to ask at the admin desk."
     "I've been there.  They don't know."
     "Then perhaps Dr. Franklin could---"     
     She scowled.  "Oh yes.  Of course.  Dr. Franklin.  I've only been
trying to find him for a centon.  Perhaps you know where he is?"
     The nurse sighed. "As far as I know he's with Commander Troy.  You
know---the procession."
     "The execution procession?"
     "That's right."
     "Well, where are they?"
     "The starboard landing bay."
     She found the procession in the landing bay by the simple expedient
of following the crowd.
     In truth Tenelle knew where Arc was long before she saw the first
protestor, before she even left the turbolift terminal and walked into
the landing bay proper.  It was the noise.  It was incredible.  It filled
the bay.  It made her dizzy.
     It was the voices of more than ten thousand people raised in
protest, in anger, in outrage, in despair.  It was a shout.  An unending
roar.  It seemed to go on and on until her head swam with it.  It
battered at her, crashed around her as if she were huddled inside a lone
lifepod about to be ejected from the Syria.
     She moved out into the bay.
     The noise swelled, broke over her like a wave.
     She squinted in the harsh light.
     Multitudes and multitudes of people lined the tarmac.  Some were
sitting, some were standing, some running, some fighting.  Warrior
patrols coped gamely with the scattered violence.
     There were placard wavers and passive protestors.  There were
prolifers and Star Chamber.  There were reporters waving cameras and
audio recorders at anyone and anything that moved.  It was more peple
than she had ever seen in one place in her entire life.  Somewhere in the
middle of it all was the man who could tell her where her husband's body
was.
     There was no way she was going to find him.
     She turned to leave, found herself facing a vid camera.  Turned away
to find herself in the middle of a screamed argument between a Star
Chamber vigilante and a prolifer.  Turned back to find the reporter
coming at her with a determined expression and a hand-held microphone.
     The crowd was everywhere.
     There was nowhere to go.
     The turbolift was fifty metrons away; it might as well have been in
a different star system.
     The fight grew suddenly violent.  Screams were lost in the roar of
the crowd.  Someone produced a knife.  There was blood.  Someone fell. 
Someone trod on them.  A crack of broken bone.  More blood.  Lots more
blood.  It was madness.  She had to get out, get out now before---
     Someon banged her on the shoulder, knocked her sprawling into the
mess of people.  Her throat ached and she realized she was screaming. 
She couldn't hear herself above the crowd.  She was hit on the head. 
Felt more punches.  Blacked out for a moment.  Realized she was no longer
in the crowd.  A female Colonial Warrior left her standing next to a
boraton storage tank and ran off without a word, shockstick drawn.
     Tenelle tried to catch her breath.  She had to get out.  Get to her
room.  Get out of the crowd.  She'd worry about Tegates later.  She could
book passage on another---
     As suddenly as that the voice of the crowd was stilled.
     A concussive silence filled her ears.
     She stopped trying to get to her feet, instead let herself fall back
to the floor.  It was solid.  Nobody was going to yank that out from
underneath her.  She hugged the boraton tank, holding onto it for dear
life.  People shuffled around her.  Miraculously, she wasn't trampled on.
     Then more warriors came through the crowd, pushing people back.  She
felt herself lifted and pressed back into a wall of bodies.  Her head
spinning, she tried to draw breath; thick cloying air caught in her
throat.
     Hot bodies pressed against her.
     But quiet.  So quiet.  She could hear the crowd brethe.  A
convulsive gulp of air, held, released with a collective sigh.
     A sigh that formed a word.  A name.
     Arc.
     And then into the hush came the clanking and clattering of
caterpillar treads.  A flatbed loader.
     Arc.
     She was here, right here, she was---
     And the loader rumbled past, slow and near enough for Tenelle to
reach out and touch it, close enough to smell the oil lubricating the
treads and hear the rough scrape of badly maintained gears.
     Arc was on the loader, shackled to an upright metal pole.  The
Tuchanq was on all fours, head down and whimpering.  A contingent of
warriors marched in close order around the loader.  Troy, Franklin,
Dillon, and the other members of the Tuchanq delegation stood on a
platform at the rear of the loader.  Reporters swarmed beside the loader. 
Cameras whirred, recorders hummed.  Reporters screamed questions into the
fragile silence.
     Someone screamed out, "Protect innocence!  Free Arc!"
     A harsh voice responded, "Burn, alien, burn!"
     The sound of a punch was followed quickly by the explosive discharge
of a laser gun and a scream.
     Arc threw back her head and howled, a heartrending scream that
scraped at Tenelle's nerve endings, ripped into her mind, for a split
second turned her inside out---and suddenly it was her being pelted with
stale food, nuts, bolts and questions, it was her being taken away to
die, it was her it was all happening to her and
     the Tuchanq began to sing; their voices raised in a heartbreaking
lament and
     Arc howled, wrenched pitifully at her shackles and
     the crowd roared again and she couldn't tell if it was outrage or
approval and the sound smashed into her, pushed her back and hands
grabbed her and pulled her and she was being crushed, mashed into a press
of hot bodies, sweating bodies, howling, screaming, kicking bodies, and
there were fists and screaming faces and staring eyes
     and blood
     and pain
     and fear
     and a joy more terrible than the fear
     and there was no air
     and she couldn't breathe
     and there was a camera in her face and a microphone, and someone's
elbow in her chest and someone else's foot crashing against her shin and
it hurt, it hurt so much, and she couldn't stand up, in fact she was
beginning to think it would be a lot simpler just to lie down, just to
lie down and let it all wash over her, yes, just wash over her like
water, like a river or lake to soothe away the pain, like the oceans she
had never seen, just wash over her and carry her away to a distant,
pain-free, quiet shore where there were no questions
     or cameras
     or punches
     or blood
     or Tegates because they'd taken him away and she couldn't find him
because someone had moved his body and what was she going to tell the
children and why wasn't Tegates here and where was he and where's my
husband what have you done with him why can't I take him home now you
promised me I could take him home!
     Tenelle realized she was screaming the words aloud when a news
camera swung to point at her.
     Among ten thousand people it was the only thing to note her words.

*****

CHAPTER 14

     Indara ducked to avoid a moon rock, swung her minicam to catch the
spray of blood as the makeshift weapon cut into Arc's flank.  The Tuchanq
let out an earsplitting howl of pain, which rose to join the angry voice
of the crowd.
     The parade seemed to have been going on for centons---she made a
quick check of the time and was surprised to find it had actually been
less than thirty mili-centons since Troy had invited her onto the loader
platform to record the procession.
     Indara felt the flatbed rock beneath her as Dr. Franklin moved
forward to treat Arc's latest wound.
     Keying the near-field mike, Indara asked, "Dr. Franklin, I thought
Arc was supposed to be sedated.  Can you comment on the---humanity of
this barbaric ritual?"
     Franklin didn't even turn his head away from his work.  "Can you
comment on the humanity of recording this 'barbaric ritual'?"
     Smartass.  She was just doing her damn job.  The people had a right
to know what was happening here.  The loader lurched again.  The sound of
the crowd was at a cataclysmic roar.  There were gunshots.  Screams. 
Fights were breaking out all over the landing bay.  The violence was
escalating.  Someone had started a small fire.  Smoke billowed and flames
licked hungrily at the air; if the fire crews couldn't get through the
crowd to extinguish the flames they were looking at serious potential
damage and a definite strain on the Galactica's life-support systems.
     Indara turned, determined to corner Troy.  He was the voice of the
Council of Twelve here.  His words were of paramount importance to the
people, to the future.
     "Commander Troy, could you comment on your choice of such a barbaric
ritual to precede what can only be described as the most horrific form of
execution that can be administered in this day and age?"
     Troy turned away.  Indara caught a micron or two of Dillon's intense
expression, zoomed in for a full close-up when it looked as if he might
have something to say, then panned back to Troy when it became clear the
colonel didn't.
     "Commander Troy, will you please answer the question?"
     He swung to face her then, rage suffusing his face, but Dillon
stepped forward before he could say anything.  "During the past yahren
we've seen violent crime on the upswing throughout most of the ships in
the Feet.  Maybe if there was some kind of ultimate punishment, a
deterrent, then life-threatening violence like that wouldn't happen." 
For a moment Dillon looked as if he was going to say more---then stepped
back instead, allowing Indara to refocus on Troy.
     "Commander Troy, you've heard in the words of your own first officer
how important it is to try to reduce violence in our Fleet.  A view that
I'm sure you would not disagree with?"
     "Well, no, of course not, but---"
     "Could you then explain why such a huge gathering of people has been
allowed here today?  Tell me, Commander, aren't the public in danger from
themselves here?  Why not use anesthetic gase to disperse or subdue the
crowd?"
     Troy scowled. "Morph gas only works on certain human or humanoid
metabolisms. If we gas the crowd, only about half the people would be
rendered unconscioius---and given the state of the violence here, I
wouldn't rate their chances very high among those left awake."  Troy
anticipated her next question by adding, "Any gas capable of
anesthetizing the remaining rioters would kill those already unconscious. 
If we used gas, we'd just increase the casualty rate."
     Indara wasn't about to let Troy go that easily.  "You haven't said
why you allowed the crowd to gather in the first place."
     She could see Troy struggling to control his anger.  "A quarter of a
million civilians have converged on the Galactica and I only have seven
thousand warriors.  It's a simple equation.  You work it out."
     Indara ignored the anger in Troy's voice.  There were a multitude of
questions the people needed answers to.  She widened the angle to a
2-shot of herself and Arc, and restablished her line of commentary.  "The
abuse, the thrown food and rocks, the humiliation, the pain and terror of
the condemned.  It all adds up to one thing, ladies and gentlemen.
Spectacle.  That is the order of this day.  And it seems the spectacle of
Arc's execution is more important than the morality of her sentence, to
the Council of Twelve, at least."
     Indara ducked again to avoid another thrown missile, tilted the
minicam back up and tightened the shot to an ECU of Arc.
     "I think I can safely say that the people here today want what is
right and just, not what is merely the law.  The feeling here must be
that the judicial sytem itself is now on trial.  And it will be guilty
indeed if it does not grant a reprieve before the execution time set for
just over a centon from now."
     
*****

CHAPTER 15

     Kar moved through the crowd, eventually drew near the rumbling
procession.  He faced the Tuchanq delegation, ensconced upon the rear of
the loader, saw in them his future, in them, and in the pitiful figure of
Arc chained to the front of the loader.
     Defying the Colonial Warriors to stop him, Kar moved around the
procession, through the crowd, and planted himself directly in the path
of the slowly moving loader.
     It was time.
     He placed his hand on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger.
     It was time to shape the future.
     The loader rumbled to a halt.  Warriors converged on him from all
sides.  He stood firm, hand on dagger.  Let them come.  The first moment
of his destiny was upon him and no one could argue with that.
     And they didn't.  Something in his eyes, or his stance, held them at
bay.  Just for a moment.  That was all---but it was all he needed.  
     Just a single moment.
     He raised his voice in a cry and such was the force of it that it
cut through the clamor of the crowd.
     "Vi-El! I am Kar!  Conqueror of Mars!  Destroyer of the Land and the
People and the Songs!"
     Vi-El came forward, edged past Arc until she was standing in front
of the loader.
     Cameras tracked her every movement.  Others swung to cover Kar's.
     Kar pulled out his dagger.
     He raised it in salute.
     "I have come to ask forgiveness and make amends for my crime!"
     He fell to his knees.  Placed the dagger on the ground, hilt toward
Vi-El.  He hoped the implication would be clear enough.
     It was.
     She leapt to the ground, swung toward him, took the dagger  from the
ground, and in a micron held it at his throat.
     The crowd swung around them, still agitated, becoming more violent
with each passing moment.  Someone began to climb onto the loader,
screaming obscenities and waving a Star Chamber banner.  A warrior
stunned him.  Someone through a moon rock at the warrior.  It bounced off
her safety helmet, rocking her momentarily.
     Kar felt the dagger against his neck, felt the moment lengthen
toward the future, stretching out and beckoning it to come here, to now,
to this moment.
     And it came.
     Vi-El lowered the dagger.
     When she spoke, she looked not at Kar but at Troy, staring
helplessly from the loader.  "On behalf of my people, I accept your
apology, Kar. I forgive your crime.  You are released from all
obligation.  Your Songs may continue."
     Kar stood.  For the first time in many sectars, he felt the edges of
a smile touch his lips.
     Too soon.
     "Arc is an animal!  Let the animal die!  We know that she killed
forty of us!  Forty Nomen!
     Kar swung, voice raised in hopless protest.
     Too late.
     "They killed Rod!  They killed my brother in the Admissions terminal
and they hadn't even been here for a centon!"
     So the deaths began.  As they had always begun: with revenge.
     He saw Nomen in the crowd edging forward.  Hundreds of them.  Now
they attacked, pushing through the warriors and clambering onto the
loader.  Their target was the Tuchanq delegation.
     Vi-El turned to face him, and he felt the accusation coming from her
in hot waves.  That and betrayal.
     No!  I didn't want this!
     Vi-El handed Kar his dagger.  He took it numbly and turned to face
the crowd.  The violence, the hatred.  
     The future he had been unable to shape.

*****

CHAPTER 16

     Indara had never seen anything like this.  Oh, she'd seen riots
before, on the Rising Star, on the Delphi.  She'd seen bombings and 
dogfights between Cylon Raiders and Colonial Vipers.
     None of that compared to the sheer hysterical, gut-wrenching frenzy
that was happening here.  It was almost religious in the ferocity.
     The Nomen were attacking the Tuchanq.  The Tuchanq were fighting
back.
     The Taurons were attacking the Nomen, attempting to defend the
Tuchanq.
     And then another Tauron staggered in front of the loader, carrying a
limp bundle.  He laid the bundle down directly in the loaders path, and
she could see it was a body.  The Tauron's voice rose above the crowd. 
"Here is our brother!  Our brother Sire Aschar!  Killed by a Nomen
dagger!  Murdered by a vicious coward!  I say, kill the Nomen! For the
honor of our fallen Colonies!"
     And the violence stepped up another notch from the merely impossible
to the almost inconcievalbe.  Now Nomen and Colonist fought viciously as
the crowd surged against the loader, broke around it like a great sea of
hatred.
     Human against human, human against alien, Star Chamber against
prolifer, friend against friend---and all of them against the Colonial
Warriors.
     Indara swung her minicam almost randomly across the crowd.  Anywhere
it stopped there was an example of insane violence.
     She panned to a gang of humans screaming obscenities and smashing
clenched fists into a group of aliens.
     Zoomed in on a three-eyed Shizachag kicking a fallen Colonist.
     Refocused on a human ripping off a Colonial Warrior's helmet and
battering her face repeatedly with a hammer.
     Tilted as thrown projectiles smashed into the loader, tilted again
as she was hit, lost her balance, toppled off the loader and into the
crowd, struck out with the camera, saw a human fall and be trampled
underfoot, turned again and saw the IFB cameraman being beaten to death
with his own minicam, turned again and saw a warrior shooting a Gemonese 
in the face, saw the warrior buried under a swarm of bodies, not all of
them human, turned again and saw a Nomen in ambassadorial robes being
carried off by med-techs, turned again and saw Nomen killing Tuchanq,
killing Nomen, killing Taurons, killing Capricans, killing Leos, killing
Virgons, killing Sagittarans, killing Gemonese, killing Aeirans, killing
Aquarians, killing Picons, killing Scorpians, killing Librans, killing
Cancerans, killing themselves in a blood-drenched fury of
self-destruction.  And at the center of it all the shackled figure of
Arc, head jerked back, howling like a terrified child as brawlers
clambered onto the loader, all thought of action for or against Arc lost
now in their fight to gain a meter of space in which to try to save their
own lives.
     Only when Troy gave the order and the first gas shells began to
explode over the crowd did the violence show sings of abating.  The
Colonials succumbed within mili-centons.  The Nomen rioters staggered. 
Some fell.  Others, not affected so badly, continued to fight with even
slower and clumsier movements.
     Indara grabbed a breather mask from a supply that Franklin had ready
for the Tuchanq to use and pulled it over her face.  She aimed the
minicam out over the crowd.
     "Ten metrons away, I can see warriors dragging the dead Tauron to
one side.  Now the procession can move again, forging a path through the
slowly ebbing violence toward a more sanitized, ritualistic violence. 
The death of Arc herself."
     It was time for the execution.

*****

CHAPTER 17

     A short while later Troy faced the huge, gaping maw of the landing
bay, separated from the vacuum of space only by a thin forcefield
membrang, wondering if he was about to become a murderer.  In the eyes of
those left injured or dying on the landing bay tarmac, he had little
doubt what the judgement would be.
     With Troy was a small group of people consisting of Delenn, Dillon,
Franklin, and Vi-El.  Various members of the press were also present with
minicams and sound recorders.
     And there was Arc, of course, still shackled to the loader.  
     The Tuchanq seemed drowsy as Franklin's medication ran its course
through her system.  She was curled around the upright pole to which she
was shackled, whining gently and snuffling to herself.  Unable to avoid
thrown objects, she had suffered many wounds in the riot, none of them
life threatening, thankfully.  Franklin was still tending her wounds.  To
Troy she was a wretched figure who deserved nothing but pity, not the
excruciating death which it was his duty to administer.
     At the moment Indara and the other members of the press were
directing their cameras at the maw of the landing bay entrance, at the
turbo-sled, which had been placed there to shoot Arc into space.
     Indara said, "You've seen the trial, you've witnessed the appalling
violence that was the inevitable consequence of the verdict.  Now---the
simple rocket-propelled chair that will send Arc of the Tuchanq to her
death.  In just a moment, we will see the defendant strapped into it." 
She turned, brought the mincam out and aimed it at Troy.  "But first,
let's meet the Executioner.  Galactica Commander Troy.  Commander Troy,
any final words before sentence---a sentence you determined---is carried
out?"
     Troy shook his head, "No."  He hesitated. "Actually, yes."  He
paused again and then continued.  "Death---this kind of death---it's an
unreal thing.  Oh, casualties of war and disease are one thing,
certainly, but this---this is different.  You have to convince yourself
it's really happening.  That you're going to strap someone into that sled
and send them---to die."  Another pause.  Indara waited paitently, camera
whirring.  Behind them, Arc snuffed uneasily as two warriors unshackled
her and took her to the turbo-sled.  "I think---no.  That's it.  That's
all I really want to-" He shook his head.  "That's all."
     Indara swung her minicam to catch the last straps being fastened
around Arc.  A hood was present, fixed loosely to the sled.  It wouldn't
fit the Tuchanq because of her ruff of spines. 
     The fixings secure, Troy ordered the area cleared.
     The tubos on the rear of the sled fired up, filling the bay with a
thunderous roar.
     Troy realized that a circle of empty space had appeared as if by
magic around the remote control console for the sled.  Even Indara seemed
unwilling or unable to go near it.
     Her voice was a whisper as he stepped forward.  "Commander Troy is
now preparing to launch the turbo-sled.  But first he has requested a
moment's silence in respect of the being who will die here today."
     Troy opened his eyes.  He began to pray to the Lords of Kobol.
     Beside him Vi-El began to hum.  A quiet, understated melody.
     A moment passed.
     Prayer over, Troy stepped forward.  He reached for the red launching
button, felt himself grabbed from behind, whirled.  An angry face was
thrust into his.
     Franklin.
     "You can't do this.  It's immoral and you know it.  At least wait
for the Council to respond to the petition."
     Troy glared at Franklin.
     Minicams whirred quietly.
     Franklin turned away with a disgusted expression.  "You want some
last thoughts?  Here.  Have mine.  This is the seventh millennium.  We
don't rape rapists.  We don't burn arsonists.  We don't cut the hands off
thieves.  There are a lot of things we find objectionable about the law." 
Franklin's jaw clenched.  Was that his teeth Troy could hear grinding? 
"Not the least of which is that someone with the mentality of a child can
be executed, for what amounts to no more than political expediency!"
     Franklin fell silent. 
     The cameras whirred, turned abruptly to Troy.
     "Commander, we've heard the moral viewpoint here.  Some might
counter this by quoting your first officer, Colonel Dillon, when she
suggested not a centon ago that the imposition of an ultimate punishment
might deter criminals from committing life-threatening violence.  As
Judge, jury, and Executioner is this case, would you care to respond to
the doctor's words?  Something simple for our viewers before the
execution takes place.  Commander Troy, how do you view your own part in
these proceedings here today?  And how do you think posterity will view
your decisions and actions in, say, another hundred yahrens?"
     Troy made a disgusted noise, said nothing.
     The cameras whirred, panned to catch Frnaklin as he stepped away
from the turbo-sled's controls.
     Wasting no more time, Troy entered his ID code.  Hit the launch
button.
     Designed for cargo transfer, the turbo-sled raced down the tarmac at
nearly the speed of sound toward the entrance to the landing bay.
     Going.
     Going.
     Gone.
     Both the turbo-sled and its captive passenger were nowhere to be
seen in the void of space.
     There was a stifled sound.  Had it been a sob?
     Indara swung the minicam.  "Siress Delenn.  Have you any comment for
IFB viewers?"
     Delenn made an odd expression, equal parts humility, disgust, irony. 
"Yes, I have a comment for you and your viewers."  Delenn seemed on the
verge of tears, managed to hold tem back with an effort.  "This event has
left in my mind an extraordinary feeling of terror and shame.  It seems
to me I have been witness to---and indeed, party to---an act of---of
shameful violence perpetrated by human beings"---here she caught Troy's
eye and he had to look away---"against an intelligent being from another
world.  No matter what anyone might say, violence will never prevent
violence."  Delenn fell silent.  The camera whirred but she had nothing
more to say.  
     Troy was grateful for that, at least.

*****

CHAPTER 18

     Frozen blood.  Bruises.  Contusions.  Bitten lips.  Staring eyes. 
Burst capillaries.  Limbs contorted within metal restraints.  Hideous
crystalline flowers of frozen blood at wrists and ankles, mouth and ears.
     Arc's dead body floated lazily in the empty void just beyond the
Fleet, still strapped to the turbo-sled, which was now powerless, as its
tylium fuel supply had been rapidly exhausted.  
     The Galactica's telemetry picked it up.
     The IFB's satellite cameras recorded it.
     As they backed away from the landing bay entrance, Troy's comm.
bleeped.
     "Troy.  What is it?"
     "Bridge.  Ensign Troken.  We've got a Gold Channel Ultraviolet
Priority message  from the Council of Twelve here coded for your eyes
only."
     Troy laughed, felt the Cyclopean eye of the press upon him again. 
"We'll take that message here, Ensign .  I don't think it matters who
hears it now."
     Troken routed the message to Troy's comm..
     "Troy?  This is Sire Lin.  We have received the petition to free
Arc.  After careful deliberation, it has been decided that a show of
clemency in this case would a detriment to law and order throughout the
Fleet.  I am sure you understand it is not our policy to make rules only
to have them changed again at the slightest excuse."
     "I understand, Sire."  Troy was aware of a felling of bitter irony
as Lin muttered some entirely inappropriate pleasantries and signed off.
     He became aware he was still being recorded.
     He stared directly at the cameras.  "In the last few centons I had
come to hope that my combat experience during our flight from the Cylon
Alliance, as well as my adventures on Earth, would be sufficient
preparation for the notion of execution.  But---Lords of Kobol---there's
nothing that can prepare you for this.  Absolutely nothing."  He sighed.
He had to get out of here.  There was a drink waiting in his quarters and
he was long overdue for it.  He pushed past the cameras, to the turbolift
doors, turned for the last time to face the landing bay entrance and the
void beyond.
     "There has to be a better way to handle our worst problems."

*****

CHAPTER 19

     The warriors continued to disperse the crowd with morph gas. 
Med-techs tended the wounded as they could, lef the sleeping where they
fell.
     Two centons passed.
     The riot left two hundred and fifty-seven wounded, more than a
hundred seriously.  There were fifty-three deaths, including one
miscarried pregnancy.
     The cameras recorded it.
     Faithfully.  Emotionlessly.
     For the people.

*****

CHAPTER 20

     Troy entered his quarters in a state of numb emotionlessness.  He
felt drained.  Used.  He sat at his desk, cradled his head in his hands. 
Gods, what he wouldn't give for an orange.  Just one orange.  A sunfruit,
even.  And some decent sleep.
     The communicator bleeped.
     Gold level communication.
     From the President.
     Troy studied the face on the screen as the transmission decrypted. 
Was this the face of the Council of Twelve?  On the surface everyone's
friend, while inside---just a dark pit of hatred and paranoia?
     Crord greeted Troy with a genuine enough smile.  "Troy.  How good to
speak to you face-to-face at last."
     "Mr. President."
     "Troy, I'll keep this brief. If the reports are anything to go by,
you've got a lot of work to do."
     Troy nodded.
     "Well then, I'll just say this: I wanted to congratulate you on your
performance during recent events."
     Recent events?  Someone's murder, you mean.  "Thank you, Mr.
President."
     "No, Troy, thank you.  Although my brothers and I were a little
surprised at the---rawness of the footage, we feel that the execution
itself was well handled and we would like to congratulate you on the
matter."
     Troy nodded. "The Council is very gracious."
     Crord smiled.  "I also wish to add my personal thanks for a job well
done.  As you can imagine, in my position, I rarely get to meet the
people to whom I am responsible, the people of the Fleet who have voted
me into office.  It is good to know that there are such men as yourself
in the Colonial Service who share my feelings and my responsibility to
both the people of the Fleet and to the future of the Human race, and who
can act as a conduit between myself and them when the need arises."
     Troy suddenly felt a savage bout of indigestion coming on.  He
licked his lips, managed to make his hesitation seem due to embarrassment
rather than disgust at Crord's implication of similarity between them. 
"Mr. President, there really is no need for you to heap such praise on a
man who, after all, is simply doing his duty."
     "I know.  But nonetheless you have my thanks.  I will not forget
this difficult time, Troy, you may be sure of that.  Once again, I thank
you."
     The transmission ended.
     Troy sat at his desk.  Steepled his fingers. Sighed.  The old
bastard.  The sneaky, political old bastard.  So he was supposed to
consider himself the President's friend now, was he?
     He wondered briefly whether he should feel amused or slightly
frightened.
     Ah, to hades with it.  Time enough for another day.  For now he
wanted a turbo-wash.  He wanted a drink.  And he wanted to hit the sack
for eight straight centons of dreamless sleep.
     He also wanted very much to see Jamie Hamilton.  Just once would be
enough.  She would know if he'd done the right thing.  If winning the
game had been worth the price of so many lives.
     But Jamie Hamilton wasn't here.
     And he didn't have the answers he so badly needed.

*****

CHAPTER 21

     Two centons later Colonel Dillon watched as Vi-El led her Chorus
through the landin bay toward the shuttle that would take them to the
great space yacht Pride of Tauron, waiting beyond to take them back to
Mars.  Vi-El looked drained.  Her back was slumped; she didn't walk so
much as limp, a clumsy, painful shuffle, somewhere between biped and
quadruped.  Her spines waved listelessly.
     The walk to the shuttle was by no means a short one, but despite
repeated efforts, Dillon could simply find nothing to say.  The sight of
Arc's dead body swollen and bloody floating in space, swollen and bloody,
was impressed on his mind as it surely must be upon Vi-El's, stealing
from her all possibility of conversation.
     Swollen, bloody.  An emblem of Colonial justice.  An icon of the
future.
     Vi-El stopped then, turned to face Dillon.
     Dillon hadn't thought until now how comforting the lack of eyes on a
person could be.
     Nearby an arc-welder flashed silver fire into the gloom of the
landing bay.  Vi-El was momentarily transformed into a white-outlined
silhouette, a shadow of her former self, with no depth or substance.
     The moment passed, the flash faded, Vi-El became real again.
     Dillon said, "You don't have to do this."
     "Dillon," Vi-El's voice was soft, a whisper that barely carried
above the clank and grind of worker activity.  "Sire Mollary's people,
the Taurons, have offered their help, and we have accepted.  Can it be
wrong to accept that which saves the Land and the Song?"
     Dillon wriggled on that one.  "It's not as simple as that."
     "Things are never simple with humans.  Arc learned this and now so
too have I.  Your Songs are complex, many-layered.  But I have found the
best Songs are always the simple ones."
     Dillon tried to find some words of comfot, something that would let
her get a hold on Vi-El, pull her back from the edge of what he felt sure
in his gut was going to be a cataclysmic mistake.
     There were no words, of course.  How could there be?  The Tuchanq
had come here to beg assistance.  Instead a tragedy had played itself out
in the corridors of the battlestar Galactica.
     "Vi-El---it's not too late to reverse your decision."
     "I know."
     "Commander Troy did the best he could to help."
     "I know."
     Dillon sighed.  "Then---all I can do is wish you luck.  May your
Songs remain strong."
     Vi-El tipped her head in acknowledgment of Dillon's words.  "I would
be very happy if they would simply remain."
     And with that she turned and, continuing the Song of Journey, led
her Chorus toward the shuttle.

*****

     CHAPTER 22
 
     The door to Troy's quarters bleeped.
     He sighed, put down the likeness of Jamie Hamilton.  "Enter."
     Franklin.  And Kanon.  Had they spoken yet?
     The med-tech's furious expression told him instantly they had not. 
"Commander, I have come here to lodge a formal protest about the way in
which this entire case was handled.  Arc's execution is a travesty of
justice, both immoral and insupportable.  Now I have something here in
writing which I'd like you to see before I submit it to the Council..."
Franklin stopped.
     Beside him, Kanon was shaking his head and clucking his tongue.
     "What?" Franklin demanded. "You agree with all this, I suppose?"
     "I really don't think you want to be submitting that report to those
old daggits, Doctor," Kanon said with a  little grin.
     "Oh really?  Then I guess you support them in this matter?  Or
perhaps you're just 'remaining neutral,'---I certainly didn't see you at
the execution, did I?"
     Kanon rubbed his eye sheepishly.  "That's because I was busy
switching Arc for Tegates's body and reprogramming the Changeling Net
taken from the lurker who attacked Kar, so it looked to the cameras as if
Arc was the one who had been executed."
     Franklin blinked. "What?" He frowned.  "Are you telling me Arc's not
dead?"
     Troy stood up.  "Doctor, I must apologize for the deception."
     "Deception?" Franklin's expression seemed composed of equal measures
of stupefaction and anger.  "Why didn't you tell me?  Needed a genuine
reaction from the news team, did we?  Well, I gave you that, didn't I?"
     "You weren't the only one." Troy sighed.  "Kanon and I were simply
worried that if too many people knew about the switch then it would leak
to the press and the whole thing would be ruined.  I really am sorry.  I
should have confided in you, but there simply wasn't an opportunity.  I'm
sorry."
     Franklin was silent for a moment.  Troy could almost hear his teeth
grinding in frustration and annoyance. "So, in other words, the riots,
the deaths, all that was simply to maintain the deception?"
     Troy lowered his eyes, unable to meet Franklin's gaze.  What price
justice indeed?
     There was a long silence.  Then Franklin spoke again.  "So let me
get this straight.  If Arc isn't dead, then where is she?"
     Kanon said quietly, "While the Commander here was praying to the
Lords of Kobol, I put her in a spacesuit, took her on a little spacewalk
to airlock fifteen.  She's with the other Tuchanq now, safely aboard the
Pride of Tauron that's outbound for Mars."  Kanon looked sideways at
Troy. "By the way, about the prayer.  You could have recited it a little
slower, stuck in an extra verse, something.  You've no idea how fine I
cut it, getting out of that tool locker and suiting her up before you
launched that turbo-sled."
     Franklin interrupted. "Wait a centon.  The Taurons are taking the
Tuchanq delegation home?  I thought the Colonial Service was going to..."
     "No." Troy pursed his lips.  "It's true we saved Arc's life, but the
Tuchanq delegation were so distressed by the whole matter that they
decided they'd rather ask help from the civilian population of the Fleet. 
Apparently, Taurons have the virtue of being 'more straightforward' than
Capricans, especially Capricans that serve in the Colonial Service."
     Franklin's face fell.  "I see."  It was obvious he understood the
ramifications of the Taurons' offer of help. "And there's nothing we can
do to change their minds?"
     "Believe me, I've tried, Dillon's tried---they've made their
decision."  Troy shook his head.  "The only thing even vaguely 
comforting about this whole affair is the knowledge that Crord was only
doing this to gain votes.  When the voters see the news footage, the
parade, the riot, the violence, the sheer immorality of executing someone
as---innocent as Arc was---well, they won't exactly be lining up at the
polling stations to renew their support for him."
     Franklin gave a humorless laugh.  "Bearing in mind those injured or
killed in the riot, I wonder which of you was actually the more immoral
and manipulative."
     Kanon said firmly, "Fortunately, that's a question we'll never have
to answer."
     "Well."  Franklin hefted his written report, folded it, tucked it
into his pocket.  "I guess we've all got work to do."  He turned and left
the office, leaving Kanon and Troy staring at each other across a
mountain of paperwork.
     "Captain---thank you."
     "All in a day's work."  Kanon fished something out of his pocked and
flipped it to Troy.  "Souvenir."  He followed Franklin from the office.
     Troy looked at the object nestling in his hand.  Tegates' data
crystal, the recording of his liason with Belladonna.  His moment of
fulfillment.
     Troy stared at the crystal, trying to imagine the scenes depicted in
its record.  Trying to imagine the life that had ended, the aftermath of
that life.  Tenelle would be leaving in a few centons to take her
husband's body back to the Syria for burial in space.  Perhaps the
crystal ought to be buried in space as well.
     Yes.  Troy tipped the crystal into the recycler chute and went back
to his desk.  He was beginning to get a headache.  And his indigestion
was acting up something awful.

*****

CHAPTER 23

     The shuttle Kanaris emerged from the port-side landing bay of the
battlestar Galactica, en route to the freighter Syria.
     From the common-class lounge, Tenelle watched a screen showing the
receding battlestar and tried to work out how she felt about the events
which had occurred there.  Impossible.  She was still too confused.  All
she could really say for sure was that her life had changed.  Maybe for
the better, maybe not.  But it had definitely changed.
     For the last six yahrens, Tenelle had known nothing but a life of
certainty.  The certainty that her husband had provided, imposed upon
her.  That she let him impose upon her.  Now that certain was gone.  And
yet instead of the insecurity which she might have expected to find
within herself, she was surprised by an unlooked-for set of more positive
feelings.  A sense of freedom.  Of pleasure.  Of anticipation of all the
things she had yet to experience---things she knew she would have
experienced anyway, but which somehow seemed to have a fresh sparkle to
them, a keener edge. 
     But beyond all this, the most important thing she felt now that she
was leaving the Galactica was a slowly building confidence in the future.
     Her future, and that of her children.
     The simple truth was, the only certainty in her life now was
uncertainty.  The only constant, change.  
     She smiled.  A tiny movement of the facial muscles of a single human
woman among one hundred in a little spacecraft the universe might easily
have overlooked in its vastness.
     No movement is ever unimportant; no person, either.
     Tenellle was taking her husband home.
     The first step in a life that was now truly her own.

*****

CHAPTER 24

     When Kanon arrived at the Life Station, there was a party going on
and Sire Mollary was right in the thick of it.  The buritician was
sitting up in bed surrounded by Vir, Sire Refa, several aides, two Tauron
nurses, several boquets of flowers, and rather more than several bottles
of ambrosa---most of them empty.
     Mollary was laughing, sharing a joke with one of Refa's aides.  The
other aides were fawning.  The nurses were plumping his pillows and
giggling at the humorous nonsense he was spouting.
     Kanon found the whole scene somewhat disturbing.  Mollary should be
dead.  He should be dead.
     Then again, so should Kanon..
     Under different circumstances, Kanon would have grinned his ass off. 
But things were different now.  Now the whole idea that a guy whom he had
once considered a friend was not going to die after all held overtones he
really didn't want to think about too closely.  No way. It was just too
creepy.
     That guy Morden now.  What the hell was he on?  How had he done what
it was he must have done to save Mollary?  For Sagan's sake, he'd seen
the damn wounds Mollary had suffered.  Three of them, one at least
puncturing vital organs.  There was no doubt about it: Mollary had been
heading for the morgue---big time.  It should have taken all of Morden's
life energy to save Mollary---but not only was the guy still alive, he
was still smiling.
     So what gave?
     Kanon's thoughts were interrupted as Mollary caught sight of him.
"Captain Kanon." He waved a bottle of ambrosa to attract Kanon's
attention---in the process tipping some of it over the uniform of the
nearest aide.  "My good and dear friend Kanon!  You have stopped by to
wish me well, have you not?  Come over here!  I don't believe you have
met my good friend and brother councilman Sire Refa."
     Kanon nodded and smiled uneasily.  Hands thrust in pockets, he
wandered casually over to Mollary.  "Yeah.  Hi.  How's it going,
Mollary?"
     Mollary beamed expansively.  "Oh very well, Captain Kanon.  Very
well indeed, under the circumstances."  He shrugged.  "Oh, I could have
wished for more flowers---but then there is a limit.  After all we do
live in starships, do we not?"  He dug the nearest person in the
ribs---it happened to Vir.  The aides and the nurses laughed but Kanon
noticed that Vir's smile seemed forced.  Refa maintained a cool air of
aloofness.
     He shrugged. "That we do, Sire."
     Mollary allowed his expansive beam to melt seamlessly into a drunken
grin.  "Have you brought me a get-well present, Captain Kanon?"
     Kanon raised his eyebrows. "Sorry."
     Mollary shrugged, glanced cheekily at the nurses.  "No matter.  I
have all that I need here.  Ambrosa, flowers, my friends"---Kanon counted
seven people at the most---"and, of course, my good friend, Captain
Kanon!  What more could a man want, eh?"
     Kanon didn't know what to say.  Was Mollary three quarters drunk? 
Or high on some drug he never heard of?  Or was it just the idea of being
alive that did it for him?  That wouldn't be too surprising, if so. 
"Look, ah, Mollary---I just dropped by to say---" Why was Refa staring at
him like that?  "Well, just to say get well soon, I guess."  He shrugged.
"Look, I gotta go."
     "Not yet, Captain Kanon!  Not yet!" Mollary took a deep slug of
ambrosa from the bottle.  "Sire Refa was just inviting me to a
celebration when I'm better.  You're my friend.  Why don't you come as
well?"
     Kanon glanced quickly at Refa.  The buritician did not llok as if he
was in the mood to party.
     "I really don't think that would be advisiable under the
circumstances." Refa's voice was quiet.  Kanon could tell he was hiding
something.  Impatience?  Irritation?  Annoyance?
     "Felgercarb!" Mollary waved the wine bottle around some more to
emphasize the importance of his words.  "Captain Kanon is my good and
dear friend!  Of course he will come!"
     Kanon managed a smile.  "Look, Mollary, I really gotta go. 
Um---about the party---why don't you see me about it later?  When you're
up and about?"
     " 'Up and about'?"  Mollary drained his bottle.  "Why, how could I
be more 'up and about' than I already---" He stopped.  His face twisted
into a kind of surprised frown.  "Than I already---"  His eyes rolled
upward and he crashed drunkenly back onto the bed, to the accompaniement
of another round of laughter from everyone except Vir and Refa.
     Kanon shook his head, nodded to Vir, and turned to leave.  Franklin
was waiting at the entrance to the Life Station.
     Kanon jerked a thumb back over his shoulder at the Tauron.  "Ever
felt like you should have gone into the entertainment business?"
     Franklin pursed his lips.  "Tell me about it.  I leave the Life
Station for a couple of centons and come back to find a patient who was
dying demanding to know what was for dinner and why it wasn't Oolian
Bloodworm and why it wasn't brought on time---and by a pretty nurse at
that."
     Kanon raised his eyebrows in sympathy.  He felt Franklin's eyes on
him.  "What?"
     Franklin pinched the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. "Why did you
come here, Kanon?"
     Kanon frowned.  Good question.  He rubbed his chin.  The truth is,
I'm feeling something I haven't felt for a while.  I'm feeling scared. 
Mollary is Mollary, and I'm me.  We're total opposites.  But Morden saved
us both. And that thought scares me to death.
     "Would you believe heartburn?"
     Franklin shook his head. "No, I wouldn't."
     Kanon shrugged, a little Sorry I can't help you gesture. "Ah well."
     Before Franklin could say anything else Kanon left the Life Station. 
He walked fast.  Because the truth was somewhere back there.  And the
truth was tht Morden thought he and Mollary were both worth saving.  In
his mind they were the same.  And Kanon had enough smarts to realize
pursuing that line of thought would drop him so far back into the bottle
they'd need a submarine to find him.

*****

CHAPTER 25

     Troy placed one hand against the ovoid porthole in his quarters.
     Perspective.  Sometimes it's hard to keep things in perspective.
     Arc. The Tuchanq.  They'd lost it all---he'd lost it all for them. 
By carrying out the masquerade, by doing the moral thing, the right thing
and saving Arc, he had made a very different future for her species.
     He was damn sure it wasn't the best future he could have offered
them.
     And he hated that thought.  Hated and feared his own weakness, what
he had learned about himself.  That nobody was perfect.  That everyone
got scared and did things they weren't proud of.  That there were no-win
scenarios and in those scenarios, quite simply, you lost.
     He rested his forehead against the porthole.
     Perspective.
     The door bleeped.
     "Enter."
     He turned as Dr. Zee entered the room. His silver-white gown
glimmered softly.  A quiet musical hum seemed to eminate from him.  Zee
glided around until he was standing before Troy's desk.  He waited.
     Troy felt simultaneously drawn to the young man and, at the same
time, repelled by him.  He very much wanted to shake hands with him, the
"boy genius" that his grandfather trusted without question, but somehow
felt he was already shaking his hand---or him his.
     Dr. Zee said nothing.  He remained still, reflecting all Troy's
curiosity, frustration, anger back at him like a mirror.
     Like a mirror.
     Fear is a mirror.
     And suddenly it made sense.  The whole lot.  Look at it from Dr.
Zee's point of view.  From Dr. Zee's perspective.
     Troy nodded, smiled, felt the tension drain out of him.  "Fear is a
mirror.  You said that to me the day before yesterday."
     Dr. Zee said nothing.
     It didn't matter.  He knew.  "I undertand now.  Because I was scared
I became devious.  I took advantage of people and events to accomplish my
own ends.  I didn't like the behavior in the President and I don't like
it in myself."  Troy paused.  Sometimes the truth was hard to
acknowledge.  "My fear has enabled me to understand myself a little more
clearly."
     Dr. Zee said nothing.
     "That was what you wanted, wasn't it?  That was the lesson. Fear is
a mirror."
     Dr. Zee spoke then, made no acknowledgement of Troy's supposition,
instead said something that brought all thefear and anger boiling back up
to the surface as if to an open wound.
     "You are the light, yet the hope of all darkness."
     Troy felt something tear loose inside him, felt it carried away on a
wind of madness.  "I don't..." He nearly laughed, it was such a familiar
line. "I don't understand."
     "You are touched by Dark Ones."
     Without waiting for a response, Dr. Zee turned and glided from the
office.  Troy watched him go, then turned back to the porthole.  He saw
his own reflection mapped onto the starscape.
     Touched by Dark Ones.
     What in hades does that mean?
     Do I really look that old?
     And he knew then what he had only guessed at before.  His life was
not his own anymore.  His destiny was not his own.  His career, his
friends, the Galactica,  the Fleet, Earth, Jamie Hamilton, everything and
everyone he had ever known was as predestined as if he were a character
in a novel.
     Troy stared out his porthole at the stars and nebulae and comets and
quasars.  And he wondered for how much longer they would exist.  If the
stars would ever have planets, if life would evolve on the planets, if
the life would walk erect, and if the life would walk from the jungle
into the city.
     He wondered if everything he had ever taken for granted was coming
to an end.  If the thousands of yahrens during which mankind had wrenched
itself free of sands of Mother Kobol and leapt into the heavens would
ever, ultimately, have any meaning beyond the simple drive of life to
exist and continue at any cost.
     Good questions to which he would probably never have answers.
     In that moment of ruthless self-honesty, Troy, Colonial Warrior,
Commander of the battlestar Galactica, son of Serina and Apollo, Grandson
of Adama, and lover of the Earthwoman Jamie Hamilton, knew his life would
end as it had begun: with awe and wonder, pain and terror.
     And Dark Ones.
     Always with the Dark Ones.

*****

EPILOGUE

     Legal scholars will be debating all yahren whether the Council of
Twelve did or did not today flatly and irrevocably end Captial
Punishment.  The answer, for all practical purposes, seems to be it did. 
Confusion occurs because six of the twelve-member Council said that the
state can never take a life.  The key votes were those of Sire Lin and
Sire Kobold, both of whom indicated they might reverse their decision if
anyone could ever show them a case where the Death Penalty can be morally
justified.
     ---Indara, IFB News, evening edition.


*****

Battlestar Galactica: The First Truth
May 05, 1995 (Earth Time)

     Crord looked out form the main viewing window of the Main Conference
hall down at the planet known as Mars.  Cloud after cloud of red dust
danced across its surface.
     From dust we are born, to dust we return.
     And when we are gone, what then?  Do we simply vanish?  Our souls,
are experiences, everything that we are, gone along with our bodies?  Or
do we leave something of ourselves behind?  A legacy.  Words and actions
the future may judge us by?  Words and actions such as his own this day,
following the vote of confidence in which he had been called back into
office by a narrow margin.
     Dust.  It's all we ever are.
     Refusing, though he could not say why, to watch Phobos rise above
the curvature of Mars, Crord turned his back on the view of the planet. 
He watched as the sunlight, reflected off the Martian surface, glided
slowly across the chamber, illuminating, just as the decorators had
intended, one portrait after another of past and present members of the
Council of Twelve until it reached the end of the line, the spaces which
illuminated his own visage and those of future councilmen.
     He moved; for an instant he saw his shadow cast directly into the
walls pace  were his own portrait would one day hang.
     Dust in light.  Discernable only by our shadows.
     And Crord knew a truth both awesome and terrible that his words and
actions of today would shape the lives of millions; that not only would
he be remembered by the future, he would define it. 
     Life, death, the fundamental condition of existence.
     The shadow of his actions would touch it all.

*****

Mars: The Second Truth
February 14, 1994 (Earth Time)

     The Song of Freedom lifted above the Capital City of Buraru.
     Vi-El galloped up the hill overlooking the city and stopped at the
very top.  She stood very still, then crouched on all fours.  She began
to sing.  She sang her Journey and her Being and that of the People.  She
sang life and death.  She sang Arc, alone now with the Tauron Colonials,
transferred to another ship on the way home, at the request of a Colonist
named Morden, for her own protection.
     "After all," he'd said, "She is a murderer.  We wouldn't want her to
get hurt after everything Commander Troy did to save her."
     Vi-El sang Arc until her throat ached, and then joined in with the
final refrain from her own Song of Freedom.
     When at last the Song was ended, Vi-El straightened, tasted the air
with mixed feelings.  The air was sick.  The Taurons made it sick with
their machinery.  But that machinery was healing the Land.  And that was
good, wasn't it?
     The question was replaced by another: Was the good that came of evil
intrinsically good, or would it eventually sour and turn to evil itself?
     Vi-El knew that the ability to judge these matters came with age. 
Her Song of Being was old, but it had never encompassed this kind of
dilemma.  Her job had been simple: to ensure that the Land was healed. 
That job had been accomplished.  Songs would be sung of her now; it was
because of her that Songs could be sung at all.
     But somewhere deep in her heart, Vi-El knew fear: the Song of
Freedom had begun again, but it was no longer the Song of Mars.  It was
the Song of Sire Mollary.
     No.  Event that was wrong, because Sire Mollary's people were a kind
of "enemy within," a hidden menace that the Colonial Fleet would
eventually have to deal with. A mouthpiece for a power greater than their
enemies, the Cylons, invisible except for the sinister darkness they cast
over those whom they touched.
     Vi-El tasted fear and sikness in the air and suddenly,
instinctively, she knew the truth that was to define the People and the
Land, far into the future.
     The Song of Mars had become the Song of the Dark Ones.

*****

Ephsolin Sector: The Final Truth
December 24, 1986 (Earth Time)


     They came out of the void like ghosts; huge ships, more art than
technology.  By comparison the Galactican Viper patrol was little more
than a clutch of battered metal and plastic arrowheads, rather than state
of the art starfighters.
     Flight Sergeant Flass had only microns to register the presence of
the aliens.  It was more than enough.  The alien ships were
one-hundred-percent efficient.  They were also worse than Cylon Raiders.
     Because they screamed.
     They screamed in his head.
     They screamed as they attacked.
     Some knife edges of light: the Colonial Vipers shivered and fell
apart at their midsections.  The knives moved on, carving, almost casual. 
Metal vaporized, cockpits depressurized, pilots screamed and died, turbos
began a slow detonation.
     Flass thumbed his helmet mike, screamed aloud the truth that was to
define the coming war in which the number of deaths would simply be too
great to calculate.
     "Recon Patrol Sigma, Ephsolin Sector, to Galactica!  This is Flight
Sergeant Flass!  We're under attack. Ships I've never seen before!  We're
under attack---and they fired first!"
     Flass was never to know if his message would be received. 
Everything he was, everything he had ever been or could be, empited into
the dark gulf between star systems along with the rest of the ships and
pilots, was ultimately reduced to its component molecules and scattered
throughout the void.
     The Dark Ones were coming.

THE END