FIRE LEGIONS PART 1: THE LONG NIGHT OF PLANET EARTH
A Battlestar Galactica 1980/Babylon5/V Crossover fanfic by Paul Robison

Battlestar Galactica 1980 & V are the property of Universal Studios
(c)1980, 1983.  
Babylon 5 is the property of Warner Brothers, (c) 1993.  

All are used without permission but with no intent or anticipation of
monetary gain.  This is solely for my amusement as well as the amusement
of whoever else may read it. 

SPOILER: 
Legions of Fire:  The Long Night of Centauri Prime (Babylon 5)  by Peter
David (c) 1999 Del Rey Books, N.Y., N.Y.

SPECIAL GUEST STARS: 
Delenn
Mollari
Vir
Ham Tyler (V)

PREQUELS:
Blood Trail - A Battlestar Galactica 1980/Babylon 5 Crossover by Paul
Robinson 
Crord's Law- A Battlestar Galactica 1980/Babylon 5 Crossover by Paul
Robinson 
The Passing Of The Mage-Techs, Part 1: Shadow Casting- A Battlestar
Galactica 1980/Babylon 5 Crossover by Paul Robinson 


PROLOGUE:

     The Cylon felt sorry for him.
     Mollary would have been shocked to learn that such considerations
went through the Cylon's mind.  Had the Cylon's sentiments been relayed
to him, he would have been even more surprised to learn precisely why the
Cylon felt sorry for him.
     But he did know, so he faced the Cylon with his jaw set, his
shoulders squared, obviously doing everything within his ability to look
cool and confident in the moment when his keeper would bond with him.
     The Cylon, however, could already sense the accelerated heartbeat,
the forced steadiness of breathing, the general sign of rising panic,
which Mollary was pushing back by sheer force of will.  All of this was
clear to the Cylon, for the bond upon which he and Mollary would operate
was already beginning to form on a subliminal level.  
     His name was Ptahepe----and he was a hero.  At least, that was how
the other Cylons tended to speak of him, in whispers, or when they
communed by binary code, having abandoned the need for human-style verbal
speech.
     Among the Cylons, there was none more brave, more diligent, more
pure in his vision of what the universe should be.  Nor was there any who
was more sympathetic to his fellow creatures.  This was what served to
make Ptahepe so effective, so pure and ruthless.  He knew that in order
to accomplish what was best for the galaxy, he had to be willing to hurt,
terrify and kill if he must.  Anything would be justified, as long as he
never lost sight of the common good.
     Ptahepe loved the common man.  He had the common touch...and yet he
had also been highly regarded by the Dark Ones.  With equal facility and
consistent equanimity, Ptahepe was able to walk amid the mundanely and
yet move among the gods.  He treated the gods as mundane and the mundane
as divine.  All were equal.  All were of a piece, and Ptahepe could see
all, understand all, and love all.  He loved the cries of creatures at
birth.  And when he wrapped his gauntleted hands around the throat of a
creature he was sending to his death, he could glory in its scream as
well.
     He was one of the most soft-spoken of the Cylons---or at least that
was how he was perceived by others.
     That wasn't how Sire Mollary, chosen by the Imperious Leader to be
the chief administrator of Earth, perceived him now.  That much, Ptahepe
could tell even without the tentative connection that already existed
between them.  In all likelihood, Mollary listened to that curious
mockery of a human voice and heard that satisfied tones of a predator
about to descend on its prey.  He did not know, he did not understand. 
But Ptahepe understood.  Understood and forgave, for such was his way. 
     The keeper was stirring within him.  Mollary would never have known
it, but the keeper was fearful, too.  Ptahepe could sense that, as well. 
This keeper was relatively newborn, spawned from its tech-nest mere days
before.  Ptahepe had attended to this one personally, for he knew of the
great fate and responsibility that awaited it.
     While the keeper had opened activated its cyclopean red eye for the
first time, it had been Ptahepe's face into which it had gazed.  It
hadn't been able to see clearly, of course; Ptahepe had appeared as a
hazy image at first.  But full vision hadn't taken long to develop.
     The keeper had been born with a high degree of artificial
intelligence, but no certainty as to what its purpose was in the broader
scheme of nature.  Its  arms, actually powerful, mechanical  "tentacles,"
had flickered around aimlessly, momentarily brushing against its parent. 
But the parent---as was always the case with keepers---was already a
small, blackened shell.  It had no soft thoughts to offer, no guidance to
give as the offspring tried to determine just what it was doing and how
it was supposed to do it.
     "Calmly, please," Ptahepe had whispered, extending a mechanical
finger.  The keeper had tried to wrap its tentacles around the finger,
and Ptahepe had gently lifted it from its tech-nest.  Then he had opened
the breastplate of his armor and placed the newborn keeper inside his
chest.  Operating on mere calculations, the keeper had sought a point of
interaction between components there----and had found it.
     Ptahepe had trembled slightly and let out a deep, fulfilled sigh as
the keeper burrowed in, integrating its software with Ptahepe's and
tapping into his Ptahepe's power packs.  In doing so, the keeper had
burrowed only into Ptahepe's "soul" but into the Cylon Alliance.  Ptahepe
would always have a special status with this particular keeper, would
always be the most sensitive to its needs, wants, and knowledge.  And the
keeper, now that it was attuned, would be able to communicate with any of
the Cylon Alliance at any given moment.

*****

     A magnificent device, the keeper.  It had nursed within Ptahepe and
grown to maturity within three days.  Now it was ready...ready to assume
its most important job.  Yet as prepared as it was to do so, and as much
as its programming suited it for the task, when Ptahepe opened his breast
plate to extract it from its interface slot, he was amused to discover
that the keeper, likewise, was apprehensive.  
     What troubles you?  Ptahepe inquired.  Across from him, a few feet
away, Mollary was in the process of removing his coat and loosening the
collar of his shirt.  
     He is very dark.  He is very fearsome, the keeper replied.  What if
I do not keep him properly.  What if I fail in my task?  Can I not stay
with you, in the slot?
     No, Ptahepe replied gently.  We all serve the needs of the universe. 
We all do our part.  In that way, I am no different from you, and you are
no different from he.  He will not, cannot hurt you.  See how he fears
you, even now.  Reach out with your sensors.  They will tell you he is
afraid.
     Yes, the keeper said after a moment.  My sensors do tell me this. 
He is afraid of me.  It does not compute.  I am so small, and he is so
huge.  Why should he fear me?
     Because he does not understand you.  You will explain yourself to
him.  You will make him realize what is to be done.  He thinks you will
control him, always.  He does not understand that he is the chosen one of
the Alliance, and as such, shall be permitted to keep his free will.  He
does not understand that you will simply monitor our mutual interests. 
You will not force him toward what he must do...you will simply help us
to guide him away from what he must not do.  He fears not being alone.
     That is strangest of all, said the keeper.  The one time I detected
any fear----was when I was alone in my nest.  Why would anyone or
anything desire to be alone?
     He does not know what he desires.  He has lost his way.  He moved
toward us, but then moved away, then toward and away again.  He is
without guidance.  You will guide him.  
     But he has done terrible things, the keeper said with trepidation. 
He destroyed many Dark Ones.  Terrible.  Terrible.
     Yes, very terrible.  But he did so because he was ignorant. 
Now----he shall learn.  And you shall help teach him, as will I.  Go to
him.  See how he fears you.  See how he needs you.  Go to him, so that he
may start his new life.
     I will miss you, Ptahepe.
     You will not.  You will be with me always.
     With that parting sentiment, Ptahepe removed the keeper from its
interface slot.  Its mechanical tentacles had grown more powerful during
its interface period, and were now long and elegant.  Moving with the
grace that was customary for its class, the keeper glided across the
floor and wrapped around Mollary's legs.  Ptahepe could sense the
tentativeness of the keeper.  More, the keeper could sense the rising
terror in Mollary.  Sense it, but not see it.  Mollary's face was a mask
of unreadability, his brow furrowed, his eyes...
     There was fury in his eyes.  They bore into Ptahepe, and had they
been whips, they would have flayed the metal from his body.  Ptahepe
decided that it was an improvement over fear.  Fear was a relatively
useless emotion.  Anger, fury---these could be harnessed and directed
against an enemy and be of great use to the Cylons.  Furthermore, such
emotions were far more alluring to the keeper and would make it much more
comfortable with its new host.
     Above all, Ptahepe wanted to make sure that host and keeper blended
smoothly, for they were a team.  Yes.  That was what Mollary did not
grasp; they were a team.  Although the device was called a keeper,
implying a master-slave relationship, the reality of their binding went
much deeper than that.  It was almost---spiritual in its way.  Yes. 
Spiritual.  Others had not understood that.  He had not had enough time,
or had simply been too limited in his perspectives.
     But Mollary---Mollary possessed a much broader view, had much
greater vision.  Hopefully he would comprehend and even come to
appreciate what he was undergoing.
     Mollary's back stiffened as the keeper crept up toward his neck.  He
had potential, Ptahepe was certain of that.  Perhaps the most potential
of any associate of the Dark Ones had ever shown.  Perhaps even more than
Xavier had offered.  Xavier had been an excellent servant and had proven
himself superb in carrying out orders.  While he had been capable of
actualizing the dreams of others, he had been noticeably limited. Now
Mollary himself was in thrall to the Cylons, serving in turn the great
philosophies and destinies of the Dark Ones, and that opened an array of
new opportunities and possibilities.  What was most important was the
dreamer himself, and Mollary was just such a dreamer.  Yes, it promised
to be most exciting indeed.  Ptahepe only wished that Mollary was capable
of sharing in that excitement.
     The keeper dug into Mollary's shoulder, and Ptahepe detected the
cyber-neural interface beginning.  He reveled in the joy of the moment. 
Mollary's emotions were a snarl of conflicts, fear and anger crashing
into one another like waves against a reef, and he shuddered at the feel
of the keeper's tentacles as they pierced his bare skin.  That was all
right, though.  He would adapt.  He would learn.  He would see that it
was for the better.  Or he would die.  Those were the options, the only
options, that were open to him, and Ptahepe could only hope that he would
choose wisely.
     As for the keeper, Ptahepe was pleased to sense that the creature
was claming.  Its internal trepidation was dissipating, as the Cylon
suspected it would.  Furthermore, Mollary's thoughts were coming into
clearer focus, the blinders and shields falling away.
     Mollary stiffened slightly, as Ptahepte eased himself into the
Colonial's mind.  Within microns, he inspected the nooks and crannies,
studied Mollary's deepest fears, viewed his sexual fantasies with morbid
interest, and came to a deeper and fuller understanding of Mollary's
psyche than Mollary himself had been able to achieve in yahrens.  Mollary
didn't know how much the Cylon had already discerned.  His mind was still
reeling and disoriented, and with a gentle push the Cylon studied him,
helped realign his focus.
     Deciding that he would ease Mollary into casual telepathy, he said
aloud, "You will be all right."  He spoke with the inevitable droning
voice all Cylons have, which forced people to listen closely.  It was an
amusing display of power, albeit a minor one.
     "No," Mollary said after a moment's consideration.  "I will never be
all right again."
     Ptahepe said nothing.  There was no point in trying to force a
realignment of Mollary's state of mind.  Sooner or later he would learn
and understand, and if it was later rather than sooner, well, that was
fine.  The Cylon Alliance had great and impressive plans, long-term goals
that spanned decades.  The instant comprehension, understanding, and
cooperation of a single Colonial---bureaucrat or no----simply wasn't
necessary.  They could wait.
     So Ptahepe just inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Mollary's
remark.
     Mollary tried to sneak a glance at the keeper, but then looked away. 
Instead he started buttoning his shirt, pulling his vest and coat back
on.  "It---does not matter, in any event," he said after a moment.
"Whether I am all right.  It is my brother humans who matter now.  It is
Earth, only Earth."
     "Earth will rebuild.  We will help," said the Cylons.
     Mollary laughed bitterly at that.  "Unless, of course, you choose to
blow millions of Earth people to pieces with your fusion bombs."
     "If we do...it will be because you have chosen that path for us."
     "Semantics," Mollary said contemptuously.  "You act as if I have
free will.
     "You do."
     "One choice is no choice."
     "The Dark Ones you killed when you destroyed their island----they
had no choice in their fate," Ptahepe said. "You do.  Do not abuse
it...lest we give you as much choice as you gave the Dark Ones."
     Mollary said nothing to that, merely glowers as he buttoned his
coat.  "Well," he said briskly, "we should begin this sham, eh?  This
sham of leadership.  I, as chief administrator, with you guiding my every
move."
     "No," Ptahepe shook his head ever so slightly.  Everything he did,
he did with minimal effort, not every move.  Simply keep in mind...our
goals."
     "And your goals would be?"
     "Our goals----are your goals.  That is all you need to remember. 
You will address the populace.  They will be angry.  Focus that
anger...upon Troy.  Upon the Battlestar Galactica."
     "Why?  What purpose would that serve?"
     "The Galactica---is the light.  Let these simple Earthlings look at
it in anger...so that they will be blind to the shadows around them."  As
always, Ptahepe spoke in a low, sibilant tone of voice.  Then, ever so
slightly, he bowed, and thought at Mollary.  Good day to you...Sire
Mollary, Ruler of all Earth.  
     Mollary jumped slightly at that, clearly not expecting it. 
Reflexively he looked around, as if trying to figure out where the voice
had come from, and then he looked at the Cylon.  His lips drew back in
anger, and he snarled, "Stay our of my head!"
     But the Cylon shook his head and thought at Mollary.  We will always
be there.
     Then he extended a hand to Mollary.  He did so as a symbolic
gesture, for he did not truly expect Mollary to take it.  And Mollary did
not.  Instead, he stared at the hand as if it were dried excrement. 
Ptahepe then stepped back and allowed the shadows of the early evening to
swallow him up.

*****

PART 1
NIGHTFALL
     
Chapter 1

     When Mollary saw the creature emerging from the chest of the Cylon,
it was all he could do not to scream.
     A half dozen different ways of handling the situation tumbled
through his mind.  The first and foremost was to attack the Cylon, to
grab a weapon----a sword, preferably----and step forward, the steel
whipping through the air and striking home.  In his mind's eye, he could
see the robotic obscenity's head tumbling free of its body.  Then he
would take the creature's head and slam it on a pole.  He could stand
side-by-side with Vir, and they would wave at them and laugh at the
notion of anyone thinking that they could strong arm or bully the Ruler
of Planet Earth.
     Next he simply considered running from the room.  That, in
particular, seemed an attractive notion as he watched the red-eyed robot
skitter across the floor toward him.  
     He thought of crying out for help.  He thought of trying to arrange
some sort of bargain.  He would ask the Cylons what else he could offer
beside himself----there had to be some way to appease the wrath of these
beings, other than allowing that terrifying one-eyed robot to attach its
parasitic self to his body.
     He thought of begging, of pleading, of swearing eternal fealty to
the Cylons or to the spirit of the Dark Ones.  He thought of reminding
the Cylons of all the times that he'd been helpful to, and supportive of,
their departed masters.
     What do you want?
     The question first had been posed to him by Xavier, at a time that
seemed eons ago.  It was the question he was now tempted to hurl at the
Cylon.  What could he offer the Cylon that might suit them better than he
himself?  A terrifying array of possibilities came to him.  He could
offer them Troy or Delenn, the president  and first lady of the Council
of Twelve.  Bring them to the Cylons, make them prisoners, or place
keepers on them.  Make them servants to the Cylon cause.
     Or Kar!  Good Lords of Kobol, let them take Kar.  Granted, he and
the Nomen had healed the wounds of their relationship, but there was
still that vision that he had had.  The vision that one day Kar would be
at his throat, primal fury boiling  in his one true eye.  Yes, he could
turn Kar over to the Cylons and let him serve the collective Cylons will.
Or...or...
     He could...he could offer them Vir.  That was a possibility.  A good
one.  A great one, in fact.  Let Vir lose his free will and independence
to the Cylons---he didn't have much use for it anyway.  The hard truth
was, Vir was at his best when someone else was telling him what to do. 
So really, there wouldn't be any substantial difference from what his
life had been, and it might even show marked improvement.
     As quickly as all those options had occurred to him, he dismissed
them all.  These were his friends...his allies...or at least, they had
been.  Though in terms of Troy, in particular, a deep and abiding desire
for vengeance still burned brightly.  It was, after all, the crossfires
between Galactica forces and the Cylon Alliance that had, unfortunately,
ended with Earth being unintentionally bombed back to the Stone Age,
leaving the beautiful planet in flaming ruins.  And was not Troy himself
always quick to condemn Mollary for every slight, real or imagined?
     But as Mollary watched the one-eyed monster wrap itself around his
leg and draw itself up his body, he came to the hideous understanding
that he would not wish such a fate even on his worst enemy.  That would
most unquestionably not be Troy, and certainly not Delenn.  No, despite
their rapprochement, the title would likely still be held by Kar.  Even
on Kar, though, he would have no wish to see that...that thing...attach
itself.  
     Nobody deserved that.
     Including Mollary himself.
     It's not fair, he thought bleakly, it's not right.  I've got to stop
it...I can still pry it off me, throw it down, step on it, grind it
beneath my boot...
     But if he did so, he knew what would happen next.  The Cylon would
pull out his detonator, as he'd done before, but this time nothing would
stop his thumb from slamming home.  And when he did, millions of
Earthlings would die, just like that.  Fusion bombs hidden by the Cylons
would detonate, and the victims would never even know what hit them. 
They would simply disappear in a massive burst of heat and flame,
millions of lives terminated.
     For a moment, just a moment, he considered it.  After all, they
would be dead and gone.  Their torment would lat a brief micron or two at
most, and then it would be over and done with.  They would be placed
within the safety of the grave.  More accurately, their ashes would be
scattered to the safety of the four winds, blowing the length and breadth
of Earth.  This, as opposed to Mollary's living a life of perpetual
punishment, the keeper monitoring his moves, sitting like a permanent,
one-eyed pustule on his shoulder.  Watching, monitoring, always there,
never giving him a moment's peace...
     Peace.
     That was what it came down to really, wasn't it? Peace?
     For when he pictured those millions of Earthlings vanishing in the
instant holocaust of the bombs, in his minds eye they were battered and
bewildered.  Covered in soot and ash, clothes torn, looking to the sky in
bewilderment and fear and wondering when the barrage would ever cease. 
They had no idea.  No idea that Earth had been marked for
destruction----the last outpost of humanity to be blasted into darkness,
all for the glory of the Cylon Alliance.  No idea that he, Mollary, was
the cause for it.
     No idea that they would still be living in blissful ignorance of
life beyond their world, if it were not for Mollary.
     He had stretched for his hand to help reunite the Earthlings with
their long-lost brothers, to lead them out of the past and into the
future.  Stretched forth his hand like a shepherd, but instead he had
crushed his flock.  His victims had cried out his name, and he had
brought  them to utter ruin.  For if he had not desired to reunite the
Colonies and Earth, then none of this would have happened.  There would
have been no Dark Ones involvement.  None of the heartache and grief that
had permeated the last five yahrens would ever have occurred.  It was
because of him, all because of him.
     That's what this was, then.  As the keeper pocked and probed, as its
tentacles swept across his bare skin and made him cringe inwardly. 
Mollary realized that this was his punishment.  A cosmic sentence of
justice was being carried out.  Because of who he was and the nature of
what he had done, he could never be jailed.  Instead, his jail would be
his own mind and body.  They were being taken from him, and he was going
to be trapped within them while lease over them was given to the keeper. 
It was a prison sentence, and the sentence was life.
     From where he stood, he could smell the smoking ruins of Earth.  He
so admired that lost colony.  All he had wanted to do was reunite his
people with those people.  But he made a horrible miscalculation.  He
hadn't realized that the very things that he so despised truly were
great.  Peace, prosperity, happiness, ignorance----what prizes those
things were, what joys they brought with them.
     Perhaps he had lost sight of the truth because of those with whom
he'd associated.  He had spent so time walking the halls of power,
plotting and planning.  He had lost sight of the fact that they, like
him, had been hedonistic, scheming and selfish.  They had cared only for
pleasure, and that was usually obtained over the dead bodies of others.
     Mollary had forgotten that such people represented only the smallest
percentage of the Human Race.  That the vast, vast majority of humans,
Colonial or Earth, were simple, hardworking people who wanted nothing
more from life than to live it as simply as possible.  They were not
decadent; they were not power seekers.  They were just descent, orderly
folk.  They were the ones whom Mollary had let down the most.  It was
their homes burning, it was their screams he fancied he could hear
echoing in his head.
     He closed his eyes and wished that he could slap his hands over his
ears and, in so doing, shut out the cries that would not leave him.
     And the keeper was there.
     He felt it sinking its electronic consciousness into his, attaching
and intertwining their interests.  Then he became aware of the Cylon
watching him---from without and from within.  It was as if the keeper had
given the Cylon a viewport into his very soul.  It was invasive, it was
nauseating, it was...
     ...it was just what he deserved.
     Despite all the turmoil that roiled through his mind, he never once
allowed it to show.  They could rob him of his freedom, his independence,
his future, his very soul, but they could not remove him from his pride,
and the way he carried himself.  Whatever else happened, he was still the
great Sire Mollary, master bureaucrat.  That was why he had not blubbered
or begged.  He only sighed with inward relief that he had not given in to
his momentary weakness sand started offering up others to take his place,
to be enslaved.  For if he had done so, he didn't think he could've lived
with himself.  
     Live with himself.
     Suicide.  It was an option that doubtless remained to him still.  If
it came down to a contest of raw ill and the keeper tried to dissuade him
from that course, he was reasonably sure that he could still overcome its
influence at last long enough to do the deed.
     But where there was life, there was hope.  As long as he lived,
there might still be a way of ridding himself of the gallmonging
mechanism.  If he was dead, he had no fallback.  If he was
alive...anything could happen.
     He might still wind up waggling his fingers at the Cylon's head on a
pike.
     That thought led to one, and then another and another, and he
couldn't understand it.  It was as if every thought that he'd ever had
was suddenly tumbling one over the other in his head.  A veritable
avalanche of notions and recollections...
     ...or perhaps...it was an overview.  Perhaps the Cylon, even at this
moment, was seeing...
     With a tremendous effort, Mollary shoved away the intrusion,
although he couldn't be sure whether it had been real or imagined.  He
found he could barely stand.  He put one hand to his forehead and let out
an unsteady sigh.
     And then the Cylon said the most curious thing. He said, "You will
be all right."
     What an odd thing for him to have said.  The Cylons were uniformly
heartless, evil creatures----Mollary knew this beyond a certainty.  What
point was there in one of their number pretending that he would be "all
right."
     "No," he growled, aware of the presence of the...the device on his
shoulder.  "I will never be all right again."
     The Cylon babbled some meaningless phrases at him, and Mollary
barely paid attention, giving responses off the top of his head that had
little meaning, that he didn't even remember moments later.  All he could
think about was that eye, perched so close, watching him.
     The Dark Ones...the terror they had spread had come in the form of
their vast and powerful ships.  The only personal contact he'd ever had
with them had been through Xavier, and he had merely been their voice. 
Now, however, the enemy had a face, in the person of this Cylon who was,
even as they spoke, gliding back into the shadows that had vomited him
up.  And the enemy had established an eternal, vigilant presence in the
form of the keeper, which was settling in, part of him now until he died.
     Until he died!
     That was the point at which he began toying with the idea.

*****

     He held the sword, caressed it almost lovingly.  It had been quite
some time since he had been able to look at it.  It was an elegant
blade---the one he had used to kill his friend, the companion of his
childhood, Jaddo.  Jaddo, who had come to the Galactica seeking Mollary's
aid in a political game that was going to leave his family name in ruins. 
Jaddo, who had obtained that aid...by choreographing a duel during which
he had died at Mollary's hands so that his----Jaddo's---family would
henceforth be protected by the house of Mollary.
     The protection of the house of Mollary.  What a ghastly joke.  It
had certainly afforded Mollary himself a good deal of protection, hadn't
it?
     Mollary's brain hadn't stopped working from the moment the keeper
had become attached to him.  He had picked up on the fact that the robot
did not, could not read every thought that crossed his mind.  It would
report his actions to the Cylon and they, in turn, might intervene, but
it had to be actions, actions that ran contrary to the Cylons' interests. 
Mollary had taken no action yet, but he was certainly considering it.
     Wouldn't it be appropriate?  Wouldn't it be just?  If the universe
were really interested in the order of things, then what would be more
just than for Mollary to die by a thrust of the same sword that killed
Jaddo.  Something within Mollary had died that day.  If he used the same
sword, brought an end to the suffering that his life was to become, then
perhaps he would wind up where Jaddo was.  They would be young together,
young and free, and their existence would lie ahead of them once again. 
They would spar, they would laugh, and it would be good.
     Servants were quietly brining up his belongings, preparing to move
them to the Oval Office.  The sword was the only thing that he had not
given over to them.  Mollary was simply standing there, staring at it,
examining the glistening blade and wondering how it would feel sliding
gently across his throat.  He envisioned his blood pouring from the cut,
turning crimson the white uniform of his new office.  A remarkable color
scheme, that.  Most aesthetic.  
     And when the Cylon found his body---somehow he knew it would be the
Cylon---would the creature be smug over Mollary's premature demise,
feeling that the death of the Dark Ones had been repaid?  Or would the
Cylon be annoyed that Mollary's usefulness had not been fully exploited? 
That---was indeed a pleasing notion.  The thought of the Cylon being
frustrated, knowing that he and his hideous ilk could hurt Mollary no
longer.  Would the Cylons retaliate, by detonating the bombs and
annihilating his people?  No.  No, probably not.  The Cylon Alliance
didn't especially care about the people of Earth.  To the Cylons, they
existed merely to act as playing pieces, to keep Mollary in line.  If
Mollary were gone, the game was over.  With the king fallen, what point
would there be in knocking over the pawns?
     It would be the coward's way out, yes.  There was still so much that
needed to be done, and if he killed himself, there would never be any
chance to try and make good on all that he had done.
     Make good?
     The blade gleamed so brilliantly that he was able to see his
reflection in it.  
     Make good?  Make reparations?  Balance the scales?  What sort of
nonsensical conceit was that, anyway?  How could he possibly make good on
what he had done?  Millions----Good Kobol---billions had died because of
him.  And he was supposed to set that right somehow?  It was impossible,
simply impossible.  If he had a hundred lifetimes in which to do it, it
would still be a hopeless task.
     Perhaps----perhaps suicide wasn't the coward's way out at that. 
Perhaps suicide was the wise man's way of knowing when it was polite to
leave.  To keep his now-wretched existence going on this ravaged planet,
in the deluded belief that somehow he could make things better or atone
for his sins...
     Who was he kidding?  In the final analysis, who was he kidding?
     He became aware once more of the keeper on his shoulder.  He
wondered if, given enough time, he would become less aware of it.  If he
might become so used to it being there that he gave it no thought at all. 
If that circumstance did come about, he wasn't altogether sure whether it
would be a good thing or a bad thing.
     He placed the sword down.
     It was time.
     Time to see the farce through.  As for the rest, well, if it came to
that, there would be time enough.  Or perhaps the notion would go away on
its own.  His emotions were too raw, and he couldn't trust himself to
make a proper decision.  He had to allow himself time to figure out what
would be the best thing to do.
     The notion, however, did not go away.

*****

     He made his speech to the people of the Earth, as they huddled in
their homes, cowering in the burned-out shells of buildings that
represented the burned-out shells their lives had become.  The mental
picture of the sword remained in his head even as his own holographic
image loomed in the skies above Earth.  What he truly wanted to do was
apologize---humble himself to those helpless primitives, let them know
that it was he, and he alone, who was responsible for the hideous pass to
which they had come.
     But such a speech, honest as it might have been, wouldn't be in the
best interests of the Cylons.  They had their own agenda, and Mollary was
merely required to play his part.  They had made that quite clear.  Do as
he was told.  Be a good puppet.  Speak the speeches as were required, and
do not for a moment anger them.
     "I will walk alone to my inauguration," he announced.  "Take on the
burden of being your new leader in silence.  Please, people of Earth,
ring the bells of your churches, all day and all night, if you must, once
for each of your people killed in the bombings.  Be as one in your pain."
     But that wasn't true.  It was as much a sham as everything else
about him.  His pain was his own, and could never be shared or revealed. 
His pain was the infernal device on his shoulder.  His pain took the form
of nightmares that came to him in his sleep, that tormented him.
     "You have found, to your dismay, that you are not alone in this
universe," he told the Earthlings, "but you will not rebuild alone."  But
was there anyone on Earth who was more alone than he?  And the most
perverse aspect of it was that he wasn't alone, not really.  The keeper
was there, watching him, studying him, surveying him, never allowing him
a moment's peace.  It served as a constant reminder of his sin.  Vir the
keeper, the Cylons were with him as well.
     And more.
     There were the voices.  The voices of his victims, crying out to
him, protesting their fates.  These were the people who had gone to their
deaths screaming and sobbing and not remotely comprehending why this was
happening to them.  They were there, too, making their presence known.  
     It was entirely possible that, of everyone on Earth, Mollary was the
least-alone individual on the planet.  But that didn't mitigate the
circumstances of his situation at all.  For there was no one, no one,
whom he could tell a bout his predicament.  To do so would have spelled
death for that person, of that he was quite certain.  He existed, and
others maintained a presence near him, but he could allow no one to be
close to him. He had to drive away those who had once known him as no
others did.
     The worst part would be Vir.  Vir, who had stood by his side every
hideous step of the way, who had warned Mollary against the descent he
was taking into blackness.  Mollary hadn't listened, and Vir had been
right.  Perhaps that was why Mollary hadn't listened; because he had
known that Vir was right, and he didn't want to hear it.
     And Delenn.  After the speech, when they took their leave of him,
Delenn stepped forward and looked at him in such a way that he flinched
inwardly, wondering if somehow she was able to see the evil dripping on
his shoulder.  "I can no longer see the road you're on, Mollary," she
said. "There is a darkness around you.  I can only pray that, in time,
you will find your way out of it."
     When she said that, the image of the sword presented itself to him
once again, even more keenly than it had before.  Light glinting off the
blade, pure and true, calling to him. It was the way out...if he chose to
take it.
     He walked to the White House. Alone...but not alone.
     He took on the ornaments and responsibilities of the Ruler of the
Earth, and he could practically feel the sword across his throat now.  He
could almost hear the death rattle, feel the pure joy of the release.  He
would be free of it, free of the responsibility, free of everything.  The
sun was beginning to set.  And he knew, in his heart, that it was the
last sunset he'd ever see.  His resolve was stronger than it had ever
been, the certainty of his decision absolute.
     It felt right.  It felt good.  He had done the best that he could,
and his best had not been remotely good enough.  It was time to remove
himself from the game.
     He sat in the Oval Office that night, the darkness encroaching upon
him.  Its opulence, with its gleaming white walls, lush curtains, and
impressive oaken desk, carried whispers of this country, the United
States of America's, past greatness.  Despite the ghastly shades of times
past that always hovered there, he felt strangely at peace.  He felt the
keeper stirring upon his shoulder.  Perhaps the robot knew that something
was in the offing, but wasn't entirely sure what.
     The shadows around him seemed to be moving.  Mollary looked right
and left, tried to discern whether the Cylon was standing nearby,
watching him.  But there was nothing.  At least, he thought there was
nothing.  He could've been wrong...
     "Madness," he said to no one.  "I am driving myself to madness."  He
gave the matter a moment's blackly humorous thought.  "Maybe that's their
ultimate goal.  An interesting thought.  Reducing Earth to rubble just
for the dubious purpose of sending me into insanity.  Such overkill.  If
that was what they desired, they could just have locked me in a room with
my ex-wife for a sectan.  That would cause anyone to snap."
     To his surprise, a voice responded.  "Sounds like you had a one real
bitch of a wife, your excellency."
     He half turned in his chair and saw a man standing just inside the
doorway, regarding Mollary with polite curiosity.  He was a stern-faced,
ruggedly handsome Earthling in his mid-to-late forties.  What hair he had
left he wore plastered down close to the back of his head.  he     But in
the case of this particular Earthling, the one who had interrupted
Mollary's musings, it wasn't his face and hairstyle that caught Mollary's
attention.  Nor was it the starched and pressed leisure suit he wore so
smartly.  No, it was his general attitude.  He had an eagerness about
him...but it wasn't a healthy sort of eagerness.  Vir, for example, had
been cloaked in eagerness to please, one of Vir's more charming features. 
But this man----he had the attitude of a carrion-eating bird perched on a
branch, watching a dying man and mentally urging him to hurry up and get
on with it.
     "You're the Earthling called Ham Tyler, are you not?" Mollary asked
after a moment.
     Mollary had heard many stories about Ham Tyler.  He had at various
times worked for the military, the CIA, and as an international 
mercenary.  He was married to a Eurasian woman and had one daughter, but
both his wife and daughter were killed by 'friendly fire' during the
Vietnam war.  
     As a soldier in Vietnam, Tyler saw the horrors of war first-hand and
encountered all of the brutal tricks of rebels fighting a superior
adversary.  He came to understand that resolve and determination were
greater weapons than B-52's and Agent Orange.  He saw the jungles pounded
with tons of bombs.  He saw comrades die from snipers and pongee sticks
and he learned the ways of rebellion.  He came to see that wars go on for
no apparent reason and that they end for surprising and inexplicable
reasons. 
     After the fall of Saigon he was discharged but found that civilian
life held no challenges for him.  He tried looking up war buddies and
found them burned out and trapped in menial jobs which demeaned them in
body and spirit.  The world had moved on and left him - but he was
determined to catch up. 
     "Yes, your excellency," Tyler said.  "I used to work for Xavier, but
now that he's gone..." He bowed slightly.  "...I'll be working for you,
to serve at your good humor, excellency."
     "My humor is less than good at the moment, Mr. Tyler.  I do not
appreciate interruptions into my privacy."
     "No disrespect intended, excellency, I didn't know you were alone. 
I heard you talking and thought you were deep in conversation with
somebody.  Since your schedule doesn't call for you to have anyone in
this room with you at this time of night----I thought I'd make sure that
you weren't being subjected to any threat.  I'm sorry if I somehow
intruded or made you uncomfortable."
     He had all the right words and expressed them perfectly, and yet
Mollary, still reacting on a gut level, didn't like him. 
Perhaps...perhaps it was because, in addition to having the right words,
it seemed to Mollary if Tyler knew they were the right words.  He wasn't
expressing his sentiments, whatever those might be.  Instead, he was
saying just what he thought Mollary wanted to hear.
     Another possibility, Mollary had to admit, was that he was becoming
so suspicious---jumping at shadows; seeing plots, plans, and duplicity
everywhere---that even the most casual meeting brought sinister overtones
with it.  He was beginning to view the world entirely in subtext,
searching out that which was not said, forsaking that which was spoken. 
It was no way to live.
     Then again---that wasn't really a serious consideration for him
these days, was it?  Not on this, the final day of his life.
     Tyler hadn't moved.  Apparently he was waiting for Mollary to
dismiss him.  Mollary promptly obliged him.  "I won't be needing you this
evening, Mr. Tyler.  As for your continuing to serve, well...we shall see
how my humor transforms with the passage of time.
     "Fine, excellency.  I'll make sure that security men remain at all
exits."
     Mollary was not enthused at that fastidious prospect.  If he did
decide to do himself in---as was looking more likely by the moment----the
last thing he needed was for a couple of guards to hear his body thud to
the floor.  If they came running in to save him and somehow, against all
hope, succeeded----the embarrassment and humiliation would be
overwhelming.  And what if he decided to depart the White House grounds,
to  commit the deed somewhere more remote?
     Then again, he was the chief administrator.
     "That will not be necessary," he said firmly. "I believe the
manpower may be better deployed elsewhere."
     "Better?" Tyler cocked an eyebrow.  "Better than maintaining the
safety of the new ruler of Planet Earth?  I don't think so, your
excellency."
     "I do not recall asking your opinion on the matter," Mollary
informed him. "They will leave, as will you."
     "With all due respect..."
     "Stop telling me how much you respect me!" Mollary said with obvious
irritation.  "If I were a young virgin girl and you were endeavoring to
seduce me, you might understandably offer repeated protests of how much
you respect me.  I feel safe in assuming that this is not your intent
though, yes?"
     "Yes, Your Excellency, you'd be quite safe with that assumption."  A
hint of a smile briefly tugged at the edges of Tyler's mouth.  Then he
grew serious again.  "However, not only is your safety my primary
concern, it's part of my job description.  Well, you could, of course
fire me, but that'd be dumb if I were let go just because I was doing my
job.  It's been my understanding that you, Sire Mollary, are the fairest
minded individual to visit our backward little mudball, ever.  Is that
right, or isn't it?"
     Oh yes, very facile.  Very good with words.  Mollary wasn't fooled
for even a moment by his comments.  Still...
     It didn't matter.  Not really.  All Mollary had to do was wait until
he retired for the night.  Then, lying in the Lincoln Bedroom, he could
quietly put an end to himself.  Since he would be lying flat, he wouldn't
need to worry about "thumps" alerting guards.
     That was it.  That was all he had to do.  Bid Mr. Tyler good night,
retire for the evening----and then retire permanently.  That was it. 
Dismiss Mr. Tyler and be done with it.
     Tyler waited expectantly.
     Mollary didn't like him.
     He had no idea why he was operating on such a visceral level.  Part
of him actually rejoiced in the notion that, soon, Tyler would be someone
else's problem.  But another part of him wondered just what Tyler was up
to.  He was...a loose end.  Mollary hated loose ends.  He particularly
hated the knowledge that this loose end might unravel after he was gone.
     "Would you care to take a walk?" he asked abruptly.  He was shocked
at the sound of his own voice.
     "A walk, Excellency?  Why sure!  Where on the grounds would..."
     "No.  Not on the grounds.  I wish to walk into the city."
     "The...city, sir?"  Tyler looked as though he hadn't quite heard
Mollary properly.
     "Yes, Mr. Tyler.  I have a desire to see the capitol of America
closely..." One last time.
     "I don't think that'd be wise, Excellency."
     "Is that a fact?"
     "Yes, Excellency," he said firmly. "At this time, my people are..." 
His voice trailed off.  He seemed reluctant to finish the sentence.
     So Mollary finished it for him.  "Your people are my people now, Mr.
Tyler.  Am I to hide in here from them?"
     "That might be best, at least for the time being, Excellency."
     "Your opinion is duly noted."  He slapped the armrests of the chair
and rose.  "I shall walk about the city, and I shall do so alone."
     "For God's sake, excellency, no!"
     "No?" Mollary stared at him, his thick eyebrows knitting in a
carefully controlled display of imperial anger.  "I do not recall asking
for your approval, Mr. Tyler.  That is one of the benefits of ruling a
planet:  you are entitled to take actions without consulting underlings." 
He gave particular stress to that particular word.
     Tyler didn't appear to take the hint, however, although he did
ratchet up his obsequiousness level by several degrees. 
"Excellency---there are ways that certain things are done...certain
protocols..."
     "That will be the exciting aspect of my tenure in this position, Mr.
Tyler.  I do not follow protocol.  I follow the moment.  Now---I am going
for a walk.  I am the chief administrator. I think I am entitled to make
that decision, no?"
     "Well, at least..." Tyler seemed most urgent in his concerns.  "At
least, Excellency, and I pray I am not overstepping my bounds here, let
an escort follow you at a discreet distance.  You'll be alone---but you
won't be alone.  I hope that sounds clear..."
     Something about the irony of the suggestion struck Mollary as
amusing.  "Yes.  Yes, it is quite clear.  And let me guess:  you will
accompany these 'phantom' guards, yes?"
     "I'll supervise the honor guard myself, Excellency, if you wish."
     "You would be surprised, Mr. Tyler, how little my wishes have to do
with anything," Mollary said.  "Suit yourself.  Exercise your free will. 
At least someone around here should be able to."
     And so Mollary walked out into the great capital city of the U.S.A.,
Washington D.C., for what he anticipated would be the last time.  He
crisscrossed the city, making arbitrary decisions and occasionally
backtracking.  The entire time, a small platoon of armed men trailed him,
with Mollary keeping a close-up and somewhat wary eye upon them all.
     As Mollary walked, he tried to drink in every aspect of the city,
every curve of every building.  Even the smell of burning structures and
rubble were sensations that he wanted to savor.  
     He had never found himself in quite this sort of mindset before. 
True, as he had prepared to accept the post of  Ruler of the Earth, his
life had flashed before his eyes.  Each moment that had been a fond
memory then was now tinged with pain.  Times past and even times
future---particularly that much dreamed-of moment when a one-eyed Kar
would spell his doom.  Well he was certainly going to wind up putting an
end to that particular prediction.  He took some small measure of comfort
for that.
     For so long, he had felt as if he were nothing more than the tool of
fate, possessing no control over his own destiny.  No matter what his
intentions, he had been propelled down a dark road that he had never
intended to travel.  Well, at least he would confound the fates in the
end.  It wouldn't be Kar's hand that ended his wretched existence...it
would be his own.  No one could harm him at this point in his life
except, of course, for himself...
     That was when the thick rock bounced off his nearly-bare skull.

*****

Chapter 2

     Mollary staggered from the impact.  It took him a moment to
understand fully what had occurred.  His first momentarily panicked
impression was that he had been hit by a lead projectile fired from an
Earthling's gun.  Odd that he would have been disturbed at such a notion. 
He was, after all, planning to do himself in before the evening was out,
so it would have been almost ungrateful to be angry at someone who
might've saved him the trouble.
     Then the very fact that he was still able to construct a coherent
thought was sufficient to tip him to the realization that what had hit
him was probably a piece of stone, not lead.  It had ricocheted off his
forehead and tumbled to the ground.  A rock, and easy enough to spot; it
was the only one tinged with red.
     Immediately the guards sprang into action.  Half of them formed an
impenetrable wall of bodies---a barrier against any possible encroachers. 
The rest bolted off in the direction from which the rock had come. 
Mollary had the briefest glimpse of a small form darting into the shadows
of nearby buildings.
     "C'mon, Excellency,' said Tyler, pulling at Mollary's arm.  "Let's
get you...back to the White House."
     "No!"
     "But we..."
     "No!" Mollary thundered with such vehemence that the guards around
him were literally caught flatfooted.  That provided Mollary the
opportunity he needed to push impulsively through the guards and run
after the group who were, in turn, pursuing his assailant.
     "Excellency!" called a horrified Tyler, but Mollary had obtained a
descent lead.
     Nevertheless, moments after the guards set out in pursuit of
Mollary, they managed to draw alongside him...not a difficult
accomplishment since they were by and large younger and in better shape. 
As for Mollary himself, he found that he was already starting to feel
winded, and felt a grim annoyance that he had let himself get into such
poor shape.
     Perhaps, he thought bleakly, he should have taken a cue from Vir. 
Lately Vir had whipped himself into impressively good shape.  "How did
you do it?" he once had asked.
     "Ate less, drank no ambrosa, and exercised.  
     "Radical," Mollary had responded, sniffing in disgust.
     Now, as his heart pounded and his breath rasped, he felt as if it
hadn't been such a radical notion after all.
     Tyler, only a few steps behind, called, "Excellency!  This really is
most improper!  There could be an ambush!  It's crazy!"
     "Why would it...be an ambush?" huffed Mollary. "You said
it...yourself...this is crazy...So who would...create an ambush...and
have it hinge...on the target doing something...crazy?"
     The chase was slowing considerably.  There was fallen rubble from
shattered buildings, blocking the path.  This hadn't deterred the guards,
though, as they had scrambled over debris with as much alacrity as they
could manage.  They had dedicated themselves to corralling whoever had
made such a vile attempt against any V.I.P.
     Then they slowed and fanned out, creating a semicircle around one
burned-out area.  It was quite evident, even from a distance, that they
had brought the assailant to heel.
     Mollary slowed, then stopped, and straightened his coat and vest in
order to restore some measure of dignity.  Tyler, who drew up next to
him, looked disgustingly fit and not the slightest out of breath. 
"Excellency, I gotta insist," he began.
     Mollary whirled on him.  "Upon what grounds would you insist,
precisely?"
     "Let me bring you back to the White House, where you'll be safe..."
     That was when they heard a female voice cry out, "Lemme go!  Lemme
go, ya damn bullying assholes!  And don't  touch 'em!  They didn't do
anything!  They're innocent!"
     "That is a child's voice," Mollary said, looking at Tyler with open
skepticism.  "Are you telling me that I must be escorted by armed men
back to the White House in order that I might avoid the wrath of a little
girl?"
     Tyler seemed about to try a response, but apparently he realize
there was nothing he could say at that particular moment that was going
to make him look especially good.  "No, Your Excellency.  Of course not."
     "Good.  Because I certainly would not want to think you were
questioning my bravery."
     Quite quickly, Tyler responded, "Why, I wouldn't dream of doing
that, Excellency."
     "Good.  Then we understand each other."
     "Yes we do, Excellency."
     "Now then...I want to know what it is we're dealing with," he said,
and he gestured toward the cluster of figures that had gathered ahead of
them.
     Tyler nodded and moved off to get a summary of the events from the
guards who had caught up with the "assailant."  He listened as he was
filled in on the situation, and when he returned to Mollary, he clearly
looked rather uncomfortable about it all.  "It seems...you were right,
Excellency.  It's a young girl, not more than fifteen years old."
     "There are other people with her?"
     "Yes, Excellency.  A family...or at least what's left of one. 
They've constructed a rather crude shelter from material at hand.  They
say they took the girl in'cause she was wandering the streets and they
felt sorry for her."
     "I see."
     "Yes, and they appear somewhat...irate...that she's put them at risk
by drawing the wrath of the new Ruler of the Earth down on them."
     "Really.  Let them know that my wrath is not exactly out in full
bloom today, despite any untimely provocations," he said as he gingerly
fingered the cut on his head.  It was already starting to become swollen. 
"Better yet...I shall tell them myself."
     "It might still be a trick, Excellency," Tyler warned.  "Some kind
of trap."
     "If that should turn out to be the case, Mr. Tyler, and they draw a
pistol or some other kind of weapon that they plan to utilize," Mollary
said, clapping him on the shoulder, "I am fully confident that you will
hurl yourself into the line of fire, intercept their ammunition with your
own body, then died with praises for the Ruler of the Earth upon your
lips, yes?"
     Tyler looked less than thrilled at the notion.  "It...would be my
honor, Excellency, to serve you in that moment."
     "Let us both hope you have the opportunity," Mollary told him.
     Squaring his shoulders, Mollary walked over to where the guards had
surrounded his attacker.  They hesitated to let Mollary through, though,
only moving when Tyler gave them a silent nod.  For some reason this
irked Mollary to no end.  He was the Ruler of the Earth.  If he couldn't
even get a handful of guards to attend to his wishes without someone
validating his desires, what in the world was the point of ruling a
planet?
     But move aside they did, giving Mollary a clear view into the face
of a wounded and hurting Earth.
     There, in a makeshift lean-to, stood an Earthling family.  A father
and a young mother.  They also had two boys and a girl with them, between
the ages of twelve and fifteen.  Even had Mollary not known which of the
youngsters had decided to use him for target practice, he would have been
able to tell just by looking at them.  The boys, like their parents, were
staring toward the ground, afraid even to gaze into the face of their
emperor.  The father---the father, of all people---was visibly trembling. 
A fine testament to American manhood, that.
     But the girl, well...she was a different story, wasn't she?  She
didn't avert her eyes or shrink in fear of Mollary's approach.  Instead
she stood tall and proud, with a level and unflinching gaze.  She looked
quite gaunt, with high cheekbones and a swollen lip that marred her
features.  The blood on her lip was fresh.  "Did someone strike you?"
Mollary demanded, and then without waiting for a reply, turned to his
guards and said, "Who is responsible for this?"
     "I am, Excellency," one of the guards said, stepping forward.  "She
was resisting and I..."
     "Get out," Mollary said without hesitation.  "If you cannot reign in
a single child without brutality, then you have no place representing me. 
No, do not look to Mr. Tyler!" Mollary continued, anger rising.  "I am
still the power here, not the head of security.  I say you are out.  Now
leave."
     The guard did not hesitate.  Instead he walked quickly away. 
Mollary then turned to the girl and found nothing but disdain on her
face.  "You do not approve of my action?" he asked.
     The question had been intended as rhetorical, but she immediately
shot back a reply.  "You just give one of those thugs the sack and still
call yourself our new protector?   Don't gross me out!"
     "Watch your mouth, you little bitch!" raged Tyler, as if he himself
had been insulted.  "Excellency, let me..."
     But Mollary held up a calming hand and looked more closely at the
girl.  "I have seen you before, yes?  Have I not?"
     This time she didn't offer and immediate reply.  "Answer His
Excellency!" Tyler snapped, and Mollary didn't remonstrate him.  Youthful
insolence was one thing, and tolerance could certainly be a virtue, but
if the Ruler of the Earth asks a question, then By Kobol, one answers the
question---or else!
     Fortunately enough, the girl at least had the good sense to
recognize those things that were worth taking stands over, and those that
were not.  "Yeah, baldy----we've seen each other one or two times in the
past.  At the White House, when you were some kind of goodwill
ambassador."  When Mollary continued to stare at her without full
recognition, she added, "My parents were Tyler and Cameron Lawrence."
     The identification hit Mollary like a hammer blow.  Tyler Lawrence,
the Earthling billionaire that had been his one-time ally, whose
political ambitions had been instrumental in costing Mollary everything
he held dear.
     Whereas Mollary had made many ill-considered decisions that had set
him on a path toward darkness, Lawrence had dashed headlong down that
same path, reveling in the lies, duplicities, and betrayals that were a
part of power brokering and advancement in pre-war America.  He had been
a strategist and manipulator of the old school, well-versed in the ways
of deceit that had given the American upper crust its reputation as "a
bunch of power-hungry bastards."  And he had been directly responsible
for the deaths of several of those close to Mollary.  Mollary had gained
a revenge of sorts, arranging for Lawrence to meet a brutal and violent
death at the hands of some enraged former employees.  
     It had only been later that Mollary had come to realize just how
much both he and Lawrence had been used by the Dark Ones.  Granted,
Lawrence had been overzealous in embracing the power when it was
presented him, but Mollary had also held Lawrence accountable for acts
that had not been his responsibility.  Every so often Mollary would
envision what it must have been like for Lawrence, to die beneath the
fists and bludgeons of men and women he'd unfairly discharged from his
organization.  He had taken such pleasure in it at the time.  Now the
reconciliation only filled him with disgust and self-loathing.
     Looking upon the face of the young girl, however, Mollary---for the
first time---actually felt guilty.
     Then something about the girl's phrasing caught Mollary's attention. 
"Your mother 'was' Cameron Lawrence?  Then she is...?"
     "Dead," the girl said tonelessly.  If there was any capacity for
mourning within her, it had either been burned away or buried so deeply
that it couldn't harm her.  "She was one of the first to die when those
Cylon bastards bombed Earth."
     "I...am sorry for your loss," Mollary told her.
     Tyler added quickly, "But His Excellency's sympathy for your plight
doesn't excuse your assault on him."
     "My assault?  I only hit him with a goddamn rock!" said the girl. 
"And what about his crimes?  What excuses him?"
     "My crimes," Mollary stifled a bitter laugh.  "And what know you of
my crimes, child?"
     "We Americans believe that a good leader protects his people.  You
blamed the President for bringing us to this state, but you made some
kind of puppet out of him.  If you'd stayed on board that---what did you
call it----Battlestar of yours, instead of getting mixed up in things
that weren't any of your business, none of this would have happened.
     "And what do you plan to do with us?" she added, and she pointed at
him with a quavering finger.  "That lofty load of shit about us 'not
rebuilding alone'?  What kind of...of crap is that?   Who's gonna help
us?  You Colonials?  You can barely take care of yourselves, let alone
us!   We're gonna have to pay out the wazoo to fix the damage you and the
Cylons have done, maybe even sink ourselves right into another goddamn
depression!  We're gonna be licking our wounds and sulking in the
darkness!  You bastards really wanna help us?  Get the hell back where
you came from!"
     "Despite our internal problems, my dear, we Colonials will help
you," said Mollary quietly.  "But----we cannot do so without
your----American pride."
     "To hell with American pride!" she said with fire.  "What about
human blood?  What about human bodies piled high?  I've seen bawling
babies feeding themselves off the breasts of their dead mothers.  Have
you?  I've seen people blind, missing arms and legs, hopeless.  Have you? 
Why are you walking around D.C. for?  To symbolize something?  Bullshit! 
You don't want anyone around because you don't want to have to look into
their eyes and feel guilty.  You don't want to have your personal triumph
spoiled by seeing all those who suffered 'cause you were such a goddamn
nitwit!  You don't want to have to look at the bodies you crawled over to
get into power."
     "Shut up!" Tyler fairly exploded.  "Excellency, she's crossed the
line!  You should..."
     "Why do you rage, Mr. Tyler?" Mollary asked calmly.  "She simply
uses words, not stones.  It is a funny thing about words.  They cannot
hurt you unless you allow them to...unlike rocks, which tend to act as
they wish." He paused and then said quietly, "You are wrong, child. 
Wrong about a great many things...but right about a few.  Which things
you are right about, I think I shall keep to myself for the time being. 
Think of it as----executive privileged.  You are quite brave, do you know
that?"
     For a moment, the girl seemed taken aback, and then she composed
herself.  "I'm not brave.  I'm just too pooped and hungry and pissed-off
to give a damn anymore."
     "Perhaps such feelings are not mutually exclusive.  Perhaps bravery
is simply apathy with delusions of grandeur."
     "Then they're your delusions, baldy!" she said.  "I don't have any
left."
     "Indeed.  Then perhaps...we should attend to that."  Mollary
scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment, and then said to Tyler,
"See that these people---this family---is fed and clothed and found a
decent shelter.  Take money from my discretionary funds as needed.  You,"
and he pointed to the girl," what is your name?  I should recall it from
our past encounters, but I regret I do not."
     "Amber," she said.  She looked slightly suspicious and uncertain of
what was about to happen.  That pleased Mollary.  Considering that she
had spoken with such conviction before, and considering that all of her
conviction had been tied up with the utter certainty that Mollary was a
heartless bastard who cared nothing for his people, it pleased him to see
her a bit confused.
     "Amber," repeated Mollary.  "Amber---you are going to live at the
White House.  With me."
     "Excellency!" cried a shocked Tyler.
     Amber looked no less weary.  "I'm not flattered.  I have no interest
in becoming your little mistress..."
     This drew a bitter laugh from Mollary.  "That is quite fortunate,
for if that were your career goal, I could assure you that you would not
have much opportunity to pursue it on Earth."
     She shook her head in puzzlement.  "Then what?"
     "You have a spirit to you, Amber," said Mollary.  "A spirit that is
symbolic, I think, of not only what the United States of America was, but
of what it could be again.  A spirit that is...lacking, somewhat, I
think, in the White House.  Too many people with their own agendas
hanging about, and I do not exclude myself.  You shine with the youthful
light of conviction, Amber.  I would have that light shining in the White
House.  Light tends to chase away shadows."
     "Excellency..." For a moment she seemed overwhelmed, and then her
more customary attitude of defiance came back to her.  "I dunno..."
     "You ricocheted a rock off my head, child. If you were going to
speak of respect, don't, for it is too late."
     "Pretty words coming from you, baldy.  But I still don't...I don't
wanna be grateful to you."
     "Nor would you have to be.  If you wish, think of it as simply
something that I am doing in memory of your parents.  Tyler Lawrence
was...an ally, for a time.  I feel some degree of responsibility for
his..."
     Death.  For his death.
     "...family," he continued.  "His family, of which you are the only
surviving member, yes?  She nodded and he concluded, "So...there it is."
     "There what is?"
     "Amber," Mollary said, his patience starting to erode ever so
slightly, "I am offering you a home that is a considerable step up from
the streets.  You will have comfort, the best teachers available to
complete your education, and you will want for nothing.  In that way..."
     "Can you purchase peace of mind?"
     Mollary stared at her for a moment, and then turned to Tyler and
said. "Come.  Let us waste no more time here."
     Tyler appeared rather relieved at this decision.  "Aren't we gonna
punish her, Excellency?  She attacked you, y'know."
     "She has lost her parents, Mr. Tyler.  She has been punished
enough."
     "Wait a minute...!"
     "Enough!"  There was no mistaking the tone in his voice.  A line had
been drawn and Tyler would cross it at his own peril.  It was peril that
Tyler rather wisely chose not to face.  Instead, he simply bowed his head
in acknowledgement and acquiescence.
     And so they returned to the palace, for what Mollary was convinced
would be his final night alive.

*****     

Chapter 3

     Mollary sat in the Oval Office, staring out the window at the rain. 

     It had begun within millicentons after his arrive back at the White
House.  It had been accompanied by almost deafening blasts of thunder,
lightning crackling overhead, and it seemed to Mollary---who was feeling
rather fanciful in what he believed to be his waning moments---that the
very skies were weeping on behalf of Earth.  Normally Earthlings viewed
such heavy rains as "cleansing," but all Mollary could envision were
streams of red water washing the away the blood of all those who had
fallen in the skirmishes.
     He could not get the image of Amber from his mind.  Such pain, such
anger on her face...but there was something else, too.  There had been
several moments there when she had seemed as if she wanted to believe in
Mollary.  To believe that he was capable of serving the people, of
operating on not only here behalf, but the behalf of everyone on Earth. 
In a way, it was as if Mollary had embodied the entire schism between
himself and the Earthlings in this one girl.
     It was unfair, of course.  Ridiculous, even absurd.  As a symbols
she represented nothing, as an individual, she meant even less.  But
there was something about her nevertheless.  It was as if...
     Mollary remembered when he had first met Kar.  Even before that
time, Mollary had dreamt of his own death, had envisioned a Nomen with
his hands around his throat, squeezing the life from him.  When he'd
actually encountered Kar, he had recognized him instantly, had known that
this was someone who was going to factor into his future in a most
significant way.  Most significant, indeed.
     The feeling had not been quite as distinct when he'd met Amber, of
course.  For one thing, he had encountered her before, in passing. For
another, she had never featured into a dream.  Not yet, anyway. 
Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel that she was...important in some
manner.  That what happened to her was going to matter, to the
Earthlings, the Colonials...and to him.
     Then again, what did anything matter to him?
     He had been drinking rather heavily that evening, as if steeling
himself for what he had resolved to do.  Originally he'd thought that
what he would have to do is slay the keeper and then---very
quickly---himself, before the action of breaking up the small device
could bring the Cylon down upon him.  But he had noticed that, in raising
his blood/alcohol level to a satisfyingly high degree, he seemed to be
dulling the sensors of the keeper.  The robot's presence no longer seemed
so---tangible.  The keeper was so intertwined with his own neural system
that he thought he could actually sense the creature snoring, in his
mind.  
     The notion that he was capable of drinking his little companion
under the table became a source of great amusement to him.  It was also a
relief to him.  He wouldn't have to contend with the keeper or whatever
unknown resources it might possess, after all.  By getting drunk, he was
effectively taking the monster out of     His blade hung comfortably
nearby.  He still remained concerned about the proximity of guards,
outside the doors.  But he was just going to have to take his chances. 
He had considered the notion of poisoning himself, but somehow that
seemed inappropriate.  Poison was the tool of the assassin.  He should
know, having planned enough assassinations in his time.  Besides, the
keeper might actually be able to counteract poison, for all he knew.  Now
the blade---that was the classic, honorable means of dispatching oneself,
going all the way back to the time of Tauron's first settlers.  
     The time of Tauron's first settlers.
     "I was born in the wrong century," he muttered to himself.  "To have
lived then----to have known the men who built the colony...what I would
give to have had that opportunity.  Perhaps they would have possessed the
strength to face that which I am leaving behind.  But I do not.  All I
have tasted in my life is failure, and I think it is time for me to get
up from the dinner table and let others sit in my place."
     "Your Excellency."
     The voice came so utterly out of nowhere that Mollary jumped
somewhat.  He felt the keeper stir in its drunken slumber, but without
being roused by it.  
     He didn't bother to get up from the desk, but instead half turned to
see a guard enter.  Thunder rumbled again.  It made a nicely dramatic
underscoring to his entrance.
     "Sorry for disturbing your..." began the guard.
     "Yes, yes, get on with it," Mollary gestured impatiently.  "What is
it?"
     "Someone here to see you, sir."
     "I left specific instructions that I am not to be disturbed."
     "We know that, Excellency.  But it's a young lady you stated that
she was here at your direct invitation.  Given that, we felt it wisest to
check with you before throwing her back into..."
     Mollary half rose from his chair and steadied himself on the
armrest.  "A young lady?"
     "Yes, Your Excellency."
     "Would her name be Amber?"
     The guard looked both surprised and a bit relieved, as if realizing
that his decision to interrupt the bureaucrat's peaceful evening wasn't
going to rebound to his detriment.  "Yes, Excellency, I believe so."
     "Bring her in."
     The guard returned moments later with Amber.  She was utterly
waterlogged; Mollary felt as if he had never seen anyone so wet.  If she
had hair, it would have been plastered all over her face.  As she walked
in, she left a trail of water behind her, until she simply stood there
with a large puddle forming at her feet.  She was shivering, but trying
not to show it.  
     "Leave us," Mollary said.
     "Excellency," said the guard, "for security reasons..."
     "Security?  Look at her," said Mollary. "Where do you think she is
hiding weapons, eh?"  It was a true enough observation.  Her clothes were
sodden and clinging to her.  The was nowhere on her person that she could
have been concealing a weapon of any size.  "Perhaps she will strangle me
with her bare hands, eh?  And I, of course, would be incapable of
defending myself in such a circumstance."
     "Hey, no offense intended, Excellency," the guard said.  He appeared
about to say something else, but then thought better of it, and quickly
he absented himself from the Oval Office.
     They remained in silence for a long nomen, the only sound being the
steady dripping of water from her clothes.  Finally she sneezed.  Mollary
put up a hand to hide a smile.
     "Is your offer still open, sir?" she said after a time.
     "Why would you ask?"
     "Because, I think you were offering me food and shelter and aid for
the family that helped me when I was knee-deep in shit.  It'd
be...rude...of me to turn down aid on their behalf.  And," she cleared
her throat, gathering confidence, "if I'm here...then I can be a constant
reminder to you of what needs to be done to help Earth.  It's real easy
to become isolated here in the White House.  You can get so caught up in
the gamesmanship and machinations needed to keep you in power.  You'd
easily forget about what you're supposed to be using the power for, God
knows enough Presidents have.  But if I'm here, I can remind you of that. 
You'll never be blind to it while I'm around."
     "I see.  So you wish to live here, not out of any desire for comfort
and warmth for yourself, but because of the benefits that your being her
will render to others."
     She nodded.  "Yes.  Yes,---I guess that's it."
     "Did you have any shelter for this evening, I wonder? And do not lie
to me," he added sharply, his tone hardening.  "You will find that I am a
superb judge of such things.  Lie to me upon pain of death."
     She licked her lips and her shivering increased ever so slightly. 
"No," she admitted.  "The family that took me in...threw me out.  They
were...they were made at me for turning you down.  They said it could've
helped them.  They said that in ignoring other people, I was no better
than you are."
     "Harsh words.  To be no better than I...that is no way to live."
     She looked to floor.  "Can I still take you up on your offer?  Or
have I wasted your time and mine, and made an ass of myself for no
reason?"
     He considered her a moment, and then called, "Guard!"
     The guard who had escorted her in made his return with all due
alacrity.  He skidded slightly when he entered, his foot hitting the
trail of water that she'd left behind, but he quickly righted himself,
maintaining as much of his self-possession as possible given the
circumstances.  "Yes, Your Excellency?" he said.  Clearly he was
wondering if he was going to be given another opportunity to throw the
interloper out.
     "Prepare a room for Ms. Lawrence," Mollary instructed.  "See to it
that she is given dry clothes and warm food.  She will remain in
residence within the White House.  Make certain, however, that hers is
not a room near to mine.  We certainly would not want the wrong
impression to be given.  Proximity of the Lincoln Bedroom might be
misinterpreted by those of a more coarse bent. Is that not right, young
lady?"
     "It----it's right, Your Excellency."  Then she sneezed once more,
and looked almost apologetic for it.
     "Yes.  Yes, it is.  It is right if the Ruler of Earth says so.  Why
else rule a planet?  Go to, then.  Get some rest.  In the morning, we
will attend to the family who took you in...and, as happenstance would
have it, threw you out in their anger."
     "They were really pissed off.  Really."
     "I'm certain they were.  But perhaps the more one is faced with
anger, the more one should respond with forgiveness."
     "That's a...a very interesting thought, Excellency."
     "I have my moments, young lady.  In the morning, then.  We will
talk, yes?  Over breakfast?"
     "I..." There was clear surprise on her face as she realized what she
was saying.  "Yes, I---think  I would like that, Excellency.  See ya in
the mornin'!"
     "And I you, young lady.  As it happens, you see, it appears I will
indeed be here in the morning.  It would be rude to deprive you of a
breakfast companion.  And your National Weather Service has informed me
that, by morning, this storm will have passed.  A new day will be dawning
on Earth.  No doubt we will be a part of it."
     She bowed once more and then, as the guard began to escort her out,
Mollary called, "Guard---one other small matter."
     "Yes, Excellency?" He turned smartly on the heel of his wing-tip
Hush Puppy shoes.
     "Do you see that sword I hung on the wall over there?"
     "Yes, Excellency.  It's quite impressive."
     "Yes, it is.  I would like you to take it and put it into storage. 
I do not think I will be needing it anytime soon."
     The guard didn't quite understand, but fortunately his understanding
was not needed.  "Very well, Excellency." He removed the sword from the
wall, and escorted Amber out.  She paused at the door ever so briefly and
glanced over her shoulder at him.  Mollary kept his face impassive,
although he did nod to her slightly in response.  Then they departed,
leaving the bureaucrat alone with his thoughts.
     He sat there for some time, listening to the rain.  He took in no
more drink that night, and as the time passed, he could feel the keeper
slowly stirring.  Lost in his own thoughts and considerations he paid it
no mind.  Finally he rose to his feet and left the throne room.  He made
his way down the hallway, guards acknowledging his presence as he did so.
     For the first time in a long time, he did not feel that he was a
sham.  He wondered if it was because of the girl.
     He entered his private quarters and pulled off the white coat of his
new office, removed his family emblem and hung it on a nearby peg.
     He'd had a work area set up at the far end of the Lincoln Bedroom,
and he turned toward it...and his heart skipped a beat.
     The Cylon was there.  How long he had stood in the shadowy section
of the room, Mollary had no idea.  "What are you doing here?" Mollary
demanded.
     "Studying," the Cylon said, his hand resting on the computer
terminal.  "Earthlings...interest you, I see.  You have much research."
     "I will thank you not to pry into my personal files," Mollary said
in annoyance.  It was, of course, an empty expression of frustration. 
After all, even if he didn't like it, what was he going to do about it?
     "One of our kind...studied Earthlings.  Centuries ago," said the
Cylon.
     That stopped Mollary.  He made no effort to hide his surprise. 
"What?  Andromidus was not the first Cylon to walk the Earth?"
     The Cylon nodded.  "A Cylon...took up residence here, long, long
before the time of the first Imperious Leader, when we were still
saurians.  Few saw him.  But word of him spread.  Word of the dark one,
the monstrous one who kept to the shadows.  Who stole his victims'
souls...and ruled them thereafter.  The Earthlings gave him a
name...Shaitan.  His legend lives on...or so I am told."
     It was the single longest speech Mollary had ever heard the Cylon
make.  As if the effort of doing so had drained his power pack, he
remained silent for some time.  They just stood there in the darkness,
like two warriors, each waiting for the other to make his move.
     Feeling bold, Mollary said, "And what do they call you, eh?  What
should I call you---since we seemed to be bound in this living hell
together."
     The Cylon seemed to consider the question a moment.  "Ptahepe," he
said at last.  Then he paused a time further, and said, "The girl."
     "What of her?"
     "She is not needed."
     "Perhaps.  But that is not your concern."
     "If we say it is...it is."
     "I desire her to stay.  She poses no threat to you or your plans."
     "Not yet.  She may."
     "Felgercarb!" Mollary could hide his exasperation no longer.  "She
is a young Earthling girl who will become a young woman and take her
rightful place in Earth society.  If I left her out on the street, where
her resentment could grow and fester, who knows what she might do then,
eh?  I am doing us a favor."
     "Are you?" The Cylon did not appear convinced.  Then again, with his
constant but chilling smile, it was hard for Mollary to read any change
at all in the Cylon's attitude.  "We do not like her.  We do like Ham
Tyler."
     "Tyler?  What of him?"
     "He has...potential."
     "What sort of potential?"
     The Cylon did not answer directly.  Instead he moved halfway across
the room, seemingly gliding across the distance.  "We are not...monsters,
Mollary.  No matter what you may think," he said. "We are, in many ways,
no different from you."
     "You are nothing like me, nor I like you," Mollary replied, unable
to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
     Ptahepe shrugged almost imperceptibly.  "We will offer a bargain. 
We do not have to.  But we offer it.  The girl may stay...but Ham Tyler
will become your Attorney General."
     "Never!" Mollary said impatiently.  "I know Tyler.  I know his type. 
He is power hungry.  And once someone who is power hungry is given power,
it whets the appetite for more.  The only way to deal with someone like
that is to lave him famished before he develops a taste for it."
     "He will be your Attorney General...or the girl will leave."
     There was a popular Earth phrase that suited such occasions. 
Mollary employed it now:  "Over my dead body!"
     "No," the Cylon said coolly.  "Over hers."
     Mollary's eyes narrowed.  "You wouldn't..."
     The comment was so preposterous that the Cylon didn't even bother to
reply.
     "She is innocent of any wrongdoing.  She deserves no harm," Mollary
said.
     "Then see that none comes to her," said the Cylon.  "For that
matter...see that none comes to yourself...for her death would quickly
follow."
     Mollary felt a chill run down his spine.  "I don't know what you're
talking about."
     "Good," said the Cylon.  "Then all will be well.  Tomorrow, you will
inform Ham Tyler of his appointment."
     Mollary said nothing.  There was no need.  They both knew that the
Cylon had him...had him in every way possible.
     Ptahepe glanced out the window of the Lincoln Bedroom.  The rain was
already beginning to taper off.  "Tomorrow promises to be a fine day. 
Enjoy it, Mollary.  It is, after all, the first of the rest of your
life."
     Mollary went to the light switch and illuminated the interior of the
room, then turned to the Cylon to offer a further protest over the
appointment of Ham Tyler.
     But the Cylon was gone, as if the light were anathema to him. 
Mollary was alone.
     Then he glanced at the keeper on his shoulder.  It was watching him
with a pulsing red eye.
     No.  Never alone.

*****

     From his place of communion, hidden within the darkest shadows of
the darkest area of the White House, Ptahepe reached out and touched the
darkness around him.  He drew it about himself tightly, enjoying the
coolness of it, the peace it brought him.
     And within the darkness, the Cylon Alliance was waiting for him,
attending to his communication so that he could impart to them the
progress on Earth.  To his surprise, there appeared to be a bit of
annoyance on the part of the Alliance.  They did not scold him or
reprimand him, of course.  Ptahepe's reputation was too great, his status
too elevated, for him to be treated in an offhand or condescending
manner.  Nevertheless, there was...concern...and a desire to find out why
certain actions had been taken, actions that simply did not compute to
the Cylon Alliance.
     At what game do you play, Ptahepe?  You told him your name.
     "He asked.  It makes no difference."
     Why do you bargain with Mollary?  Why do you not simply tell him
what must be done?
     "For what purpose?  To show him that we are the stronger?"
     Yes.  He must know who is the master.
     "He knows.  He knows.  He is, however, unwilling to accept.  He
resists our hold upon him.  He contemplated taking his own life."
     Are you certain?
     "Yes, I am certain.  He thought to hide it from me, but he can hide
nothing.  He merely thinks he can.  And if he cannot live under the
stewardship of the keeper, we will lose him."
     If we lose him, then we lose him.  He is simply another tool.  A
pawn.  Nothing more.
     "No," said Ptahepe sharply.  The sternness of his tone drew the
Alliance up short.  "He is more.  He is much more.  He is not
interchangeable, and although he is of course expendable, he is not to be
so lightly tossed aside as the others.  He is a visionary.  We can help
that which he envisions to come true.  But our task becomes that much
easier when our vision becomes his, as well."
     What do you propose?
     "Nothing except that caution be displayed, as much as possible. 
That we allow events to play out, rather than force hands.  That Mollary
be guided in our path rather than be forced.  Particularly because if he
believes certain things to be inevitable, or that certain ideas are his
own, it facilitates our making of use of him.  It will bring matters to
fruition that much more quickly and efficiently."
     It does not matter how subtly you wish to influence him.  He will
never willingly accommodate certain aspects of our plane.  His spirit
must be broken, not treated gently.
     "What will he refuse to accommodate?" asked Ptahepe skeptically.
"From what will he shrink?"
     Troy.  He will never assent to the death of Troy.  Nor will he
willingly stand by while the entire Human race is obliterated.  Not
unless he is made to realize that he has no choice.
     "Do not underestimate the lack of love he feels for the Fleet, and
for Troy in particular.  As for the Humans...he had no difficulty  in
allowing the entire race to stand, by itself, at the edge of oblivion
during their flight from us.  Now, when the personal stakes are so much
higher, he will be even less likely to intervene.
     "No, my brothers...trust me in this.  Sire Mollary is at his most
effective when he feels that he has some measure of control...even though
that control is merely an illusion that we permit.  One such as he will
not be broken immediately.  His spirit must be winnowed down.  It must be
carefully shaped.  We must understand his weaknesses and his strengths,
and work with both to our best advantage."
     Ptahepe...there are moments when it seems as if you actually like
this creature.
     "I feel have has great potential...and I would not see that
potential wasted through mishandling.  That, my brothers, is all."
     Very well, Ptahepe.  You have earned our trust and our respect.  We
leave it to you to attend to Earth, and to Sire Mollary, in whatever
manner you see fit.
     "By your command."
     But in the end, of course...it must turn out the only way that it
can.
     "With Mollary's humiliation and death, and the final destruction of
Earth? I assure you, my brothers...I would not have it any other way."
     With that, he felt the presence of the Cylon Alliance slip away from
him, like a shadow dissolving in light. And Ptahepe was left alone, with
his own thoughts and own schema.
     No.  Never alone.

*****

     In the bowels of the Battlestar Galactica, the sleeper slept.
     He did not know what he was, or who he was.  He thought of himself
merely as a vagabond, one who had found--if not a home---at least a place
that was less hostile than any other place in the universe.  Down Below
had a stench, but it was a familiar stench.  The doctors were there every
now and then, to deal with the most scabrous.  Work could be had, if one
wasn't looking to question the legality of it too closely.  
     Not much of a life...but it was a life, and he was content.
     He did not know that all his memories were false.
     He did not know that his recollections of how he came to reside on
the Galactica were erroneous.
     He thought he had a fairly good eye on his world, and understood the
ins and outs.  He didn't realize that he understood nothing.
     But he would.  He would.  The only problem was, at the point where
he understood...that was when it would be far too late.

*****

Chapter 4

     Amber lay back on the greensward, gazing toward the skies and the
clouds.
     "See anything interesting?" came the question from nearby. Brice
Kent lay there.
     It was how they always tended to conclude their study sessions,
Amber and Brice.  Brice explained that it gave him an idea of just how
much he had managed to expand her mind in that particular day's lessons. 
Amber, however, had come to look at it as simply an excuse for creative
woolgathering.
     As opposed to Amber, who always lay flat upon the grass, Brice had a
designer beach towel upon which he always reclined.  "I'm not as young as
you are," Brice would say to her, which always struck her as something of
an odd excuse, because in truth Brice was only a little more than twice
as old as she.  He was, however, fond of claiming that he was far older
than she in experience.
     Amber had been assigned a number of tutors since she had first come
to live at the White House, eight months ago.  She remembered that night
as if it were a distant dream.  Indeed, she had trouble associating the
girl she was then with the young woman that she was now.
     The Ruler of the Earth had extended a hand of friendship to a girl
who had ricocheted a rock off his skull, and she had had the temerity to
slap that hand away.  When she had come crawling back to him that night,
she had been convinced he was going to throw her out, chortling with
amusement over the pathetic young woman who had thought that she was
somehow entitled to anything more than contempt.
     Instead she had been given everything she could have wanted.
     "Why?" she had asked him the next day over breakfast.  She had not
felt the need to go any further into the question than that.  The one
word spoke volumes.
     And Mollary had understood.  "Because," he replied, "if I cannot
attend to the body and soul of one woman...what hope have I in doing the
same for Earth?"
     "So I'm to be a living symbol?"
     "Do you have a problem with that?"
     She considered it a moment, and then said, "No, Excellency.  And
that had seemed to settle it.
     What had become more hotly debated was her choice of tutors. 
Mollary had not hesitated to assemble a list of all the very best
teachers, scholars, and lecturers on Earth to address Amber Lawrence's
education.  This, however, had not gone over particularly well with
Tyler, the captain of the guards whom Mollary---for reasons that remained
inexplicable to Amber---had appointed to the key position of Attorney
General.  The main reason Amber wasn't able to understand it was that she
was certain---absolutely, one-hundred-per-cent certain---that Mollary did
not trust the man.  And if one did not trust the Attorney General, what
could possibly be the point in having him in that position?
     She remembered one day when she had heard particularly loud
discussions coming from within the throne room.  Mollary and Tyler had
been disagreeing about something at extremely high volume.  Once upon a
time, Tyler would have backed down immediately, but such was no longer
the case.  Tyler no longer hesitated to tell the Ruler of the Earth
precisely what was on his mind, and precisely why the Ruler of the Earth
would be fool not to attend to it.
     On that particular day, she had heard several names being bandied
about, and she recognized all of them as having been on Amber's own list
of desired teachers.  One name had been mentioned at particularly high
volume, and that was the name of Brice Kent.
     That hadn't been surprising...all things considered.
     Amber rolled over, and Brice looked at her quizzically.  "Well?" he
said in that no-nonsense air he had.  Kent Brice was another one of those
who openly flouted convention; his black hair was long and running down
his shoulders. The style was abhorred by most conservative "old-timers"
yet adored by most young women, "It's so '70s," they would say.  The
latter phenomenon sometimes led to even greater ire among the members of
the former faction.
     "What do you mean?" she replied.
     "Well, do you see anything in the clouds?"
     "To hell with the clouds," she answered in annoyance.  Brice had
been her historical philosophy tutor for some months now, ever since
Mollary had first sent for him and hired him at Amber's request.  She had
been reading essays of Brice's opinions ever since she was a child, and
once had watched as her angered father had tossed one into the
wastebasket.  She had recovered it from the rubbish, and Kent had been
her guilty, secret pleasure ever since.  Historical philosophy
specifically covered the various schools of thought that had served to
shape much of America's early years, examining how those philosophies
interacted with politics.  The topic was of particular interest to Amber. 
"What the hell are we doing staring at useless clouds, when there's more
important stuff happening right here on the ground?"
     With that, Amber gestured toward a section of Washington that had
been heavily rebuilt.  The entire section had been blocked off as being
too badly damaged to be safe for the citizenry, so the residents had been
relocated and reconstruction had progressed quickly.  In some ways, it
was breathtaking.
     "Why?  Because it has no meaning," said Brice.
     She looked at him in surprise.  "What's that supposed to mean?"
     "It means that what humans build themselves, by definition, has no
permanence.  The clouds, on the other hand..."
     "Have even less," Amber countered.  "Look. Even now the wind blows
them away.  By morning they'll be a memory but the buildings'll still be
there."
     Brice smiled lopsidedly. "I've taught you too well.  Countering your
tutor in that way---what am I going to do with you?" Then his face took
on a more serious countenance.  "I refer to more than those particular
clouds, Amber.  I refer to nature...to beauty...to the light.  Those
things will continue long after you and I are gone...long after all
memory of the United States of America is washed away, lost in the mists
of time."
     "That'll never happen," Amber said confidently.  "We've got far more
of a destiny to fulfill."
     "That..." he pointed at her "...is Sire Mollary talking.  Not you."
     "Why?  Because it's believing in something for once?" She stretched
out again, the back of her head cupped in her hands.  "You're goddamn
boring sometimes, Brice.  Everything, everything is always being
questioned.  Nothing taken for granted.  Everything's gotta be debated,
analyzed, debated and analyzed more..."
     "Your point...?"
     "Doesn't it make you sad?  Having nothing that you truly believe
in?"
     "You think I don't have anything to believe in?"
     He actually sounded stricken.  She glanced over at him and was
shocked to see that he appeared seriously upset at the remark.  "You
think I don't have anything to believe in?" he asked again.  "Because if
I don't, then in all these months as my student, you haven't learned
anything."
     She wasn't happy that she had upset him, for truth to tell Brice
Kent was her favorite tutor, and she would not have wanted to hurt him
for all the world.  But having taken a stand, she felt constrained to
defend it. "Well, what else am I to think?  You dispute every conclusion
I make.  Even the most fundamental aspects of our life, when I bring them
up, you disagree with them.  Sometimes I think you'd dispute the
existence of God Himself."
     "Yeah, I would."
     Amber visibly blanched at that.  "You can't be serious."
     "I am serious."
     "Why?"
     "To force you to engage your brain, of course," Brice told her.  "To
make you question, to encourage you to probe.  You must accept nothing at
face value, Amber."
     "In other words I shouldn't have faith in anything."
     "Is that what you think I mean?"
     She thumped the ground in frustration. "There you again, dammit! 
Answering my questions with a question of your own."
     "This is free-thinking America.  It should be welcome."  He looked
away from her and said softly.  "And I'm worried...that it will not be
welcome...anymore."
     She noticed that he was looking in the direction of the White House,
off a hill.  "Brice," she said firmly, "you can't be talking about the
Ruler of the Earth.  He fought like hell to have you assigned to me."
     "Yes he did.  That's because there are others who'd rather not allow
freedom of speech...freedom of thought.  They don't want it because it
serves neither them nor their purposes.  They need you to accept only
those things presented to you, and for you to question further is
injurious to them.
     "If, like you said, the Ruler of the Earth will fight for our basic
freedoms, well, that is to be applauded.  But, my dear Amber...leaders
come and go.  It's the society continues...at least for a time.  And
oftentimes those who shape society----prefer to do so from hiding."
     "You don't.  Right there..." and she pointed.  At the other edge of
town there was a small building, rather unimpressive.  The fact that it
was still standing, considering the bombardment that the planet had
taken, was impressive in and of itself.  "Right there are your publishing
offices.  Everyone knows it.  From there, you publish your papers and
articles challenging everything every nation on Earth does.  You let
everyone know that you believe in nothing...and yet you give me hell when
I point it out?"
     He shook his head sadly.  "And here I thought you were one of my
best students.
     "First, my dear, I don't attempt to shape society.  I wouldn't
presume to impose my will upon it.  I don't even guide.  I simply attempt
to get society to think for itself----about that which it has not
previously considered...and to shape itself.  As for what I believe in,
Amber...what I believe in...is believing in nothing."
     "You can't believe in believing in nothing!"
     "Yes, you can," said Brice easily.  "Child, it's not enough to open
yourself to new ideas.  Anybody with half a brain can do that.  The
problem with that mindset is that usually there's a limit in the amount
of 'openness' a person will accept.  Sooner or later, the door to the
mind swings shut once again.  Most will accept just so much, and then
stop.  A truly smart person, however, will empty him- or herself of all
knowledge...and remain that way.  Only in that way can you remain open to
all new things, all the time.  Only in that way can you truly accept the
endless varieties and opportunities that the world will present you."
     "Awesome words, Brice," replied Amber.  "No, really.  But words you
can easily offer up with impunity, since you're not a leader.  Leaders
can't remain open to all things, all the time.  Leaders have to lead. 
They've gotta, like, make decisions, see?"
     "And you believe the leaders are presently making good decisions?"
     "Don't you?"
     "A question with a question," he smiled. "Perhaps there's hope for
you yet!"
     Suddenly, Amber felt extremely impatient with what she perceived as
constant verbal fencing.  Her time with Brice frequently seemed to
devolve into such matches.  "Tell me.  Tell me what you think," she
demanded.
     "I asked you first," he responded calmly.
     "All right."  She nodded, feeling that it was a fair enough point. 
"I think the answer speaks for itself.  Look.  See the industry that's
under way?  And the people...they've been through hell.  Suffered through
the bombings, seen their homes destroyed, their livelihoods shattered. 
There was a time when the Ruler of the Earth's walking among them posed a
great security risk because there was so much anger directed toward him. 
But now, now they're focused on things other than anger.  They're focused
on re-creating their world, achieving the beauty it once knew.  The Ruler
of the Earth has put forth a vision, and they share it.  Certainly this
is bigger than anger, or hostility.  Better than a sense of hopelessness. 
The outlook of the people is far better than any would have credited
possible."
     "Is that of consequence to you?" he asked.
     "Of course it is!  Why would you ask me that?"
     "Because in referring to the people, you refer to 'they'...and not
to 'we.'"
     She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it.
     "Would you have spoken that way six months ago, I wonder?" he
continued. "A year ago?  Who knows...perhaps you would have, back when
your parents were part of the elite 'movers and shakers' of American high
society.  It could well be, Amber, that you have the snobbery of
privilege so deeply ingrained within you that all it takes is the most
gentle of stirrings to bring it bobbing to the surface."
     "You think I don't know you, Brice," Amber said.  "Well, I don't
think you know me very well.  Not very well at all."
     "Perhaps. I'm open to that possibility."
     She swung her legs around and curled them up under her chin,
pointedly keeping her back to him.  "I answered you, I apologize if my
answer wasn't up to your usual demanding standards.  You, however,
haven't answered me."
     There was a long pause.  Then he said, "Why?"
     She looked back at him, angling her head slightly, which indicated
her puzzlement.  "Why what?"
     "That should be the first question you ask yourself about
everything...and once you have the answer...keep asking it.  Why is there
this drive to rebuild America?"
     "To retain our greatness," she said in confusion.  The answer seemed
self-evident.
     "Why?"
     "Brice, this is damn silly.  It's like talking with a 2-year-old. 
'Why, why, why?'"
     "Children are the greatest philosophers in existence.  The role of
the adult is to beat that drive out of children, because it threatens the
status quo as created by the adult.  Very well, though...I'll answer the
questions myself, since it seems to tiresome for you."
     "Tiresome?  Oh no, no. I'm not ti---"
     But Brice was already moving forward with his train of thought,
ticking off the elements on his fingers as he went on.  "There's a drive
to rebuild America to make it as great as it once was.  Why?  To focus
the people.  Why?  Because people of one mind become easier to manage. 
Why?  Because then you can direct them where you want them to go.  Why?
Because you have someplace specific in mind for them.  Why?  Because
you've got a goal for yourself.  Why?" He paused, and then said, quite
slowly, "Because you've decided that the return to the old ways
necessitates a return to the commercialism that typified the old United
States of America.  Because you've decided that no lessons are to be
learned from the destruction that befell this planet except that one must
be stronger and more focused than one's opponent if one is to win.
Because what you truly seek is a return to a time when the U.S. was the
preeminent force in the world, the arsenal of democracy.  Because you
realize that times have changed and that the Colonials and their ongoing
war with the Cylons now stand in the way of all that.  To overcome both
sides requires new resolve, new weapons, new and even more fearsome
allies, and a rededication and rebuilding that presages a new time of
war.  It's all in the history books, Amber.  The reconstruction of the
South after the Civil war after the Union army had left the cities in
smoldering ruins.  The rebuilding of Germany after World War I, which set
the stage for the even more calamitous World War II."
     She stared at him, wide-eyed. "You're wrong," she said, her voice
hushed.
     "I spoke to you of allowing yourself to be empty, in order that you
might become filled with knowledge.  Stay away from people, Amber, who
sense their own emptiness...and fill it with ignorance."
     "You're wrong," she said again, shaking her head far more
vehemently.  "And I'll tell you why.  'Cause you let us look at the
history, indeed.  In the circumstances you've mentioned, the sort of
conversation we're having would never be allowed to happen. 
Particularly, it wouldn't be allowed to happen between a tutor and a ward
of the Ruler of the Earth himself.  The regimes you're talking about are
the opposite of thought.  Free will is not only discouraged, it's
forbidden.  Dissidents, intellectuals, writers...anyone who can ask the
eternal 'why' like you do, is silenced.  And that's not the case here."
     "Are you sure about that?"
     "Sure I'm sure!  I...wha...?"
     To her astonishment, Brice reached forward and grabbed her by the
forearm.  There was an intensity...even a bit of fear...that she'd never
seen in his eyes before.  "You're still one of the well-to-do, Amber.  If
it were happening, would you truly know until it was too late?  I see
others, people like me, others who've questioned or probed----and
suddenly they've changed their opinion.  Suddenly they've accepted that
which is presented..."
     "Perhaps they've just realized the rightness of..."
     "...or else they've disappeared," continued Brice.
     Amber became silent for a moment.  "Disappeared?  What do you mean?"
     "I mean they just vanish---without a trace!  Oh, it's all done very
discreetly.  Very efficiently.  When they come for me..."he said
thoughtfully, as if speculating the fate of someone else entirely, "I
imagine I'll be one of the ones who vanishes.  They know they can't
silence me any other way. I'm publishing a paper at the end of this week
that questions the true motives of those who are running the great
machine that is our present government.  It won't earn me any friends and
it'll garner me enemies even more formidable than I presently have."
     Amber could see that this was no longer one of his more twisting
journeys of curious logic.  She took his hand firmly and squeezed it, and
said, "Nothing'll happen to you.  You're my tutor.  You're favored by
Sire Mollary.  You're protected, and your thoughts are worth their weight
in gold.  Say whatever you like."
     "Is that a promise to me?" He seemed genuinely amused by her
fervency.
     "That is my conviction and belief in our system, in our
society----and in the Ruler of the Earth.  I believe in all three."
     He couldn't help but smile.  "Why?" he asked.
     She was annoyed, but still couldn't help but laugh at the
insouciance with which he said it.  "Well----I just do!"
     "That's circular logic if I've ever heard it," he said reprovingly.
     "Perhaps.  But the nice thing about circular logic is that you can't
break through the circle."
     To her surprise, Brice Kent then reached over and hugged her
tightly.  And he whispered into her ear, "Don't ever change..." And then
he paused and added, "...unless it's for the better."

*****

     When Amber returned to the White House, Tyler was waiting for her.
     She wasn't quite sure that he was actually waiting for her
specifically, but as she approached her quarters, he seemed to
materialize from around a corner.  "Hi, Amber," he said casually.
     Once again she found herself wondering just what it was that Mollary
saw in him.  She could only assume that he was extremely efficient in his
job.  For some reason, however, that thought chilled her even more.
     "Mr. Attorney General," she replied, attending to the response as
etiquette demanded.
     "Did you have a good bunch of lessons today?" he said.
     "Yes, I did.  Thanks for your consideration." She started to head
toward her chambers, and Tyler stepped ever so slightly to one side.  It
was just enough to block her without coming across as threatening.  She
stopped in her tracks, folded her arms and regarded him with a raised
eyebrow.  "Is there something else, sir?"
     "We'd rather your lessons with Mr. Kent were held right here in the
White House from now own," Tyler said.
     "Really?" She was not enamored of the notion, as was painfully clear
in her body language and dubious expression.  "Why?"
     "It's for security reasons."
     "And being Attorney General, that would naturally be important to
you.  Thanks for your concern, Mr. A.G., but Brice and I find the fresh
air of the outdoors to be more...ah, stimulating...than the walls of the
White House."
     "Look, I don't want to hamper your educational growth, but these are
dangerous times, sweetheart."
     "How can they be any more dangerous than they are now?"
     "Commander Troy's men lurk everywhere."
     Amber let out an overdramatic gasp and quickly looked around as if
she were worried that enemies might sprout out from the very walls around
them.
     Tyler, for his part, was clearly unamused.  "This is no laughing
matter, dear.  You're at the age where you think you're bulletproof. 
You're not afraid because you don't see an enemy to be afraid of."
     "Brice says something which you can't see can be the most
dangerous."
     For a moment, Tyler actually appeared startled.  Amber couldn't
quite figure out why he reacted the way he did, but then he smoothly
composed himself, doing it so quickly that Amber wondered if she had
perhaps imagined it all.  "If you really understand him, then, I assume,
you'll conform to our request."
     "What's this 'we' and 'our' stuff, Tyler?  Is this your initiative
or Mollary's?"
     "Mine, actually.  Mollary just agrees with it, that's all."
     "I see.  Now, if I ask him, will he verify it?"
     "Sure.  But---you'll hurt my feelings if you doubt my word in such
an obvious manner."
     Amber considered the situation.  She had a feeling that Tyler wasn't
lying.  That the Ruler of the Earth would indeed back up his Attorney
General.  Then again, she was a ward of Sire Mollary.  He should care
about her concerns as well.  "You've also this is a recommendation.  Are
you ready to have Mollary order me to confine Brice and myself to the
White House?"
     To her shock, Tyler said quite soothingly, "No, of course not,
sweetheart.  Nobody wants to make you feel like a prisoner, or restrict
your movements beyond what you're willing to allow.  We...I'm...concerned
only about your safety."
     "Look at it this way, Tyler," she said. "I became orphaned during a
time when death came down out of the sky.  At a time when so many died
that the bodies were piled up as far as the eye could see.  And I
survived all that, without your help.  So I think I'm more than able to
take care of myself."
     "Have it your way, young lady.  But watch it.  If something happens
to you, Sire Mollary would be very, very upset.  And I don't think that
he'd be overly enthused by my presenting, as an excuse, the notion that
you just wished to continue taking the air while learning at the feet of
Brice Kent."
     "Your job's not without risks, Mr. A.G..  Certainly you must've
known that before taking the position."
     "Life's nothing but a big risk, Amber."  He turned and walked away.
     And then Amber----somewhat to her surprise---stopped him as she
asked, "Tyler---have you noticed a reduction in the number of writers,
artists----creative individuals----living right here in this country?"
     "No more so than usual."
     "Than usual?" She found the phrasing rather odd.
     "Well, yes.  People like that are notoriously undependable and prone
to difficulties.  They starve for their art and so are lost----or they
require illicit drugs or alcoholic beverages in order to achieve their
'creative vision,' and come to harm through overdoses.
     "And then, obviously, you've got the radicals.  A thoroughly
pugnacious and bellicose kind, prone to unfortunate accidents through
altercations with others who have opposite viewpoints.  A rather sordid
species, I can tell you that right now," he sighed.  "But, I guess
handsome, hyperactive types like Kent make them seem----romantic.  But as
a group, they're unstable.  Do some research.  You'll find out that a
majority of them die reprehensible deaths.  Let's hope that Brice doesn't
end up one of them."
     Something in his last statement chilled Amber slightly. "What's that
supposed to mean?"
     "Nothing, dear.  Nothing at all.  Have fun with your---outdoor
chats."  He went down the hall.
     Amber considered his words---and then went straight to the room that
was usually used for her assorted lessons.  She went over the room as
meticulously as she could, searching for some sign of a listening device,
to see if her lessons and conversations were being monitored.  But she
found nothing.  Finally, exhausted from looking, she flopped down in a
chair and sat there, wondering what Brice would say when she told him of
the exchange she'd just had with Tyler.

*****     
Chapter 5

     She only caught the flash of light from the corner of her eye.
     It was several days later and Amber was seated upon the hillside,
wondering when Brice Kent would show up.  She was becoming somewhat
apprehensive, for Brice was never late.  In fact, he was so punctual that
it bordered on the annoying.
     She realized that they had never finished their "game" of seeing
images in the clouds.  Fortunately, this day was as nicely cloudy as the
other had been, and so she let her mind wander as she gazed upon the
billowing fluff high overhead.
     She decided that one of them had taken the shape of a giant spider. 
And another, with the odd crest to it and the curious convergence of
shapes, looked like Sire Mollary's face, only scowling.  Scowling at the
giant spider.  She found that amusing for some reason.
     So absorbed was she in her game that she barely noticed the light
flash coming from the direction of the city.  However, notice it she did,
and she sat up quickly.  It was then that she heard the explosion that
had accompanied the flash.  She could tell from the sound of the
explosion that something large had gone up, though, and naturally her
first thought was that Colonial and Cylon forces had initiated
hostilities anew, and that once again, planet Earth was caught in the
middle.
     She scanned the heavens, preparing herself for some follow-up blast,
but all remained silent.  Then there was a second, even louder explosion,
and by that point a column of thick black smoke had begun rising from the
source.
     Now Amber was on her feet, shading her eyes with one hand as she
tried to make out precisely where the explosion had come from.  Her
breath caught in her throat, and she staggered slightly.  Even from where
she was, she could make out that the explosion had originated in the
building that housed the home and office of Brice Kent.
     She didn't even remember starting to run.  She was halfway there,
her legs moving like pistons, and it was only when she realized that she
was cutting her feet to ribbons on assorted pieces of broken pavement and
glass that she remembered she was still holding her shoes.  She stopped
for a few seconds, never taking her eyes off the column of smoke, almost
stumbling but recovering quickly.  Then she continued to run, her breath
ragged in her chest, gasping for air but never slowing down.
     She came to an incline, tripped, fell, and tumbled head over heels
the rest of the way.  The incline butted up against the street and she
slid down it in a most undignified fashion.  However, so many people were
running around, pointing and calling to each other, that nobody took any
notice of her.  She scrambled to her feet and staggered toward the place
where the explosion had occurred.
     There had been some residual fire, but fortunately most of it had
been contained by the time she got there.  The building was already
something that had become all too common on Earth:  a burned-out shell. 
The last of the smoke was wafting heavenward, and people were pointing
and speculating in hushed tones.
     Rescue workers were emerging with several bodies of persons who were
obviously beyond rescue.  Amber scanned their remains desperately, hoping
and praying that she wouldn't see what she most feared would be there. 
Her hopes and prayers went unanswered, however---the third body brought
out from the ruins was clearly the charred remains of Brice Kent.  Half
his face was gone, but there was enough of it left to recognize him.
     She turned away, her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle both her
urge to scream and her urge to vomit, all at the same time.
     Then she heard one of the firemen say, "We found this, Mr. A.G.." 
She forced herself to look back, and there was Tyler, taking what
appeared to be some kind of heavy box from one of the firefighters.  It
was scorched but otherwise undamaged, and Tyler bowed slightly upon
receiving it.
     Something inside Amber snapped.
     "Murderer!" she howled, and she launched herself straight at Tyler. 
Thanks to her disheveled appearance, he clearly didn't recognize her at
first as she charged him, fists balled, her face a mask of pure rage. 
She got to within five feet of him, and then two guards were there,
intercepting her and lifting her off her feet.  She kicked furiously,
arms outstretched, fingers clawing spasmodically, and she shouted, "You
did this!  You're behind this!  You murdering bastard!"
     It was then that Tyler realized who it was shouting at him. 
"Amber!" he said in obvious surprise.
     "You did this!  You killed him!"
     "Ms. Lawrence is obviously distraught.  Take her back to the White
House," said Tyler unflappably as he tucked the box firmly under one arm. 
"We'll sort this mess out later."
     "You killed him because he was a free thinker!  Because he
challenged!  Because he made other people think!  You'll pay for this,
Tyler!  I'll make you pay!"
     He shook his head sadly as Amber, still kicking and screaming, was
carted away to the White House.

*****     

     "Have you completely lost your senses!?"
     Mollary stood over her, body trembling with indignation and perhaps
even a sense of personal humiliation.  Cleaned up and wearing fresh
clothing, Amber sat in a chair, hands folded, looking down.  Nearby,
Tyler stood and observed the confrontation impassively.
     "You accuse my attorney general of murder, in front of a crowd of
people!" continued Mollary.  "A tragic circumstance, transformed by you
into a suspicion of my government!  What were you thinking?  Well?  That
was not a rhetorical question----what were you thinking?"
     "I said what I was thinking," Amber said quietly.  "I believe that's
why you're chastising me, Excellency."
     "Outrage!  It was an outrage!"
     Annoyingly to Amber, it was Tyler who spoke up in her defense.  "Aw,
don't be too hard on her, Your Excellency.  She was upset, obviously
distraught.  Considering the circumstances, I'd say it was most
understandable.  She didn't know the truth of the matter..."
     "The truth of the matter?" She repeated the words with no
inflection.  "What're you talking about...'the truth of the matter'?"
     Tyler sighed heavily, as if he were about to release a great burden. 
"I would've given anything----anything!----not to have you find out this
way, Amber.  Do you remember that box the fireman removed from the
rubble?  Well...the evidence found inside was---well, let's just say it
was rather damning."
     "What evidence.  What kinda bullshit...?"
     "The truth is," and he addressed his comments to the both of them,
"that it appears Brice Kent was, in fact, working for Commander Troy."
     "What?  Are you sure?" asked Mollary.  "Have you any real proof?"
     "Positive, Excellency.  The box we found contained detailed logs,
correspondence----communication with several key ships of the Galactica
fleet, whose captains feel you should be forcibly removed from your
position as Ruler of the Earth."
     "This is utterly preposterous," Amber said.  "Brice Kent never took
sides in any argument.  He loved everybody.  It was only because he cared
for people that he tried to expand their minds to..."
     "What he cared about, Amber, was undermining and undercutting Sire
Mollary recovery plans for Earth. It wasn't all his fault," said Tyler. 
"I believe he himself was being manipulated by Troy, who found in him a
convenient patsy.  Nevertheless, we may also have uncovered the reason
for the explosion:  apparently Brice Kent was experimenting with the
construction of an incendiary device.  At this time, we don't know what
he intended to use it for, but we can speculate based on his communiqués. 
We think---but I warn you, there's no proof---that he intended to
assassinate you, Excellency.  Blow up the White House."
     "This is goddamn crazy!" shouted Amber.
     "Is it?" Tyler asked, never coming close to losing his patience. 
"He's the one who suggested you take your lessons outdoors, right?  We
think he planned to detonate the bomb during one of your sessions, so
that there'd be no chance of you getting hurt. Apparently he felt quite
affectionately toward you.  In any event, while he was certainly of quite
high quality as a thinker, he was all thumbs when it came to terrorism.
The bomb detonated prematurely, and..." He shrugged.
     Amber turned to Mollary.  "Excellency, surely you don't buy into
this crap.  You know Brice.  You know the kind of man he is...he was. 
Don't let this...this..." she waggled a finger at Tyler, "this
person...rub Brice Kent's name in the dirt.  It's bad enough that he
killed the man.  Are you going to let him kill the man's character as
well?"
     "Amber...you have become very dear to me," Mollary said slowly, "but
I caution you, do not overstep yourself, for it..."
     "Overstep myself! Excellency, Brice Kent's killer is right here in
this room with us!  He's not only a killer, he's a liar, too.  Murder and
lying aren't in the job description of Attorney General of the United
States of America!  Who's overstepped whose bounds?"
     "We do not know that," Mollary said, "and if there is proof..."
     "Proof that he could easily have manufactured."
     "Interrupt me again at your own peril, Amber!"
     Amber, who had risen from her chair when confronting Mollary, took a
step back as she realized that he meant it.  She had never seen him as
angry as he was at that very moment.
     With a distinct effort, Mollary composed himself, then said tightly,
"I will inspect the evidence myself.  If the findings are as A.G. Tyler
said, well..." He paused, considering the matter a moment.  "As a matter
of internal security, I see no reason at this time to inform the populace
that there may have been a traitor in their midst.  Why stir matters up
more than they are, or contribute more fuel to the fire of paranoia. 
They need peace of mind.  If at the end of his life, Brice Kent harbored
a traitorous alliance, that does not negate the good he has accomplished
through his teachings.  We can always attribute the explosion to
something routine-----a furnace or some such.  You can come up with
something, I trust, Mr. Tyler?"
     "Yes, Excellency," Tyler replied dutifully.
     "Good."
     "So it would seem," Tyler commented to Amber, "that sometimes lying
is part of my job description."
     Amber said nothing.  For some moments, in fact, nobody said
anything.  Then Mollary told her, "Since you are so concerned, Amber,
about the public perception of a man who is already dead...do you not
think you owe A.G. Tyler an apology for your public assault on his
character, particularly considering that he is still alive to hear
whatever criticism may arise from your actions?"
     "If you're really asking me, Excellency...no.  No, I don't think I
owe him that at all."
     She looked at Mollary with her chin slightly upthrust and as much
moderate defiance as she dared display.
     "Excellency," Tyler said, coming to her defense once more, "it's not
necessary.  No, I mean it."
     "Very well," Mollary nodded.  "Amber, you may go."
     She walked out of the room, and it was only when she was at a safe
distance that she allowed the tears to flow.

*****     

     Tyler handed the box of evidence to Mollary.  "Return it when you're
finished with it, Excellency.  I expect that you'll find everything as
I've said."
     "Oh, I expect I will," Mollary told him.
     Tyler turned to leave.  He started toward the door, and then he
heard quick footsteps behind him.  Before he could turn, he suddenly felt
one powerful hand on the back of his neck, and another grabbing him by
the back of his blazer.  The slim A.G. was propelled forward and slammed
face first against the wall.  The impact knocked the breath out of him,
and then Mollary's mouth was right up against his ear, whispering to him
in a sort of perversely intimate moment.
     "Understand, Mr. Tyler...if I learn that this evidence has been
falsified...that you were responsible for the death of Brice Kent...your
held will roll----literally.  And I further assure you that I personally
will attend to the task of decapitating you, with Amber there to catch
your head and stick it on a pole with her own eager hands.  Is that
clear?"
     "Excellency, I..."
     "Is.  That.  Clear?"
     "Yes, Excellency."
     He released Tyler then.  The A.G. didn't turn around.  Instead, he
straightened his blazer, rubbed his mostly bald head, and walked out of
the Oval Office.
     The moment he was gone was when the pain hit Mollary.
     White hot, stabbing, exploding through his brain and offering him no
place to run.  He staggered across the Oval Office, trying to locate the
source, and then he realized.  The keeper, the keeper on his shoulder was
doing this.
     He tried to reach around, to rip the infernal device off him once
and for all, but all such efforts only increased the agony and that was
when he heard a droning, electronic voice in his head saying, I would not
do that if I were you.
     He staggered to his desk, clutching the desktop, gasping as the pain
finally started to recede.  But a sense of it still remained, like a
great beast lurking in the high grass, ready to come at him once again if
he so much as made the slightest wrong move.  Even in his head, he
recognized the voice of the Cylon Alliance or at least the Cylon emissary
who seemed to haunt the White House like an omnipresent specter of death.
     "How...how did..."
     No questions.  Sit.  At the desk.  Hands on the armrests of the
chair.
     Mollary did as he was instructed.  He had no choice.  He realized
that.
     You abused Mr. Tyler.  The voice sounded almost disappointed.  He is
chosen by us.  You are not to do such a thing ever again.
     "Chosen by you.  Then he has a keeper, too?" growled Mollary, taking
at last some measure of joy in picturing what it must have been for Tyler
to watch one of those horrible automatons crawling across the floor at
him.
     So he was disappointed to hear in reply.  No.  He does not require
one.  He already believes---that his nation has become vulnerable because
of its decadence.  He believes in discipline, order, and total obedience. 
He does not need to know of our existence, does not require a keeper. 
His pure enthusiasm and rightness of spirit will make him far more
effective than any keeper could.
     "I'm so happy for you.  Then may I ask why you need me?"
     We don't.
     Well...there it was, wasn't it.  The Cylon could be accused of many
things, but prevarication was not one of them.  
     Sounding almost regretful, the Cylon voice said to him, We take no
pleasure in this, Mollary.  No joy.  The work you have done thus far for
Earth is laudable.  You have focused them, directed them, uplifted them,
brought them far from their fallen state in just a few sectars.  Left to
your own devices, you might indeed be a worthwhile ruler.  But you are
our device, not your own.  You will attend to our wishes and remember
that you can pretend to serve the people, but you truly serve us.  To
help you in remembering...you will sit silently in your Oval Office now.
     "But..."
     For just a moment, the pain welled up, like a threatening tidal
wave.
     Silent...ly.
     Then Mollary sat perfectly upright, staring straight ahead, looking
neither left nor right.
     You will remain that way...until we tell you otherwise.  You will
hear the noises, the conversations, the normal life of the White House
outside...but you will not participate.  All audiences will be refused. 
You will be alone for centons...or days...however long we feel it
necessary to make our point.
     You promised Earth would not rebuild alone.  What know you of alone? 
But you will learn.  You will learn that the greatest loneliness of all
is to be alone among others.  Do not move, Mollary.  Do not speak.  Dwell
on what you have done, and what will be required of you...and what will
happen to you if you do not live up to those requirements.
     Then the voice in his head ceased, but Mollary---wisely---did not
move.  He continued to stare resolutely ahead, lest the voices and the
pain return.
     I am in Hades, thought Mollary.
     And a voice replied, Yes.  You are.
     He tried not to think after that.

*****

     It was a brisk day, the wind whipping sharply over the hill.  Amber
went to the White House and sat upon the grass.  She stared off into the
distance toward the ruined building, which was already in the process of
being torn down, now part of Mollary's renovation program.  Considering
the speed and efficiency with which the workers had been moving, a new
structure would probably replace it within a week.  
     She'd been checking through libraries, through databases.  The
writings of Brice Kent were quietly being removed, disappearing one by
one.
     She lay back on the grass, looked up at the clouds.  She tried to
conjure up images----and nothing suggested itself.  They were just white
collections of mist and vapors, and would soon go away, just as
everything went away.
     Tears began to roll down her face, even though she made no noise.
     "Why?" she whispered.
     No answers came.

*****

     The sleeper began to wake.
     He did not fully realize what was happening, not on any conscious
level.  He simply developed the oddest feeling that everything around him
was---incidental.  That it would soon cease to have any true relevance to
his life.
     He went about his business, trying to ignore the faint buzzing that
was becoming more pronounced in his head.  When he could ignore it no
longer, he went to the life station, but their rather cursory examination
found nothing.  He didn't fault them for it, not really.  He was having
trouble explaining to them just what it was that he was feeling, so how
could they know what to look for?  He didn't even understand it himself.
     So he pushed himself to go on with his life and not dwell on that
which he didn't understand.  And when word trickled down that the
Galactica's commander was going to be doing a walk-through of Down
Below...that he was, in fact, endeavoring to develop a program that would
be of help to everyone there, why---that all sounded fine.  Excellent, in
fact.  Down Below could use all the help it could get.
     He did not yet realize that he would be assassinating Commander
Troy.  Assassination was the furthest thing from his mind.  He was just a
normal guy, trying to get on with his normal life.  Thoughts of murder
and mayhem were far, far away.
     He didn't understand that they were going to draw quite close.
     
*****

Chapter 6

     Vir hadn't known what to expect when he arrived back on Earth.
     When he had departed, right after the inauguration, it had been
under less-than-ideal circumstances.  Cities had been reduced to
smoldering ruins, and Mollary had delivered a bizarre speech that sounded
as if it was designed to fan the flames of hostility and rage against the
Colonial fleet.  What good could possibly come from getting the
Earthlings even more worked up? Vir had wondered, mystified.  They had to
understand that it was as time of reconciliation.  Of redemption.  
     Yes---that was what was required, Vir thought as the shuttlecraft
that carried him the final leg to his destination drew within reach of
Dulles Airport.  Redemption.  Humans had much for which they had to
redeem themselves.
     The truth was that they had done great evil.  The Earthlings with
the pollution of their delicate ecosystems, the Taurons who had covertly
given aid and comfort to the most evil of evil races, the Dark Ones.  As
a race, humans had sinned mightily, and as a race they were being called
upon to repent.  Repenting for their sins, however, was not going to be
easy if the ire of the Earthlings was stirred and they were made to feel
as if they had been victimized not the Cylons, but by the Colonials. 
Yes, there had been misunderstandings.  Yes, there seemed to have been
deliberate plots to sabotage the evolutionary course of Earth.  But
wasn't it the truth that they, the Earthlings, through their slow
scientific progress, had left themselves open for precisely that sort of
under-the-table assault?
     If they had had a reputation for being peaceful, gentle,
nonaggressive...certainly no one could have manipulated them into a
position where they were considered little more than a race of helpless
twits.  But the Earthlings had, through their own attitudes and their own
bloody history, made sure that everyone knew they were a species good for
nothing save extermination.
     Well, their day of reckoning had come, hadn't it.  And look at what
the result had been.  Just look!
     "Just look to your right," the pilot's voice came over the speaker
system of the shuttlecraft, "and you'll see the restoration of the entire
north quarter of America's glorious capital city.  Work is continuing on
the city's other sections, under the building-relief programs created and
overseen by Sire Mollary.  In the meantime, increased native industry has
bolstered the Earth's economy."
     Vir gulped.  He did not like the sound of that.  Furthermore, he had
the feeling the pilot was reading from a prepared text.  He wondered just
who had prepared it.  He glanced around the shuttle at his fellow
passengers.  He was curious to see that all of them were nodding their
heads in unison over the comments about the great works of the so-called
Ruler of the Earth.
     No, not good at all.  He was definitely going to have to talk to
Mollary about it.  The problem was, he had absolutely no idea what he was
going to say.
     He had endeavored to remain in touch with Mollary, as was his
mandate while he stayed aboard the Galactica, as an ex-officio member of
the Council of Twelve.  He hadn't anticipated that it would become a
problem.  If nothing else, he had figured that the normal gregarious
Mollary would retain his interest in his associates back on the
Battlestar.  That he would be anxious to check in with Vir as often as
possible, to learn who was up to what, catch up on the latest gossip. 
Such had not been the case, however.  Sectans, even sectars, would go by
without Vir being able to communicate with Mollary at all.  Instead he
found more and more of his conversations being held with one Ham Tyler,
the U.S. Attorney General.  The last time that he had encountered someone
that chilling it had been the notorious Commander Xavier, and there had
certainly been no love lost in that relationship.  Lives lost, yes, but
no love.
     "I'll relay your worries to His Excellency.  He's busy right now,
I'm sorry to say.  Sire Mollary does, however, appreciate your
communiqués."  These and a litany of stock phrases had tripped off
Tyler's lips so often that Vir knew them by heart.  And on those
occasions when Vir somehow, miraculously, did get through to Mollary, the
bureaucrat had always spoken with such care and judiciousness that Vir
couldn't help but get the feeling that all the conversations were being
monitored somehow.  The thought itself should have been absurd.  Mollary
had become, after all, the most powerful man on Earth.  Theoretically,
there should be no one and nothing who would have the temerity and the
power to oversee his interests and activities.  Who did Mollary have to
fear?
     Obvious answer:  Everyone!
     But Mollary wasn't like other bureaucrats.  He was a good man, a
decent man.  That had to count for something, didn't it?
     Well, didn't it?
     Unfortunately, even in his own mind, he could not divine an answer
for that.
     Fortunately for everyone aboard the shuttlecraft, Vir's
concentration wasn't necessary for the shuttlecraft to land safely.  So
his thoughts were about to ramble about all manner of concerns, while the
craft settled safely onto its landing spot at Dulles Airport.

*****

     "Councilman Vir!"
     Vir's first impulse was still to look over his shoulder, to see if
someone else was being hailed.  Hearing the designation "councilman" in
front of his name was still something of a jolt to him, and he always
felt slightly guilty---as if he were an imposter.  Or perhaps a mistake
had simply been made and another Vir was being summoned.
     In this instance, however, he managed to fight the impulse and look
instead toward whomever it was that was endeavoring to get his attention.
     There was a rather tall individual standing there.  He was somewhat
pale in complexion, with sunken eyes and a voice that seemed to originate
from somewhere around his ankles.  When he walked it was with a slight
hunch, as if he perpetually had to lean forward to hear what you had to
say.  His hair was quite light, as pale in its way as his skin tone. 
Standing next to him was a young boy who couldn't have been more than
thirteen.  Curiously, although the tall man was dressed in the velvet
jacket and slacks that Vir had come to associate with Mollary's
underlings, the boy was sporting a black windbreaker with matching black
pants.  Was that some kind of uniform?  The boy's outfit gave Vir eerie
flashbacks to Nightwatch, but it was broken up by a star-spangled sash
draped across his chest.
     "Councilman Vir," said the tall man.  "I'm Rolland Shannon,
secretary of Housing and Urban Development.  It's an honor to meet you. 
Giovanni, take the gentleman's bags."
     "Oh, that's quite all right," Vir started to say, but he spoke too
slowly.  The teen, Giovanni, was already at his side and was gripping
firmly the bags that Vir held in either hand.  Vir took one look into the
boy's eyes, and promptly released the bags.  The boy wielded them
easily---actually, with a great deal more ease than Vir had carried them. 
Vir told himself that it was just because he was tired from the trip. 
"I...wasn't expecting anyone to pick me up, actually.  I just figured I'd
make my way to the White House on my own.  I didn't mean to put anyone
out."
     Shannon smiled.  When he did so, however, it looked as if he were in
some kind of vague pain.  Just as quickly as it appeared, the smile
vanished.  "You are everything that I had heard.  Humble and
self-effacing, as if you still do not anticipate your importance."
     "Well...once upon a time, you have to understand, serving on our
Council of Twelve not only wasn't especially important---it was actually
sort of a...well..." He lowered his voice as if he was concerned about
offending Mollary, who was nowhere in sight.  "...a joke.  A position
that no one took particularly seriously."
     "Oh, well.  I suppose even in a rag-tag fleet, times change," said
Shannon.
     "Yes, I suppose so.  And who is this young man?  Giovanni, I believe
you said his name was?"  Vir smiled broadly at him and was greeted with
an unflinching, sullen face, and eyes that somehow gave him a
free-floating sense of anxiety. "Is that some kind of uniform he's
wearing?"
     "It most assuredly is.  We call them the Prime Candidates.  And
without a doubt, they're first-rate candidates to be the next generation
of leaders and builders of America."
     "Oh, a play on words!  That's very cute," said Vir.
     Giovanni gave him a look that, Vir realized, could have brought on a
new ice age if there were a way to harness it.  "We're not cute," he said
succinctly.
     "Giovannni..." chided Shannon warningly.
     "Sir," amended Giovanni stiffly. "We're not cute, sir."
     "I...stand corrected," said Vir, who was already feeling more and
more creepy about the entire business.
     "Chapters of the Prime Candidates are opening in every major U.S.
city.  The young are the hope for the future, Councilman, as is always
the case.  So it was felt that one of the best things that could be done
for the morale and spirit of our citizens was for them to see the
energies and enthusiasm of our youth harnessed in a positive manner."
     "And what do the Prime Candidates do exactly?" Vir asked Giovanni.
     Giovanni did not hesitate.  "Whatever Secretary Shannon tells us
to."
     "Oh."
     "They do public works, public services.  Clean-up campaigns, running
public information offices...and stuff like that," Shannon explained.
     "That all sounds wonderful.  And was this Sire Mollary's idea?"
     "A.G. Tyler's actually, but the Ruler of the Earth embraced it
immediately.  I was then brought in by A.G. Tyler to oversee the
program...and also explore other means of lifting morale all across
America and the world."
     They climbed into a waiting limousine that immediately hurtled in
the direction of the White House.
     "You know...I have a thought on that."
     "On what, Councilman?"
     "On boosting morale.  We have a remarkable game that, if I remember
correctly, Commander Troy's father used to play.  If we could organize
teams to play it, that might do wonders."
     "Really."  Rolland Shannon once again made that slightly winced
smile.  Giovanni sat in the front seat beside the chauffeur and stared
resolutely forward at the street traffic.  "What kind of game is it?"
     "We call it 'triad.'"
     "Triad," Shannon repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue. 
"How's it played?"
     "Well," said Vir, warming to the topic, "first, you need a
four-sided court above which spectators sit on all four sides to watch
the competition on the floor below. Then, you have to organize two teams
with two men.  A member of each team stands face to face in the center of
the court. Behind them against the wall is a chrome colored ball."
     "Like a basketball?"
     "Similar to one, but slightly smaller." 
     "Interesting.  Go on."
     "The two men have a line between them. They attack on the sound of a
claxon, the offensive team having to physically move past the defensive
player to get to the ball. The defensive player can't cross the line in
front of him, nor can he move behind a line that is behind him and still
several yards from the ball. He therefore must keep the offensive player
from crossing a narrow corridor. Once across the corridor, the offensive
player safely picks up the ball and takes aim at any of four lighted
circles on any of the four walls.
     "The circles flash at random and must be struck while lighted to
result in a score. The numbers on the circles carry point values which
vary from one to ten, the higher numbers remaining lighted for minimal
lengths of time, the lower numbers for longer lengths. Once an offensive
team has taken possession of the ball they may throw at the lighted
numbers which are defended by the two opposing players. Strategies result
when a circle is climbing to a high point and a defender must get there
to cover it and hopefully regain control of the ball in the case of a
miss or a hit."
     "Is passing the ball permitted in the game?" Rolland Shannon's
interest seemed piqued.
     "Oh, yes, but only on a ricochet off one of the walls.  An
interception gives the defender offensive control and the next scoring
opportunity."
     "One thing you haven't made clear to me, Councilman:  Is 'triad' a
contact sport?"
     "It has elements of it.  Such tactics are assigned terms like 'high
spinning deflection' ( type of ball pass between players') and 'body
check'(a type of physical maneuver against the opposing player where,
essentially, the opponent is rammed into a wall of the court).
     "I don't know.  Sounds like a game fit for a street tough."
     "There are penalties for certain behaviors.  Unnecessary blocking is
forbidden, as well as rib-blocking after the score."
     "What if fights break out among the players?"
     "Oh, that's easily dealt with.  The offending players are ejected
from the game automatically."
     Rolland Shannon stared at Vir, then asked, "And this is a popular
game in the fleet?"
     "Colonials love it," said Vir.
     And Giovanni said dourly from the front seat, "Dude, like no wonder
the Cylons tried to wipe you out."

*****

Chapter 7

     "Vir!  Viiiiiir!"
     Mollary's greeting of him was big and boisterous and not at all what
Vir had expected.  Then again, there was a large party going on, and in
that sort of environment Mollary was most definitely in his element.
     It was all quite exciting for Vir.  Certainly he had attended enough
parties, particularly in Mollary's presence.  The Mollary of old was
something of a magnet for such festivities.  Many were the revelries that
he was able to recall on the Rising Star, although admittedly his memory
of some of them was recalled through a bit of a haze.  A pleasant haze,
but a haze nonetheless.
     But this...this was a party at the White House!
     For all that Vir had been through---for all of the secret plots, and
his own hideous involvement in such dire schemes as assassinations...he
had never truly left behind the relatively innocent individual that he
had once been.  And that individual was the fool of the House of Cot, the
embarrassment, the one who was never going to amount to anything.  When
he had been shunted away to the Galactica to serve as aide to the equally
despised Sire Mollary, it had simply been the last insult in a life laden
with insults.
     To be in the White House, to rub elbows with the movers and shakers
of American society...inwardly he still felt a sort of disbelief over how
everything had turned out.  This was not how it was supposed to go for
Vir.  He was supposed to eke out an existence, and try not to get in
anyone's way.  That had been the total of his aspirations.
     So to be arriving on Earth----to be able to hold his head high...he
still felt s if he had to pinch himself to make sure that he wasn't
dreaming it all.  That was how he felt, even though he knew that the
dream had its dark, nightmarish side.  Yes, he knew that all too well.
     The West Wing banquet hall was alive with activity.  There seemed to
be song and dance and merriment.  A scantily clad dancing girl bumped up
against Vir and smiled at him...and him...in a most sultry manner before
pirouetting off, thin veils trailing from her hands.  Waiters bearing an
assortment of gourmet tidbits converged on him from all sides, almost
stumbling over each other to serve him.  People were dressed in the most
glorious finery, chatting and laughing and acting as if they had not a
care in the world.
     "Vir!" Mollary shouted once again and began to make his way through
the crowd.  When one is the Ruler of the Earth, such an action is far
less taxing that it would be for others.  The crowd magically melted
before him to make way, closing itself behind him as he passed.  It gave
him the appearance of being a great ship moving through the ocean.  The
ship of state, Vir told himself.
     Mollary was holding a drink.  He passed one man, a U.S. Congressman,
in fact, plucked the drink from the man's hand and bore it toward Vir. 
It took a moment for it to register on the politician, but when he
realized who it was who had absconded with his drink, he simply gestured
toward one of the wandering waiters and signaled that another would be
required.
     "Vir!  I must tell you a riddle!" Mollary said as he thrust the
glass into Vir's hand.
     Several things were tumbling about in Vir's head:  to thank Mollary
for the drink; to tell him he didn't need it; to tell Mollary that he,
Mollary, was looking quite well; to tell him that he was pleased that he
had been invited to this get-together.  All of this occurred to him, but
was promptly washed away by the unexpected declaration. "A...riddle?"
     "Yes!  Yes, it is quite clever.  Amber told it to me.  Clever girl,
her."
     "Yes.  Amber Lawrence, isn't it?  I believe you've told me about
her.  Tragic thing, the loss of her teach..."
     "Do you want to hear this riddle or not?" Mollary demanded.
     "Oh...absolutely yes." Vir bobbed his head.
     Mollary draped an arm around Vir's shoulders, bringing his face
closer.  The smell of alcohol was even more pungent than usual.  "What is
greater than the Lords of Kobol...more frightening than a Dark Ones
ship...the poor have it...the rich need it...and if you eat it, you die."
     Vir silently mouthed the elements of the riddle, then shook his
head. "I give up."
     "You give up!" Mollary sounded almost outraged.  "You give up?  That
is your problem, Vir.  That has always been your problem.  You give up,
far too quickly.  You have to give things thought, Vir. Even if you do
not succeed, you have to at least try!"
     "All...all right.  Let me think.  Greater than the Lords..."
     His thought process was promptly interrupted when a voice from his
elbow said, "Councilman.  How good to see you! Real good!"
     Vir turned and saw Ham Tyler standing there.
     He had seen the man before in passing, but not since Tyler had been
appointed Attorney General.  Tyler had never really registered on Vir,
back when he Xavier's right-hand man.  But now that he was seeing him,
really seeing him for the first time, he sensed that this was a man to
watch out for.
     "And I, you, Mr. Tyler," Vir replied easily.
     "It's good that you were able to get away from the Galactica to
attend this little celebration.  I'm sure you've been very busy up
there."
     Vir watched Mollary's gaze flicker from Tyler to Vir and back.  He
seemed curiously content to watch the two of them converse.  It was as if
Mollary had something very specific he wanted to see accomplished, but
Vir could not for the life of him imagine what that might be.  The last
thing that Vir was interested in doing was getting into some sort of
verbal sparring match with Tyler just because it might suit Mollary's
purposes, whatever those might be.  Nevertheless, there was something in
Tyler's tone and attitude that Vir  couldn't help but consider
off-putting.  It wasn't in the words so much, but in the condescending
voice attached to them.
     "Oh, yes...yes, I've been very busy," Vir said.  
     "No kidding.  But," Tyler continued, "the true future of Earth lies,
I think, with what's developing right here in the 'ole U.S. of A, rather
than on a bunch of floating pieces of scrap iron light-years away.  One
of them being the base of operations for one of the sides that's
responsible for turning Mother Earth into a slag heap, huh?"
     "Mr. A.G.," Vir said carefully, "with all due respect, if we
Colonials were truly 'responsible' for what happened to your planet, I
doubt we'd be all standing here right now, in an intact place, enjoying
this quite wonderful wine.  Excuse me!" he called to a passing waiter,
indicating with a gesture that he could use a refill.  Vir normally
wasn't a drinker, but in recent yahrens he had driven his tolerance level
up, just through practice.  A lengthy association with Mollary tended to
do that.
     As the waiter scurried off to fill Vir's request, he added, "Keep in
mind, Mr. A.G., that I'm an ex-officio member of the Council of Twelve. 
I've known the grandson of Adama for a great many yahrens.  I wouldn't
presume to comment on what I've heard goes on here, so you might want to
consider carefully your own sentiments when speaking about the Colonial
fleet."
     "What have you heard 'goes on' here?" Tyler asked, with one eyebrow
slightly raised in curiosity.
     Vir looked down and saw the next drink was in his hand, as if it had
materialized there by magic.  He downed half of it in a single gulp.  He
had a feeling this evening, he was going to need it.  "Oh, crazy rumors. 
People disappearing.  Earth's leaders losing face, losing power, losing
lives.  And all of them replaced by associates of yours."
     "You're overestimating me, Councilman," Tyler said, sounding quite
sincerely modest.  "Yes, I tend to recommend to His Excellency people
that I know are trustworthy.  But since national security is within my
purview, naturally it makes sense to bring in people I know will respect
America's position as leader of the global reconstruction effort."
     "Don't you mean, those you will respect you?"
     "I say only what I mean, Councilman," Tyler replied, unperturbed. 
"In point of fact, it's Sire Mollary who's the living incarnation of
Earth's rebirth.  If I'm to be worried about respect for anyone in
particular, it should be for him."
     "How very gracious of you, Mr. A.G.," Mollary spoke up.  "These are,
after all, dangerous times.  It is difficult to know whom we can trust."
     "True, true," Tyler said. He clapped Vir on the shoulder. "I believe
that I may have given you the wrong impression, Councilman.  May my balls
fall off if I say something that gives you a moment's concern."
     "Now that's something I'd pay to see," Vir said.
     Apparently missing the sarcasm, Tyler continued, "Ultimately, we all
want the same thing.  A rebuilt Earth, and a restoration of the United
States of America to the arena of international greatness it once
enjoyed."
     "We do?"
     "Of course, Councilman!" Tyler said, as if he were stating a given. 
"At this point in time, to many, we're nothing but a laughing stock.  A
wounded, fallen nation.  Armed gangs roam the streets of the world's
cities, fighting for food, medicine, survival.  That's something that
could keep us down.  Once...once other countries tipped their hats in
respect at the very mention of America.  Now...they tilt their heads back
and laugh."
     "How terrible for you," intoned Mollary, as if he'd had the
conversation a thousand times before.  Vir couldn't help but notice that
Mollary was putting away liquor at somewhere around the rate that Vir was
maintaining.  Indeed, faster than anyone in the place, it seemed.  "Very
terrible."
     "And even now, as we rebuild, as we break our backs to restore our
pride...they treat us as your people were treated when they walked
anonymously among us.  Now what would you call that?"
     "Poetic justice?" ventured Vir.
     As if Vir had not spoken---indeed, Tyler probably hadn't even heard
him...Tyler answered his own question.  Insults!  Insults upon insults
upon insults!  The potential for greatness still lives within America,
still burns like a fever within the bodies of its people."
     "Aren't fevers considered a bad thing?" Vir asked. "You
know...sometimes you die from them..."
     "And sometimes they clear up your vision, enable you to see things
you never saw before," said Tyler.
     "I usually just get headaches."
     "We planted our flag on the surface of the Moon," Tyler said
forcefully.  "When you have the Moon, how are you supposed to content
yourself with the dirt beneath your feet?  Do you know what I want for my
country, Councilman?  Do you want to know the truth?  I want my country
to conquer outer space, like your country did thousands of years ago.  I
want to see a rebirth of glory.  I want us to be what we need to be. 
Does that seem so much to ask, Councilman?"
     It was Mollary who replied, swirling a drink around in his glass and
staring down at it.  "No," he said softly. "No...it does not seem too
much to ask at all."
     Tyler was about to continue, but someone called his name from over
on the other side of the room.  Apparently some kind of friendly dispute
was going on, and Tyler was being asked to come and settle it.  He said
goodbye to Mollary and Vir, and headed off.
     Several more officials came toward Mollary, clamoring for his
attention, but Mollary waved them away.  Instead he placed a hand on the
small of Vir's back and said, "Come, walk with me, Vir.  Catch me up on
all the latest developments."
     "Well, here's a late development:  I do not like him, Mollary.  This
Ham Tyler. Not one bit."  Vir was speaking in a whisper, albeit an angry
one.
     "Mr. Tyler?  What is wrong with Mr. Tyler?" Mollary sounded almost
shocked.
     "Look, don't take this wrong, but...in some ways he reminds me of
you.  That  is, the way you used to be."
     "He doesn't remind me of me at all."
     "Are you kidding?  All that felgercarb he was saying about what he
wants his country to be, about the way things ought to be?  Doesn't that
sound like something you might have said once?"
     "No.  I never would have said any such thing."
     Vir rolled his eyes in annoyance as Mollary guided him down one of
the hallways.  "Where are we going?" he asked.
     "On a tour.  Much work has been done on the White House since you
were last here." He glanced at Vir.  His vision appeared a bit bleary. 
"So let me understand this:  you say that Tyler reminds you of me, and on
that basis you don't like him.  I suppose I should be insulted, no?"
     "When I first met you, back then you...well, you were somewhat
intimidating, Mollary.  And you had these visions for what Earth should
be.  And you..."
     "Fulfilled them," Mollary said softly.
     "Yes.  And millions of innocent Earthlings, people who had
absolutely nothing to do with our interplanetary war, died because of
it."
     "Such harsh words.  Do you judge me, Vir?  You dare judge the Ruler
of the Earth?" There was challenge in the words, but in the tone there
was only interest.
     "I know you, Mollary.  Sometimes I think I know you better than
anyone alive...or at least anyone who's left alive.  He shares your
dream, Mollary.  And look what became of it.  Look at all the death,
destruction, and tragedy that arose from it."
     "The road to one's destiny is never a smooth one, Vir.  There are
always bumps along the way..."
     "Bumps!  Mollary, innocent people were killed in crossfires between
our forces and the Cylons!  Our battles created a reign of terror!  And
that sin came back to revisit us a hundredfold!  Those actions came
solely because of the kind of thinking that Tyler is standing there
spouting!  When are we going to learn, Mollary?  What is it going to
take!   The death of every human in the galaxy?"
     "Why are you asking me?" inquired Mollary.  "Do you know who you
should ask?  Lanas."
     "I'm sorry...what?" Vir felt as if the conversation had abruptly
veered off at another angle completely.  "Lanas?  Who is..."
     "He is on the Battlestar Galactica, as I recall.  Has been for some
time.  Very wise individual.  Do you know why you are here, Vir?"
     Vir was having trouble following the thread of whatever it was they
were supposed to be talking about.  "Well, I...well, no, Mollary, to be
honest.  I'm pleased that this party is being held, just because it's
nice to see our people celebrating something...anything...even if it's
just a group pat on the back to enjoy the reconstruction plans.  But I'm
not sure why you asked me specifically to come."
     "What are you insinuating, Vir?"
     "Insinuating?  I..." He sighed. "Mollary...perhaps, well...you may
have had a little too much to drink.  Because, to be honest, you're not
talking very sensibl..."
     "Could you possibly be implying," continued Mollary, "that I
couldn't speak to you via standard communications means if I desired to
do so?  That I'm worried about being unable to find a secure channel? 
That everything I say could be monitored by others?  You're not saying
that, are you, Vir?"
     Lt. Dillon had once used an expression that Vir had found most
curious:  he had spoken of "the cubit dropping," as a means of indicating
that someone had just realized something.  It wasn't a term Vir
completely understood, particularly because he had no idea where a cubit
might drop that it would inspire in any way a moment of clarity.
     However, at that moment, as Vir listened---really listened---to what
Mollary was saying, he suddenly got a vague inkling as to what a cubit
dropping might mean to him personally.
     "No," Vir said very carefully. "I didn't mean to imply that at all." 
But he said it with such a careful tone of voice that he hoped to make it
clear to Mollary that he had grasped the subtext.
     The mists of emptiness that had clouded Mollary's eyes up until that
moment seemed to part, ever so briefly.  He nodded wordlessly.  Then he
opened his mouth to speak again...
     ...and he staggered.
     "Sire Mollary?"
     Mollary passed his face in front of his hands as if trying to brush
away any cobwebs, and when he lowered his hand there was an expression
that seemed a combination of anger and resignation.  "Building up your
tolerance to alcohol, I see," he muttered.
     "Somewhat, yes," Vir said.
     "I wasn't talking to you!"
     "But..."
     Mollary suddenly switched his mood, sounding rather jovial again. 
"The Americans have a superb gallery that is a tribute to previous
presidents---come, Vir!  You should see it!"
     "Ummm...all right..."
     Chatting with what seemed excessive cheer, Mollary guided Vir to the
end of the corridor, hung a sharp right, then a left , and led him into a
very sizeable room.  Just as Mollary had boasted, the walls were lined
with a most impressive array o f paintings.  
     The first painting that naturally caught Vir's eye was Eric
Coleman's.  Mollary saw where Vir was looking, and echoed Vir's thoughts
aloud: "Why is he here, eh?"
     Vir nodded.  "He was insane, Mollary.  An ugly part of their
history.  He shouldn't be here with the others."
     "He must be, Vir, because he is a part of history.  If no one
recalls that which he has done wrong, how can he be guided toward that
which is right?"
     "Apparently not everyone can agree on what is right or wrong," Vir
said ruefully, glancing over his shoulder as if worried that Tyler was
going to be standing right beside him.
     "You wouldn't be referring to Tyler, would you?  Calm yourself, Vir. 
His is not the only opinion out there."
     "One wouldn't know it to look at the people in that room.  They..."
     But Mollary, for his part, seemed utterly unperturbed by Vir's clear
discomfiture.  Instead, he simply said, "We do what we must, Vir.  We
always do.  All of us.  Take Charybdis.  Do you remember him, Vir?  Do
you recall what happened?"
     Vir's head was still spinning as he tried to pull together all the
fragments of what Mollary had been saying.  "Charybdis...vaguely, yes. 
But that was before I was born, it..."
     ""A man of mystery," Mollary continued.  "A man of great mystery. 
Who made the mistake one day of letting a sharp observer like a certain
Colonial warrior named Ortega discover why he was such a man of mystery.
Poor Charybdis...do you recall what happened to him?"
     "Yes, I think so.  But..." 
     "Sometimes it is possible to agree on what is right and wrong.  And
we would not want the wrong things to happen again.  Not to anyone.  Not
to anyone, Vir.  Do you hear me?"  Mollary's voice was rising with
unexpected vehemence.  "Do you hear me, Vir?  Are you attending to the
words coming out of my mouth?"
     "Yes, yes, of course." Vir felt more lost than ever.  "Every word."
     "Good. I am glad we had this talk.  It will be best for all of us. 
Come...the party is progressing without us.  We wouldn't want them to
think that fun can be had without us in the room, eh?
     "Do you know what, Vir?  And I want you to remember this. 
Everything around here, all that we have rebuilt, all the power at my
command...it makes me thing of what I truly have.  Not only that, but
what we all, within less than a sectan's time, all have."
     "And what would that be?"
     "Ah," grinned Mollary. "that's all part of the great riddle of life,
isn't it."
     And with that utterly cryptic remark, he headed out of the room,
leaving a completely perplexed Vir behind, to scratch his head and
wondered what in the world had just occurred there.

*****     

     When Vir entered his quarters for the evening, he was astounded to
find the nubile dancing girl he'd been ogling earlier.  She was wearing
considerably less than she had been before.  To be specific, she was clad
in his bedsheet, which was wrapped around her on the bed.  Vir stood
there a moment and then realized that since his mouth was moving, it
would probably be at least good form to have syllables emerging in
conjunction with its movement.  "Uh...uh...uh...hello..."
     "Hello," she purred.
     "I'm...sorry to disturb you.  I thought these were my assigned
lodgings.  I'll just be out of your way..." Then Vir saw his suitcase
over in the corner and realized that he was exactly where he was supposed
to be.  So, apparently, was she.
     "Would you care to join me?"
     "Why?  Are you coming apart?" Vir then forced laughter at his rather
feeble attempt at humor.  He saw no change in the small smile on the
woman's face, and so he composed himself.  "Uh...look...perhaps there's
been some mistake..."
     "I am addressing Councilman Vir, aren't I?" She repositioned
herself, sweeping the blanket around her.  Vir suddenly felt rather
sweaty.  He also felt some stray movement in the area of his chest and
willed himself to calm down.
     "Yes, you are.  I am Vir.  But...may I ask how...that is to say..."
     "A.G. Tyler felt that he might've offended you...and out of respect
to your long history with the Ruler of the Earth, he asked me to make
sure there were no hard feelings."
     At the mention of Tyler's name, event he most preliminary stirrings
of interest promptly evaporated.  "Tyler, I see.  Well..." Vir cleared
his throat forcibly.  "Here's a thought.  I'll turn around and avert my
eyes, and you can go get dressed and tell him everything's fine, and I
appreciate the thought.  All right?"
     Disappointment flickered across her face.  "Are you sure?"
     "Miss...believe me when I tell you, decisions aren't always my
strongest thing.  I kind of go back and forth.  But about this, yes, I'm
absolutely sure." He turned his back to her and waited.  He heard the
rustling of the sheets as she slid out of bed, the whisper of cloth
against her body as she dressed.
     Moments later her hand trailed across his back as she cooed,
"Nighty-night, then, Councilman."
     "Uh...same to you," Vir said in a strangled voice.
     He waited long moments after the door hissed closed before he dared
to trust himself to turn around.  Then he let out a sigh of relief when
she saw that she was, indeed, gone.
     Tyler. Tyler had sent her.  The very thought was horrifying. 
Furthermore, when he'd turned his back to her, he'd watched the shadow
she'd cast quite carefully, to make sure she didn't come at him with a
knife while his back was turned. That, rather than generosity, would be
much more in character with Tyler's way of doing things.
     "Now I remember why I didn't spend a lot of time on Earth.  I hate
it here."
     He made sure his door was locked and changed quickly for bed.  But
sleep did not come.  Instead he lay on his back,  staring up at the
ceiling, thinking about what Mollary had said.  It seemed so random, so
confusing, as if Mollary was unable to hold a coherent thought in his
head.
     Who was Lamas? And...
     That riddle.  About who was greater than the Lords of Kobol?  What
did it have to do with anything, for Sagan's sake?  The truth was, it
seemed completely unrelated to anything that had gone on.
     What was greater than the Lords of Kobol?  The rest of the riddle
made no sense, couldn't progress any further, because the truth was that,
quite simply, nothing was greater than the Lords of Kobol...
     Suddenly Vir sat up, his eyes wide, and he felt a momentary sense of
glee, almost childlike in its exuberance.
     "Nothing," he said out loud.  "The answer is nothing!"
     It made perfect sense.  Nothing was greater than the Lords of Kobol. 
Nothing was more frightening than the Dark Ones' ships...to that, Vir
would personally attest.  The poor have nothing.  The rich need nothing. 
And if you eat nothing...then you die.
     A good riddle.  A real thought provoker.
     But then Vir thought of something else Mollary had said.  Something
about...
     What had Mollary's exact words been?
     "Everything around here, all that we have rebuilt, all the power at
my command...it makes me think of what I truly have.  Not only that, but
what we will all, within less than a sectan's time, all have."  And he
had referred to it as being part of the great riddle of life.
     Nothing.  Mollary was telling him that he felt he had nothing.  As
if he wanted to make sure Vir was aware that he was truly unhappy with
his situation.  But why?  Why not just come out and say so?  And why was
he so unhappy anyway, if he was being given the opportunity to rebuild
Earth in the Colonies' image (his own, actually).  Where was the tragedy
and sadness in that?
     And...they would all have nothing?  Within a sectan's time?
     It didn't make any sense.
     Or perhaps it did, and Vir was simply unwilling or unable to put it
all together.
     The next morning he went straight to the Oval Office, but guards
blocked the door.  "I need to see the Ruler of the Earth," he said.
     The guards simply stared at him as if he hadn't spoken.
     "It's urgent."
     "I'm sorry, but His Excellency isn't seeing anyone today."  The
voice came from behind.  It was Ham Tyler, strolling calmly down the
corridor and looking so at home that it seemed to Vir as if Tyler thought
he owned the place.
     "And why is that?"
     Tyler shrugged. "I don't question Sire Mollary's orders, Councilman. 
I just obey them.  I'd appreciate it if you did the same."
     "How do I know that those are his orders?" Vir demanded.  "How do I
even know he's even still alive?"
     Tyler appeared startled at the very suggestion.  "I'm shocked that
you'd insinuate some kind of conspiracy against His Excellency,
Councilman. I promise you he's in the Oval Office.  He just wants to be
left alone."
     "Look," Vir said hotly.  "Unless I..."
     The door to the Oval Office suddenly opened.
     Vir turned and peered through and, sure enough, there was Mollary
seated behind his desk.  He sat there, resolutely, staring straight
ahead, not so much as an inch of his body twitching or giving any
indication that he was alive.  And then, ever so slightly, Mollary turned
his head and looked in Vir's direction.  He nodded once as if to say,
It's all right. Go.  Then he went back to staring straight ahead, not
speaking, not even giving any indication that he was aware Vir was still
in the doorway.
     Vir stepped back and the doors closed.  He turned to Tyler, who just
smiled and said, "Have a safe trip back to the Galactica.  Come see us
again sometime, okay?" And with that he headed off down the corridor.

*****

     The sleeper approached wakefulness.  One of the sinister ones was
nearing.  He sensed its approach and prepared to come to full
consciousness.  He had remained hidden in the darkness, waiting for his
chance, preparing for the opportunity to serve the sinister ones.
     It was a confusing time for him.  He felt as if his mind were
splitting in two, and yet merging for the first time.  As if he were
about to encounter a long-lost twin from whom he had been separated
moments after being split from his mother's womb.
     He found himself staring at shadows for long periods of time.  There
was quite an abundance of them in Down Below.  Each of them seemed to
cloak its own mysterious secrets.  Once, like most people, the sleeper
had feared shadows.  But now he found himself embracing them, feeling the
coolness of them.
     Then the shadows began to call him...one in particular.  He felt
himself drawn to it, to one particular corner.  There was no one else
around.  Step by unsteady step he drew closer and closer to it, sensing
that for the first time, his life was going to make some degree of sense. 
Indeed, of late, he had been filled with a curious emptiness.
     He remembered his parents, his mother holding him close, his father
schooling him in his first lessons.  He remembered them...but only as if
from a distance, as if his mind embraced them, but they were absent from
his heart.
     He remembered the first woman he had made love to, the press of her
flesh against him, the warmth of her kiss.  He remembered her...but he
could not actually feel her.  He knew that he had been intertwined with
her, but could not feel the sensation of it.
     It was as if the entirety of his life had been some sort of video,
observed but not actually experienced firsthand.
     He wondered if this was a commonplace feeling.  If other people felt
the same way about their memories.
     Meantime, deep within him, something not quite biological, not quite
technical, stirred and moved in response to the summons from the shadowy
area.
     He moved toward the corner, and there was something
there---something gray, with a hand outstretched, summoning him...
     ...no...not him...it...

*****     

Chapter 8

     Lt. Kanon, wingman of Captain Breton, of the Battlestar Galactica's
Blue Squadron, was staring at Vir, one brow arched, his piercing eyes
filled with open curiosity.  "Lanas?  You want to find out about someone
named Lanas?"
     The seated Vir kept his hands folded neatly in his lap. "If it
wouldn't be too much trouble."
     "What's his Colonial background?  Aquarian?  Tauron?  Caprican?"
     "Tauron.  I was told he was here."
     "Is he important in some way?"
     Vir shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  "Is there any reason you're
asking me so many questions, Kanon?  Not that," he added quickly, "I mind
answering them.  I don't.  I wouldn't mind answering your questions all
day.  I really didn't have anything else blocked out on my schedule.  So
if you want to keep..."
     Kanon put up a hand to still the torrent of words spilling from Vir. 
"I just wanted to know," Zach said slowly, "if he presents any sort of a
security risk and if we should be worried."
     "A security risk!  Oh...oh, no.  That's funny."  Vir quickly
laughed, a short of high-pitched blurt.  "That's really funny.  A Tauron,
presenting a security risk.  No," he said, suddenly serious.  "No, none
of our people present any sort of risk, security or otherwise.  We, that
is, I, wouldn't want anyone to think that the Taurons in any way are
threatening.  We don't want that.  Nobody does.  I know I don't, you
don't..."
     "Lanas."
     "I'm sure he doesn't, either."
     "I mean," Kanon said patiently, "who is he?  Why do you need to find
him?"
     "Well..." Vir harrumphed to buy himself a few microns, and then
said, "Money."
     "Money?  What about it?"
     "Lanas has come into a sizeable amount of it.  His father died.  And
Lanas has come into a sizeable inheritance, so his parents want to get in
touch with him, let him know..."
     " 'Parents.'  You just said his father was dead."
     "Yes, that's...right.  That is, his adoptive parents.  His father
put him up for adoption when he was quite young, and when his father was
dying, he felt so guilty that he left everything to his son.  It's a
tragic story.  Very unexpected death.  His father was an opera singer,
you see, and he was performing at a concert on the Rising Star, and his
mouth was wide open as he was trying to jump an octave and suddenly this
low-flying insect..."
     "Okay, okay, okay," said Kanon quickly, clearly not wanting to hear
the story's climax.  "Lemme see if we've got any record of a Lanas coming
through here."
     As Kanon checked through the computers, Vir's mind was racing. 
Lying simply was not his strong suit.  He felt tremendously uncomfortable
and very exposed whenever he was trying to do it.  One would have thought
that, working with Mollary for as long as he had, he would have acquired
a knack for it.  The one thing he had going for him was that he tended to
babble to the point where people would accept whatever he was saying,
just to shut him up.  With one lie, he was ineffective.  With a torrent
of lies, he could squeak by.
     The thing was, he wasn't sure who Lanas was, or what significance he
held.  But out of nowhere, Mollary had made mention of him.
     When Mollary had spoken of this Lanas fellow, Vir---after fighting
through his initial confusion----had resolved that somehow, for some
reason, Mollary was trying to tell him something.  For that reason, he
had gone straight to Zach's office as soon as he had returned to the
Battlestar.  He wasn't sure why he was there, or what he was trying to
find out, or what he would do with the knowledge once he did find it, but
he couldn't think that far down the line.  He had to operate one step at
a time.
     "Got him," Kanon said.
     Kanon's declaration brought Vir out of his reverie.  "You do?
Where?"
     "I don't mean that we actually have him in custody...why?  Should
we?"
     Vir laughed nervously.  "Of course not!  Why would you?"
     "According to this," continued Kanon, looking over the records, "he
arrived on the Galactica about six sectars ago." He paused, studied the
computer screen for a few more moments, and then said, "This could be a
problem."
     "What?  What's a problem?"
     "Well," said Kanon, scratching his chin thoughtfully, "there's no
record of him requesting Core Command for any space here.  No
designation.  If I had to guess, he's probably in Down Below."
     "Down below? Are you sure?"
     "No, I'm not sure.  For example, if he'd somehow managed to sneak
off the Galactica without our knowing it, he'd be gone.  Or he might've
gotten a room or job using faked ID." 
     "But that doesn't make a lot of sense.  If he had fake ID, why would
he use it for one thing, but not the other?" Vir said.
     Kanon grinned.  "Very good, Vir.  You should consider a career with
Colonial Security."  
     "Really?  You think so?  Or are you kidding?"
     "Just kidding, natch."
     "Oh."  Vir felt slightly crestfallen.
     "But you're right.  There's no reason for him to come in under his
real name and then fake his presence elsewhere.  Which brings me back to
my original guess:  he's Down Below.  Residences down there are pretty
much catch-as-catch-can; set up a tent and you're a resident.  Run money
for one of the shady types down there, and you're employed.  Do you want
me to send some warriors down to find him?"
     "No," said Vir quickly.  "I'll handle it. I'm, well---I'm a friend
of the family.  I promised I'd do it.  It's kind of...an honor thing."
     "Oh.  An honor thing."
     "That's right.  Thanks for all your help, by the way.  If you could
forward a copy of his photograph and records to my quarters, I'd be most
appreciative."  Vir stood, pumped Kanon's hand with such ferocity that he
threatened to snap it off at the wrist, and then left Kanon alone with
his computer terminal as fast as he could.
     When he got to his door, he stood there, slightly out of breath,
composing his thoughts.  His heart was racing and he didn't even fully
grasp why that would be the case.  All he knew was that he was beginning
to sense that something was happening...something that Mollary actually
had the answers to.  But Mollary wouldn't tell him more than he already
had, would not give him anything more than dribs and drabs...
     Would not?  Or...could not?
     Was it possible that Mollary had simply told him as much as he
could, somehow  Even that made no sense, though.  There had been no one
except Mollary and himself in the presidential portrait gallery.  Was
Mollary that concerned that he was being watched, listened to wherever he
went in the White House?  But they could've gone outside, then, or found
a place---some place, any place---that could be shielded from prying eyes
and ears.  Mollary would certainly have been clever enough to come up
with somewhere that was secure.
     But...what if there was no place left that was secure?
     The notion was utterly horrifying to Vir. Could that be possible? 
Could it be that someone was capable of monitoring Mollary, no matter
where he went?  Perhaps they had managed to implant some sort of tracking
or listening device upon him.  But---why would he stand still for
something like that?  Why would he submit to it.  He was Sire Mollary. 
He was the new Ruler of the Earth! Much of Earth might be in ruins, but
it still was what it was.  One had to respect the office, if not the man
holding it.
     If that were the case... if Mollary was wearing some sort of bugging
device, or if---at the very least----there was someone whose presence was
so pervasive that even Mollary was aware of it, then that was a situation
that had to be addressed.  But who could be responsible for such a state
of affairs?
     Ham Tyler.  That had to be the answer.
     Perhaps, Vir reasoned, Tyler was blackmailing him somehow.  Perhaps
he'd gotten his hands on some sort of dire truth about Mollary, and was
trading upon silence in exchanged for power.  And while he was at it, he
was keeping Mollary on a tight leash...
     It made Vir wonder...what could Tyler possibly know that would cause
Mollary to submit to that...that gallmonging snitrad's will, rather than
allow it to be made public?  After all, Mollary's greatest and most awful
actions weren't secrets, they were part of the resume that had obtained
him the rank of Ruler of the Earth in the first place.  What could
Mollary possibly have done that would be considered so repellant?
     No matter what it was, the whole business made Vir extremely edgy. 
It made him wonder just how paranoid he himself was becoming, and how
paranoid he should be.  Tyler definitely knew Vir's background, and Vir
had the uneasy feeling that he, too, might be targeted somehow.  It
depended, of course, on just how seriously Tyler perceived him as a
threat, and whether Vir stood in the way---intentionally or not----of
whatever it was that Tyler saw as his goal.
     Vir's mind was spinning, and as he finally opened the door to enter
his quarters, he jumped nearly a laxar in the air when a voice said, "Hi,
there."
     Vir sagged against the wall, clutching his heart.  "Colonel Dillon,"
he managed to snap.  "What are you doing here?  How did you get in here?"
     "When you've spent time among the Earthlings," Dillon said, rising
from the chair in which he had apparently made himself quite comfortable,
"you pick up a few things.  And you hang onto them, even when you move
upstairs to become the Commander's aide.  Speaking of which----he'd like
to see you."
     "He would?"
     "Yes.  What?  Does that make you nervous?"
     "Nervous?" laughed Vir.  "Why would you say that?"
     "When you're nervous about something, you tend to flap your hands a
bit...kinda like you're doing right now."
     "What?  Oh, this.  No, no...I'm just having some minor circulation
problems, so I'm trying to get the blood flowing."  He flailed his hands
for a moment, then said, "Ahh.  That did the trick," and folded his arms
tightly across his chest.  "What does he want to see me about?"
     "Beats me.  You know how it goes...'ours is not to question why,
ours is but to'...I think you know the rest."
     "Yes, of course I do.  I do? I mean...actually, I don't.  Ours is
but to...what?"
     "Do or die."
     "Ah.  What a wonderful saying," Vir said with a marked lack of
enthusiasm.
     "It's from a Earthling poem, actually.  'The Charge of the Light
Brigade.'"
     "Earthlings wrote about a brigade that charges at faster than light
speeds?"
     Dillon let out a sigh, then smiled gamely and gestured toward the
door.  "I'll explain on the way," he said.
     They stepped out and headed down the corridor.  Vir's mind was in
even more turmoil.  Dillon, as usual, wasn't giving any indication as to
what was on his mind.  What did he know? How much did he know?  For that
matter, how much did Vir himself know?  He felt as if he had no grounding
at all, as if he were about to float away.
     Dillon was chatting away about something of absolutely no
consequence.  Vir continued to smile and nod and give every indication he
was listening, which he really wasn't.  He rubbed the corner of his
eye...and saw...something.  
     It was just there, just for a moment, but when Vir turned his gaze
to look head on, it was gone.  He blinked, rubbed his eye again, and
tried to spot whatever it was, without truly knowing what it was he was
endeavoring to see.
     "Vir, are you all right?" asked Dillon, actually sounding a touch
concerned.
     Vir tried to recreate for himself the mental impression that had
been left upon him.  He thought he'd spotted someone, someone cloaked,
watching him with what appeared to be a wry smile.  But now he was gone,
and Vir was wondering whether or not he was completely losing it from the
stress.
     Yes, that was it---stress.  More stress than he had ever really
known.  And the killing aspect of it was that he still had no clear idea
of just what he was stressed over.
     With more honesty than was probably wise for him at that particular
point in time, Vir answered, "No, Colonel Dillon.  No, I'm not all right. 
And you know what?  You know what the absolute worst part of it is?"
Dillon shook his head. "The worst part," continued Vir, "is that if I
were all right...the feeling would be so alien to me, that I'd probably
be totally terrified of it and wouldn't know what to do.  Do you know
what I'm saying?"
     "Yeah.  Yeah, I think I do.  Basically, you're afraid to let your
guard down."
     But Vir shook his head. "No.  That's not quite it at all.  It's not
that I'm afraid to do so, It's that I've forgotten how."
     "Vir," Dillon said slowly, "considering the things that have gone on
here...and the things that continue to go on back on Earth...maybe that's
a blessing in disguise."
     "Then it's a very cunning disguise," said Vir.

*****

     Troy rose from behind his desk when Vir entered.  Dressed in his
customary uniform, he stroked his neatly trimmed, slightly graying beard
and looked at Vir pensively.  Vir tried to get a read off Troy's face
that might indicate exactly what the problem was, but Troy was far too
old a hand to let the slightest hint slip through.  Troy had been
Commander for nearly a yahren, and in the four yahrens that Vir had known
him, he had never seen the man tip his hand until he was ready.  "Vir,
it's good to see you,' he said, extending his hand.  "Your trip to and
from Earth went without incident, I trust?"
     "Oh, yes.  The best kind of space travel.  The uneventful kind."
     He shook Troy's hand firmly.  Vir recalled very clearly when he'd
first arrived on the Galactica---he had been so nervous that his hands
had been incredibly clammy.
     Vir had never forgotten the expression on then-Commander Adama's
face, or the way he'd fought to maintain a polite demeanor while subtly
trying to wipe his drenched hand on his trouser leg.  As for Mollary,
well, Mollary had just been too stunned to say or do anything other than
get Vir the hell out of there.
     He'd come a long way in the succeeding yahrens.  Yet, in many ways,
he felt just as disconcerted as ever.
     "That's good.  That's good."  Troy rapped his knuckles briskly on
the desk. "Well...I'm sure you're quite busy..."
     "Actually, no.  I just got back, so my schedule is wide open."
     Vir was just trying to be helpful, but he could tell from Troy's
expression that that wasn't what he wanted to hear.  He realized
belatedly that it was just a conversational gambit, a means of jumping
briskly to the point.  "But if anyone's busy, it's you, Commander," Vir
added quickly, "and I appreciate your taking the time to discuss...well,
whatever it is we've got to discuss.  So---why don't we get right to it,
then."
     "Yes, I----suppose we should."  He paused for a moment.  "This is
regard to the tour of Down Below that's scheduled for tomorrow."
     "The tour," Vir echoed, his face a perfect blank.
     "Yes.  There's a movement among various representatives from every
ship in the fleet to attend to the conditions in Down Below.  They feel
it represents, well...something they're not comfortable with.  To be
frank, we don't like to be reminded that we have any 'have-nots,' and
Down Below is most definitely a haven for the unfortunate."
     "So they want to get rid of a haven?"
     "Not exactly.  There's a sort of reclamation project in the works. 
We're trying to pool our resources, trying to convince many of the people
who have lost themselves in Down Below to return to their ships.  Plus,
there are corporate sponsors who are interested in be coming involved in
Down Below.  Cleaning it up."
     "It's hard to believe that would be possible."
     "I know.  Taking the dark underbelly of the Battlestar Galactica and
making it over into something approachable---I swear, some sponsors
actually believe they can transform Down Below into a place so friendly
that people would take their families down there, on holiday. It's a pipe
dream, I think, but..." He shrugged.  Vir mirrored the gesture.  "In any
event, representatives from the various sponsors and ships are gathering
for this tour.  It's been fairly well publicized, actually.  If you ask
me, it's more an exercise in politics than anything else.  A chance to
stage a media event in order for the representatives to look good to the
folks back home.  Oldest political maneuvering in the book.  And, as you
know, an invitation went out to you, asking you to be a part of the tour. 
Since you're an ex-officio member of the Council of Twelve, it only
seemed right."
     "Yes, of course. And don't think I didn't appreciate it," said Vir.
     As a matter of fact, he didn't remember receiving the invitation. 
Vir's inheritance of his superior's seat on the Council was still
relatively recent.  He didn't even have an assistant---one had not been
assigned him.  
     As a result, Vir often felt a bit overwhelmed.  Fortunately he had a
great many organizational skills of his own, what with having been
Mollary's aide for all those yahrens.  But while it was one thing simply
to be the aide to the ambassador, to juggle both positions was proving
something of a strain.
     Still, he saw absolutely no reason to admit as much to Troy.  So
instead he nodded and smiled and maintained the fiction that he was
perfectly clear on just what it was that Troy was getting at.
     "The problem is...I find myself in a bit of an uncomfortable
situation," Troy admitted.  "The simple fact is that several members of
the Council looked over the list of invited attendees, saw that your name
was on it, and became rather---incensed."
     "Incensed?"
     "Understand, Vir, it's nothing personal," Troy said quickly.  "I
know you to be a find, upstanding, and highly moral individual.  But the
others, they don't know you, and just assume you to be a..."
     "Typical Tauron?" He saw Troy's discomfiture and sighed sadly. 
"It's all right, you can say it.  I know my people's conduct hasn't won
us a large number of friends."
     "No.  No reason for rehashing the past.  The bottom line, Vir, as
that several key members have stated that they don't want you along on
the tour.  There's still a good deal of anger and bruised feelings, not
only over past scandals, but in response to the current attitude that's
being displayed on Earth----toward the fleet.  Everything from Mollary's
speech to the publication of Verity, the new official Earth newspaper."
     "Oh yes.  Verity.' Now that was indeed something with which Vir was
quite familiar.  Since the restoration had begun, the various independent
publications available on Earth had dwindled very nearly to nonexistence. 
But then, out of nowhere, Verity had appeared, billing itself as the "New
Voice of Earth."
     It purported to be an utterly independent publication but the rumor
was that it was simply the mouthpiece of certain local factions.  Now
that Vir had been on Earth, he would have bet that A.G. Tyler's hand was
somewhere deep into Verity's pockets, controlling everything that went on
with the publication.  There was no way to prove it, though, and there
was certainly no reason to raise the issue with Troy.  It wasn't as if he
could do anything, or should even if he could.
     Verity took every opportunity to besmirch the name, honor, and
intentions of the Colonial Service.  The publication advocated "the
making of a mightier Earth"...although Vir couldn't help but notice that
precisely how they might make Earth mightier was always left rather
vague.  It was as if the publication was content to stir the emotions of
its readers without actually giving them a tangible goal.  Or at least,
not just yet.
     "So you're saying that you don't want me to attend," Vir said.
     "No.  No, I'm not saying that at all.  The fleet has to understand
that the best way to work toward a future is for all people to pull
together, work together.  And that includes the Taurons and the
Earthlings.  I'm letting you know that the hostility, though, because
it's likely that there will be some who will do everything they can to
make you feel uncomfortable.  Rest assure, though, that I will do
everything within my power..."
     "That...won't be necessary," said Vir quietly.  "I have no desire to
put you in a difficult position."
     "Vir---" Troy had to laugh. "...I'm commander of the fleet.  Being
in difficult positions comes with the job description."
     "Yes, I know that.  Nevertheless, that doesn't mean that I have to
make the job any more difficult than it already is, right?  The simple
truth, Commander, is that I don't want to be somewhere that I'm not
wanted.  Trust me on this.  I've had a lot experiences with not being
wanted in various places.  So I've got a fairly thick skin when it comes
to this sort of thing."
     "Vir---"
     Vir got to his feet. "I very much appreciate the opportunity to have
this talk, Commander.  I'm glad we did.  I'm glad I know where I...where
we...stand."
     "Vir, didn't you hear what I said?" Troy said, in obvious
exasperation. "I'm not about to let the Council push me around.  I was
just giving you a sort of 'heads up' over a potentially difficult
situation, but that doesn't mean...'
     "Actually, Commander...it does.  It does men...precisely what you
think it does.  I have to go now."
     Vir headed for the door.  Troy came around his desk, looking rather
concerned.  "Vir.." he started to say.
     Vir turned to face him, squared his shoulders and said, "I think...I
think it'd be better if you called me 'Councilman Vir' for the time
being."  And with that, he walked out of Troy's quarters.

*****

Chapter 9

     Everything seemed to clear to Tyler, although rarely more so than
when he was sleeping.
     When he was awake, he knew what it was that he wanted for America. 
But there was so much to deal with, so many details to attend to. People
clamoring for his attention, this senator wanting something, that
congressman requiring five minutes of his time.  It was always five
minutes, at least in theory.  Naturally, once he was in any given
meeting, five minutes became fifteen, or twenty, or half an hour, and the
next thing he knew his entire schedule was simply shot.  It was just so
easy to get distracted by everything.
     But when he was asleep, why, there was when he saw the future----his
future----with glorious clarity.
     He saw himself standing hundreds of feet tall in the air, a giant
holographic projection that could be seen for miles.  That, indeed, could
be seen all over the world.  He saw himself addressing the people,
leading them, rallying them, and they were shouting his name over and
over, praising him, begging him to let them share in his glorious and
great vision.
     He spoke to them of the magnificence that was America's destiny, of
all that the great republic was going to accomplish under his leadership. 
Once more they shouted his name, and over and over again.  It was quite
exhilarating, really.
     He had always aspired to greatness, ever since he had been told that
it was something he would never be able to accomplish.
     His father was a military man, and very demanding. He had produced
two sons, within a year of each other, and it had taken very little time
in their development to realize who was the favored son.  It wasn't Ham. 
No, it was his older brother, Ira.
     It had been hard for Ham to hate Ira.  As well to being a good
student and a brilliant soldier, Ira had also possessed a kind heart.  As
fears as he could be in times of combat, he was equally sympathetic when
dealing with his younger brother.  Only a year separated them, true, but
it might as well have been a chasm.  Ham had to work for everything that
he achieved, while for Ira it seemed to come easily.  He made it all
appear effortless.  He rarely seemed to study, and yet he scored higher
grades than Ham.  He never saw him practicing, and yet Ira was the
deadliest member of Ham's mercenary company, Apex Team Six.
     Everyone knew that Ira was going far.
     That was why Ham had to kill him.
     The final straw had been Ira's girlfriend.  She had been incredibly
beautiful, amazingly exotic, the daughter of one of the world's richest
men.  And young Ham, just turning twenty, had seen her during one of
their infrequent trips to New York.  Unfortunately for Ham, the woman had
seen Ira, and become instantly smitten with him.  Ira was likewise taken
with her, and who could blame him?  Luminous eyes, long, red hair that
hung loosely about her shoulders, a body so firm and sculpted that when
she walked the sinew of her muscle played gloriously just beneath her
suntanned skin.  Every time Ham saw her, his body ached for her.
     As it turned out, he wasn't alone.  There was another Apex Team marc
as well, who'd fought in Africa with Ham and Ira.  His name was Knight
Steelfox, and his passion for the woman----Dixie---was so great that he
and Ira came to blows over her.  A vicious battle it had been, and Ira
had won because for the simple reason that Ira always won.  Knight,
however, had loudly threatened revenge, declaring that his "war" with Ira
wasn't over, not by a long shot.
     This was all the opening that Ham had needed.  Smitten with the
woman, resentful over his brother's greatness and the way that mom and
dad had always treated Ira with the respect and idolization Ham had felt
he was entitled to, Ham had required no further incentive.  He had
poisoned Ira with LSD...and himself.
     That had been the trickiest aspect of it.  He had ingested the same
drug that he'd placed in Ira's food.  It was the most effective means of
avoiding suspicion.  What he'd had to do was be sure to eat enough to
show genuine signs of illness, but too little to prove fatal to him.  He
had succeeded and no sooner had Ira died, the vicious hallucinogenic
having consumed his mind as well as his body, than Knight Steelfox had
been accused of committing the crime.  The police had gone to arrest him.
Unfortunately---or fortunately, depending upon your point of
view---Knight hadn't gone quietly.  Ultimately, he didn't surrender at
all, but instead resisted arrest, which was always a bad idea when those
who are trying to arrest you, a outnumber you and, b, are already
incensed with you because they believe----however mistakenly---that you
have taken a human life.
     As a result, by the end of the arrest, Knight's blood was splattered
all over the immediate area.
     This had all been tremendously beneficial for Ham, as was to be
expected.  His grief-stricken parents had lavished their attention on
him, partly out of guilt, but mostly because he was their only remaining
son and they knew that he was their only chance for vicarious success.
     As for the girl...
     Ham had gone to her with his beret on his head and his heart on his
sleeve.  He had gone to her and, while acting the tragedy-struck younger
brother, also made it clear to her that he adored her, and hopefully no
longer from afar.
     She had looked at him with a mixture of amusement and pity.  "Oh,
you poor, poor little shmuck," she had said playfully, although it was a
curious choice of words since she was, in fact, several years his junior. 
"I've got better things to do than marry you, Ham.  Your brother was
going places---places of power and strength. You're only going to be on
the outside looking in.  Well, that's what my father says, anyway, and
he's usually right when it comes to guys like you.  He saw me and Ira as
a match made in Heaven...Knight not so much, but still a good idea.  You? 
You'll always be the younger brother of the great Ira Tyler, who was
taken away too soon, too young.  You?  Well, let's face it, Ham, you're
nothing to me."
     Then she'd laughed and walked away, with a sway of slender hips
under a stunningly sheer fabric.  
     From then on, his attempts to win Dixie's love were nothing but
exercises in futility.  He would make phone calls to her luxurious Park
Avenue penthouse, but she'd refuse to speak to him.  The gifts he sent
her went unacknowledged.  "Dixie!" he'd pleaded with her during one
painful telephone exchange, "Dixie, for God's sake!  I love you!  Really
love you! You don't know what I did to be with you..."
     She didn't, obviously know that it was Ham, not Knight, who'd
poisoned Ira.  It was just as well, though.  Had she known, Ham would've
wound up doing hard time in Attica...if his father and mother hadn't
killed him first, that is. 
     That had been many years ago, of course, a decade before the
Galactica fleet had reached Earth.  Yet, even to this day, Ham Tyler was
still screaming inside.
     His interest in Dixie had been a blistering hot obsession forged in
the fires of youthful interest, and nothing else.  That was what he told
himself.  He was over her; she was part of his past---indeed, truth to
tell, she had never really been a part of his life at all.  Just a
fantasy.
     And yet, he had never married.  Never even seriously pursued a
romantic relationship.
     Instead he had focused all his energies upon being a mercenary.  If
he couldn't please himself, at least he could work on pleasing his
parents, in general, and his father, in particular.  In that regard, he
attained a measure of success.
     To his father, it was Ira who remained the true jewel in the family
crown.  Even in death, Ira was thought of more highly.  However, in the
bullet-riddled hellholes of Asia, Africa and Latin America, he fought a
daily battle to stay alive, and that sort of bravery and toughness had to
amount to something.  
     Today he was keeping tabs on Sire Mollary.  It hadn't been
difficult.  Earthlings generally spoke of him in very derisive tones,
making no secret of their opinions.  Mollary would talk longingly of the
glory of the former Twelve Colonies of Mankind and how he wanted Earth to
be the almighty powerful planet Troy's predecessor, the late Adama, had
scoured the universe for.  But anyone could talk about such things; it
took a man of action and vision to actually make them reality.  Mollary
was neither.
     If he'd kept his mouth shut, it wouldn't have been such a problem,
but Mollary was renowned for getting himself drunk and shouting at the
top of his lungs about what Earth could be and should be.
     But what was his punishment for his loud mouth?  To be the Ruler of
Earth, that's what.  There wasn't any justice in the world.
     Or was there?
     Someone had to depose the so-called "Ruler of the Earth," and it
might as well be him.  To do so, Tyler would have to build his own power
base inside the government.  This power base would have to consist of
friends and allies who were his and his alone.  But Tyler had no power of
his own, no means of bringing in his people.  Once Mollary's imperious
status solidified, naturally he would bring his own flunkies, his fellow
Colonials, and Ham Tyler would be frozen out.
     As much as it had galled him to do so, Tyler had embarked upon the
only strategy he could devise:  he decided he would be the perfect
bodyguard.  He would get as close to Mollary as possible, with an eye
toward obtaining a position of power and, once he had done that, building
from there.  A process which would no doubt would take a number of years.
     To Tyler's astonishment, however, his timetable was thrown
completely out of whack when Mollary---defying all predictions of the
popular American media---appointed him Attorney General of the United
States of America.  Tyler had proven himself a curious study in
contradictions.  For Tyler had the distinct and unshakable impression
that the bureaucrat really couldn't stand him.  That somehow Mollary had
sensed, on a very basic level, that Tyler despised him, hungered for
power, and wouldn't rest until he himself was seated in the Oval Office.
     But for reasons that surpassed understanding---call it stupidity,
call it a death wish, call it whatever you wanted----Mollary had not only
entrusted Tyler with formidable responsibility, but offered no resistance
whatever to Tyler's placing all his loyal friends in positions of power.
     Tyler didn't know why Mollary was doing it. Oh, he had his theories,
but the one he found the most plausible was that Mollary was, for some
reason, experiencing massive guilt over the war he had engineered, and so
was setting himself up to fail.  It not only made the most sense, it was
just about the only one that made any sense at all.
     On this particular evening, he had been dwelling on the chain of
events that had brought him to his present state when he had fallen
asleep.  Probably because everything was so fresh on his mind, faces
flittered past him as his consciousness hovered in the gray area between
sleep and wakefulness.  His parents, his brother, other mercenaries,
Mollary, and looming above them all, Dixie, with her perfect teeth and
her eyes sparkling..."
     "Ham," she whispered to him.
     She was holding out her hand, and the dream was most curious, for it
didn't seem as insubstantial as dreams normally are.  "Ham." She called
him once more, and this time she beckoned to him.  A miasma of color was
swirling about her.
     Ham saw himself through his mind's eye, stepping toward her.  He
took her hand.  No, he mused, this is definitely not like other dreams. 
Usually dreams just provide a feast for the visual memory.  But when he
took her hand, it felt firm and warm and alive.
     "Come," she said, and she tugged on his hand slightly, but just to
test the situation, Tyler resisted.  Instead of moving, he pulled her
toward him, gripped her shoulders, and kissed her roughly.  She didn't
resist; her body seemed to melt against his.  Warmth flooded over him,
and then she was no longer in his arms, but instead a few feet away,
gesturing coquettishly for him to follow.  "Time enough for that later,
my love," she said teasingly.
     He followed her then, unreality swirling around them. Clouds of red
and purple seemed to pulse with an energy all their own, and Tyler
realized they were in hyperspace, moving effortlessly through that
light-speed bridge.  They didn't appear to need a spaceship; they were
above such petty needs, beyond them, outside them.
     "Where are we going?" he asked.
     "You'll see," she replied.
     Hyperspace dissolved around them, and a planet materialized far
below Tyler's feet.  Then there was a sudden flash of light, and Tyler
found Dixie and himself standing on the planet's surface.  The sky hung
in an orangey haze, and the dirt beneath their feet was kicking up clouds
of dust.
     "Where are we?" Tyler asked. "What is this place?"
     "A planet just outside our solar system.  NASA astronomers
designated it K0643 many years ago," Dixie said.  She squeezed his hand
affectionately and added, "Walk with me."
     He did so.  And as they walked, he realized he had never known such
happiness, such bliss.  He was afraid to speak anymore for fear of
shattering the moment and sending himself spiraling back to wakefulness.
     "No one has been here before, Ham.  Not the Colonials, not the
Cylons.  The first human to set foot upon this world must be an
American," she said.
     "I know.  We must restore our position as world leader, our..."
     But Dixie shook her head.  She didn't seem the least annoyed with
him; indeed, her evident fondness for him only appeared to be growing. 
"You're talking about patriotism, planting flags, and all that.  That's
not your immediate concern."
     "It's not?"
     "No, darling."
     He thought he was going to cry out with joy, and was barely able to
contain his euphoria.  Darling!  She called me 'Darling!'"
     "You've got to look for things nobody else knows about.  There are
other planets, extrasolar planets such as this one.  The first Americans
to land here must be archaeologists as well as astronauts.  You've got to
dig, to locate.  True, other countries might laugh at us, sneering and
say, 'Look at the once-great Americans, lost in space, so to speak,
scraping about on celestial dirtballs like pigs and chickens in a
barnyard.'  Ignore them.  They're only showing their ignorance.
     "They will, of course, discover how wrong they are, but by the time
they do...it'll be too late.  Look beyond the Moon, beyond Mars, Ham. 
That's where you'll find your true greatness."
     "Wait!  Slow down, Dixie.  What's all this got to do with you and
me?  Are you finally going to be mine if I do all this?"
     She laughed, and nodded, but then added warningly.  "Don't look for
me.  I know you're tempted, but don't do it.  If you chase me, I'll hate
your guts.  I've got to come to you.  You know that by now.  I've got to
like you, and then, well, I'll be yours, maybe."
     "And this planet...this other world...offers the way?"
     "This planet, and others beyond it.  Thanks to the Colonials,
America's got the resources.  Organize the diggers.  Organize the crews. 
Assign the manpower.  You can do it, Ham.  I believe in you.  And you can
believe in me."
     She gripped both of his hands, kissed him gently on the knuckles,
and then let him go.  They didn't drop to his sides but remained there,
in midair, and he looked at them as if they were appendages belonging to
someone else.  She backed away, gliding, almost floating.  He tried to
move toward her, but she easily kept the same distance between them, even
as her arms stretched out toward him in mute pleading.

*****

     Tyler twisted in his bed, his arms flailing about in the real world
as he tried to touch Dixie in the dream sphere.
     And then he stopped thrashing, as a small, spidery robot descended
from his right temple and scuttled across the floor.  The last few feet
to its destination, it did not even bother to walk, but instead vaulted
the distance.  The dreamweaver landed on Ptahepe's abdomen and nestled
there securely.
     By your command, said the dreamweaver, a special offshoot class of
the keeper.
     "Speak," Ptahepe said softly.
     He will not take action due to this one vision, warned the
dreamweaver.
     "Yes, I know.  It will take several instances of this 'recurring
dream' for him to truly embrace it.  But once he does..."
     He did not need to finish the sentence.
     He heard footfalls.  Tyler had cried out once or twice during the
session, and apparently night guards were coming by to ascertain whether
or not he was all right.
     The guards opened the door and peered in, but Tyler had calmed down. 
He was sound asleep, his chest rising and failing steadily.  They
conducted a search of the room that was so subtle that Tyler didn't even
stir.  It turned up nothing.  
     And so they moved off, never seeing the Cylon as he stood quietly in
the shadows and planned.

*****     

     The sleeper was completely awake.  Within him resided the will and
the means to accomplish that which he had been designed to accomplish.
     The procession was moving toward him, and the sleeper moved himself
into position...and waited...
     Soon...soon the reason for his existence would be carried out. 
Soon, very soon...Troy would be dead.  It was only a matter of moments.

*****     

Chapter 10

     Vir sat in his quarters, staring at the wall and wondering whether
there was any point in his continuing to remain on the Galactica.  He had
spent a sleepless night pondering the question and was no closer to an
answer now than he'd been before.
     As a councilman, he felt his talents were questionable at best.  And
even if he were the greatest, most skilled leader in the history of the
fleet...what good would it do if no one was interested in listening to
him?
     He felt it more and more, every time he would walk around the
station.  The eyes upon him that seemed to regard him with barely
concealed contempt.  Or scorn.  Or anger.
     Once upon a time, the Battlestar Galactica had seemed a very
intimidating place to him.  Secrets lurked behind every corner, and he'd
always felt as if he were watching helplessly while Mollary descended
into darkness.  At the time it was happing, he would have thought it
insane if someone suggested to him that he would become nostalgic for
those days. 
     But indeed, that was precisely the case.  As complex as his life
was, as terrifying as that slow downward spiral into war and even murder
had been...those were, in fact, the good old days.  At least people had
liked him then.  He had had friends.
     Dillon had certainly liked him well enough, because obviously he had
never considered Vir any kind of threat to Galactica security.  Now,
however, the Taurons were considered a perpetual problem, the "black
sheep" of the Colonial family, so to speak, not to be left to their own
devices.  A class of Colonists who would leave you with a dagger sticking
out of your back if you let your guard down.  And Dillon, dedicated
solely to defending the fleet, had come to regard Vir with suspicion at
all times...
     Troy...
     He had considered Troy a friend.  A bit distant, what with all his
responsibilities as commander of the Galactica, but a friend nonetheless. 
Someone to whom he could unburden himself.  But the truth now was that
Troy didn't dare be friendly with him.  It might cause too many negative
ramifications for him with the people of the fleet.  Not that Troy would
admit to such a thing; he was too much an individualist to let public
sentiment sway him from following a particular path.  Vir, though,
couldn't find it within himself to risk putting Troy in that position. 
The stakes were too high, the fleet too important in the long run, to
risk upsetting its denizens just because Vir felt lonely.
     Lennier...of all of them, his missed Lennier the most.  When they
had both been mere attaches service their prospective mentors/mentors,
they had met regularly to unburden themselves to each other.  Of all of
them, Lennier had probably best understood what it was that Vir was going
through at any given time.
     But Lennier had become a Colonial Warrior, for reasons Vir had to
admit eluded him completely.  Lennier was deeply religious, thoughtful, a
pacifist.  What business did he have flying through space in viper as a
man of war?  When Vir had mused out loud to Mollary about that, Mollary
had looked thoughtful for a time.  He seemed to be running through his
mind everything he knew about Lennier, reaching some conclusions.  Then
he had said to Vir, "There is an Earth organization----very much
romanticized---whose history might provide you with some answers, if what
I suspect is correct.  Read up on the French Foreign Legion."
     Vir had done so, but had come away from it understanding no more
than he had when he'd begun.  Soldiers who joined a demanding, even cruel
organization in order to forget their past?  A past usually haunted by
beautiful but unattainable women who'd broken their hearts...at least
according to the "romanticized" literature Mollary had recommended.  Vir
had absolutely no idea how that could apply to Lennier, and had said so. 
Mollary had simply shrugged and said, "I'm a Colonial.  What do I know of
such things?" and dropped the subject.
     Mollary.
     He missed Mollary.  He missed the way things had been.  Even when
they were bad...at least Vir had had an idea of what was going on.  Now
here he was, in a position that supposedly offered him more power and
authority, and yet feeling more confused and helpless than ever before. 
There he had been, speaking to Mollary of the mysterious Lanas, and he
had no idea whatsoever what any of it had to do with anything.
     Lanas, a homeless Tauron who hid in Down Below.  No criminal record,
no nothing.  The thought of roaming around Down Below under any
circumstance wasn't an attractive one to Vir, and he had delayed the
prospect as long as possible, while trying to determine if there was any
particular reason he should seek out this individual.  Mollary had seemed
of the opinion that he should, but really, who knew what was going
through Mollary's head anymore?  He seemed so erratic, so inwardly torn. 
Not for the first time, Vir found himself wondering if Mollary hadn't
genuinely had some kind of mental collapse.  It wasn't a pleasant
thought, but it sure seemed like a valid explanation.
     What was it that Mollary had said, again?
     Sometimes it is possible to agree on what is right and wrong.  And
we would not want the wrong things to happen again.  Not to anyone.  Not
to anyone, Vir.  Do you hear me?
     Just what had happened to Charybdis?  Vir realized he couldn't
recall all the details.  He'd been Count Baltar's former personal pilot,
that much he remembered. Then again, Baltar had a number of traitorous
Colonials in cahoots with him, so on that basis alone, he hadn't really
stood out.
     Vir moved to his computer terminal and started checking records,
pulling up history files.  
     Code-named Proteus, Charybdis was Count  Baltar's pilot and top
electronics expert during the Colonies' war with the Cylons, and
apparently he was in on the plan to use the Cylons to have Baltar obtain
power. Reading this, Vir couldn't help but wonder if he, too, was also
promised great things upon Baltar's ascension to dictatorship. Charybdis
greatly assisted Count Baltar's plans for domination by disabling the
defensive equipment on Caprica, thus allowing the Final Destruction to
occur without at least some defensive action; he was responsible for the
death of a million Capricans. Left unchecked, the Cylons decided to wipe
out everything, leaving Charybdiss in a precarious situation. Of course,
like Riftis (alias: Chella) and Elias, he bartered his way to The Fleet
that Adama had instituted by bribing a Flight Sergeant named Ortega.
     He took on the name Pallon and managed to hide himself within the
bowels of the assemblage of refugees. No one knew of his existence, as he
apparently managed to keep himself out of the public eye -- which is
probably the reason that Baltar kept him on in the first place -- in the
Fleet as a waiter on the Rising Star. However, Ortega made a mistake of
blackmailing him, and as a result Charybdis killed him -- pinning the
blame on Starbuck, using Starbuck's sidearm while the warrior is in the
Triad prep locker's turbowash.
     Of course, being an unknown, Adama was unable to physically identify
Charybdis -- though the Commander was instrumental in pointing the way to
Ortega's killer and allowing Apollo to request Baltar's services. En
route back to the Galactica, after Baltar's transfer to the shuttle from
the Prison Barge, Charybdis (Pallon) revealed himself and, in the classic
criminal style, divulged everything over an open comline that the
Tribunal enters into evidence.
     During this, Baltar wanted Charybdis to remove his cuffs, however
Charybdis wanted to kill them both, making it look like they both killed
each other. A logical presumption on Apollo's part, and it influenced
Baltar to make his move and disarm Charybdis.
     It was presumed that he spent some very valuable countless centares
with Baltar and others on the Prison Barge.
     Charybdis' assistance in Baltar's initial scheme (dominion of the
Twelve Colonies) validated Baltar's need for accomplices; who evidently
were bribed into assisting him, presumably with extravagant wealth,
partners of their choice, and other typical felgercarb.
     But this incident, even though thirty yahrens had passed, a lot of
things still did not make sense.  For example, didn't the accused Lt.
Starbuck have a friend named Chameleon, once believed to be his natural
father?  Why didn't he show up at the tribunal to support his son? Vir
reconciled that Chameleon's con artist nature meant he had no emotional
attachments to Starbuck. Was he kicking Starbuck while he is down?  
     Vir's research soon led him to assume that Charybdis was taking
advantage of Starbuck's grudge against Ortega to frame him. It had to be,
unless, somehow the murder was a fortunate happenstance.  But couldn't
the same be said of Baltar being in custody at that time.  And besides,
Baltar taunted Starbuck that he had enemies on the prison barge who would
kill him before he reached his cell. Which begged the question, why was
Baltar not killed? Surely the man responsible for the genocide of the
human race would be more despised than Starbuck. And why did Starbuck get
a full tribunal while Baltar was tried and convicted by the Quorum on the
spot? 
     Vir set aside the reading material and shook his head in dismay. 
The message was clear:  Mollary and Vir could easily be considered the
Charybdis and Baltar of the present.  That history was not going to treat
either of them kindly.
     Or worse, Mollary was concerned that he was going to be tried and
convicted on the spot just like Baltar was.  Or...
     Or...
     "I'm an idiot!" Vir shouted as he leaped to his feet so violently
that he slammed his knee on the underside of the table.
     He didn't take time to note the pain.  His mind raced, trying to
figure out what to do.  Then quickly he went to his closet and found old
clothes.  It wasn't hard.  Vir had lost a considerable amount of weight
in the past sectans, but he had kept the clothes that no longer fit him
properly because he wasn't the type to waste anything.  To say nothing of
the fact that, should he wind up gaining the weight back, as had happened
to him from time to time, he wanted to have something he could fit into.
     He hauled out one of his old suits, a mismatched shirt, vest, and
pants and threw them on.  The unfortunate combination and the fact that
they hung loosely on him combined for a generally satisfactory air of
shabbiness.
     He returned to his terminal and hastily printed out a photo.  Then
he hauled out his cloak.  He rarely wore it; it had been a going-away
gift from his mother, which he had never quite understood.  It was a
hooded, all-weather garment, which made no sense as a gift for going to
the Galactica----how much weather variation was there going to be on a
Battlestar?  It wasn't as if there were days he needed to bundle up
because it looked cloudy with a chance of rain.
     But he drew it about himself now as if a major thunderhead were
rolling in, and drew the hood up over his head to conceal his features. 
Thus outfitted, he made his way to Down Below, and prayed he would be in
time.

*****     

     Perhaps the prospect of descending to Down Below had been anathema
to Vir, but he knew he had no choice.  Again he weighed all the options,
and this seemed unfortunately to be the only viable one.
     It was the smell that hit him first.  The atmospheric filters in
Down Below weren't as efficient as they were in other sections of the
Battlestar.  To some degree, that was understandable.  The designers of
the Battlestar Galactica had never intended that anyone would actually
live in the service corridors and excess storage area that constituted
Down Below, and consequently they had not provided for the same amount of
ventilation and the number of ducts there were throughout the rest of the
place.  Add to that the severe lack of proper sanitation facilities, and
it combined to make Down Below someplace one avoided if one could at all
help it.
     At least no one was staring at Vir here.  In that respect, as ironic
as it sounded, it almost made Down Below preferable to up above.  Every
so often, someone would glance in Vir's direction, but only in terms of
assessing whether or not he appeared to present some sort of danger.  On
those occasions, if Vir caught their glance, he would peer out from
beneath his hood and flash a sickly little smile that practically cried
out that he was no threat whatsoever.  The mute questioner would then go
on about whatever unseemly business he needed to attend to.
     In his hand, Vir clutched the picture he had printed out.  It was
the last known image of Lanas.  Vir had stared at it for so long that he
felt as if every curve of the man's face was permanently emblazoned in
his mind.
     He scanned the throng that was perpetually milling about, trying to
spot some sign of his quarry.  It didn't seem a particularly promising
means of accomplishing what he needed to do, but he could see no other
way.  He tried not to draw any attention to himself, and that wasn't
especially difficult.  No one seemed to care about him...or, indeed,
about anything.
     He looked sadly at the assortment of makeshift tents and homes that
had been erected hodgepodge throughout Down Below.  He saw several
people, a family by the look of it, grouped around an open flame and
cooking something that seemed to have once been some sort of vermin.  The
very sight of it was enough to cause Vir's stomach to buck.  In a way, it
helped put his life in perspective for him.  Here he had been so
miserable over his personal situation, not liking the way that his fellow
councilmen had been looking at him.  Looking at him!  That should be his
biggest problem.  At least he had clothes, food, and shelter.  At least
he had all the amenities and wanted for nothing save companionship.  But
companionship was a very small thing compared to everything that these
poor, needy people required.
     He spent several centons wandering around, even becoming so bold as
to start asking random people if they had seen Lanas, holding up a
picture to jog their memory.  Most times he just got blank stares.  It
might've been that they didn't know, although it was just as likely that
they didn't care.  First of all, Lanas wasn't their problem.  And second,
this old Tauron who was asking around was obviously an outsider, despite
his ill-fitting clothes, possibly even operating undercover for some
organization.  Why should they cooperate with him?  When had anyone
cooperated with them, after all.
     It was an underlying principle that Vir could easily understand,
although he would probably have been more forgiving if lives had not been
potentially on the line.
     Presuming, of course, that he was right, and hadn't just conjured
the whole thing out of some crack-brained misinterpretation of
purposefully cryptic remarks made by Mollary.
     That was when he heard some noises.
     The sound came from a distance away.  It was an assortment of
voices, several of them trying to talk at once, but there was one louder
than the others.  Whereas the others were speaking with high emotion, the
most commanding one came across as firm and reasonable.  It was a voice
that Vir knew almost as well as his own or Mollary's.  It was Troy's
voice.
     The tour was coming through.  The "reclamation" project of which
Troy had spoken.
     Vir looked around, trying to see if there was any sign of Lanas. 
There was nothing.  Perhaps he had misled him, or perhaps Lanas had come
in behind him, circled around somehow.
     As he stood there, the residents of Down Below began to look around
at one another in confusion, unable to figure out just what the commotion
was all about.  Clearly some of them thought they were being rousted, as
had happened before during periodic security sweeps.  However, there
wasn't any sound of scuffling or of weapons being fired in warning. 
Everything certainly seemed peaceful enough.
     There were side passages that extended off in a variety of
directions.  Maybe Lanas was lurking down one of those, Vir reasoned.  It
was still a long shot, though, and he was beginning to feel that he was
handling this situation completely wrong.  That, despite his assorted
concerns, he should have gone to security.  He should have trusted this
business to anyone except himself.
     He started to turn off in one direction...
     ...and a flash of light caught his eye.
     He was momentarily confused.  He wasn't sure where it had come from
or what had caused it.  All he knew was that the flash drew his attention
to another corridor----one he hadn't noticed before.  Then he gasped in
astonishment, unable to believe his luck.
     It was Lanas!  He was around Vir's height, but thinner, with long
arms and narrow shoulders.  Vir was dumbfounded.  Despite his
memorization of Lanas' features, he glanced at the printout nevertheless. 
Lanas looked a bit more disheveled than he appeared in the picture, but
it most definitely was him.
     He was standing in a narrow alleyway, just around the corner from
the main corridor, his hand resting against the corner of the wall.  He
was clearly listening for something.  Listening, and glancing around the
corner every so often, as if to try and determine how quickly Troy and
the others were approaching.
     And now Vir could see Troy and the others, far down the corridor. 
Lanas was positioned in such a way that he could walk only a few steps
and easily intersect the group's path.  Troy and the others were ringed
by warriors, with Kanon at the forefront.  Vir could see Kanon scanning
the crowd, scrutinizing anyone who came within range, glancing at their
hands...
     Their hands.  Of course!  To see if they were holding weapons.
     Vir did likewise, staring at Lanas across the way.  Lanas' hands
were empty.  He didn't seem to have a weapon on him.  Nonetheless, there
was something about him that practically screamed "threat."  As quickly
as unobtrusively as he could, Vir began to move toward him.  Drawing
within range presented no immediate difficulty.  Lanas was paying no
attention to him whatsoever.  His concerns seemed entirely focused
elsewhere.
     Let me get there, Vir was intoning to himself.  Let me get there. 
The problem was, he had nothing concrete upon which to base his actions. 
But somehow he felt driven nonetheless, as if he were caught up in forces
that were compelling him to behave in a certain manner.  It wasn't the
first time he had felt that way, certainly.  But all the other times that
feeling had come over him, it had always been Mollary who had been
piloting the ship, so to speak.  This time it was up to Vir...presuming
the "it" was what he thought it was.  There was still always the
possibility that he had totally misinterpreted everything, that this was
all the result of his fevered imagination working overtime.
     He drew closer, and Lanas still wasn't noticing him.  Now Vir could
clearly make out the look in Lanas' eyes, and it was a look that he found
frightening.  It was as if Lanas wasn't even present in his own head. 
His eyes were wide but empty, as if his body were simply being worn like
a cloak.  His body was stock still, frozen, but poised, like a great
animal preparing to pounce, or perhaps a trap waiting to spring shut.  
     And his threat...
     Vir's gaze was immediately drawn to Lanas' throat,
because----insanely---it seemed to be moving all on its own.  It was
pulsing gently, rhythmically.  Vir had no idea what could possibly be
causing such a thing.
     Troy was still a distance away, getting closer with every passing
moment...but then again, so was Vir as he drew nearer to Lanas.
     It was when Vir was only a few feet away that Lanas noticed him.
     Vir had no idea if he had made some movement, done something that
might have drawn Lanas' attention to him. Maybe some kind of sixth sense
that warned him of danger had come into play.  Whatever it was, Lanas'
head snapped around and his wide, eerily vacant eyes focused on Vir.  His
throat seemed to pulse more violently.
     Vir frozen in his tracks.  He had no idea what to do.  And then, his
mind racing desperately for some kind of strategy, he did the only thing
he could think of.  He threw back his hood, a grin splitting his face,
and he cried out joyously, "Lanas!  Lanas!  I thought that was you!  It's
me!  Vir!  Vir!  How are you?"
     Lanas tilted his head slightly.  He seemed to be having to make an
effort to focus on Vir.
     "Don't tell me you don't remember me!" Vir continued. "After all
those crazy times we had together!' As he's spoken, he'd drawn to within
a couple of laxars of Lanas.
     But Troy and the others were also drawing closer.  Lanas snapped his
head back in the direction of Troy's path, started to move toward him. 
Vir stepped around to intercept, and Lanas really, truly, focused on Vir
for the first time.  Something terrifying entered those eyes, something
dark and fearsome, and Vir could almost hear voices screaming in his
head.
     And the throat was no longer pulsing.  It was...undulating.
     There was something in it.  Something moved up the throat, and Lanas
began making a hacking, coughing noise in his larynx, his lips trembling
as if he were about to vomit.
     Acting completely on instinct, Vir lunged.  Lanas took a step back,
tried to dodge around him, but his movements were slow and awkward, and
Vir collided with him.  They went down in a tumble of arms and legs, and
Vir found himself positioned just behind Lanas.  Lanas' head pinned
against the crook of his knee.  Automatically, Vir reached around and
grabbed Lanas' lower jaw, shoving it up while bracing Lanas' head against
his own leg.  Essentially, he had him in an utterly awkward but
nevertheless effective headlock.
     Lanas struggled violently, the gagging continuing.  No words were
spoken, no one shouted for help.  A group of people had assembled at the
far end of the alley, but their backs were to Vir and Lanas.  Instead,
they were watching Troy's approach.  One or two glanced in the direction
of the struggling Tauron, but clearly decided it was some sort of
personal issue that did not merit their involvement.
     "Stop it!  Stop it!" hissed Vir.  Vir wasn't one of the more
physically aggressive types around.  He couldn't remember the last time
he'd been in a fight, and he had absolutely no combat technique, no
confidence in his ability to handle himself in a battle.  But he was
being prompted by pure desperation, and from that was born the strength
and determination he needed.
     Then he saw something starting to protrude from between Lanas' lips.
     It was all Vir could do not to cry out in terror.  The thing was
thin, black, and metallic, like some sort of tentacle, and it was shoving
its way through Lanas' mouth, trying to get free.  The pulsating in
Lana's throat had ceased.  Clearly this was the thing that was trying to
get out of him.  Vir was sweating profusely, trying not to panic as
another tentacle managed to slide through, despite his best efforts.  He
yanked up as hard as he could, and Lanas' own teeth crunched through the
thin metal of the tentacles, breaking the wiring, severing them.  They
fell to the ground, sputtering, sparking, and writhing about on their own
for a moment before ceasing.  But Lanas' head began to shake furiously,
the thing inside now either in agony or just wildly demented to get out. 
Vir redoubled his efforts, but his fingers, thick with sweat, began to
slip.
     Then Vir realized that Troy was still talking, but his voice was
moving beyond them.  He had passed by, and the entourage was following
him.  That realization,  that momentary victory, caused him to relax his
guard for just a micron.
     It was enough.  Lanas suddenly shoved backward, catching Vir on the
side of the head.  Vir fell back, his head ringing, and from his vantage
point on the ground he saw Lanas' mouth open wide.  Some sort of robot
leapt out of it.
     It was small, black, and metallic, as had been its tentacles.  It
had four more functioning legs in addition to the two that had been
truncated, and the force of its ejection from Lanas' mouth caused it to
smack against the far wall of the alley.  It spun about for a moment,
orienting itself.  It was no bigger than the palm of Vir's hand.
     It screamed in fury, though the sound wasn't audible.  Vir heard it
in his head.
     Vir, momentarily stunned by what he was seeing, lay helpless on the
floor, and the he gasped as the thing scuttled at incredible speed across
the way, straight toward his face.  He had a brief glimpse of something
sharp sticking out of the thing's back and he realized that it was some
sort of injection needle.  There was no time for him to get out the way,
no time to do anything except let out a truncated cry of fear.
     And then the black boot came down.
     It smashed to the floor of the alley mere inches from Vir's face,
crushing the diabolical robot under it effortlessly.  Vir gasped in
astonishment as the booted foot twisted back and forth in place for a
moment, grinding the thing thoroughly into the ground.  When it stepped
back, there was nothing more than a jumble of wires, microprocessor
chips, cogs, and leaking oil.

*****

Chapter 11

     Vir looked up.
     And he saw the individual that he had only thought he'd seen
earlier.  The man was dressed in gray robes, and although Vir couldn't
see his hooded face completely, what he did see looked quite young.  He
couldn't have been more than thirty.
     Lanas lay on the ground, staring upward.  The cloaked man stepped
forward, crouched down over him and seemed to study him for a moment. 
Then he passed a hand over Lanas' face, and Lanas closed his eyes.  His
chest began to rise and fall in a natural sleeping rhythm.
     "He'll be all right," said the cloaked man.  When he spoke, it was
in a very soft voice, so soft that Vir had to strain to listen.  "He'll
sleep it off for a time, and when he comes to, he'll have no idea why
he's here.  He'll be of no harm to anyone."
     'What happened?" asked Vir, hauling himself to his feet.  "Who are
you?" Then he noticed the man was holding a staff.  The ends of the staff
appeared to be glowing softly.  In barely contained astonishment, Vir
said, "Are you a...a mage-tech?" The notion was both fascinating and
frightening.  Vir had had dealings with the science-based sorcerers
nearly four yahrens earlier, and he had found it one of the most daunting
experiences of his life.  When the mage-techs had finally left on their
journey, Vir had breathed a sigh of relief.  Yet now, apparently, he owed
his life to one.
     "Yes...but a cloistered one.  My kind don't get out much.  My name
is Koma."
     "It is?  Really?"
     "No.  Not really," admitted the initiate.  "It's a chosen name.  I'm
not about to tell you my real name, of course.  Names have power, and I'm
not going to give you power over me of any sort.  Rather a foolish
notion, really."
     "That's a good philosophy," said Vir.  "Thank you for squashing
that...that..."
     "Sleeper.  Leftover tech from the Dark Ones.  Resided in your friend
here," and he tapped Lanas' body with the toe of his boot, "wiped his
memory and waited until it was ready to fulfill its mission."
     "To assassinate Troy?"
     Koma nodded. "Yes.  All Lanas had to do was get close enough, and
the robot would have done the rest.  It has quite a good jumping range. 
And once it landed on Troy, it would have shot poison into his
bloodstream, and he would have been dead before they could get him to the
Life Station."
     "But why now?  And why Lanas?"
     "It wasn't just now.  There were times before.  There will probably
be other times, although death may take different forms.  As for why
Lanas," and beneath his robes, Koma shrugged. "Luck of the draw.  Purely
random chance.  They had to pick someone, so they picked him."
     "They who?"
     "That," smiled Koma, "would be telling.  You don't need to
know...yet."
     "But..."
     "Tell me," Koma drew closer to him, studying him thoughtfully, "why
you chose to handle this matter on your own, why you did not summon
Colonial Security."
     "I...I didn't have enough to go on.  Not for sure. I had guesses,
hunches, that was all.  Besides, the most upsetting thing was the thought
of letting it get around that the Taurons were involved in an
assassination attempt.  Even if it turned out to be false, there would be
inquiries, and interrogations, and word would leak to the other members
of the Council of Twelve.  I didn't want that.  The Taurons among the
fleet's general population don't need it.  Things are bad enough as it
is."
     "So you risked your own life, limb, and neck in order to try and
head it off and protect the Taurons' reputation."
     "I...guess so, yes," Vir agreed.  Then, worried, he added, "You're
not going to tell anyone, are you?"
     "Why would I do that?"
     "I...I don't know.  I don't know a lot of things," Vir admitted.
"Starting with..."
     But Koma held up a hand to quiet him.  "No.  Do not start.  Because,
if you do, there will be many answers that I can't give you.  Not yet. 
But I will tell you this much, Vir...your actions have been quite
impressive.  I was observing you to see what you would do, and you do not
disappoint.  It very much seems as if the darkness has not reached you."
     "That's good to know that..." Vir paused, and then said, "The,
uh...the darkness?"
     Koma took a step toward him, and there was hardness in his eyes. 
"It stretches its coils from Earth to here.  It lurks hereabouts, but it
thrives on Earth.  Knowledge is power, Vir.  I seek knowledge on behalf
of the mage-techs, and they in turn seek knowledge from your long lost
brothers, for it is there that the dark power will continue to grow.  You
will have to make some rather severe choices soon.  Very, very soon."
     "I...have no idea what you're talking about."
     "Good," said Koma, apparently satisfied.  "I was going for cryptic."
     "You succeeded."
     "That's a relief. I am somewhat new at this, after all.  Now I have
to work on mysterious.  Ah...your associate is stirring sooner than
expected."
     Vir turned and glanced at Lanas.  Sure enough, he was sitting up,
holding a hand against his head as if he had a serious splitting
headache.  "What...what happened?" he inquired.
     "I'll tell you in a moment," Vir said, and looked back to Koma.
     He was gone.  There was no sign that he had ever been there, other
than a crushed robot on the floor.
     "He's got the mysterious part down pretty well, too," said Vir.

*****     

Chapter 12

     Mollary had known it was a test.  There was absolutely not doubt in
his mind at all.
     "Troy is to die, you know," the Cylon had said.
     The comment had snapped Mollary from his reverie.  There, in the
Oval Office---the place that was the symbol of his power and, for him,
the further symbol of the sham that he was---he was startled as the
now-familiar voice spoke from the shadows.  What was truly chilling was
that Mollary had realized that he was, in fact, aware that Ptahepe was
watching him.  At least, he'd been aware on some sort of subconscious
level.  And it hadn't even disturbed him!
     The notion that he could actually get used to this half life he was
living---even take it for granted---terrified Mollary more than anything
that had come before.
     It had taken a few moments for the comment to sink in.  "What?"
Mollary had said.
     The Cylon had laid it all out for him.  Told him the plan, told him
about Lanas.  Told him about the creature that lived within Lanas.  He
had been picked at random, taken off the streets.  It was the randomness
that they had felt would be the greatest strength.  Someone with no
established grudge toward Troy, no particular hostility toward the
Colonial fleet.  Lanas was just a nobody.  A nobody who wasn't
particularly strong willed, not particularly intelligent.  All he was, in
the final analysis was useful.
     When the Cylon had finally stopped speaking, Mollary squinted in the
darkness at him.  Ptahepe just stood there, unmoving.  "And you have told
me this...why?"
     "He was your friend.  I wished to let you know of his impending
fate...so that if you desired to say your goodbyes...you would have the
opportunity."
     A test.  No...not just a test.
     A trap!
     Mollary had known it, had been positive of it.  The Cylon could just
as easily have said, "Troy is to die soon.  Drop him a nice note," and
been done with it.  No, he had told Mollary everything there was to know
because he wanted Mollary to have that knowledge...in order to see what
he would do with it.
     Mollary had not slept.  For two days, he did not sleep.  He had gone
back and forth in his head, envisioning Troy as his great enemy, as the
leader of a fleet that had unintentionally assaulted the beautiful Earth. 
Someone who had turned his back on the legendary planet.  And Delenn, his
wife...she had a way of looking at Mollary in the most insultingly
pitying way.
     But try as he might, he had not been able to erase from his memory
all the times when Troy had been of service to him. Those yahrens on the
Galactica had been the best yahrens of his life.  He had not realized it
at the time; it had merely seemed a period of slow, steady descent into
darkness.  But the fact was, Troy and Delenn had indeed been there for
him on a number of occasions.  Not only that, but he was positive that in
their own way, they had been pulling for him, hoping that everything
would turn out all right for him.  The fact that everything had turned
out so abysmally---that he had become the single most powerful, and
weakest, man in the fleet----was certainly not their doing, not at all. 
He had brought his fate entirely upon himself.
     He had tried to sleep, but had managed only moments at rest, at
most, before he would drift back to consciousness.  During that time, he
had felt the keeper shifting in mild confusion.  Obviously the robot
itself needed to rest as well, and had synchronized itself with Mollary's
own sleep period.  So when Mollary became mentally distressed, the keeper
likewise experienced discomfort.  The thought gave Mollary some degree of
satisfaction.
     Finally he had not been able to take it anymore.  But he'd known
that he would have to be crafty.  He could not simply mount an obvious
rescue mission, or inform Troy.  Such an effort would probably be
prevented by the keeper.  In the event that the keeper could not stop
him, certainly it would inform the Cylons, who might in turn changed
their plan...and let their displeasure with Mollary be known in a most
direct and unpleasant manner.  Mollary desired to save Troy, but not at
the price of his own skin.  Mollary wasn't that generous.
     So he had summoned Vir.  The timing had been perfect, for the
celebration in the White House had actually been Tyler's idea.  Tyler had
sponsored it, naturally, as a means of gathering all his allies and
supporters and showing them his elevated position in U.S. society.  Since
the idea had originated with Tyler...Tyler, the puppet of the Cylon who
probably didn't even known who truly pulled the strings----the Cylon in
turn would not question it or suspect some kind of duplicity on Mollary's
part.  An invitation to Vir would be the most natural thing in the world.
     So he had brought his old associate, his old friend---possibly his
only friend in the galaxy, really---to visit.  The invitation had
attracted no attention whatsoever, as Mollary had hoped.
     Then had come the next step: Mollary had started drinking almost as
soon as the festivities had begun.  The problem was, he had needed to
walk a fine line.  The challenge was to consume enough alcohol to
confound the keeper's internal neural-electronic interfacing devices, as
he had found he was capable of doing.  By accomplishing that, he would be
able to speak to Vir more or less freely, without the keeper---and by
extension, the Cylon---becoming aware of what he was doing.  The problem
was, if he imbibed too much, he would become so incoherently drunk that
he wouldn't be of any use to Vir, to Troy, or even to himself.  
     So Vir had come, as invited, and Mollary had taken him aside,
fighting to remain on his feet while the liquor swirled around his brain,
leaving a pleasant fog hanging over him.  But Mollary had proceeded with
caution nevertheless, and it had been most fortunate that he had.  For as
he had begun to bring Vir current with the situation, as he had begun to
unfold the plan in small bits...he had felt the keeper stirring to
wakefulness.  He had sent the creature into inebriated insensibility, but
it had fought itself back to moderate sobriety with a speed that was both
alarming and annoying.  Apparently it was starting to learn to protect
its micro-circuitry and electro-transmitters against alcohol.  Mollary
would have to reassess the amount of liquor it was going to require from
now on to render the keeper unawares.
     Mollary dealt with the setback as best he could.  He 'd tried to cue
Vir to the danger presented to Troy by seeking historical precedent. 
Mollary could sense that the keeper was suspicious of the conversation. 
It sensed that something was going on, but it wasn't entirely certain
just what that might be.  No pain was inflicted, no forcible commands
were relayed into Mollary's skull.  But the creature had been most wary
indeed, and so Mollary had needed to be wary as well.
     It had been tremendously frustrating for him. Part of him had just
wanted to drop the carefully chosen phrases, the historical allusions,
and simply tell Vir what was going on.  But he knew there would be
immediate action of some sort taken by the keeper.  Who knew the full
powers of the automaton perched upon his shoulders?  He knew it inflicted
pain, and that it monitored his actions, but he had no reason to believe
he'd seen the outer limit of its capabilities.  Perhaps it could blow out
his brain stem with but the merest blast of a microlaser.  Maybe it could
send him into seizures, or stop his heart, or...anything!
     He wanted to do something to prevent Troy meeting a gruesome death
at the metal hands of the Cylon, but the simple fact was that he wasn't
especially inclined to sacrifice himself to that endeavor.  He still
valued his own skin above Troy's.
     After Troy had left, Mollary had monitored the news broadcasts
carefully.  The keeper had thought nothing of Mollary's watching the
news.  He was, after all, the Ruler of the Earth.  It was only
appropriate that he should be keeping himself abreast of current events. 
And when the news had carried the item about Troy's leading a highly
publicized tour of officials into Down Below on the Galactica, Mollary's
spirit had soared.  It had been everything he could do to prevent himself
from shouting out with glee.
     Then his enthusiasm had dissipated.  He could almost feel a dark
cloud radiating from the keeper, and it was at that moment--even as he
saw news footage of the obviously unharmed Troy leading the tour---that
he had confirmed for him that, yes indeed, this had been a test.  A test
that he had failed, because he knew that they knew.  He wasn't quite sure
how he was aware of it.  Maybe the telepathic bond was becoming two-way. 
But he did, in fact, know, and now all that remained was waiting for the
retaliation to descend upon him.

*****     

     "Was it worth it?"
     Mollary was sitting in the private library that had, according to
American tradition, been the province of the President.  They seemed to
set great store by it.  Apparently, the Americans considered their
government, all arms of it, to be something akin to a repository of their
history, and it was intended that all who held public office carry the
knowledge of the great deeds of those who came before, and the many
magnificent accomplishments of the United States of America.  And that
was why the President was given a well-guarded place where he could
indulge his historical interests to his heart's content.  Indeed, there
might not have been a more secure room in the entire White House.  There
were many books there, and many assorted relics from the country's
illustrious past.
     So it was than when Ptahepe's voice emerged from the darkness and
asked, "Was it worth it?" Mollary jumped, so violently startled that he
nearly knocked over the wooden reading table.  He got to his feet, trying
to maintain some degree of dignity in the face of such a clumsy response. 
The light was quite dim in the library; he couldn't see Ptahepe at all. 
"Are you here?" he asked, wondering for a moment if perhaps Ptahepe was
only speaking in his mind but was, in fact, elsewhere entirely.
     "Yes, I am here." Upon hearing the voice again, Mollary could indeed
tell that Ptahepe was physically in the room.  But his voice seemed to be
floating from everywhere.  "And you are here.  How nice."
     "Nice,' Mollary said tersely, "is not the word I would have used.
What do you want?"
     " 'Want' is not the word I would have used," countered Ptahepe.  "I
do not 'want' to do what I must.  What we must."
     "I don't know what you're talking about."
     "Do you not?"
     Mollary started to feel something, and braced himself.  It was the
beginning of...the pain.  Except it was different somehow.  They'd hit
him with pain in the past, but he sensed that this was not going to be
like the other times.  Rather than hitting him suddenly and violently,
this time around the pain was starting from a much lower baseline.  It
gave him cause to think that perhaps he was developing a tolerance for
the psychic and physical torment they were inflicting upon him.  For that
matter...perhaps it was totally unrelated to the Cylon at all.
     "Are you causing this?" demanded Mollary, putting a hand to his
temple.
     "You have done it, Mollary," replied Ptahepe.  There was that
familiar resignation in his tone.  "You...and you alone."  
     "I do not know..." The ache was increasing now, reaching the
previous levels and growing greater.  Mollary was finding it hard to
breathe, and it seemed as if his heart was pumping only with effort.
     "Oh, you know," and any trace of sympathy or sadness was suddenly
gone from the Cylon's voice.  There was only hardness and cruelty.  "You
have made a fool of me, Mollary."
     "I..." And suddenly Mollary staggered.  He tripped over the chair in
which he'd been sitting and crashed to the floor, because he had been
wrong.  What he was feeling this time was far worse than anything he had
ever endured before at the hands of the Cylon.  Perhaps it was worse than
anything he had felt in his entire life.  He realized belatedly that the
agony had started off slowly to put him off guard, to make him think that
perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.  He had been wrong.
     His body began to spasm as the pain rolled over him in waves.  He
tried to distance himself mentally, tried to shut down his mind, but
there was no possibility because the pain was everywhere, in every
crevice and fold of his brain, in every sensory neuron of his body.  He
opened his mouth to try and scream, but he couldn't even do that because
his throat was paralyzed.  All he was able to muster was inarticulate
gurgling noises.
     "I told the Imperious Leader," continued Ptahepe, as if Mollary were
not writhing like a skewered beast, "that you could be trusted.  That you
knew your place.  They requested a test.  I provided it.  You failed it. 
That, Mollary, is unacceptable."
     Mollary completely lost control.  Every bit of waste fluid in his
body evacuated, something that hadn't happened since he was two yahrens
old.  The sensation was humiliating, the stench was repugnant, and then
both of those spiraled away as the agony continued to build.  His soul,
blackened and battered as it already was, cried out for release.  He
remembered how he had wanted to die all those months ago, how he had been
ready to end it, but he realized that he had been a fool, because he had
never wanted to die the way that he did now.  At that moment, he would
have given anything for the release of death.  He would kill his friends
and loved ones, he would annihilate a hundred, a thousand innocent
Earthlings.  He would do anything at all just for a cessation of the
agony that was hammering through him.
     And then it got worse.
     He felt himself being torn apart, he felt every single organ in his
body liquefying, and he knew, he just knew, that his brain was dissolving
and flooding out his ears, he could practically feel it, and the pain was
frying his eyes and his teeth were spiking through the gums, his tongue
had swollen and was blocking his windpipe, there was burning in every
joint that made the slightest movement pure agony, and so he tried to
stay still, but the pain prodded him to move and then there was more
anguish and it just kept building until it reached the point where he
forgot what it was like not to hurt.
     And then it stopped.
     Just like that, all at once, and he couldn't move because he was
lying there numb and foul-smelling, and he felt as if he would never be
able to present himself with dignity ever again, he would never feel safe
again, he never wanted another soul to look upon him because he was
hideous and disgusting and had been reduced to a quivering, gibbering
wreck of a man.  The very thought was revolting to him, and yet he
couldn't help it; he was so relieved that the pain had abated, for
however short a time, that he cried copious tears, his body shuddering
convulsively.
     "Do you know how long you endured that?" Ptahepe asked quietly. 
Mollary tried to shake his head, but, if he had been able to answer, he
would have said it had been centons.  Perhaps days.  "Nine microns,"
Ptahepe continued, apparently knowing that Mollary was not going to be in
any kind of shape to reply.  "You felt that way for precisely nine
microns.  Would you like to endure that for twenty or thirty microns? Or
even better...twenty or thirty millicentons? Or centons?  Or days?"
     'No...no..." Mollary's voice was barely recognizable as his own.  It
sounded more like the guttural grunt of a dying daggit.
     "I did not think so.  I doubt that you would survive it.  Even if
you did, I likewise doubt you'd like what you became as a consequence."
     Mollary did not reply.  None seemed necessary, and he doubted he
could have strung a coherent sentence together anyway.
     Apparently not caring about Mollary's newly discovered reticence,
Ptahepe said, "That was your punishment, Mollary.  Punishment, however,
will not be enough.  You must do penance.  Do you understand?  Do you
hear what I'm saying?"
     He managed to nod.
     "Good," Ptahepe had moved from the shadows and was now standing
directly in front of Mollary.  He tilted his head and regarded the
bureaucrat with curiosity.  "Tell me, Mollary...would you kill Troy
yourself...if the alternative was more punishment?"
     For all the world, Mollary wanted to shake his head.  He wanted to
spit at the Cylon, he wanted to cry out defiance.  He wanted to stumble
to his feet and fasten his hands around the throat of that robotic
monstrosity.  At that point, he didn't care anymore if hidden bombs blew
Earth to bits.  He didn't care if he died in attempting to kill Ptahepe. 
All he desired at that moment was the opportunity to try and, even more,
the will.
     Instead he simply nodded.  For he knew it to be true:  at that
moment, he would do anything.  Kill Troy, kill Delenn, kill Vir, kill
Giovanni...anything, anyone, whatever it took, if it meant not getting
another taste of that agonizing "punishment."  Even though his body
wasn't present being subjected to pain, the memory was still fresh within
him.  He needed no reminder of what he had just been through; if nothing
else, the stench floating from him made it very difficult to forget.
     "Well...you do not have to kill Troy," Ptahepe told him.  "For the
moment, we shall let him live.  You see...there is a relatively recent
development that has come to our attention.  Troy is going to become a
father, you see."
     Mollary was slowly managing to draw breath into his chest, steadying
his racing heart.  So it took a few moments for Ptahepe's comment to
fully register on him.  He was still lying on the floor, but he managed
to raise his head ever so slightly.  "Fa...father?" he asked.
     "That is correct," said Ptahepe.  "Your penance, actually, will be
quite simple."
     Ptahepe was moving then, and Mollary could not take his gaze away
from him.  He was heading toward the relics...toward a shelf with several
jars of varying purposes.  He studied them thoughtfully, and then reached
up and took one from the shelf.  It was made of brass with a screw-on
lid.  Mollary had no idea why Ptahepe could possibly be interested in it.
     And then a slow, horrible thought began to dawn on him.  He brushed
it aside just as quickly, though, convinced that he could not possibly be
correct.  It was unthinkable, beyond the pale, even for the Cylon.  They
could not, they would not...and certainly they could not think to make
him a party to...
     Then the Cylon opened the folds of his garment.
     "No," whispered Mollary. "No...please..." From the floor, he still
could not move, but he began to beg, all thought of dignity long gone. 
"No..."
     Ptahepe did not even acknowledge that he had spoken.  The assembly
of breast plates that made up his chest were undulating in a most hideous
fashion, as if they were alive with a thriving colony of Balmorran metal
eaters.  He placed the jar on a nearby table and unscrewed the lid.  He
set it aside, and then put his hand to his chest.
     "You wouldn't..." Mollary pleaded.  Even though he knew that it was
hopeless, he continued to implore Ptahepe to reconsider.
     Once again, the Cylon made no response.  Instead, ever so
delicately, he pulled a robotic creature from within a fold in his body. 
The automaton was similar to the keeper, but smaller.  Its electronic eye
was closed.  As alien a machine as it was, Mollary could nevertheless
tell that it was dormant, perhaps even turned off.
     Ptahepe held the thing proudly in his palm for a moment.  He ran a
finger along the ridges of its body in a manner that appeared almost
paternal.  It was all Mollary could do not to vomit.  Then he placed the
robot on the base and screwed it back onto the jar.  Mollary, at that
point, couldn't even get a word out.  He just shook his head helplessly.
     "When Troy and Delenn go to the Rising Star...you will go there as
well.  You will deliver," and touched the jar with a mechanical finger,
"this gift.  You will order the top sealed to discourage inspection by
Troy.  The keeper within will be able to escape when the time is right."
     "A...child?" Mollary couldn't believe it.  "A helpless child?"
     "The son of Troy and Delenn...yes, it will be a son...but it will
not always be a helpless child.  When he is grown...he will be of use to
us.  The keeper will see to his destiny.  And you...will see to the
keeper."
     "No!" Mollary, to his own astonishment, was managing to shake his
head. "No...an innocent child..."
     "If you shirk your penance, Mollary," Ptahepe said calmly, as if he
had been expecting Mollary to protest, "you should consider the
consequences for all the innocent children here on Earth.  But before any
of them...Amber Lawrence will bear the brunt of our...displeasure."
     "Not...her..."Mollary said.
     "Sire Mollary, you do not seem to realize how little say you have in
the matter.  Now...will you cooperate?"
     Hating himself, hating life, hating a universe that would do this to
him, Mollary could only nod.
     Then his vision began to lose focus as one more wave of pain washed
over him.  He shut his eyes tightly, letting it pass, shuddering at the
sensation.  When he opened his eyes again, Ptahepe was gone.  Gone,
having left Mollary alone with his humiliation and pain and weakness. 
Mollary, who would forever know that not only did he have a breaking
point, but it had been reachable through means that seemed almost
effortless.  It made him wonder just how much more the Cylons could do to
him.  As horrifying a notion as the thought suggested, was it possible
that---until now----the Cylons had actually been going easy on him?
     He wondered how much worse they could make it for him.
     He wondered why such threats to Amber struck so closely to him.
     He wondered if he would ever know a time when he was genuinely happy
to be alive...even if the feeling lasted for only a few moments.
     And then, as the brutalizing that his body had endured finally
caught up with him, he wondered no more as he lapsed into merciful
unconsciousness.

*****     

Chapter 13

     Dixie Clemons was busy writing a suicide note when the knock at the
door interrupted her.
     Her task was not one that she had undertaken lightly, or
spontaneously.  Indeed, she had been laboring over it for some time.  She
had worked over the word choice, selected one, and then discarded it,
wanting everything to read properly.  It hadn't been an easy business,
this writing notion.  She would choose a word, then pace the length of
her villa overlooking a bank of the Potomac River---which was hideously
small, a gift from her father when she'd turned eighteen, and at this
point, the only piece of real estate remaining to her, sufficiently
secluded off in the woods so that it had been spared the battles of
Earth----only to return to her work and cross out the word.  "How do
writers do it?" she asked at one point, although there was no one there
to answer.
     No one there.
     Once upon a time, there had always been someone there.  But not
anymore.  Thanks to an extraterrestrial named Mollary...they were gone. 
All the boyfriends.  All gone.  Fortunes, gone.  Life, gone.
     She wasn't entirely certain that she was actually going to go
through with the suicide.  Granted, she was depressed, but the more
overwhelming concern for her was that she was bored.  She lived this
pointless existence, filling days, killing time, and accomplishing
nothing.  Society was closed to her, doors slammed shut----again, thanks
to a visitor from outer space called Sire Mollary.
     When his holographic image had loomed over the whole world, she had
stood there at the window of her villa and screamed imprecations for the
entire time that the figure had stood upon the D.C. skyline.  Right after
that, she had started the suicide note, deciding that a world where Sire
Mollary was, for all intents and purposes, a king, was one in which she
simply did not want to exist anymore.
     But the suicide note was going to be her final act of record, she
wanted it to be just right.  And since she wasn't a writer by nature or
profession, well...it was taking a while.  Still, she was quite close to
finishing a usable draft, and then---the rest would be history.  The only
thing remaining would be selecting the means, and she was sure that she
would probably go with poison.  
     Certainly she knew enough about different types, and what would be
both effective and painless.  Her mother had taught her well in that
regard, possessing rather extensive knowledge on that topic.  Her father
had also been well aware of her mother's erudition along those lines.  It
had served nicely to keep him in line, and he was quite candid in stating
that his wife's mastery of terminal ingestion was the secret to the
length and relative tranquility of their marriage.
     When the knock came at the door, Dixie put down her work and called,
"Yeah? While making no attempt to hide the irritation in her voice over
being interrupted.
     "Sorry to bother you, Miss Clemons," came the reply from the other
side of the door.  The speaker sounded rather youthful.  "But your
presence is requested at the HUD office."
     "The what?" Having been forcibly removed from political life, Dixie
paid very little attention these days to the government or the way in
which it was organized.
     "The Department of Housing and Urban Development, overseen by
Attorney General Tyler."
     It wasn't a name that meant anything to Dixie.  She began to wonder
if this was some kind of elaborate hoax.  Or worse, a ploy to get her to
open the door so that some kind of attempt on her life might be carried
out.  After all, Mollary was Ruler of the Earth now.  If he carried
within him a need for revenge against her, certainly he would have the
resources to dispatch someone to attend to it.
     Then again, she was preparing to kill herself anyway.  If someone
was going to show up and do to the job for her, certainly it wasn't that
much different.  Still, etiquette had to be observed.
     "All right, I'm coming," she said.  She was wearing the sheerest of
nightgowns.  She had little need to get dressed these days, since she was
on her own and nobody came to visit her.  Even the delivery guy from the
deli who brought food to her once a week just left the requested
delicacies outside the door.  Indeed, that had been one of the
considerations that had sent her thoughts toward suicide.  It wasn't just
the humiliation and the ennui, it was also a matter of practicality. 
Soon what meager savings she had would run out.  The delivery guy had
intimated that an "deal" might be worked out, and he had suggested it
with an unmistakably lascivious grin.  The thought of falling so far that
she was actually considering the "arrangement" had been what finally
propelled Dixie's thoughts down the road of embarking upon final
festivities.  It had also resulted in the requested delicacies being left
outside the door.
     For the sake of propriety, she tossed a robe over her gown---a sheer
robe nonetheless---and answered the door.
     There was a very serious-faced young man standing there.  She noted
his discipline; his gaze did not so much as flicker over the lines of her
shapely body.  If her beauty had an effect on him, he did not let it
show.  "Miss Clemons?" It was intended as an interrogative, although
there was very little question in his tone.
     "Yeah, kid?"
     "Hi. I'm Giovanni of the Prime Candidates.  Secretary Rolland
Shannon wants to see you."
     "Really?" She arched one curved brow.  "And he sent you to come get
me?"
     "Yep."
     "Suppose I refuse to go with you?" She said it with a slightly
toying tone.  She had not played with a young boy in some time. 
Pleasantly, she found that it still amused her.  "What're you gonna do? 
Take me by force? Sling me over your shoulder while I struggle and beg
for my life?"
     "Nope."
     "All right, what are you gonna do?"
     "Wait until you choose to go."
     "Then you're in for one long wait, kid."  With that, she slammed the
door.
     It was getting late in the evening.  She fixed herself a meager and
carefully rationed dinner, ate it slowly and sparingly, worked on her
suicide note, read a bit, then went to bed.  When she woke up the
following morning, she glanced out her front window and was dumbfounded
to see Giovanni standing exactly where he had been the previous
afternoon.  As near as she could tell, he hadn't moved from the spot.  He
was covered with morning dew, and a passing crow had seen fit to poop on
his shoulder.
     She opened the door and stared at him.  "Boy, you're really
determined, aren't you."
     "Sorry, Miss Clemons, but I've got my orders.  I wouldn't be
following them if I came back without you.  I was instructed to treat you
with all courtesy.  That, in fact, to treat you with discourtesy would
result in my getting punished by A.G. Tyler."
     "Who?"
     "Mr. Ham Tyler.  Attorney General of the United States."
     "Oh." She frowned.  The name was vaguely familiar, but she couldn't
place it.  What the hell?  It probably wasn't important anyway.  "And
you've decided to wait."
     "I don't have a choice, ma'am."
     "All right, you got a point.  Come in."
     "No thanks.  I'll wait here, Miss Clemons, if you don't mind."
     The edges of her mouth crinkled.  "Suppose I do mind?"
     "I'll still wait here.  They told me you could be quite seductive
and I was explicitly told not to enter your house because I might get
distracted from my mission."
     "Oooh.  'Quite seductive.'  I like that, yeah."  She laughed lightly
then. This was the most fun she'd had in ages.  "All right, Mr. Giovanni. 
Stay there.  I'll change into something more suitable and then go with
you to speak with this secretary of yours.  Oh, one more thing..."
     "Yes?"
     "Too bad you didn't come in.  I was going to let you watch me
change."  She winked one eye lazily as she noted a telltale movement
under Giovanni's shirt while the youth fought to keep a straight face. 
She shut the door, then leaned against it and laughed some more, her
shoulders trembling in silent mirth.  She'd forgotten what it was like to
entertain herself in that manner.
     The day was getting off to quite a start.

*****

     The Department of Housing and Urban Development was more than just
an office.  It was an entirely new building, tall and gleaming, part of
the renovations that had been going in all major American cities.  Most
impressive, she had to admit.  Rolland Shannon's office was on the top
floor, which, for some reason, didn't surprise Dixie in the slightest.
     Shannon rose from behind his desk as Giovanni ushered her in.  "Miss
Clemons," he said, the picture of graciousness.  "Young Giovanni left to
fetch you yesterday.  We were beginning to think you wouldn't come."
     "Your gracious offer was delayed in rendering assistance to me. 
He's to be commended," Dixie said smoothly.  Just to see Giovanni's
expression, she cupped him under the chin and tickled him behind the ear. 
Nonetheless, he remained impressively impassive.
     "Good boy, Giovanni," Shannon said. "You can go now."
     "Yes, sir," Giovanni said in a voice that sounded faintly strangled. 
He got out of there as quickly as he could.
     "Congratulations, Miss Clemons," said Shannon, as he gestured for
her to take a seat, which she promptly did.  "You've managed the
formidable feat of causing Giovanni to be disconcerted.  I didn't think
anyone could do that."
     "I'm not just anyone," Dixie said.
     "Yes, yes." He seemed to contemplate her for a moment, and suddenly
said, "I've been careless.  Would you care for a brandy?"
     "No thanks."
     He nodded, then pulled a bottle from his desk drawer, poured himself
a glass, and downed it.  "Now, I'm sure you're wondering why I wanted to
see you."
     "No."
     "You're not?"
     She gave a small shrug of her sensuous shoulders.  "The world and
the events that transpire in it are just too downright crazy for my
tastes.  I'd rather let them unfold than try to anticipate something."
     "Well put," he chuckled.  "Best not to give things too much thought. 
You can go crazy that way."
     "Speaking of crazy, how's Sire Mollary doing?"
     The well-delivered jibe prompted an appreciative chuckle from
Shannon.  "I, obviously, wouldn't dare make such an obviously
disrespectful comment," he said. "But I suppose having romanced the Ruler
of the Earth at one time accords certain...privileges.  Are you sure you
wouldn't like a brandy?"
     "Quite sure.  What I'd like," and she rearranged her skirt
delicately around her shapely legs, "is to know why I've been brought
here.  I've got a lot to attend to..."
     "Are you sure?  Are you positive?" Something in his voice had
changed ever so slightly.  A slight coldness crept into it, perhaps even
a hint of contempt.  Shannon glanced at the monitor on his laptop
computer, apparently checking a file that was displayed upon it.  "Once
upon a time, Miss Clemons, your activities were quite easily tracked. 
They consisted of a series of public appearances, parties, social
engagements at high-profile establishments, and so on.  But, I don't have
the foggiest notion what you might be up to this fine afternoon.  No sign
of any activities at all.  Or are you just trying to keep a lower profile
these days?"
     Her lips thinned as her smile dissipated, to be replaced by a
hardened look of barely restrained impatience.  "Do you have a point to
make, Mr. Secretary?  If you do, what is it?"
     "I assume, Miss Clemons, that I'm not saying anything you don't
already know.  As near as we can tell, you've fallen on extremely hard
times.  You're almost broke."  Apparently warming to his topic, he leaned
forward, interlacing his fingers.  "Furthermore, it was bad enough when
you were Sire Mollary's mistress.  But now your former boyfriend has
suddenly become the Ruler of the Earth.  That makes you a social misfit. 
The men who used to flock to you so eagerly now stay away from you.  They
don't want to tempt fate, in the event that His Excellency might either
form a new attachment to you, or else seek you out for some rather
fiendish punishment.  Your beauty may well be without compare,
Dixie...but there remain quite a few women out there to choose from, many
of them well-connected.  And few of them present anything resembling the
potential difficulties that would face anyone who wants your...favors."
     "Is that what you brought me here for?  To insult me?" Dixie asked. 
She could feel her irritation mounting quite rapidly.  She hadn't been
sure why Shannon had wanted to see her, but never would she have been
able to guess that it was because he wanted to pick on her.
     "Not at all." He seemed hurt that she cold think such a thing. 
"Miss Clemons, I have nothing but the utmost respect for you.  I brought
you here at the suggestion and recommendation of A.G. Tyler, but also
because I really think that you'll fit in nicely with our plans here at
HUD.  Although what we have in mind is, well..." And he smiled.  "Not
quite within the official purview of this office----if you get my drift."
     "I wish I could say I did, but I'd be lying through my teeth."
     He stood up then.  She remained where she was as he sauntered around
the room.  Since he'd only half-risen from his chair earlier upon her
arrival, she hadn't realized quite how tall he was.  "There's a great
deal of resentment toward the Colonials at present," he said.
     "At present?" She chuckled lightly.  "There has been for some time,
and that situation will continue, I'll bet."
     "Yes, as would we.  And since the Colonial fleet promises to be
something of a presence in our solar system for quite some time to come,
we've got a certain---obligation, shall was say...to protect our
country's interests in that regard."
     "Protect them?  How?  We've all seen those tin-plated, red-eyed
monsters those damn Colonials led here; they nearly blew our planet to
smithereens fighting them. Isn't it a little late to be thinking about
protection?"
     He looked out his window, seemingly pleased with the view.  "It's
never too late, Miss Clemons.  I'm overseeing the creation of
a...department, if you will.  A quite section of the government that's
not of the government...if you take my meaning."
     "I'm...starting to,' she said after a moment of consideration. 
"You're talking about a bureau within the U.S. government charged with
spying on the Colonials."
     "Please, Miss Clemons," protested Shannon.  " 'Spying' is such an
ugly word."
     "Oh?  What word would you prefer?"
     " 'Espionage.'  Far more elegant, don't you think?"
     "You're talking about things that could potentially involve great
risk," said Dixie thoughtfully.  "I don't embark on such undertakings
lightly.  What do you want me to do?"
     "Only those things which you're more than capable of accomplishing,
Miss Clemons," said Shannon.  He'd been circling the room, but now he
stopped next to her. In what might be seen as a somewhat bold move, he
rested a hand on her shoulder.  "Your beauty, if I may say so, is
exquisite."
     "You may say so," Dixie told him. "And you're implying that a
beautiful woman may accomplish a great many things, particularly when it
comes to eliciting information from easily manipulated men."
     "I am."
     "But beauty, Mr. Secretary, is very much in the eye of the beholder,
as they say," she reminded him.  "What if I'm not considered attractive
by Colonial standards?"
     "Oh, but you will be," said Shannon.  "Colonial eyes will consider
you exceptionally attractive, just the same as Earthmen's eyes.  And my
understanding is that the Nomen...well, the Nomen find human redheads
rather exotic, so I've heard"
     "You heard right," Dixie said, remembering the attentions paid her
by Ambassador Kar.  Certainly part of their relationship had been spurred
by the fact that Kar drew great pleasure from cuckolding his old
opponent, Mollary, but certainly the Nomen was attracted to her as a
woman, as well.
     "I might also add that you possess a great deal of charisma, and I'm
sure that it will serve you in good stead."
     "Why, Mr. Secretary.  You certainly know how to flatter a woman."
     "But I don't do so idly, I assure you.  I believe you could be a
most valuable operative for us, Miss Clemons.  And I speak not only in
terms of espionage.  There may be the occasional requirement for sabotage
or..."
     "Murder?" she finished the sentence.  "And let me guess:  'murder'
is a distasteful word too."
     "Well, now that you mention it...I personally have always preferred
the term 'relocation.'"
     "Relocation?"
     "Yes.  To the Great Beyond."
     "Aha!" She smiled. Clearly the secretary was not without a sense of
humor, however morbid it might be.
     He came full circle around his desk and seated himself once more. 
"I'm sure you're wondering how this'll benefit you directly."
     "The thought has crossed my mind.  Unless you're intending that I
should become involved out of the goodness of my heart."
     "I don't doubt that there is much in your heart, Miss Clemons, but
how much could be honestly described as 'goodness,' I wouldn't want to
find out.  In answer to your question:  Deeds and real estate, I'm sorry
to say, would be out of my range to give you.  This aspect of my office
must maintain a low profile, and to elevate you that way would be too
conspicuous.  The wrong people might want to talk to me.
     "However, we can easily provide you with attractive remuneration,
drawn from certain discretionary bank accounts we have at our disposal. 
Furthermore, I think you'll find that certain doors to society will
slowly begin creaking open for you once again.  Your attracting some
attention can only be beneficial to the cause.  Just...not too much
attention, if you..."
     "Take your meaning?  Yes, Mr. Secretary, it's quite clear."
     "Your assignments would come from this office, and you would answer
directly to me."
     "And if I were to find myself in any kind of difficulty derived from
my espionage activities?  If the truth behind one of my 'missions' were
to come out, and I found myself facing charges of being a spy?  What
then?"
     "Then," sighed Shannon, "I'm afraid that you'd likely find yourself
in deep, dark trouble.  I suggest that you not be found out."
     "In other words, I would be considered...expendable."  She smiled
humorlessly. 
     "So we have an understanding then, Miss Clemons?"
     "Yes.  Yes, I believe we do." She extended a hand in a rather
elegant fashion and Rolland Shannon took it suavely and kissed her
knuckles.  "I can trust to your gentlemanly nature, I assume, to make my
'remuneration' a fair one, so that we needn't discuss such annoying
matters as exact sums at this time?"
     "I'm quite sure, Miss Clemons, that you won't be disappointed."
     "And thanks for thinking of me in this matter."
     "Well, Miss Clemons...as I mentioned earlier...to be honest, it was
Mr. Tyler who suggested your name to me in connection with our
endeavors."
     "Tyler..." Her face blanked a moment, and then she recalled once
more.  "Oh, yes.  The Attorney General.  Do be so kind as to pass my
thanks along to him, then.  And by all means, Mr. Secretary...don't feel
circumscribed by the business nature of our relationship.
     "Miss Clemons?"
     Dixie, clearly not feeling any need to expound beyond that, simply
withdrew her hand form his, then walked out of the room, stopping only to
toss a small-but-knowing smile over her shoulder.

*****     

     It seemed to Rolland Shannon that Tyler was taking extreme pains to
sound casual when he inquired, "Oh...and did you have the opportunity to
meet with Dixie Clemons?"
     Tyler had regular weekly meetings with Shannon to discuss an
assortment of projects.  Indeed, Tyler had meetings with all of the
secretaries who answered to him.  Shannon was accustomed to them.  In his
case, he would sit there and speak at length about HUD plans, both short-
and long-term, and Tyler would appear to be listening and nodding,
although whether he was truly attending to anything that Shannon was
saying, Shannon never really knew for sure.
     This time, however, Tyler seemed quite attentive.  His forced
attempts to appear nonchalant came across as just that:  forced.  Shannon
wasn't entirely certain why that would be, although he did have his
suspicions.
     "Yes.  Yes, I did?"
     "How'd it go?"
     "Quite well, thank you.  She's an amazing individual, that Dixie
Clemons.  A great deal of charm and personal charisma.  Your assorted
suggestions for our bureau of espionage have been superb up till now, Mr.
Tyler, but the inclusion of Dixie may well be one of your most sagacious
selections yet."
     "Good."
     The A.G. said nothing for a time, and Shannon couldn't quite tell
whether he was expecting Shannon to continue speaking or whether Tyler
was just lost in thought.  To play it safe, Shannon said, "I've been
giving some thought to naming the division of the bureau, sir."
     "Naming?" Tyler momentarily seemed puzzled.
     "Yes, Mr. Tyler.  Certainly we should have a means of referring to
the division that is to oversee the gathering of information and
other...activities...in regard to the Colonials.  However, calling it the
Espionage Division would seem a bit obvious."
     "Yes.  Yes, absolutely, I agree."  Tyler pursed his lips, considered
it, and then said, "Designate it as the Public Service Division"
     "Public service.  Very well, Mr. Tyler.  May I ask how you..."
     "Did she say anything about me?"
     The question had come out all in a rush from Tyler, and it caught
Shannon momentarily off guard. "She, Mr. Tyler?  Do you mean Miss
Clemons?"
     "Yes, yes.  You did tell her that it was upon my recommendation that
she was being brought to the Public Service Division."
     "No, sir, because at the time, we weren't calling it that..."
     "Don't cross swords with me, Shannon," said Tyler, in a voice that
seemed to suggest Rolland Shannon was suddenly in danger.  By this point,
Tyler's attitude had more or less confirmed Shannon's evaluation of the
situation, but Shanon was not about to say what was on his mind.  He had
a feeling that doing so could prove to have rather nasty consequences. 
"Did you mention me to her.  I just want to know."
     "Why do you want to know, sir?" asked Shannon.
     "Because," Tyler said steadily, "if I should happen to encounter her
at a formal function, I wish to know if she knows that I know of her
involvement so that I don't say anything out of turn."
     Shannon slowly nodded, running Tyler's last sentence through his
mind a couple of times to make sure that he had followed it correctly.
"I...understand, Mr. Tyler.  In point of fact, yes.  I did mention your
name to her.  Twice, I think, although I won't swear it."
     Tyler seemed rather interested in tapping the surface of his desk
with his finger.  "Indeed.  And...what did she say?  Regarding me, that
is.  She did indicate that she knew who I was."
     It might've been Shannon's imagination, but it seemed as if Tyler
was puffing out his chest slightly as he said that, as if completely
absorbed in his self-image.  "Yes, sir. In fact...now that I think of
it...she did ask me to thank you for recommending her."
     "She did!" Tyler slapped his hand on the desk as if he'd suddenly
had an off-the-cuff recollection of where he'd left his billfold.  "And
why didn't you tell me earlier, Shannon?  If you're going to be
overseeing an intelligence-gathering division, it might behoove you to be
more efficient in transmitting important information to me, without my
having to drag it out of you?  Don't you agree?"
     "Wholeheartedly, Mr. Tyler.  I vow to do better next time."
     "Did she say anything else?  You said she knew who I was.  Of course
she did," he answered his own question.  "She must know.  Everyone does."
     "She definitely had an awareness, Mr. Tyler.  When I mentioned your
name, she said----now what was it?  Ah. She said, 'Oh, yes...the Attorney
General.'"
     The temperature in the room dropped substantially.
     " 'The...Attorney General?'  Are you sure that's what she said?"
     "Word for word, sir."
     Tyler's face hardened, and it was at that moment that Shannon knew
just what to do.  He leaned forward in his chair, his tall frame almost
bending in half as he gestured in a conspiratorial way that Tyler should
lean forward.  Clearly confused, Tyler did so, and when Shannon spoke, it
was in the whispered tone of someone sharing a very great secret.  "She's
a very subtle individual, sir."
     "Subtle."
     "Sublimely so, yes.  However, sir, she's still just a woman...and
I've always been a fairly astute judge of the breed, sir."
     "I don't quite follow you, Mr. Secretary."
     "I believe, sir, that she may have more...consideration for you than
she lets on.  Oh, but...maybe I'm speaking too boldly here..."
     "No, no," Tyler said quickly.  "I need to know whatever might be on
your mind, Mr. Secretary.  By all means, be as bold as you want."
     "Well, Mr. Tyler," the Secretary said, warming to the topic,
"although her words seemed dismissive, there was something about her tone
of voice that indicated otherwise.  Almost as if she was trying mightily
to give the appearance of having only the slightest notion of who you
were.  But let's be realistic, Mr. Tyler...who on Earth doesn't know
Hamilton Tyler, Attorney General of the United States of America?  The
idea that she would not be instantly familiar with your name is simply
absurd.  A far more reasonable supposition is that she was being..."
     "Subtle?"
     'Yes.  Exactly.  I could see it in her eyes, sir.  It was kinda
evident...if you know what to look for."
     "Well...that's wonderful!  Most excellent!" Tyler said, looking
remarkably cheered.  Shannon sat straight up again and Tyler continued,
"I've no doubt whatsoever that she'll be a valuable addition to the
Public Service Division.  Good work, Shannon.  Good work all around."
     They chatted for a few more minutes about assorted business matters. 
The current membership of the Prime Candidates, and how it could be
increased.  A space shot to some unknown planet that Tyler, for some
reason, was in the process of organizing.  But Shannon wasn't listening. 
Instead, his mind was racing in regard to the situation that had
presented itself in such stark and clear relief.  There was no doubt, as
far as Shannon was concerned.  Clearly Tyler was besotted with that
woman.  When it came to matters involving Dixie Clemons, Tyler obviously
could not be counted on to think straight.
     That was a useful piece of information to have.  Shannon had no idea
quite yet how, or if, he would turn it to his advantage.  But he had no
doubt that, sooner or later, it would come into use.  A useful little
hole card...and one that would be his to play when it suited his needs.

*****

PART 2: NIGHTTIME

Chapter 14

     Amber was be coming increasingly worried about the Ruler of the
Earth.
     Naturally she had something personal at stake.  In her nearly two
years at the White House, she had become rather used to the comforts. 
Her continued residence there was contingent upon not only Mollary's good
graces, but his continued health.  
     But it was more than just that.  She had a feeling about him, a
sense that in some way, he was truly aspiring to greatness.  He wanted so
much for his people.  He loved Earth with a passion that she felt was
unmatched by anyone else in the White House.
     That, of course, was no great measure, because Amber did not
particularly like anyone else in the White House.  Tyler seemed to be
omnipresent, watching her with those cold and deadly eyes, like a great
animal waiting to spring upon unwary prey.  Tyler's preferred
right-hand-man, Rolland Shannon, was not much better.  Then there was
Ramiro Gross, Tyler's newly chosen Press Secretary, although as near as
Amber could tell, Gross's major activities involved the suppression of
genuine information...or, at least, the free flow of ideas.  From her
vantage point in the social strata, Amber could watch clearly the slow
disappearance of any persons who expressed opinions contrary to the
directives the government foisted upon the people.
     The people.  God help the people.
     A number of times during the many months she had resided in the
White House, Amber made her forays into the city.  She had made sure to
leave behind her richly starched and elaborate dresses, and instead had
favored simple, relatively unattractive garments.  She had moved among
places that Mollary would most likely---and most unhappily---have
disapproved of.  And the things she heard were most disturbing to her.
     There was constant talk of anger toward the Colonials, indicating
emotional wounds that  had never been healed.  She remembered the child
who was hobbling about with one leg gone at the knee, his lower leg
having been crushed by falling debris and amputated; his parents hadn't
the money to pay for prosthetics to replace it.  She recalled the woman
who said she never slept anymore, that every small sound during the night
awakened her as she believed that more bombs were about to be dropped on
her.  From the woman's haunted visage, Amber could tell that the woman
wasn't exaggerating her plight.  Amber's heart went out to her, and she
wished once again that there was something she could do.
     Although their stories of horror and mental anguish were all
different, their current sentiments seemed to be consistent.  The
resentment toward the Colonials still burned hotly, and even as Earth was
being rebuilt, it appeared to Amber that it was being rebuilt for a
reason.  And that reason was the launching of some sort of attack against
the Colonials' fleet.  The specifics of it didn't seem clear to anyone. 
It was more a free-floating sense of anger, which permeated the social
structure of  Earth, from the top through to the very bottom.
     The truth was that Amber had no more love for the Colonials than
anyone else.  But some aspects of her education, including her
all-too-short time with Brice Kent----whom she continued to think about
at last once a day, and always with a sense of grief and loss---had led
her to conclude that the path upon which Earth seemed determined to tread
could not be the correct one.  Indeed, it could very well lead to an even
greater disaster.  Earth had been pounded into the ground, but,
ultimately, most of its people were at least still alive.  They were
being allowed to rebuild, and even the global economy was showing
signs---slow signs, but signs nonetheless---of beginning to recover.
     If the Earth, once it was rebuilt, united against the Colonials,
things might go far worse for them the next time.  How apt, how
poetically just would it be, if the Galactica mass drivers--the ultimate
in ground punishment, gathering in space debris and raining it down in
concentrated form---were used against Earth.  By the time the Colonials
got through with them, there might not be a single Earth human left
alive.  Rather than recapture the glory of civilizations past, all humans
on Earth might find themselves extinct.  Within a generation everything
that had ever been accomplished here, for good or ill, would be dust and
forgotten.
     Amber didn't want to let that happen, but she didn't have the
faintest idea how to go about preventing it.  One woman could not prevent
the world from committing mass suicide, which seemed like the likeliest
outcome if Earth continued on its present course.
     The only hope she could possibly discern lay with the Ruler of the
Earth.  He, however, seemed to be slipping faster and farther away with
each passing day.
     Oh, there were the occasional good days.  On those occasions,
Mollary would laugh or joke with her, tweak her cheek in an affectionate
manner that could not possibly be considered anything other than
paternal.  Sometimes he would regale her with tales of the Galactica's
journeys, or share with her some examples of his impressively extensive
collection of slightly ribald jokes.  In short, there was any number of
times when His Excellency was someone she genuinely wanted to be with.
     The rest of the time, however---well, when he would look at her, it
was as if he was staring at her from the bottom of a very deep pit.  His
were the eyes of a man who somehow, in some manner that she could not
begin to comprehend, had seen his own future.  And it was apparently not
something that was going to be pretty or desirable.
     Now, as she approached His Excellency's study, Amber hoped that
perhaps she would encounter Mollary during one of his more convivial
moods.  Because if he were in that kind of state, then she might actually
be able to share with him her concerns over the future of the Earth. 
Certainly there was no one else in the White House with whom she could
speak on any kind of open basis.  Everyone else had the misfortune of
being male, or the sort of political in-fighter who wouldn't hesitate to
use anything that Amber said against her.  She had no desire to provide
any potential enemy with that kind of ammunition.  But the Ruler of the
Earth...
     The Ruler of the Earth, for some reason, she was not afraid of.  If
anything, she was afraid for him.
     She peered in through the study, and saw him slumped at his desk. 
For the briefest of moments, she thought he was dead.  That was until she
heard the snoring, however, at which point she knew that Mollary was
still among the living...although barely, it seemed.
     And then she thought morbidly, A shame he's not dead.  He'd stay
well preserved for some time if he were.  As soon as the notion went
through her head, she chided herself for it.  What a horrible thing to
think, particularly when it was obvious that His Excellency was hurting
emotionally.
     She studied him thoughtfully and wished that there was some way that
she could reach directly into his mind.  Sense his thoughts, ease the
pain.  Do something, anything possible to help this basically good man,
or at the very least have some idea of what it was that was eating away
at him.
     Then she noticed that he had been working on something.  
     His hand was resting on it.  She dared not touch him in order to
move his hand and see better, but then...as if he were unconsciously
urging her to look---he moved his arm.  In his slumber, it slid off the
desk and hung limply at his side.
     She looked more closely and saw that it was a book.  A book that he
was apparently writing by hand.  How very, very quaint.  Most Colonials,
it seemed to her, preferred data crystals and such.  She could only guess
why he might want to work in what some would consider an archaic fashion. 
Perhaps he felt it added a kind of personal touch.  Or maybe he was
inspired by the numerous textbooks of world history, many of them written
by the victors of ancient wars.  By continuing in that tradition, he was
making himself a sort of living link to the past.
     From a purely pragmatic point of view, by confining his writings to
one book that he carried with him, it also meant that his thoughts and
musings would be kept in his possession at all times.  The moment
anything was put onto a computer, even as a private file, there was
always the danger that someone, somewhere would be able to carve their
way into the system and access it.
     She toyed with the notion of picking up the book, examining it. 
Certainly there was nothing to stoop her form doing so, with the sole
exception of her conscience.  Obviously this was a work in progress, and
it was unlikely that Mollary would want anyone perusing it before he felt
it was ready.
     Even so...
     Well...if she didn't actually turn the pages, that wouldn't be so
invasive, would it?  After all, she was just looking down at the open
ones.  Why---who could fault her for that?  It wasn't as if she'd been
seeking it out.  Besides, certainly Mollary meant for it to be read
sooner or later.  What point was there in writing a history if no one was
going to see it?  And it was a history, she was quite sure of that. 
Because she had just kind of, sort of, well...just happened to lift the
title page ever so slightly and spotted the word, carefully delineated in
Mollary's own script.  Then, ever so delicately, she laid the book flat
again so that she could see jus what Mollary was writing about at that
particular moment.  The book appeared already to be half full. 
Apparently Mollary had been quite busy.
     She started to read, although she wasn't touching the book at that
point.  But when she saw just what it as that she was reading, her eyes
went wide with surprise.
     The Rising Star!  The Ruler of the Earth had been aboard the Rising
Star!  She remembered when he had disappeared from Earth, some five
months before.  His departure had been unannounced and rather unexpected. 
Tyler had tried to act as if he had been expecting it, but even he had
seemed a bit caught off guard.
     Mollary had been gone for three weeks, and there had been a bit of
confusion and nervousness bandied about, although Tyler had done an
excellent job of staying atop all the problems that had cropped up.  And
then, after a time, His Excellency had returned.  Amber realized that it
was from that point on that she had really noticed the change in him.  He
seemed...smaller than he had before.  Diminished somehow.  It was nothing
she could truly put her finger on, but she was sure that she wasn't
imagining it.  Something very bad had happened, and she now knew that
whatever it was that had happened to so dispirit the Ruler of the Earth,
it must've occurred aboard the Rising Star.
     Despite her better judgment, Amber set aside all pretense to the
contrary and started reading what Mollary had written.  She still didn't
pick up the book, as if not touching it would somehow negate any invasion
of privacy or breaking of trust.  Instead she leaned with her knuckles on
the table and read in earnest.
     Apparently Mollary had gone to the Rising Star to meet with Delenn
and Troy.  Delenn was with child, and at the point in the narrative where
the page began, Mollary was recording an encounter with the commander of
the Battlestar Galactica and his "lovely wife," as Mollary put it.
     Amber continued to read:


     It was clear to me that they were to be somewhat guarded in my
presence.  I could see it in Troy's eyes, feel it even when he wasn't
looking at me.  He was suspicious and unsure.  I suppose I could not
blame them, truly.  They were not expecting me to simply show up aboard
the Rising Star.  Now that I was here, they had no clue as to what to
anticipate.  It had to be especially perplexing for Troy, since he
believed himself a superb strategist, and my appearance on the Rising
Star did not fit any proscribed pattern he could anticipate.
     As for me...I had my own difficulties to deal with, my own "secrets"
to attend to.  So not only was I a bit more boisterous than I normally
would have been, left to my own devices, but certainly more effervescent
than the moment called for.  No doubt that increased the level of their
suspicions.
     We were seated in the dining hall which, I must admit was not
particularly lavish.  These days it seems to me that the White House on
Earth is more of a prison than a home.  Nonetheless, at least it is a
decorative prison.  The food, as far as I was concerned, was mostly
inedible; even the most elaborate fleet delicacies are, at best, bland. 
But I smiled through it as we chatted---once more---about how surprised
Troy and Delenn were to see him.  Surprised...and even a bit
disconcerted.  When I commented on it, they promptly denied it, of
course.  They wished to be polite.  Considering the purpose my being
there, it seemed almost quaint that such was their concern.
     Our conversation broadened to surprising people in general. 
"Another of the benefits of being Ruler of the Earth..." and then I
added, almost as an afterthought, "or commander, in your case...is not so
much the people who are pleased to see you in office.  It's the people
who are furious that you're even alive, let alone holding a position of
power.  Knowing that every day you succeed, they die a little
inside...makes the endeavor eminently satisfying."
     Troy cast an uncomfortable glance at Delenn and then forced a polite
smile.  "I hadn't really thought of it in those terms," he said.
     I thought of the looks I get from my underlings, and the scheming
eyes that watch my back as I pass, thinking of how delightful my spine
would like with a dagger protruding from it.  "Oh, you will.  You will,"
I assured him.
     There was an uncomfortable silence----one of many in the
evening---and then Delenn said, "If you don't mind my saying so, Sire
Mollary..."
     I waved a scolding finger.  "Just Mollary, if you please."
     "You told me to go on addressing you as Sire," said Troy.
     Indicating Delenn's ensemble, I replied, "You don't look as good in
that outfit as she does." This actually prompted the first genuine smile
of the evening. "Go on, Delenn."
     "I was just going to say that your attitude toward us is..." She
paused, searching for the right words.  "...quite improved over the last
time.  When we were all on Earth, you said some...unkind things."
     I waved dismissively. "Playing to the audience, Delenn, nothing
more.  I need to get those people fired up in order to begin the long and
difficult process of rebuilding.  There's politics," and then I looked
significantly at them, "and there's friendship.  And when I learned that
you were with child, and that you were finally coming here to stay...how
could I not come and convey my personal best wishes."


     When she read that, Amber's hearts leap.  So grim Mollary had been
of late, so sullen.  Was it possible that he indeed presented one face to
his people and his advisors, and another to those he truly considered his
friends?  For some reason, it made Amber want to know the real Mollary
even more.  The one who genuinely cared about reconciliation.  Already
she could see that it made sense, although she wasn't entirely sure that
she agreed with the tactic.  She understood it, though.  Saying whatever
was necessary to get the people stirred up.  Yes.  Yes, it did make
sense.  After the battering, the bombings...their spirit was at a low
ebb.  First and foremost, he had to get them to care about something, to
manufacture some kind of passion and energy.  And if it was directed at
first in a negative manner, well...at least it was there.  Once it was
present, he could then steer it whichever way he wanted to go.
     She looked back at the book and continued to read...


     Delenn and Troy looked at one another, and I could tell what was
going through their minds.  They were hoping that what I said was the
truth...but they were not certain.
     I suppose I could not blame them. I have been living so many lies
for so long, even I am not sure what the truth is anymore.


     Amber's face fell when she read that.  It certainly wasn't like the
sentiment she was hoping he'd express.  "Living so many lies?" What did
that mean?"


     As Troy and Delenn tried to make up their minds, my own thoughts
began to race to possibilities under which we might---chat in an open
manner.  I had, after all, certain considerations that needed to be
attended to.  "I would raise a toast to you, but there doesn't seem to be
anything at hand.  Do you have a little Bacardi, Commander?  Some of that
excellent Earth rum tucked away in a box somewhere?"
     "No," said Troy. "Since Earth-distilled alcohol is dangerous for
some Colonists, I decided to leave all that stuff on the Galactica."
     Immediately I remembered, and could have kicked myself for the
oversight.  Lennier had told me that alcohol engendered murderous rages
in those descended from the Inner Colonies.  Foolishness.  Foolishness of
me to forget that.  For now there was no way I would be able to...relax
sufficiently, to be able to truly open up.  With flickering hope, I
asked, "Surely there must be a little..."
     "Not a drop," Troy said firmly. "I'm surprised that you didn't bring
your own supplies."
     I glanced at my shoulder and felt a slight twinge of warning. "My
associates do not allow me such pleasures anymore.  I suppose they feel I
am dangerous enough sober.  No reason to make things worse."
     We continued to eat in silence once ore, and then I felt a slight
qualm in my mind, through that damnable connection.  But this time it was
not a warning that came from within, but from without.  I glanced up an
immediately saw the problem.  Delenn was looking at me, her eyes
narrowed, as if she was perceiving that which she could not...indeed,
must not...be allowed to see.  And yet I was...


     Amber stopped reading, thoroughly confused.  What could Mollary
possibly be talking about?  What was Delenn "perceiving" that she
shouldn't?  The only thing Amber could guess was that Delenn was
intuiting something about Mollary's state of mind.  He wanted to retain
his privacy, keep his purposes and thoughts obscure.  After all, he'd
spoken of "living lies," a comment that bothered Amber greatly. 
Obviously, Mollary was worried about letting anyone get too close to him
emotionally.
     Although the comment about "that damnable connection" still
mystified her.


     And yet I was almost tempted to do nothing.  Perhaps----perhaps if
she perceived, if she knew and understood...then they would be able to
take the proper action, know the precautions that they should employ.
     That was when a little voice in my head urged me to stop stalling. 
It wasn't words that I heard so much, but a sense that I should get on
with it...lest there be dire consequences for all concerned.  And I knew
that I had no choice.  None at all.


     His conscience.  He was wrestling with his conscience over some kind
of decision, probably having to do with whether he could trust Troy and
Delenn.  Amber felt herself utterly caught up in the drama of the moment.


     "So Delenn," I said quickly.  That startled her from her
concentration and she muttered an apology.  "You haven't asked me about
my gift."
     "What gift?" Delenn responded.  She still seemed a bit befuddled by
her long gaze into the dark places of my life, and she turned to Troy.
     Troy, ever the officer and gentleman...and, of course, eager to
distance himself from Earth and its so-called Ruler...said, "We really
can't..."
     'Oh, it's not for you," I quickly assured them.  Then I clapped my
hands and one of my retainers entered with the jar.  It was draped with a
white cloth, so naturally it drew some degree of curiosity, particularly
from Delenn.  Inquisitiveness, thy name is woman!  Troy, on the other
hand, just looked suspicious.  Of course, he had long practice at it.
     The retainer set the jar down and left, and I removed the cloth with
just a bit of flourish.  I have to admit, it was a rather impressive
looking piece of brass...at least, from the outside.
     Troy picked it up, and it was everything I could do to repress a
shudder.  Instead, sounding remarkably sanguine about it, if I do say so
myself, I said, "I've just inaugurated a new Earth tradition:  to give a
decorative jar to a new Colonial leader anytime he or she assumes office. 
I don't know how old this jar is, but it is an authentic Earth jar, I
assure you."
     "It's very attractive," Delenn said. "But we cannot possibly accept
it."
     Naturally, I would have been more than happy to oblige them. 
Instead I had to say, "I insist."
     "Won't they miss it back home?" asked Troy.
     They were asking too many questions, so many damned questions. 
Colonial officers had an annoying trait:  they never accepted anything at
face value, never took the word of others.  They had to keep asking and
probing until they themselves were satisfied.
     "Nobody knows about the new tradition outside the White House," I
said. "Besides, I have no heirs, and when I am gone, I suspect the United
States of America will resume its usual political business, electing
presidents and such.  If I am going to be obsolete, and that is going to
be obsolete, then I may as well make sure it goes somewhere where it will
be appreciated."
     Lies intermingled with truth.  I was becoming quite facile with it. 
Truthfully, I did not think there was any chance whatsoever that no one
would rule the Earth after my death.  There were far too many Earthlings
who craved world domination at the expense of innocent people.  I was the
first man to truly claim the title of Ruler of the Earth; it would only
be logical to assume that I would be paving the way for others to claim
the mantle for themselves.  Little good may it do them.
     And besides...I knew of the prophecy.  I knew I was ordained to be
followed by a more powerful, ruthless immortal man who would reign on
Earth  for a thousand yahrens."


     This revelation stunned Amber for a moment.  A prophecy?  She had
read assorted books on prophecy.  Certainly there were women who were
quite legitimate psychics, and their forecasts were well known.  But she
didn't recall any published prophecy that specifically mentioned Mollary,
or any other extraterrestrial, for that matter.  Or that said the world
would be reigned over be an immortal king.  Was it some sort of private
reading that had been done just for him?
     She hoped that his next words would spell out what the prophecy was,
or where he had divined it from.  Instead, as she read on in eager
anticipation, she felt a flicker of disappointment...


     At that moment, a uniformed Colonial Warrior entered and whispered
something into Delenn's ear.  Delenn nodded and rose.  "Something has
just come up," she said. "If you will excuse me."
     For a moment I thought that perhaps somehow, through some miracle,
she had figured it out.  That she actually knew.  But then she walked out
of the room without so much as a backward glance, and that was how I knew
she remained blissfully oblivious.
     Troy then faced me, and I hoped that he was going to continue to try
and dissuade me from presenting him with the gift.  Instead he picked
that horrendous moment to allow me to be magnanimous.  "Well, if I can't
talk you out of this,' he said, "...well, thank you.  When should I...?"
     The words I was about to speak felt as if I was allowing poison to
drop from my mouth.  "When your child, male or female, turns sixteen
yahrens, then you hand it over."
     "I notice the lid is sealed."
     Lords of Kobol, could nothing slip past this man? I kept my
expression bland, though, as I fabricated on the spot.  "Yes.  The
Earthlings say that it contains water taken from their cradle of
civilization, the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, in Iraq, back when it was
known as Mesopotamia."
     He actually looked intrigued as he gently set the vase down.
     We chatted for a bit more, but with every passing moment I became
less and less enthused, more and more anxious to simply get off that
ship.  I felt as if the bulkheads were closing in.  My breath was heavy
in my chest.  I tried to tell myself that it was simply a malfunction in
one of the Rising Star's atmospheric recyclers, but I could not ignore
the fact that I was likely suffering from sort of attack of anxiety. 
Suddenly I knew that if I did not get out of the dining hall, if I did
not get away from the jar, I would go mad right there, right on that very
spot.  They would mark the floor as a historical site, the place where
the great Sire Mollary, Ruler of the Earth, lost his mind and collapsed
from the strain of a tormented conscience.
     I began to make my excuses to Troy, talking about how I was needed
back on Earth.  How they could not function without me.  I tried to make
it sound like a great trial and task.  I laughed about it, shared with
him how daunting such awesome responsibility could be.  And all during
that time, I wanted to do nothing more than flee the room.  But I tend to
think that, had I done so, such an action might well have piqued his
curiosity and sent him off in directions that it would be best not to go.
     Mercifully, Delenn returned before too long.  She seemed distracted,
saddened.  Her smile was a forced thing, her luminous spirit momentarily
diminished, but she did her best to try and bring herself back up to her
normal levels of cheerful and thoughtful social interaction.  Then I was
in the midst of saying my goodbyes as we walked down the corridor toward
the exit.
     "Are you sure you can't stay a little longer?" asked Troy.
     I was not entirely sure how serious he was.  I think, in a
perversely ironic way, he actually meant it because he was moved by my
magnanimous "gift."
     "No, the affairs of Earth weight on me just as they do on you," I
said.
     It was a nice and noncommittal exit line.  I could depart their
lives with a smile and the knowledge that, at the last, I was the same
charming and amusing Mollary as in the earliest days of our discovery of
Earth, rather than this dark and forbidding presence that I have become.
     I wanted to turn away, to say nothing more...but I could not help
myself.  There was so much more that needed to be said, that should have
been said and never would be.  I felt a gentle stirring, a mild warming,
a rebuke in advance that seemed to say, Keep your distance.  You have
done your duty, your penance, now leave.  Just...leave.
     That, more than anything, spurred my next words as I said to them
with terrible earnestness, "One thing I want you to know, to understand
and to hold in your thoughts in the yahrens to come...I want you to know
that you are my friends, and you will always be my friends, no matter
what may happen.  And I want you to know that this day...this day in your
company means more to me than you'll ever know."
     Then I sensed their presence.  Tyler's guards, two of his closer and
more dedicated followers, hovering there.  Obviously Tyler had a sense of
how long I should be spending with Troy and Delenn, a mental
approximation that I can only assume was provided for him by means he
does not truly understand himself.  He had imparted those time limits to
the guards, and they were coming in search of me, their presence a gentle
but firm reminder of just who was watching whom.
     The word Go filtered through my brain, and I did not even have to
bother to look in the direction of my watchers to know that they were
there.  "I appears I must go now."
     "I know," said Troy.  Of course, the fact was that he did not know. 
He thought he did, thought he comprehended, but he understood nothing. 
Not really.  The odds are that he never would.
     And his lack of comprehension was underscored by the last words he
would ever speak to me on the Rising Star. Because if we were to face one
another again, I knew it was going to be as enemies, probably snarling at
each other via view screens.  Or else we might, just might, meet as
keeper and prisoner, should Troy's fates turn against him and he wind up
a prisoner on Earth.  Of course, in my own situation, the concepts of
prisoner and keeper are extremely fluid, and I constantly find myself
occupying both positions at the same time.  I am he who holds the fate of
millions, and I am he whose fate is held by other keepers.
     And I know the situation will never be reversed.  I will never face
Troy with myself as a prisoner, for were it to come to that, I will be
dead before such an encounter took place.  They will certainly attend to
that.
     So Troy spoke his last, unknowingly sardonic words to me then as we
stood for the last time as peaceful equals: "You're always welcome to
come back, Mollary."
     "More than welcome," echoed Delenn.
     They were good people, I knew that.  They deserved better than what
was coming to them, better than what I had done to them.  Then again...so
did I.  Except my living hell was one of my own making, whereas their
future living hell...was also of my making.  Is there any more blackened
and stained soul in existence than mine?
     I could hardly get out any words.  I managed to say, "Thank
you...goodbye..." And then I was gone, my guards walking on either side
of me, escorting me back to my ship.  I thought I overheard Troy and
Delenn discussing Lennier just before I was out of earshot, and I wished
I could have heard more.  He was a good lad, Lennier.  I spent some time
with him.  In retrospect, he may be the only individual who ever spent
extended time in my presence without becoming tainted in some manner.  A
good and pure soul is his.  I envy him that.
     Through the glass of my shuttlecraft, I watched the Rising Star
receding, and then, naturally, I heard an all-too-expected voice.  The
voice that said You...


     "You!  You!  What are you doing?"
     Amber jumped back, completely startled, her hand jumping and
knocking the book off the table.  Mollary had awoken, and he was looking
up at her with pain-filled and bloodshot eyes that were seething with
anger.
     "What are you doing?!  How much did you read?  What did you read?!"
     Amber's mouth opened, but no words came out.  Mollary was on his
feet, and he'd risen with such fury that had knocked aside the writing
table, sending it crashing to the floor.  He sounded more than just
angry.
     He sounded terrified.
     "I...I..." Amber finally managed to get out.
     Mollary grabbed up the book, slammed it shut.  "This was private. 
You had no right...no right!!!!"
     "I...I thought..."
     "No, you didn't think!  Not for a centon!  What did you read here! 
Tell me!  I will know if you are lying, tell me!"
     She remembered how, just a short time before, she had been thinking
how she had never been afraid of Mollary.  That sentiment was gone.  She
had never been more terrified, not just of Mollary, but of anyone, as she
was at that moment.  "About...you and Troy and Delenn.  You gave them the
jar."
     "And then?"  He grabbed her by either shoulder, shook her, and there
was such tumult in her eyes...she remembered being a very small child,
looking to the skies as her father, Tyler, held her tightly, and there
were storm fronts rolling in.  And those fearsome clouds had been the
single most frightening thing she had ever seen...until this moment she
looked into the eyes of Sire Mollary.
     "And then?!"
     "And then you left, never to come back, and I'm leaving too, all
right, all right?"  Amber cried.  And she tore away from him, sobbing and
choking so hard that she couldn't even catch her breath.  She thought she
was going to be ill.  She ran then, ran as fast and as hard as she could,
ran from the room and almost crashed into Ham Tyler.  His eyes widened as
he took in Amber's agitated state, and the condition of both the
furniture and the Ruler of the Earth.
     "It's your fault, it's all your fault!' she howled in his face.
     "Amber..." Tyler began, but he got no further as her hand flew,
almost on its own accord, to smack against his face and lave a huge
flaming red area the size of her palm on his cheek.  Tyler staggered from
the pain of the impact, but Amber didn't stay around to see the results
of her actions.  Instead, she ran down the hallway, her arms pumping, her
breasts heaving.
     In her room, she tore away the fine dress she was wearing.  The
cloth, the beautiful, gilt-edged, shimmering cloth made a most satisfying
ripping sound as she shredded it.  Naked, she yanked together some
assorted articles of clothing, tossed them on in a hodgepodge manner, and
threw on a plastic poncho.
     She heard a crack of thunder from outside. The skies were opening up
and rain was starting to hammer down.  She didn't give a damn.  She
couldn't stay in the White House a second longer, not when she knew what
she knew.  And as she ran out into the torrential rain, she realized that
the most frustrating thing was that she knew what she knew...was nothing. 
And it was the nothing that she feared more than anything!

*****     

Chapter 15

     When Amber had not returned after a week, Mollary summoned Shannon. 
To Mollary's utter lack of surprise, Tyler showed up with him.  "I had
some matters to discuss with you, Your Excellency," Tyler said, "and
since Secretary Shannon stated that you wanted to..."
     Mollary was gazing out the window at the city.  Without even
bothering to turn around, he said to Shannon, "I have a little task for
your Prime Candidates, Mr. Secretary."
     "We're at your disposal, Your Excellency," Shannon said.
     "Amber is out there somewhere.  I want her found, and I want you to
alert me as to where she is.  I will handle matters from there."
     Shannon and Tyler exchanged glances, and then Tyler cleared his
throat and took a step forward.  "Your Excellency," he said politely,
"are you sure that's for the better?"
     "She is one young woman, Ham.  If I cannot save one young woman,"
and he gestured out at the city, "how can I save all of them?"
     "That's not quite what's at issue, Your Excellency.  I was just
thinking that maybe this is a matter that would be best left well enough
alone."
     "Indeed," Mollary's voice was carefully neutral, his back still to
them.
     "Obviously, Your Excellency, the young woman is...how should I say
it?...an ingrate, Your Excellency.  After all you've done for her, after
all the time she's stayed here...and this is her thanks?"
     Mollary was silent for a time.
     "Your Excellency?" Tyler said carefully.
     At that point, Mollary turned to face them. His eyebrows were
knitted in apparent surprise.  "Mr.  Secretary...you are still here?"
     "You didn't say I could go, Your Excellency," Shannon said in
confusion.
     "I did not think it necessary.  I have given you your orders...or,"
and his voice took on a cutting edge, "were you operating under the
assumption that I was coming to you as supplicant, putting in a request
that you could attend to or disregard, at your discretion?"
     "No, Your Excellency, it's just that..."
     "I have told you what to do.  Your only response should be to say,
'At once, Your Excellency,' turn and leave.  Apparently you did not
comprehend that.  So...we shall try it again. I will give the order.  You
will respond as expected. And if you do not do so...I will have you
executed within the centon."  He smiled and spread his hands as if
greeting an old friend.  "That sounds fair, yes?"
     Shannon paled, and he visibly gulped.  Tyler looked in confusion
from Mollary back to Shannon.
     "I have a little task for your Prime Candidates, Mr. Secretary,"
said Mollary, without waiting for Shannon to reply.  "Amber is out there
somewhere. I want her found, and I want you to alert me as to where she
is.  I will handle matters from there."
     "Y--yes, Your Excellency."
     Mollary fixed him with a deathly glare.  "You were supposed to say
'At once, Your Excellency.'" Shannon's back stiffened so abruptly that
there was an audible crack.  Then Mollary smiled wanly and said, "Close
enough. Go to, eh?"
     HUD Secretary Shannon almost sprinted from the room, and Mollary
turned his gaze upon Tyler.  Mollary's eyes seemed almost hooded, as if a
veil had been drawn over them.  "Now...what business have you with me,
Mr. Tyler?"
     "Your Excellency, perhaps the Amber Lawrence matter should be
examined in more de..."
     "What.  Business.  Have. You.  With. Me.  Mr. Tyler?"
     It was quite evident to Mollary that Tyler was wrestling with the
notion of continuing the discussion...but then he very wisely
reconsidered.  "You have enquired about the high-powered spaceplane you
specially commissioned for an exploratory mission to K0G43.  You know,
the Rocketplane XP craft that used the turbo-rockets from a crashed
Colonial viper to make the trip out of our solar system?"
     "Yes, I know it.  And?"
     Mollary felt a slight stirring on his shoulder.  And he knew why.
     Several months previously, he had been examining various budget
items, and he had come across Tyler's extra-solar project.  The reasons
behind it completely eluded him.  AT that point, he had dictated a
personal memo to himself to speak with Tyler about it.  Before he could
follow through, however, the shadows had moved ever so slightly and
Ptahepe had emerged from them.  Mollary had not known he was there, and
by that point had given up trying to figure out whether the Cylon was
simply omnipresent, or whether the keeper summoned him and somehow he
managed to materialize on an as-needed basis.
     "That is a worthy project," Ptahepe had told him. "I do not suggest
you challenge it."
     "May I ask why?"
     "Yes."
     There was a pause, and then Mollary had said, "Very well:  why?"
     And Ptahepe, naturally, had made no response, unless one counted
melting back into the shadows as a response.  Mollary, feeling haggard
and weary at that point, had simply signed off the item, reasoning that
any project that got the people of the United States of America
interested and involved was worthwhile.
     But now...now things felt different.  It wasn't that they necessary
were different. However, they felt that way.  For ever since he had left
that jar with Troy and Delenn, forever damning not only their unborn
child, but himself, it was as if he had hit rock bottom.
     After the explosive conflict with Amber, though, something inside
him had just----snapped.  It was like a mental bone had broken, and now
it was beginning to reform, tougher and harder than ever.  It was most
unexpected to Mollary, who had been so accustomed to despair that he had
almost forgotten what a glimmer of hope could look like.
     He still knew better than to go head-to-head with Ptahepe, for that
was surely a lost cause.  But he was beginning to reacquire a bit of his
fighting spirit.  Major acts of defiance, particularly face-to-face,
might well be beyond his capabilities.  But smaller such actions or
inconveniences...what was the phrase?  Nibbling to death by cats? 
Yes...that was it.  What a marvelous turn of phrase these Earthlings had.
     "Your Excellency," Tyler was saying, "what do you want to know about
the project?"
     "I do not understand the reason for it," Mollary said.  He felt the
tingle of alertness on the part of the keeper, but he ignored it.  "I
wish you to explain it to me."
     "It is all in the original proposal, Your Excellency, which you
appro..."
     "The report is not here, Tyler.  You are here. I am here.  We can
speak to one another, yes?"
     "Well...yes, of course, Your Excellency, but I..."
     "So?  Explain."
     Ohhhh, the keeper was not happy with the direction of the
conversation.  In a way, the keeper's reaction was of morbid fascination
to Mollary, for Mollary was curious as to whether or not Tyler knew of
the Cylon's existence.  His actions, his attitudes, had led Mollary to
wonder about it, but he could not be sure.  So by pushing Tyler, gently
but firmly, Mollary was taking a stab at answering the question for
himself.  If Ptahepe or one of his associates made themselves known right
then and there, that would surely settle the question, wouldn't it?
     "Well...unemployment is a serious problem for us, Your Excellency. 
A number of aerospace firms were destroyed during the bombing," Tyler
shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.  "So my office felt
that manned space exploration projects might be of benefit in terms of
building a sense of accomplishment and pride.  The salaries paid to the
astronauts in the case of K0643 are minimal, but the have room and board,
in addition to..."
     "Your science fiction writers," Mollary said, tapping some research
he had done, "They've created a kind of fear of aliens and alien worlds,
yes?"
     Tyler laughed at that.  "They have.  And your recent battles with
the Cylons haven't helped any."
     "Some of these so-called writers have characterized far-off planets
as worlds of darkness, tainted by evil.  Do you know of these things?"
     "Yes, Your Excellency," Tyler said, his lips thinned nearly to a
sneer.  " My personal phobia about these things is rather unusual. At
least it seems that way considering I never met anyone who shared my
extreme fear other than two strangers in my mercenary unit.  I'm
extremely terrified of extraterrestrials and anything regarding them. I
tolerated War of the Words and ET but barely. And ET as cute as he was
made me cringe in fear.  Stories of them kept me awake at night, I'm
ashamed to admit.  Since you arrived on Earth, however, I'm able sleep
soundly." 
     Mollary nodded slightly in acknowledgement of the apparent
childishness of the concern, but then continued.  "Nevertheless...we
certainly have project that could employ willing Americans in a
fulfilling manner right here at home.  K0643 isn't even in this solar
system, for Sagan's sake."
     "Your Excellency," said Tyler slowly, "we've got to look for things
that nobody else knows about.  There are other planets, planets that your
people never even set foot on.  Planets like this one outside our solar
system.  We've got to search for life, for resources, for more living
space, perhaps.  While we do this, other countries will laugh at us. 
They'll say and sneer, 'Look at the once great Americans, lost in space,
so to speak, scraping about on celestial dirtballs like pigs and chickens
in a barnyard.'  They will, of course, discover how wrong they are, but
by the time they do...it'll be too late.  We've got to look beyond the
Moon, beyond Mars, Your Excellency.  There, and only there, will we find
our true greatness."
     Slowly, Mollary nodded. "That is a very impassioned speech, Mr.
Tyler."
     "Thank you, your excellency.  I'm passionately devoted to the things
that I do."
     "Oh, I'm sure you are," Mollary told him.  "But I would be most
curious to know...from where you go the idea."
     "From where?  Your Excellency..." And he shrugged. "It just came to
me."
     "It just...came to you."
     "Yes, Your Excellency."
     He felt an even more pronounced sitting on his shoulder that told
him all he desired to know.  "Very well, Ham.  Since you have such
passion for your work...who am I to gainsay you, eh?"
     "Thank you, Your Excellency.  And now, if you wouldn't mind, there
are some other..."
     But Mollary put a hand to his temple and sighed heavily.  "In point
of fact...I am a bit fatigued.  Let us discuss other matters later, if
that is acceptable to you, Mr. Tyler."
     "I'm here to serve your wishes and the best interests of the United
States," he said graciously, and walked out rather quickly.  Mollary had
the sneaking suspicion that he had been quite anxious to get out of the
room.
     He sat back and waited.
     It didn't take much time at all.  He sensed Ptahepe's presence, and
he turned to face the Cylon.  Ptahepe stared at him for a long moment,
and then said quite softly, "What are you playing at, Colonial?"
     Mollary smiled, and said two words:
     "Quack.  Quack."
     Ptahepe tilted his head slightly, looking at Mollary---for
once---with utter lack of comprehension.  Then, to Mollary's delight, he
just glided back and away into the shadows without another word.
     "Quack quack," Mollary said once more, this time with relish.

*****

Chapter 16

     It had not been one of Amber's better weeks.
     Although sections of Washington had been rebuilt, there were entire
areas that still were in desperate need of renovation and recovery.  But
the money had been slow in coming, for there were only so many directions
that the government could go.  By startling coincidence---or perhaps not
so startling, in truth---was the areas of the city inhabited by the
poorer residents that were getting the least attention.
     And there were fewer sections, it seemed, that were getting less
attention than the area known as Ward 5.
     Ward 5 had a reputation that long preceded it, as a ghetto, a place
where one welfarites and food-stamp recipients lived.  Burglars,
prostitutes, peddlers and pimps, too.
     Even during the time she was on her own, Amber had heard horror
stories about Ward 5.  It was where no decent person truly wished to go,
and yet it was where an amazing number of people seemed to wind up. 
Amber had never thought that she herself would ever hide out there.  
     But it had been to Ward 5 that she had fled.  She had tried to
remain in the central parts of the city, but those, like Chevy Chase,
were for the well-to-do or, at the very least, for those who had money to
spend and places to live.  She had not wanted to be reduced to begging in
the streets, but as it turned out, she hadn't had the opportunity.  D.C.
P.D officers had been instructed to make sure that no one was loitering
around, because it was felt that seeing homeless or out-of-work people
would only reduce the moral of those who really counted in this part of
America.
     Earth, for the most part, was on the upswing.  Prospects were
bright.  Employment was up. Destiny was manifest.  Everyone knew
that----sooner or later---there would be a reckoning between Earth and
the arrogant Colonials and Cylons.  Oh, yes...the score would be evened,
there was no doubt of that.  To that end, however, work, dedication,
progress, and a patriotic heart were the orders of the day.
     Homeless beggars, on the other hand, were just too depressing for
words.  And so every effort was made to shunt them elsewhere.  Where they
went did not matter, as long as they went there.
     On one or two occasions, as policemen sent Amber scuttling out of a
doorway in which she'd taken refuge, or away from a street corner that
she was standing on for too long, a cop would look at her with curiosity,
as if he vaguely remembered her from somewhere.  But Amber would quickly
hustle along, and withdraw from their sight as quickly as possible.
     So it was that she found herself in Ward 5.  
     The area frightened her.  Even after two years, there were still
piles of rubble in places where buildings had been.  Worse, there were
people actually living within the piles, having carved out spaces for
themselves.  The streets, rarely cleaned, were thick with dirt and grime. 
Isolated fires flickered in areas where people gathered to warm
themselves.
     Amber had managed to get a small amount of money to tide herself
over by selling a few of the fineries that had belonged to her at the
palace, objects that she had grabbed up at the last moment.  She had used
the money sparingly, managed to buy food with it, but she was running
extremely low on funds, and the growling of her stomach made her realize
that she was once again going to have to spend some of them.
     She was also tired of sleeping outside, lying in alleys.  Her
clothes were filthy, she desperately needed a bath, and she had so much
dirt under her fingernails that she was convinced they would never come
clean, even if she was convinced they would never come clean, even if she
had the opportunity to cleanse them.
     She leaned against the corner of the building, trying to decide just
what in the world she was going to do, and then she heard someone clear
their throat quite loudly.  She turned and saw a man, slender, about
medium height, short hair, with a generally disreputable look about him. 
He was grinning widely at her and she could see the glimmer of a gold
tooth on the right side of his mouth.
     "How much?" he asked.
     She stared at him.  "What?"
     "Whaddya charge?  $20?  $30?"  He coughed once.  There was an ugly
rattling sound in his chest.
     She still didn't comprehend...but then she got it.  "Oh.  No. No,
I'm not...I don't do that."
     "I think ya do.  Or ya would." He seemed to be looking right through
her, dissecting her with his eyes.  His gaze made her feel filthy down to
her soul.  She drew her tattered plastic poncho around her, but then he
stepped closer and roughly drew it aside.  "If you was cleaned up a
little bit, you'd be a knockout, girlie," he allowed.  "You're young. 
How good are ya at whatcha do?  How many men ya done?  Three? Four?"
     "Get away from me!" she said hotly, pushing him.  He staggered
slightly, and then suddenly took a step forward and pushed her back.  The
movement caught Amber off balance and she fell, hitting the ground hard. 
Passersby, on their hurried way to this or that activity, most likely
illegal, didn't so much as slow down.
     "Less'n yer gonna do somethin' with whatcha got, get the hell outta
here, bitch," the man admonished her.
     And then someone was standing right behind him, and the someone said
in a calm, measured and controlled voice. "I believe the young lady said
she wished you to get away from her.  You had best do as she says and
move along."
     Amber gaped in astonishment as she saw who the newcomer was.  Her
assailant, however, did not bother to turn around.  "Oh yeah?!  An' jus'
who put you in charge 'round here, asshole?"
     "The people of the planet Earth put me in charge, sir."
     Something about the voice prompted the man to turn slowly and see
just who it was that was addressing him.  He looked into a very familiar
face, and his spine stiffened and his legs began to tremble slightly.
     Sire Mollary, dressed in rather ordinary garb that was attracting no
attention from anybody, continued, "And if you wish to be the next to
die, I can certainly oblige you." He snapped his fingers and there were
two men on either side of him.  Although they were likewise clad in
unmemorable clothing, from their look and bearing it was clear that they
were guards.  In synch, they opened their trenchcoats slightly to reveal
pistol butts tucked just inside.  Furthermore, each of them had fairly
vicious-looking switchblade knives in their hands.
     The man who had been harassing Amber immediately backed up, and now
his legs were shaking so violently that he could barely stand. 
"Eh---eh----eh..."
     "'Excellency,' is the word you are seeking," Mollary said dryly.  "I
believe it would be best for you if you went on about your business now,
yes?"
     "Oh, anything ya say, yer excellency!  Yer th' boss!" said the man,
and he bolted from there so quickly that, had he been a Colonial Viper in
flight, he would have left a vapor trail behind him.
     Mollary watched him go with a vague look of satisfaction on his
face, and then he turned to Amber.
     Amber, for her part, couldn't quite believe it.  Mollary extended a
hand to her and it was only then that she remembered she was still on the
ground.  "Well," he asked, "Are you going to let me help you up?  Or are
you, perhaps, going to bounce a rock off my head?"
     She took the hand and stood, dusting herself off.  "How...how did
you know where I was?"
     He shrugged as if it were a trivial matter.  "A bureaucrat has ways,
my dear.  Come," and he gestured in front of her.  "Let us walk for a
bit."
     "Excellency," one of the guards said in a low voice, looking around
with clear suspicion.  "I don't think it'd be smart to remain here.  For
security reasons..."
     "Is the most powerful individual on this planet to be the most
helpless, as well?" Mollary asked.  "Any other human, from greatest to
least, can move about with confidence.  Is that to exclude me?  These are
my people. I will deal with them as such.  Come, Amber." And he began to
walk.
     She hesitated, and Mollary turned to her, indicating once more that
she should follow.  This time she did as she specified, falling into step
beside him.  As they walked, various passersby recognized him and reacted
with assorted degrees of amazement.  Some bowed.  Others looked confused. 
One or two exhibited airs of scorn.  Mollary serenely ignored them all,
acting as one of them but apart from them.
     "I---didn't expect to see you again, Your Excellency," Amber told
him.  "After the...after..."
     "After you invaded my privacy?"
     "I...didn't mean to..."
     He wagged a finger at her.  "Do not say that.  Do not think you can
fool me.  I've had experience with enough mistresses to know how the
female mind words.  You did precisely what you set out to do."
     "But I thought you were writing a history book.  One that would be
publicly available anyway.  It didn't occur to me that you were writing
so private, so personal..."
     "It is a history, nonetheless.  Once I am gone," and he shrugged,
"what do I care of what people know of my innermost feelings and
concerns."
     "If people knew those, though, Your Excellency, they..." Her voice
trailed off.
     He looked at her with interest.  "They what?"
     "They would feel better about the future of Earth," she said.
"Perhaps even about themselves.  I...Excellency, lately I feel as if I
even known you.  And I have been living in the White House for some time,
so if I don't know you...who does?"
     "An Earthling  woman named Dixie Clemons.  A very dangerous
Earthling woman, I might add."
     "Was she your wife?"
     "No.  She's My former mistress.  She would not..." He waved it off. 
"It is pointless to speak of her.  Why did you run off?"
     "Because you frightened me, Your Excellency."
     He took her by the elbow and turned her to face him.  "I was angry
with you.  I shouted at you.  That was the extent of what you faced...and
that frightened you?  My child, if you accomplish only one thing in the
time that you sped with me, it has to be to raise your tolerance level in
terms of what does and does not frighten you.  There are terrifying
things in the galaxy, Amber.  Things so monstrous, so evil, so dark, that
it takes tremendous courage just to look them in the eye...eyes," he
quickly amended, although she wasn't sure why.  "If you are to make your
way in life, you must not be so easily daunted by something as relatively
trivial as an old man shouting at you."
     "You're not old, Excellency."
     "Aging, then, if that preserves your delicate concerns.  An aging
man shouting at you." He paused and then said, looking as if a great deal
hinged on her answer, "How far---did you get in the narrative?  Where did
you start, for that matter?"
     "At the beginning and end of your dinner and time with Commander
Troy and Siress Delenn."
     "And no farther?"
     She shook her head, looking so earnest that no reasonable person
could possibly doubt her.  "No, Excellency.  No farther.  Why?  Is there
something there I shouldn't read?"     
     "You should not read any of it," he told her flatly, but it seemed
to her as if his body was sagging in visible relief.  "It is...first
draft, if nothing else.  It is not ready to be read by someone else. 
What I write in those pages are my initial thoughts, but as I prepare the
history for publication, I will craft it into something that is
more...appropriate to a bureaucrat, and less politically charged, if you
understand my meaning."
     "I...I think I do, Excellency.  It's just that..."
     "What?"
     "Nothing."
     "No," he said firmly. "You are not to do that with me, Amber.  Not
ever.  You do not start a thought out loud, and then seek to pluck it
back as if it were never released.  Finish the thought."
     "I...just didn't want to hurt your feelings, Sire Mollary."
     Mollary made a dismissive noise.  "My feelings, Amber, are beyond
your ability to hurt, I assure you.  So.."  And he waited for her to
continue.
     "Well, it's just that...when you grabbed the book from me, you not
only seemed angry...but you were also...well...afraid.  At least, that
was how it looked to me.  Afraid that I'd read something that I shouldn't
have read."
     "It was simply the timing," he said easily. "I had been
having---shall we say 'unpleasant'---dreams, and then I awoke, confused
and disoriented, and found you there.  Was there fear in my eyes? 
Perhaps.  All manner of notions were tumbling around in my head.  But you
should not read too much into what you saw at that moment."
     The way he said it and explained it, it almost all sounded
reasonable.  She wanted to believe it. She wanted to be able to return to
the White House because, truth to tell, she had become comfortable there. 
She had come to think of it as her home.  Yes, there were people there
she found distasteful, even someone frightening.  But that would
certainly be the case wherever she resided, wouldn't it?  And she also
felt that Mollary---needed her somehow.  Not on any sort of romantic
level, no.  She didn't think for a moment that that was entering into the
picture, and she was quite sure that he would never even try to take
advantage of her in that way, because of her youth and out of respect for
her late father.  She was sure Mollary would think such a thing utterly
inappropriate.
     "Was there anything else in there," Mollary said slowly, "that
caused you any confusion or concern?  Now is the time to speak of these
things, Amber."
     "Well," she admitted, "the things you wrote in that book---they made
it sound like you've got some great secret that you keep hidden inside
you.  There was such curious phrasing, and it seemed as if you felt you
were being watched all the time."
     He nodded. "A fair comment.  And understandable, since you did not
read earlier parts of the narrative.  The secrets are..."
     He was cut off as a man bumped into them at that moment.  He wore
gray, enveloping robes with a hood drawn up, and he seemed quite intent
on hurrying on his way.  His hurried movement actually brought him into
contact with Mollary for a moment.  The guards immediately stepped
forward, alert, and Amber didn't blame them, since such an incident could
easily cover a knife thrust.  But the hooded man moved right on past, and
Mollary seemed barely to have noticed him.  For one moment, though, the
man glanced in Amber's direction and smiled.  She couldn't help but
notice that he was quite handsome, and then he vanished into the
crowd...a crowd that was slowly becoming more dense as word of the Ruler
of the Earth's presence began to spread throughout Ward 5.  The guard
relaxed their defensive posture only slightly, and still kept a wary eye
on the crowd.
     "The secrets," continued Mollary, "involve that which you must
already know.  Sooner or later, it is the destiny of your planet Earth to
try and claim its place in the power structure of the galaxy.  When, and
if, I encounter Troy again, we will be enemies.  There was a time...I
have not felt like that since..."
     His voice had trailed off.  "Since when, Excellency?"
     "Once, some time ago, I had coordinated a genocidal plot against the
Nomen population in the fleet," Mollary admitted.  "The details are not
important, save that it was the first strike by human purists in an
endeavor to eliminate the Nomen.  When the scheme was already in
progress, before word of it spread throughout the fleet...the Nomen
ambassador to the Council of Twelve, a fellow known as Kar, bought me a
drink, shook my hand in friendship, and spoke of a bright future.  He did
not know...though I did...what was about to happen.  It was not a
pleasant feeling for me.  It still is not.  Sometimes, Amber, you have to
look upon an enemy and wonder what it would have been like in another
life, if you and he were friends.
     "Well, I genuinely was friends with them.  I look upon those days as
if I am watching someone else's life, rather than my own.  I did not
realize...how very fortunate I was at the time.  All I felt was the
discontent.  Discontent that rose within me until it pushed out every
other attribute I had.  In those days, when I spoke in anger of what the
Colonies had once been, I breathed fire.  Here is the interesting thing,
Amber:  when you breathe fire, you are usually left with ashes in your
mouth."
     "But then...then why go down that same path again?  If it brought
you, personally, nothing but unhappiness..."
     "Because your people need it, Amber.  The people of the Earth need
something to believe in, just as mine did.  Now, I realize that it might
not have been the case, even as recently as one Earth generation ago,
when the memories of what it was to be like to be feared throughout the
world have grown faded and dim.  But, I sense in the current generation
of your people, Amber, that they know what is like to crack a whip.  They
have tasted blood.  They have tasted meat.  They cannot be expected to go
back to grazing on plants.  Besides...this time things will be different
on this planet."
     "How?  How will things be different?"
     "Because," he said with conviction, "those who were running the
nations of the Earth were power mad or insane or both.  They lost sight
of what was truly the important thing:  their people.  The people must
always come first, Amber. Always, without exception, yes?"
     "Yes, absolutely.  At least, that's what we Americans believe."
     "I will not forget what you Americans have taught me.  My goal is
simply to obtain for the people of the Earth the respect that they so
richly deserve.  But we will not mindlessly destroy, we will not endeavor
to lay waste to all that we encounter. You've all overreached yourself,
become greedy and overconfident, and you have paid a price for that...a
terrible price," he said, glancing at a fallen skyscraper.  "But having
paid that pride, having learned from your mistakes, I can lead you down a
path that will bring glory to the Earth without taking it to ruination."
     "That...doesn't sound all that unreasonable," Amber said slowly.
"You...might've put it that way to Commander Troy..."
     "No," was the firm reply.  "He cannot be trusted, Amber.  For the
time being, we cannot afford to trust any except each other.  We must
proceed with caution.  Who knows, after all, how Troy might misinterpret
or inaccurately repeat anything that I say to him.  So I speak of
friendship and stick with generalities.  That is the way such encounters
must be handled, at last for now.  Do you understand?"
     "I...think so, yes.  I just wish that you didn't have to be,
well...so lonely."
     "Lonely?" A smile played on his lips. "Is that how I come across to
you?"
     "Yes.  In the journal, and even in person sometimes, yes.  Very
lonely."
     "Believe me, Amber----there are many times I feel as if I am never
alone."
     "I know just what you're talking about."
     "You do?" He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "'Exactly' how?"
     "The guards all the time, and Tyler, and Shannon, and Giovanni, and
all the others...they hover around you."
     "You are a very perceptive girl," he said, letting out what seemed
to Amber to be another sigh of relief.
     "But that's not the same as having companionship. It's just not the
same at all."
     "I suppose you're right."
     "I am...at least I could be...company for you, Excellency.  As...you
see fit, that is."
     "Amber...what you can do for me is return to the White House and
live safely and happily there.  To be honest, that is all that I require
of you.  Will you do this for me?"
     "If...it will make you happy, Excellency.  Sometimes I think few
enough things to do.  So if my presence would help in that regard..."
     "It would," Mollary said confidently.
     "All right.  But I just want you to know...I could've survived out
here, on my own, if I needed to.  I just want us both to know that."
     "I understand fully," Mollary said. "I appreciate your clarifying
that for me."
     One of the guards stepped in close and said with some urgency,
"Excellency, I really think it's time for us to go."
     Amber looked around and saw that it was becoming more and more
crowded with each passing moment.  People seemed to be assembling from
everywhere.  Within a short time it would become impossible to move.
     Mollary surveyed the situation a moment, and then said softly to the
guard, "Step back, please."  The guard did so, a puzzled and concerned
look on his face, and then Mollary turned to face the crowd.  He said
nothing, absolutely nothing.  Instead he stretched his arms out in front
of himself, held them level for a moment...and then spread them wide,
making his desires known simply by a gesture.
     To Amber's utter astonishment, the crowd parted for him, creating a
clear avenue down which he could proceed.  
     That was just what he then did, walking down the avenue, nodding to
people, and as he did he worked the lines that were on either side of
him.  He would nod to this person touch another's hand, speak a few words
of encouragement to yet another.  It was one of the most amazing things
Amber had ever seen.  Just like that, with no apparent effort, Mollary
had created an impromptu parade, with himself, Amber, and the guards as
the entirety of the procession.
     And as they moved through Ward 5, someone called out Mollary's name. 
And then someone else followed suit, and another and still another, until
they were chanting it over and over.
     "Mollary.  Mollary.  Mollary..."
     Mollary basked in their adulation, smiling and nodding, and Amber
realized that there had been a great deal of truth to what Mollary had
said.  The people of the Earth needed something to believe in, something
to elevate them above themselves.  And for the time being, that
"something" was going to be Mollary himself.  Sire Mollary, Mollary,
Ruler of the Earth, Mollary the Rebuilder, Mollary the Lover of the
Earth, who was going to bring prosperity to Earth and rebuild all the
nations, the USA included, into something that everyone could be proud
of.
     But he still seemed lonely.
     And that was something that Amber decided she was going to do
something about.

*****     

     The American astronaut wished that he were anywhere but here.
     He had wandered off from the main base camp, feeling tired and
hungry and fairly fed up with the company of his fellows.  All of them
seemed hideously happy to have some kind of interstellar mission to go
on, even though the distance to home was more light-years than they were
used to, and they were here under some sort of bizarre delusion that
somehow the needs and interests of the United States of America were
going to be met by planting the American flag on some damned piece of
celestial rock in the middle of nowhere, using unproven and unperfected
equipment and having no clear idea of why they were actually here, what
they were to look for.
     "Assholes," he said, not for the first time.  It was that point that
he decided he had had it.  He took his dirt cruncher, aimed it just below
his feet, and fired it straight down.  By all rights, by all
instructions, there shouldn't be anything there in particular.  He was
determined to take out his ire by burning the cruncher out completely,
operating it at high speed for longer than it was designed to operate.
     The cruncher pounded about ten feet straight down, and then,
something came back up.
     The astronaut never really had the opportunity to figure out what it
might be.  All he knew was that one moment he was happily pushing his
cruncher to the limit, and the next some sort of black energy was
enveloping him and he heard a scream, which he thought was his own except
he realized it was inside his head, and not quite like anything he had
ever heard before.  
     Then he heard nothing else, ever again, as his body was blasted
apart in a shower of gelatinous body parts that spattered over a radius
of about fifty feet.  Since he was spread so far and wide, no one who
subsequently stumbled upon any part of his remains truly understood what
it was they were looking at.
     When he didn't show up for dinner that evening, he was marked down
as absent without leave, and was put on report to the mission commander. 
Meantime, eighty feet below, something went back to standby mode, and
waited for a less abusive summons.

*****     

Chapter 17

     Vir tossed about in his bed as the giant sucker-woman approached
him.
     There was a look of pure evil in her eyes, and her arms were
outstretched, and she was waggling her fingers, and at the ends of those
fingers...Lords of Kobol protect him----there were the suckers.  Each one
smacking its "lips" together, hungering for him, ready to attach
themselves to him and try to suck the life clean out of him.  Somewhere
from all around him, he heard Mollary's voice shouting, "Run, Vir!  Run! 
Don't let her get you!" Vir, however, was rooted to the spot, his legs
refusing to obey his commands.  He wanted to run away, but he simply
couldn't.
     She drew closer, closer still. Her red hair gleamed with a pulsing
light, and she laughed with a sound that had once filtered from the
forest as primitive beings had squatted around their fires and glimpsed
fearfully into the darkness.  When her lips drew back in a hideous
simulated rectos of a smile, he could see her fangs dripping with blood,
and the suckers were nearer, still nearer, and there was no escape...
     That was when Vir finally managed to get a scream out, and the
scream was so powerful that it roused him from his dream, forcing him to
sit up, gasping, looking around, trying to figure out what in the world
had just happened.
     As he did so, he realized that there was the insistent buzzing of
the door chime.  His bleary eyes focused on a clock near his bed.  It was
the middle of the night.  Who in the world was showing up at this insane
time?
     "Go away!" moaned Vir, flopping back onto his bed.
     There was no reply from outside other than the renewed pushing of
the door chime.
     A warning trilled in the back of Vir's brain.  What if it were an
assassin, hoping to catch him confused, disoriented, and particularly
vulnerable.  At that point, however, Vir simply didn't care.  The notion
of someone blowing his head off, at that moment in time, seemed
preferable to trying to go back to sleep, where sucker-fingered women
might be lurking about in the recesses of his consciousness, waiting to
prey upon him as soon as he let down his guard.
     "Lights dim," he snapped irritably, and the lights in his quarters
obediently came to half.  Even that modest lighting was enough to make
him feel as if his eyes were being seared from their sockets.  He rose
from his bed, snagged his robe, put his right arm in the left sleeve,
twirled in place as he sought in futility to catch up with the trailing
sleeve, snagged it, realized his error and then yanked the robe off and
put it on correctly.  The knocking continued throughout all of it, to the
point where Vir didn't even bother to find his slippers, but instead
padded barefoot across the room as he shouted, "I'm coming, I'm coming! 
Hold on already!"
     He got to the door, disengaged the locking mechanism, wondered if he
was going to be staring down the muzzle of a vicious weapon when it slid
open and decided that he definitely didn't care at this point.
     The door opened wide, and he let out a short, high-pitched shriek.
     "Is this a bad time," asked Dixie Clemons.
     Vir couldn't quite believe it.  What is she doing here?
     She was waiting for his response, and he sought to find his voice. 
"Uh...no.  No is...fine.  I wasn't doing anything.  Well...I was
sleeping...but, you know, that really doesn't require too much effort. 
In fact, it's a bit of a waste of time.  There's so many other better
things I could be doing.  You know, I think I'm just going to give up
sleep altogether.  There's far more efficient ways to go about living
your life, you know, than wasting time sleeping.  I mean,  I've been
getting nine, ten, twelve centons' sleep, but I think I could do with a
lot less.  Like...one.  One would be good.  Or...three, which is what I
had tonight," he said, double-checking the clock to make sure he had that
right.  "Yes, three is good.  Three is plenty.  I can't believe how well
I'm functioning on just..."
     "Councilman...may I come in?"
     Again, as was often the case, Vir had to fight the impulse to glance
behind himself.  "Yes.  Yes, by all means.  Come in.  Come in."
     She did so, glancing around the suite as she did.  "My, my, I like
what you've done with the place, Vir.  Back in the Mollary's day, it
tended to look a bit like a museum.  A Mollary museum, considering he had
portraits of himself all over.  How long has it been, Vir?"
     Not long enough.  "Quite...some time, Miss Clemons," Vir told her. 
"Four, five, six yahrens.  Time flies when you're having fun.  Or when
you're having...well...whatever it is that I have."
     "I remember quite clearly the last time I was in this room."
     "Really?  When was that?" Vir was hoping that his sense of feeling
flustered would depart soon.
     "When Sire Mollary had a small orgy with me."
     That was definitely more than Vir wanted to know. He stepped quickly
away, wishing that he could cover his hands with his ears, but that would
hardly seem professional.  He also dismissed the notion of shouting "la
la" at the top of his lungs.  "I was...not expecting to see you up here,
Miss Clemons."
     "Dixie, please.  We don't need to be formal right now," she said
softly.  "You are, after all, a member of the Council of Twelve. I'm just
the former mistress of the new Ruler of the Earth.  I see no differences
between us."
     Eyeing her uncomfortably, Vir said, "I...see a couple." He cleared
his throat loudly.  "Can I get you something?  Something to drink
or...something?"
     "That'd be quite nice.  You sure this isn't a bad time?"
     "Oh, don't be silly!" he said as he poured her ambrosa from his
private stock; the stuff that he only consumed when he was extremely
nervous.  He tended to go through a bottle a day.  "You just caught me
off guard, that's all.  I wasn't expecting you."
     "I wasn't expecting to be here myself," Dixie said as she picked up
the ambrosa and sipped it daintily.  "I was to connect on a shuttle
through here, but the connecting flight met with a bit of an accident."
     "Nobody hurt, I hope," he said.
     "Not hurt, just dead.  They tell me the fireball was quite
spectacular, although naturally it didn't last all that long, since it
was in space at the time."
     Vir felt his tongue drying up.  He tossed back an entire glass of
the ambrosa in one shot and started pouring himself another.
     "Anyway...since I'm here on the Galactica, till they can get me
another shuttle, I thought I might touch base with you.  See how you're
getting along.  I've got such fond memories of you, Vir."
     "You...you do?"
     "Yes, indeed." She stared into the contents of her glass and smiled,
apparently, from a pleasant recollection.  "You know what I liked about
you then, Vir?  Want me to tell you?"
     "You don't have to."
     "You made me laugh. It's not always easy for a man to get a woman to
laugh, but you managed it so easily.  You had a charming façade you
created back then, though I could see through it rather easily, of
course."
     "What...facade would that be?"
     "An air of barely-controlled panic."
     "Ah.  Well," and he laughed uncomfortably, "you saw right through
that, I guess. Clever you."
     "Yeah, right.  Clever me.  So...fill me in, Vir.  I've been away for
quite some time." She interlaced her fingers and leaned forward.  "Tell
me what's been going on, on the Galactica."
     "Oh, uhm...well...all right." And he proceeded to rattle off as many
major events as he could recall that had occurred in the past five to six
yahrens, including the war with the Dark Ones, the inauguration of Siress
Delenn, and the telepath crisis.  Dixie took it all in, every so often
interrupting with a question, but most of the time just nodding and
listening.  When he was done some time later, Dixie looked almost
breathless.  "My," she said. "It's been rather busy up here.  And how
exciting this all must've been for you."
     "I don't know if 'exciting' is the word I'd use," Vir admitted. 
"That almost makes it sound as if I was enjoying it.  It's been more
like, that my life has been moving at high speed, and I've been doing
everything I can, not to be thrown off."
     She laughed.  She had a beautiful laugh.  Vir wondered why he had
never noticed that earlier.
     "And you," he then said. "You must have been very busy, too I'm
sure."
     She said nothing.
     He stared at her as she waited for her to pick up her half of the
conversation.  But nothing was forthcoming. "Dixie?" he prompted.
     "I'm sorry," she said coolly.  "I just assumed you were having a
little joke at my expense."
     "What?  No!  No, I'd never...! What joke? What do you mean?"
     "Mollary tossed me away, Vir," she said.  "I mean nothing to him,
and he let the entire world know it." She had been standing until that
time, but now she sat on the edge of one of the chairs.  And Vir began to
see that she was actually not remotely as cheery as she'd originally
appeared.  Indeed, it now looked as if she was doing everything she could
to hold back tears.  "You just don't know what it's like, Vir, to be so
completely made smaller in society.  To be tossed aside.  To have people
look at you and laugh at you behind your back, because they consider you
nothing more than a goddamn joke!"
     It too no more introspection from Vir than to consider his own life
up until that point.  To consider the fact that he had once been the
family joke, tossed away to the Battlestar Galactica and made civil
servant of the ludicrous Sire Mollary, so that he would be out of the way
and not embarrass anybody.
     "I think I do," said Vir. "But...but look at you!' he added, waving
his glass of ambrosa around so vehemently that he came close to spilling
it.  "How could anyone treat you as a joke?  You're so...so..."
     "Beautiful," she said vacantly.  "Yes, Vir, I know.  And because I'm
beautiful, men seek me out, use me as a living status symbol.  Trouble
is, there's another symbol hanging over me in addition to my looks. 
Castoff, as in cast off from Sire Mollary.  It stays with me, haunts me. 
No man wants to be seen with me because..." Her voice sounded as if it
were going to break, and Vir felt his heart going with it.  Then, with
visible effort, she composed herself.  "I'm...sorry, Vir," she said
softly. "I...miss my old life.  You know, the parties, the social whirl,
the company of men who couldn't get enough of me..."
     "There's a party tomorrow!  Right here, on the Galactica," Vir said
quickly. "A gathering of merchants and dignitaries being hosted by
Colonel Loch.  It's not a big deal, she has them every other sectan or
so.  Feels it's good for morale, that kind of felgercarb.  I haven't been
going lately, figuring that---well, never mind.  In any event, I could go
tomorrow, with you.  That is to say we could go.  You and I."
     She looked up at him. Her eyes were glistening. "That's real sweet
of you, Vir.  But I don't really think you'd want to be seen with an
Earth woman..."
     "Don't be ridiculous!  Truthfully, I'm not sure why you'd want to be
seen with me."
     "You serious?" she asked. "To be seen with a member of the Council
of Twelve?  Any woman would be honored.  But---aren't you harming your
own status by dating me..."
     "Are you kidding?  Practically everybody hates Mollary," he laughed. 
Then he quit laughing. "I...guess that wasn't so funny, actually. 
Besides...who's to know?" he added quickly, as he hunkered down next to
her. "Listen, when you look an Orion trader...can you tell one from the
other?"
     "You talking about those guys with the blue skin?" she asked.  She
thought it over, then:  "Not...really."
     "Well, neither can I.  And I'll bet you that humans probably look as
much alike to Orions as Orions do to us.  Orions and all the others.  The
point is, they're not even going to know who you are, most likely.  Not
unless you wear a sign that says 'Sire Mollary's ex-mistress.'"
     "I had one, but I think I left it back on Earth."
     He laughed at that, and so did she, and when he laughed he patted
her on the hand and she put her hand atop his, and he felt something akin
to electricity upon her touch.  He almost jumped from the contact.
     "You sure this is a good idea, Vir?" she asked.
     "Oh, I'm positive. Look, you'll bo..."
     "We'll go, and it'll feel just like the old days for you.  You'll
have a great time."
     "We'll have a great time."
     "Right.  We.  I'm sorry, it's just that...well..." And he sighed,
"I'm not all that accustomed to thinking of myself as part of a 'we'. 
Not for a very long time."
     And then, to his shock, she tilted his chin back and kissed his
uplifted lips gently.  Very, very gently, no heavier than a butterfly's
flutter.  It was still enough to send a wave of static running along his
hair.
     She asked what time the party was.  He told her.  She told him where
she was staying aboard the Galactica, and where he should come to pick
her up.  He nodded. Then she kissed him again, not quite as lightly this
time, and Vir suddenly felt as if there was too much blood in his body.
     When their lips parted, with a faint smacking sound, Dixie said to
him, "You're such a sweet man.  I'd forgotten what it was like to be with
a sweet man.  I'll let you get back to sleep." And with that she excused
herself and left.  It wasn't until Vir's aching knees informed him, some
millicentons later, that he was still crouching, that he thought to stand
up.  Then he eased himself onto the chair and sat there, stunned.
     When Dixie had first shown up at his door, he had been seized by
waves of panic.  He remembered the horror stories Mollary had told of
her, remembered the chaos that seemed to be left in the woman's wake.  He
remembered that Mollary had almost died thanks to a present that she had
given him, even though she had claimed that he had no idea that it was a
little dangerous when she'd given it to him.  He remembered the aura of
darkness that seemed to cling to her, that made her almost frightening to
look at.
     All that had been washed away by the utter vulnerability she had
projected upon arriving in his quarters.  He had felt all his
hesitations, his concerns, melting away, one by one, until he had been
left with but one raw, stunned thought:
     She's one of the one's Mollary got rid of?  He must have been
sniffing plant vapors!

*****

     The reception turned out to be one of the turning points of Vir's
entire career, to say nothing of his life.
     It was almost as if he were attending it while having an out-of-body
experience.  Normally, if Vir attended such functions---as he had once or
twice in his career---he remained firmly planted, back against a wall,
nodding to some people, making small chitchat with others, and frequently
holding Mollary's drinks when Mollary ran out of hands to hold them
with---which was often.  In short, when Vir had been there, his entire
contribution to the evening was that he had----been there.
     Lately it had been something of a horror show for him.  He'd spent
many yahrens making what he felt were friends among the population of the
Colonial fleet.  But he had spent the last yahren and a half watching
them disappear, one by one.  Mollary, Lennier, Delenn, Boomer, Troy,
Dillon, even Kar----he who had made Vir more uncomfortable on one
occasion, dripping blood from his hand in a turbolift, than Vir had ever
been in his life before or since.  All of them were gone.
     Oh, Colonel Loch was still there, and she was polite enough, but she
tended to keep him at an emotional distance, as she apparently did with
everyone.  And Kanon was there, but Vir always felt as if Kanon were
regarding him with suspicion, waiting for Vir to pull a weapon or
something.  That might've been Vir's imagination, but nevertheless, that
was how he felt.
     As for the rest of the people of the fleet, well...they had very
little patience for him indeed.  It wasn't personal; Taurons were never
very well-liked, even in the days of the Twelve Colonies.  Somehow, that
didn't make it any better.  It was little wonder that Vir had stopped
attending the gatherings altogether.
     This night, though---this night was very, very different.
     This night, Dixie Clemons was there in full force.
     When Vir went to pick her up, he was stunned to see how small her
assigned quarters were.  They were barely large enough for someone to
turn around in, and it certainly wasn't located in one of the more
upscale sections of the station.  Nevertheless, Dixie managed to look
radiant.  She was attired in a remarkably simple, unadorned dress, but
its lack of decoration was part of its strength, for there was nothing to
distract from her pure beauty.  
     And beauty she possessed in abundance, for all that she seemed to
devalue it.  When the door to her room opened, she was simply standing
there, in the middle of the room as if she were on display, her hands
folded daintily in front of her.  Vir busily tried to remind his body
that breathing was an autonomic reflex, and his lungs really shouldn't be
forgetting how to expand and contract.  His lungs didn't seem to be
listening, and breath remained in short supply for some moments.
     When he finally did start breathing regularly again, Dixie asked, in
a voice barely above a whisper, "Do you...like the way I look, Vir?  Will
you be ashamed to be seen with me?"
     Vir literally could find no words to reply.  When he did speak, the
result was an almost incoherent string of syllables, rather than useful
phrases.  Fortunately enough, the utterances managed to convey the fact
that he was not the least bit ashamed.
     She took a step closer to him and said softly, "I think...when you
first met me...I was very likely a bit arrogant."
     "No!  No, not at all."
     "If I was, you'd be too polite to say so.  So in the event that I
was...I apologize to you now.  I hope you'll forgive me." She kissed him
once more, and this time Vir's head fell off.
     At least, that was what it felt like.  He stood there stupidly for a
moment, then felt around for his head, reattached it to his shoulders,
and somewhere during that activity, Dixie said, "Shall we go?"
     They went.
     Vir couldn't believe the evening.  It was like a dream...except, of
course, for the absence of women with suckers on their long fingers.
     For the entirety of the dream, Dixie was a delight.  If the
gathering was a vast ice field, as far as relations with the Tauron
community went, Dixie was a spring thaw, she was the warming sun, she
was...
     "All that and a bag of chips," Kanon commented, and he nudged Vir in
some sort of comradely fashion that caught Vir flatfooted.
     "Excuse me?" Vir said.
     "Your date," Kanon said, pointing toward Dixie who was, at that
moment, gaily capturing the interest of half a dozen bureaucrats at once. 
There was a roar of laughter at some comment she made, and most of the
bureaucrats were smiling widely, except for one who was frowning
furiously.  But that wasn't of major concern; the frowning bureaucrat was
born on the colony of Scorpia, where frowning was considered a sign of
happiness.  Fortunately the Osicon tool seller, who tended to display
extreme pleasure by urinating uncontrollably, had not be able to make the
gathering, to the dismay of no one at all.  "She's all that and a bag of
chips."
     "Is that good?" asked Vir.
     "What do you think?"
     They watched Dixie working the room.  The siresses, Vir noted,
regarded her with cool disdain bordering on outright distrust.  But the
male bureaucrats and non-human dignitaries from any planet came flocking
to her.  Dixie was lucky that she didn't slip on the drool that was
rapidly pooling on the floor.
     And Vir laughed.  He had forgotten what the sound of his laughter
was like.  "I think that's very good."
     Kanon chucked him on the shoulder.  "You lucky daggit.  Where did
you find her, anyway?"
     "She's Mollary's..." Vir caught himself.  "...old friend."
     "And now she's your new friend.  Well, don't you let her get away,
Vir."
     "I'll certainly try not to."
     Kanon wasn't alone in his comments.  Other bureaucrats, one by one
and even in pairs came over to Vir during the evening, and asked him
about Dixie Clemons.  The problem was, Vir wasn't the world's greatest
liar.  He had little talent for it.  As long as he'd been working with
Mollary, that hadn't been a problem, for Mollary had been more than
capable of attending to that function.  Now that he was on his own,
however, Vir had no fallback.
     So this time, rather than rattling off a long, implausible story, he
operated on the notion that less was more, and proceeded to be extremely
vague.  He met all inquiries with raised eyebrows, smiles, and occasional
winks.
     "Tell us truly, Vir," one bureaucrat said, "how high a position in
Earth society does she occupy?"  Vir shrugged, looked inscrutable, and
rolled his eyes as if to indicate that a higher guess would be
forthcoming.  "A duchess?  A...a princess?" Vir then gave a slow, lazy
wink, and the bureaucrats nudged one another and smiled knowingly, as if
they'd managed to wrangle some dark secret from Vir.
     Now and then, Dixie would return to Vir as if he were home base,
taking him by the arm, drawing the conversations back over to him.  It
all began to make sense to Vir.  People tended to judge one by the
company one keeps.  All these yahrens,, Vir had kept company with Sire
Mollary, and that had worked against him terribly, in the long run. 
Mollary was a man who held much darkness within him, and he cast a long
shadow.  Vir had been swallowed up by that shadow.  The murkiness had
clung to him long after Mollary's departure.  But that was now in the
process of changing, as the light of Dixie Clemons broke up those shadows
and left Vir standing in the light.
     By the wee centons, Vir felt as if he was flying.  It was at that
point that Dixie came up to him once more, as she had several times
before, and entwined her arm through his.  "Now's the time to skidaddle,"
she said softly.
     Vir had a drink in his hand, and several more working their way
through his system.  "But the party's still going on!" he protested.
     "Yes.  And it's never good to be among the last to leave.  By
departing earlier, it gives them time to talk about you with each other
in glowing terms after you've gone.  Got it?"
     "Oooooooh!" Vir said, not really understanding.
     "And that's not all.  It makes it seem as if you've got better
things to do.  That also makes you desirable."
     "Oh.  That's clever.  I like that.  That's very clever. I only wish
it were true."
     And Dixie took his face in her hands and looked him squarely in the
eyes, and there was great significance in her voice.  "It's true.  You do
have better things to do."
     Then Vir understood.  He very quickly said his goodbyes, and to his
amazement, not only did the bureaucrats seem regretful that they were
leaving, but several of them made noises about wanting to see Vir again. 
They must get together, have lunch, have dinner, their aides would be in
touch, have a good evening, have a wonderful evening, we must do this
again soon.  All the niceties, the traditional little pleasantries that
were the standard coin of the realm of social interaction, but coin that
had long been missing from Vir's private treasury.
     When they left and stepped onto the transport platform, Vir---still
just the least bit unsure---said softly to Dixie, "Should I...escort you
back to your room?"
     She smiled at him with a smile that could melt steel.  "I'd rather
you escorted me to yours."
     Feeling more bold than he ever had in his whole life, Vir took her
by the shoulders and kissed her.  It was rather clumsy and he succeeded
mainly in clonking his upper teeth against hers.  "Oh!  I'm sorry! 
I'm...I'm...suh...sorry!" he stammered.
     "It's all right," she assured him, and he returned the kiss  with
such expertise that Vir felt as if his whole body were aflame.
     When their lips parted, Vir whispered to her, "You are all
that...and a...a...a bowl of mushies."
     She frowned.  "Is that good?"
     "I think that's very good," he said.
     And later that night, as their bodies intertwined, Vir whispered to
her. "Don't leave..."
     "If you want me to stay, I will," she told him. 
     "Yes..yes, please stay."
     And she did.

*****     

Chapter 18

The sectans passed quickly.
     Vir could not remember being happier.  It wasn't as if Dixie was
with him all the time, far from it.  She came and went, heading off
visiting friends or associates.  But the Galactica apparently had become
her home base, and every so often Vir would be delighted to learn that
she was returning.  During their time together, he was deliriously happy. 
And when they weren't together, Vir nevertheless still felt like a new
man.  He walked with more spring in his step, new confidence in his
attitude.
     Not only that, but when others on the Galactica looked his way, he
would greet them boldly or snap off a salute.  He would walk right up to
people, address them by name, ask them how they were doing.  In short, he
started behaving as if he had every right to be there.  And others began
responding to him differently, as well, treating him with the respect he
should be due.  When Dixie wasn't with him, they invariably asked how she
was.  When she was with him, they would look at Vir with open envy.
     He loved every moment of it.  He finally felt as if he, Vir, was
coming into his own----when his world came crashing down on him.

*****     

     Dixie Clemons had just departed the Galactica again when Vir strode
into his quarters---using that same snappy stride despite the fact that
it was quite late.  As he had in the past, he stood for a moment in the
center of his quarters, already regretting her absence.  She had a
certain scent to her, a perfume that clung to her.  He'd never asked her
the name of the scent.  It hadn't mattered.  It was a beautiful scent. 
Everything about her was beautiful, wonderful...
     He picked up a picture of her that now permanently adorned his
shelf, and smiled at it.
     The picture began to speak.
     "Greetings, Mr. Secretary.  It continues to go well."
     Vir let out a yelp and dropped the picture.  It crashed to the
floor, and he stared down at it in utter confusion.
     The photograph began moving, the equivalent of a video screen image. 
And with Dixie's voice it was saying, "Tomorrow, as per your instruction,
I'll be going to the Colonial hospital ship Nimue.  Their captain has
offered me a standing invitation...he extended it last month during an
early morning brunch, and I'm taking him up on it.  I believe he'll share
with me some interesting insights into a piece of equipment they call a
'fluid revitalizer ."  Then she paused, smiled, and nodded, as if
listening to a conversation that Vir couldn't hear.  "No, Mr. Secretary.
I doubt that he knows he's going to share that with me.  But you know
how...persuasive...I can be."
     Vir remembered the brunch.  He had been there.  And now that he
thought about it, the Nimue's Captain and Chief Medical Officer had been
lavishing a great deal of attention upon Dixie.  But he had thought
nothing of that; so many people clearly found themselves drawn to her,
yet at the end of the day, he was the one she went home with...
     But...what was of far greater consequence was that the picture was
inexplicably still talking.  How could that possibly be?  It had to be
some kind of trick.  For Dixie hadn't gone to the Nimue...she had
returned to Earth to visit relatives.  That's what she'd told him, that's
what...
     "No, Mr. Secretary, I doubt that Vir suspects.  He remains a fool, a
useful fool.  He has, however, been an aid to the cause, albeit an
unwitting one."
     "Stop it!" Vir shouted at the picture, which gave no indication at
all that it heard him.  "Stop doing this!  Stop it!"
     And suddenly, the picture did stop talking.  The image of Dixie
Clemons was restored to normal.  Vir stared down at it, his chest
heaving, and he didn't even realize at first how hard he was breathing.
     "The truth hurts, does it not?" a voice said.
     Vir whirled, then he stared in amazement, before that amazement
turned to anger.  "Of course.  Koma.  I should have known."
     The mage-tech initiate bowed slightly, as if he were on a stage.  He
kept his staff clenched tightly in his hand.  In looking upon it, Vir had
almost felt as if the whole thing had been some kind of weird dream. 
Koma had appeared at a crucial moment in his life, only to slip away
again, as if he'd never been there.  Though Vir had been sure that he
would hear from the initiate soon thereafter, when he hadn't, he'd begun
to wonder if he hadn't been suffering from some kind of delusion.
     The delusion was back now.  This time, however, Vir didn't feel the
slightest bit of intimidation.  He pointed a trembling finger at the
fallen photo.  "That...was a cruel joke to play.  Why..."
     "It was no joke, Vir," Koma replied. "It was an actual recording. 
We've been observing that Earthling woman ever since she set foot on this
Battlestar.  Once it was clear that she was going to stay here..."
     "We?" demanded Vir.  "There are more of you?"
     "No," Koma said quickly, although he looked subtly chagrined. "I
meant to say 'I'."
     "I don't care what you meant to say!" Vir scolded him, abandoning
any attempt to conceal his anger.  "Making up that thing about Dixie,
changing her image to..."
     "Vir, listen to me. I didn't make up anything.  That really
happened.  Even an initiate has his ways."
     "Then have a way out!"
     He stepped toward Koma as if to seize him, but Koma extended his
staff and shoved one end under Vir's chin. "I wouldn't do that," Koma
said dangerously, "if I were you."
     It brought Vir to a halt, and enabled his senses to come swimming
back to him.  "I just want you out," Vir said stubbornly. "And I want you
to stop making things up about Dixie.  That trick you just did...it's a
trick.  That's all!"
     "You do not understand," Koma told him, slowly lowering his staff. 
"The way of the mage-tech is the way of truth.  All of our 'magic' is
based in, and adheres purely to, reality.  We don't deviate from that
path...ever.  For any of us to use our powers to misinform, that would be
a violation of our most sacred beliefs."
     "And to buy into the words you're putting into Dixie's mouth would
be a violation of my most sacred beliefs," Vir countered sharply.
     "You should not blame yourself, Vir.  Dixie Clemons is far more than
she seems.  Even she is unaware of her full capabilities...and you can
feel some relief that that is the case, for if she did..." He actually
shuddered slightly.
     Vir once again indicated the door.  "There's nothing you can say to
convince me that Dixie is anything but..."
     "Perhaps her own words could have a bit more impact," Koma said.
     Before Vir could protest, the image of Dixie started speaking to the
unknown "Mr. Secretary" once again.
     "Poor Vir...I almost feel sorry for the little schmuck, in a way,"
Dixie purred.  "The other councilmen have no love of the Taurons,
certainly...and as a result, they draw particular entertainment from an
Earth woman who speaks in rather sad tones about her 'paramour.'  Of
course, the amusement I share with the Galactica council makes them that
much more pliant when they jaw-jaw with me, so who's the greatest idiot
when all's said and done, huh?"
     "This is evil," said Vir. "I have witnessed evil, I've seen it in
action, and this is one of the most evil things I've ever seen anyone do,
Koma." His voice rose along with his fury.  "You are to shut that down,
right now, or I'll..."
     "He only goes as high as three, did you know that?  And usually not
even that," continued Dixie.
     Vir, who had been looking at Koma, whipped his head back to the
picture frame. Every drop of blood drained from his face.
     "What does she mean by that?" Koma inquired, seeming genuinely
interested. "I confess, I don't quite understand the reference.  It..."
     "Shut up!" Vir demanded hollowly.
     Dixie laughed in the picture. "I know, Mr. Secretary, I know.  It's
all I can do to fake interest.  Maybe I ought to bring something to read
while Vir entertains himse..."
     "Shut up!" Vir bellowed, but this time it wasn't at Koma.  Instead,
he grabbed up the picture and threw it with all his strength at the wall. 
The frame shattered, and Vir stood there leaning against a table, trying
to keep himself upright even as he felt the strength draining out of his
legs.  Koma started to speak, but Vir raised a finger and said, "Be
quiet.  I need to check something."
     Moments later he had Lt. Kanon on the telecom screen.  The warrior
didn't appear the least bit tired, but because of the lateness of the
centon, Vir felt obliged to say, "I hope I didn't wake you."
     "Me?  Nah. I only sleep when I'm out on patrol," Kanon said with his
customary deadpan expression.  He tilted his head slightly and asked,
"Vir, are you okay?  You look..."
     "I need you to ask Core Command to check something for me.  Dixie
Clemons, the Earth woman...when she departed the Galactica several
centons ago, do you have a record of where she was going?"
     "I couldn't say for absolute sure, because she could easily make
connections.  But Core Command would've check her outbound ducket. 
That's SOP."
     "Where was it for?  Hers, I mean?"
     "Is there a problem?"
     "I'm not sure.  Can you just have them check, please?"
     "Because if there is, I..."
     "Would you just have them check, please?"
     Clearly taken aback by the fervency in Vir's voice, Kanon nodded and
said, "Hold on."  The words "Please Stand By" appeared on the screen and
then, an eternity later, Kanon reappeared.  "The hospital ship Nimue. 
She was heading for the Nimue.  Does that tell you what you need to
know?"
     "Yes. Yes it does.  Thank...you."
     "Is Dixie all right?" asked Kanon. "I hope there's nothing wrong,
and if there is, then let me know how I can help.  Because she's...
     "Yes, I know.  She's all that and a box of Neabhian cloud cakes,
too.  Thank you, Lt. Kanon," and Vir shut down the connection before
Kanon could say anything else well-meaning...something that would cut
like a knife to Vir's soul.
     There was an uncomfortable silence for a time, except that to Vir,
it didn't seem uncomfortable at all.  He sat and stewed in it, thinking
about the word in which he had lived.  Thinking about the fantasy life he
substituted for real life----until Dixie came along and brought him back
to reality.
     He had known.  Deep down, he had really known that Dixie had been up
to something.  That she was using him, that she was up to no good.  But
he hadn't wanted to believe it, displaying what appeared to be an
infinite capacity for self-delusion.  The proof was that he hadn't spoken
to Mollary of it.  Not a word had he breathed to his former mentor, about
his association with Dixie, because he had known without question what
the response was going to be.  He would have told Vir that he was
completely out his mind.  That he had no business associating with
someone like Dixie, that she would be using him, and so on and so forth.
That knowledge should have been Vir's barometer, indicating what he was
truly involved with.  But once again, he had ignored all the warning
signs with single-minded determination.
     "For what it is worth," Koma said softly, looking genuinely
contrite, "I am sorry."
     "It isn't worth a damned thing," Vir said.
     "Then perhaps this will be worth something; Dixie Clemons is not the
problem.  She's merely the pawn of others.  Even those who appear to
guide Dixie are themselves guided.  There is a great darkness residing on
Earth."
     "A great darkness."  Vir echoed the words without putting much
information to them. "Is that a fact."
     "Yes, it is."
     "And that is supposed to make me feel better, somehow?  Less used? 
Less foolish?"
     "No." Koma approached him and came uncomfortably close.  Vir's
instinct was to take a step back, but filled with a newfound
stubbornness, he held his ground.  Koma didn't appear to notice.  "What
it is supposed to do is fill you with a deep burning rage.  It's supposed
to make you realize that there is more at stake than your ego, or your
hurt feelings.  It's supposed to make you realize that you, Vir, have a
destiny.  And you must---you must---rise to the level of the man that you
can be, in order to fulfill it."
     "I see.  And is it your job to help bring me to that destiny?  To
help me rise up and become all that I am capable of becoming?" asked Vir
sarcastically.
     "Well...no," admitted Koma.  "In point of fact, I should be keeping
out of it entirely.  My job is just to relay information to others, but
otherwise stay completely out of the line of fire.  Unfortunately, I find
that I can't.  I can't simply stand by and allow the Cylons to.."
     "The Cylons?"
     "Yes, the Cylons," Koma said with an air of portentousness. 
"Unknown to you Colonials, the Cylons are, and always have been, the
acknowledged servants of the Dark Ones."
     "The Dark Ones are gone.  Everyone knows that."
     "But the servants remain," insisted Koma. "And their darksome
influence is all throughout Earth, despite the best efforts of Commanders
Adama and his successor, Commander Troy, to stop it.  Ultimately, it is
their hand behind Dixie Clemons' involvement.  They also control Sire
Mollary."
     "And you know this for a certainty?"
     "For a time, I only suspected.  So I took steps to make sure.  It
took some time, I admit.  I stayed outside the White House and waited for
Mollary to emerge, since I didn't want to chance setting foot into the
White House itself."
     "Afraid?" Vir said challengingly.
     Koma did not hesitate. "Absolutely," he said.
     That, more than anything, Vir found absolutely chilling.  If an
initiate of the mage-techs was afraid, then Vir should by rights be
bordering on total panic.  He gulped and tried to appear undaunted.
     "My patience was eventually rewarded as Mollary finally emerged,
dressed in fairly informal garb, and headed into a section of Washington
D.C. which I believe is called Ward 5."
     "Ward 5?!  Why would he go there?"
     "He was seeking a young woman who had been residing at the White
House, apparently. While Mollary was there, I came into close enough
contact with them that I was able to place a recording device upon him. 
As I feared, the Cylons detected it before long.  It may have put them
even more on their own guard, but at least I was able to confirm for
myself their presence."
     Before Vir could say anything further, Koma stretched out his hand
and a holographic image appeared on it. "It recorded everything within
the room," Koma said, "for a few moments, until it was discovered.  I
thought you might want to see."
     There appeared a small image of Mollary, flickering ever so gently
in Koma's hand.  And he was talking to...
     Vir gasped.  Not since the last time he had seen Xavier had he felt
that he was looking upon the face of pure evil.  The creature he saw
Mollary talking to...even without all the warnings that Koma had voiced,
Vir would nonetheless trembled just to see it.
     The Cylon was speaking to Mollary about something...Vir caught the
word "landing" and a designation...K0643, although he had no idea what
that referred to. ...and then the Cylon appeared to react to something. 
He stretched out a hand and the picture frizzled out of existence.
     "He was a bit more perceptive than I anticipated," Koma admitted
with a touch of regret.  "After going to all that effort, all I managed
to get was that small bit.  Still...at last it should be enough to
convince you."
     "To convince me of what?"
     "That," Koma said cryptically, "you shall have to determine for
yourself."
     "No, no, no," Vir snapped, biting off each word. "Don't start going
enigmatic on me.  I'm having a rough enough night as it is.  What are you
expecting me to do with this...this information you've tossed in my lap? 
For that matter, how do I know that this, above all else, isn't some kind
of trick?"
     "If your interest has been piqued, then I suggest you get together
with Mollary, and get him quite intoxicated, if that is possible.  Once
he is sufficiently inebriated, say to him the word, "Ptahepe.'  Watch him
carefully to see his reaction.  But only say it to him when he is truly
drunk, because I suspect that if you speak the word while he is sober,
then you will surely die before much time has passed.
     "As for what I'm expecting you to do, Vir, I'm only asking whatever
it is that you are personally capable of.  No more, and no less, than
that."
     He bowed slightly and headed for the door.
     "Wait a centon!" Vir called, but the door slid shut behind the
initiate.  He headed after him...the door opened mere microns after Koma
had passed through it...and Vir wasn't, for some reason, even remotely
surprised to find Koma was gone.
     At that moment, Vir wasn't sure who it was he hated more:  Koma,
Dixie Clemons, the Cylon, or himself.
     He turned back into his quarters and sat down on the bed.  Thought
of the press of her warm flesh against his.  Had there been any of it
that she had truly enjoyed?  Had it all been a sham?  Did she ever feel
the slightest twinge of regret over the true motives behind what she was
doing?  What would she say to her when she returned?  She'd show up,
expecting that things were going to be exactly as she had left them,
unaware that anything had changed.  If he said anything to her, she'd
likely deny it.  Perhaps she would deny it because none of it was true. 
Perhaps...
     No. No it was true.  Because as far as Vir was concerned, it all
made so much more sense than the notion that a woman like that could
become besotted with a man like him.
     Vir had absolutely no idea what to do.  He desperately felt as if he
needed someone to talk to about the matter, but he couldn't think of
anyone.  Everyone he might vaguely have trusted was gone.
     He didn't fall asleep that night, which wasn't surprising.  He
dressed the next morning in a fog.  Stepping out into the corridor, he
encountered two bureaucrats who solicitously asked after Dixie and looked
at him in a way that he would have once seen as genuine smiles, but now
saw only as smirks.  He turned right around and headed back to his
quarters.
     He sat on the couch, trembling with fury and indignation, and then
he began to cry. It was unmanly, it was undignified, but he was alone and
he didn't care.  He grabbed a pillow and sobbed into it, felt as if his
soul was emptying out into that pillow.  He would expend all his strength
into expelling all his misery and loneliness----and just when he thought
he had no more strength to continue, a new fit of weeping would seize him
and he would collapse all over again.  When he had finally gotten all of
the misery and self-pity out of his system, he found that most of the day
was already gone.
     What was left inside him was a cold, burning desire for revenge. 
Revenge against the shadowy forces that had twisted and turned his life
back on itself for yahrens and yahrens now.  He had stood helpless before
the advent of the Dark Ones ships that swarmed across the skies of Earth. 
He had watched Mollary's slow descent into a darkness from which he could
never return, and he had been unable to prevent it.  He had watched
Mollary's slow descent into a darkness from which he could never return,
and he had been unable to prevent it.  
     Once more he thought of Dixie, and the merest passing thought of her
was enough to enrage him. Ordinarily, he would have been quick to let
such feelings go. Life, he had always felt, was too short to let it be
caught up in fantasies of vengeance.  Not this time, though.  This time
the hurt had been too personal, the cut too deep.  This time someone, or
something, was going to suffer consequences for what they had done to
him.
     Perhaps what drove Vir the most was that, for the first time in his
life, he didn't care about himself.  At least that much of the self-pity
remained with him, but it had been forged into something else.  It wasn't
as if he was despondent.  Instead, he was taking that lack of  concern
for his own well-being, and crafting it into an attitude that he sensed
would serve him in the sectans---perhaps yahrens---ahead.  He was not
particularly anxious to die, but the notion of life wasn't holding any
exceptional allure for him, either.  Vengeance was beginning to ascend
over concerns for his personal safety.
     He picked himself and turned his attention to the computer terminal,
checked the schedules and saw that there was a shuttlecraft bound for
Earth the very next morning.  He told himself that the serendipity of the
timing provided yet another sign that he was embarking upon the right
course.
     He lay upon his bed that evening, quite convinced that he would
never be able to so much as close his eyes.  To his subsequent surprise,
he fell immediately asleep.
     The next morning he headed straight over to the departures area,
walking as if he had blinders on, looking neither right nor left, barely
acknowledging anyone he passed, even if they greeted him.  He purchased a
one-way ducket to Earth, wondered whether he would ever again set foot on
the Battlestar Galactica, and came to the realization that he didn't
care.

*****

     As Vir departed the Galactica, he didn't notice Koma watching him
go, nor did he see two other similarly robed figures who were standing
beside Koma, one male, one female.
     "You play a dangerous game," said the female, "as does Vir.  He has
no true idea of what he faces."
     "Neither do we," replied Koma.
     "But we, at least, have an inkling.  He has nothing except what
small pieces of information you have been dropping upon him."
     'That will have to do."
     "I mislike it," the woman said firmly.
     The man standing next to her chuckled. "You mislike everything,
Purnia.  At least Koma is stirring things up."
     "Perhaps. Let us simply hope," said the woman known as Purnia, "that
we do not get caught up cooking in the stew being stirred."

*****     

     Usually for Vir, the time spent in space travel seemed positively
endless.  He didn't particularly like such journeys, and usually spent
them on the edge of his seat, waiting for something to go wrong, waiting
for the bulkhead to buckle or a squadron of Cylon raiders to attack the
ship, or the engines to go dead, or some other catastrophe to hit.  For
Vir was always all-too-aware of the fact that a very unforgiving vacuum
surrounded them, and only the relatively thin ship's hull stood between
him and a violent death.  On this voyage, however, he gave no thought at
all. His thoughts were focused entirely upon Earth and what he would do
once he arrived there.
     Unfortunately, he really didn't know.  He wasn't sure how he would
approach Mollary, or what he would do about the Cylon, or what he could
do.  These and any number of other considerations tumbled about in his
mind.
     No one was there to meet him when he arrived at Dulles Airport,
which was fine.  He hadn't told anyone he was coming.  He wanted his
arrival at the White House to come as a total surprise.  Somehow he
sensed that the only thing he really had going for him was surprise.  He
wanted to make his movements and actions as unpredictable as possible.
     The bottom line was, the only person he trusted anymore was himself. 
As much as he wanted to trust Mollary, he had seen far too much for him
to be able to place any real confidence in the Ruler of the Earth.
     Nor did he trust the mage-tech initiate.  His first encounter with
mage-techs, on the Galactica, during their great trek through the stars,
had led him to think of them as tricksters.  The terrifying illusion that
they had cast, of a monstrous creature threatening to rend Vir limb from
limb, still occasionally haunted his dreams.
     Mage-techs, as a group, had their own motivations, their own
agendas.  There was still the very distinct possibility that Koma had
fabricated the entire thing.  That the Cylons didn't work for the Dark
Ones.  What he had shown Vir had been so short, so conveniently minimal,
that it was impossibly for Vir to know for sure just how forthcoming Koma
was being.  He might have fabricated the entire thing from whole cloth,
as a means of undercutting Vir's support for Earth----and that for
reasons Vir could only guess.  Which might have meant that the business
with Dixie was also fabrication.
     But no.  No, Vir was sure that wasn't the case.  The farther he was
away from the fleet, the longer he was away from the area that they had
shared, the more clear it became to him.
     Vir arrived at the White House and was greeted with polite surprise
by Mollary's personal guard.  He was escorted to a waiting room, there to
wait until there was a hole in the emperor's schedule that would allow
him to meet with Vir.  "If only we'd been expecting you, we would've
accommodated you with greater efficiency," Vir was told. He shrugged. It
made little difference to him.
     And as he sat in the waiting room, he couldn't wipe the vision of
Dixie from his mind.  But he was determined that that was precisely what
he had to do.  He pictured her face, lathered with contempt, a, and
mentally he started to disassemble it, feature by feature.  Plucked out
the eyes, removed the nose, the teeth, the tongue, all of it, until there
was only a blank space where a woman had occupied so much of his
attention.
     And when she was gone---or at least, when he believed her to be
gone---he knew one thing for sure.  He knew that if he never, ever, saw a
mistress of Sire Mollary again, it'd be too soon.
     The door to the waiting room slid open and Vir automatically started
to stand.  
     But it wasn't Mollary standing there in the doorway. Instead, it was
a diminutive woman, her face round her eyes cool and scornful, her lips
frozen in a perpetual pucker of disapproval, her demeanor glacial.
     "Who are you?" Vir asked, dumbfounded, "What are you doing here?"
     "Well, up until last week, my name was Adele C. Vaughn, but I'm now
Siress Mollary."
     "You--you're married to him?"
     "Yes."  She looked at Vir scornfully.  "Who are you, by the way?"
     "I'm Vir, Sire Mollary's former attaché."
     "Well, Vir, I must say you look emaciated.  You should eat
something."
     At that moment, Vir seriously considered gnawing his leg off at the
knee just so he could escape.

*****     

     Rumors had begun to filter through the base camp.  
     It was an unknown world, of course.  Everyone knew that anything
could happen in an unknown world.  But no one had taken it seriously, not
really seriously.  There had been discussions of it in the evening hours,
but in the early days of exploring, the chats had been like the laughter
of children sitting around a campfire.
     But months had passed, and there was a sense that they were getting
close to something.  Nobody knew what that something was, but there was a
general and unmistakable air of foreboding, even among people who were of
such a sober-minded nature that they would never have bought into a
concept as quaint as a planet being "haunted."
     Then, there was the question of the disappearing astronauts.
     When one had vanished, no one had thought anything of it.  But over
the long months, several more had disappeared.  At first this had been
chalked off to simple desertion, but several of the men who'd disappeared
had been workers who had absolutely no reason to depart.  In fact, one of
them, a fellow name Norman, just before he had gone missing, was talking
about how the mission was the best thing that had ever happened to him. 
It had gotten him away from a wife he couldn't stand, kids whom he didn't
understand, and a career that had done nothing but go sour for him.  So
when Norman had disappeared, that really got eyebrows lifted and tongues
wagging.
     In short, no one knew what was going on.  To play it safe,
astronauts had started traveling in groups of three or more at all times,
never wandering off on their own, never searching around in areas that
were considered off limits.
     Meanwhile, the expedition drew closer and close to that which had
been hidden and forgotten for millennia...

*****

Chapter 19

     One year before Vir found himself in Adele Vaughan's presence,
Mollary had looked at the expression on the face of one of his cabinet
members, Glenn Harmon, who had just bustled into the Oval Office and had
known instantly.
     "She's here, isn't she?" was all Mollary had said.
     Harmon managed to nod, but that was about all.  
     Mollary sighed heavily.  He'd had a feeling that the time would
come. He just hadn't known when.
     It was somewhat like death in that regard.  Although maybe not; he
actually had a fairly clear idea of what that felt like, and of when his
own mortality would finally catch up with him.  Taking a new wife was
even more fearsome and unpredictable than death. 
     "Send her in," was all Mollary said.  The cabinet member nodded
gratefully.  Mollary could easily understand why.  Obviously the last
thing the poor bastard wanted to do was go back and tell the new Siress
Mollary that the Ruler of the Earth had no time for her.
     Moments later, Adele bustled in, looking around the Oval Office with
a vague air of disdain, as if she were trying to determine the best way
to redecorate.
     Then she looked straight at Mollary.  "The curtains in here stink. 
You need more light."
     "No surprises," Mollary murmured.
     "What?"
     "'What' indeed---that is the question before us, Adele. 'What are
you doing here?'"
     "Is that all I get from you, Mollary?  A coarse interrogation? 
Waves of hostility?  I'm your wife now, after all."
     "Yes, you and I are now man and wife.  But I," and Mollary rose from
his desk, "am the Ruler of the Earth.  And you will show proper respect
for me, as befits a woman in the presence of the only man capable of
rebuilding this planet."
     "Oh, please," Adele responded disdainfully.
     But then Mollary stepped out from behind the desk and slowly
advanced on her.  "You will bend the knee in my presence, speak only when
I permit you to speak, and obey my orders, or by the Lords of Kobol...I
will have you taken out and shot immediately!  Do you understand me?"
     Adele didn't budge.  His face was only a few inches away from hers. 
And then she took out a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the
right corner of his mouth.
     "What are you doing?" asked Mollary.
     "You have a bit of spittle right there.  Hold still."
     Mollary couldn't believe it.  He felt as if he were trapped in some
bizarre dream.  "Have you lost your mind?  Didn't you hear one word I
said?"
     "Yes.  And if you're about to order some of those well-dressed goons
of yours to come in here and take me away for target practice, then you
don't have to look like a rabid dog while doing it.  As the new wife of
the Ruler of the Earth, I at least am aware that I've got an image to
protect.  You ought to start considering yours.  There." She tucked the
handkerchief away, then serenely folded her hands in front of her.  "All
right, I'm ready," she said, her chin pointed upward.  "Summon your
goons.  Take me away because I'm not subservient enough."
     He stared at her for a time, gaping in open incredulity.  And then,
slowly shaking his head, he walked back to his desk.
     "Tell me something," Adele continued, as if the conversation was
meant to continue.  "Will the means of execution be the actual shooting? 
Or will I be killed in some other fashion.  It'll make a difference in
terms of the outfit I wear.  For example, there's likely to be much blood
in a shooting, so I'll probably want to wear something arterial red to
get a better blend.  But if something more bloodless is chosen, such as
the administering of poison, then I'll probably want to wear one of my
blue dresses----probably the one with a bit more scoop at the neck.  I
know it's someone more daring than my usual ensemble, but since it will
be my last public appearance, why shouldn't I have tongues wagging?  Of
course, the one with the gold brocade could..."
     "Oh, shut up." Mollary sighed.  
     She was actually quiet for a moment, and then, sounding rather
solicitous, she said, "You seem tired, Mollary.  Shall I get the guards
for you?"
     "Good Kobol...I do not believe it.  It cannot be possible."
     She folded her arms.  "What cannot be possible."
     "That I actually want you," he said with slow disbelief.
     "Yes, I know you do."
     "I never would have thought it would come to this."
     "Would you like to know why you want me?" she asked.
     "Could I stop you from telling me?"
     As if he hadn't even spoken, Adele slowly circled the perimeter of
the Oval Office as she said coolly, "Because you are surrounded by people
who treat you as Ruler of the Earth.  But you haven't been a ruler of
anything for most of your life.  You're much more accustomed to be
treated as simple Sire Mollary.  That's your natural state of being, and
I believe you long, to some degree, for a return to those days.  That's
why you're so lonely..."
     He looked at her askance.  "Who said I was lonely?"
     "Nobody," she said with a small shrug.  "I just assumed that..."
     "Nooooo." He waggled a finger at her. "It is all coming clear now. 
You've been speaking to Amber Lawrence, yes?"
     "Amber Lawrence."  Adele made a great production of frowning. "I
don't seem to recall anybody by that name..."
     "Don't try lying to me, Adele.  I have far too much experience with
it, so I can spot it when even the most expert of liars is engaging in
the practice.  And you are not at all expert, because you are much too
accustomed to saying exactly what is on your mind, always, without
exception.  I think that if you tried to lie, your jaw would snap off."
     "I'll take that as a compliment." She sighed. "Yes, Amber and I
talked."
     "Eh. I knew it."
     "She's worried about you, Mollary. Heaven knows too few people
around here are.  They care about you only in regard to how they can use
your power to further your ends, or how you can best serve their needs."
     "And you know this how?"
     "Because I know the mentality, Mollary.  I know the situations that
draw certain types of players to certain sorts of games."
     "And what is your game, Adele?" he asked, waving a finger at her. 
"Am I supposed to believe that you are here motivated purely out of
concern for me?  I will accept that about as readily as the claim that
you never heard of Amber Lawrence."
     "I make no bones about it, Mollary. I'm tired of having you hold me
at arms length.  There's status, power, money that are owed me as the
wife of the Ruler of the Earth.  You've made no effort to bring me here,
no effort to make me a part of your government, as is my due."
     "You will want for nothing."
     "I'm sure.  My lot in life is certainly going to be of a higher
caliber than poor Dixie Clemons..."
     " 'Poor Dixie Clemons?'" He snorted.  "Are you going to tell me that
you actually have some degree of pity for her?"
     "No, I wouldn't insult your intelligence by claiming that.  But her
situation was somewhat dire, last I heard."
     "And have you done anything to improve that situation for her, using
the resources you now have at your disposal?"
     "Hell no!" sniffed Adele.  "I do for her exactly what she would have
done for me."
     "Ah, so you can be counted on, after all."
     "You mean that sarcastically, I know, but the truth is that you know
you always can count on me.  I'll wager that even as we speak you're up
to your buttocks in backstabbers, yes-men...all manner of bottom feeders. 
You need someone who will be honest with you, tell you just what she
thinks..."
     "What 'she' thinks," Mollary echoed mirthlessly.
     "...and will never betray you.  You said it yourself, Mollary.  With
me, you'll always know where you stand."
     "Except my situation is quite different now, Adele.  I rule a planet
now.  The stakes have been raised."
     "Not for me.  For the Ham Tylers, the Rolland Shannons, the others
of this government, there's a certain advantage to trying to get you out
of the way, so they can grab power for themselves.  Whatever power I've
got, on the other hand, derives solely from you.  If you're one, so am I. 
So I would have far at stake."
     "So you are not simply in this the money.  That is not all you care
about?"
     Slowly Adele walked to the window and looked out across Washington. 
Mollary couldn't help but notice that she ran her white-gloved hand
across the windowsill and looked at the fingers.  Obviously she didn't
like what she saw, because she shook her head in mild reproof.  Mollary
made a mental note to speak to the cleaning staff.
     "Of course not.  That was the reason that you chose me as your
wife." There was a small settee with a thin cushion along the window, and
she sat in that now, shaking her head in amazement.
     "So why are you saying this now?"
     "Because," she said, "I want you to have no doubts in your thick
alien skull that you can trust me."
     "If you mean that I can trust you not to betray me...no, of course I
do not believe that.  Then again," he added as he saw that she looked
slightly crestfallen.  "I cannot afford to trust anyone that far.  That
is a simple and sad fact of my life."
     "I will stay in the White House for a time, Mollary," Adele
declared. "I can certainly keep myself busy during the days and nights
here.  If nothing else, Amber could use a positive female role model in
this place."
     "And you think you can locate one for her?" Mollary queried.
     Adele's lips thinned in her best "we-are-not-amused" expression,
which was the one she most often wore and had thoroughly perfected.  "If
you are truly lonely, as Amber suspects----then you will have me to turn
to.  As for me, I'll be able to avail myself of the rights to which I'm
entitled as your wife."
     "Unless, of course, I divorce you as well," Mollary said quietly.
     She studied him carefully. "Will you?"
     "I do not know. I will be considering all options."
     "Fine.  You do that," she said primly.  "In the meantime, kindly
assign someone to aid me in transporting my things to my room.  I'm sure
that somewhere in the highest house in the nation you can managed to
locate some sort of accommodations.  I know better than to assume that
I'll be sleeping with you."  She shuddered.  "I heard about that ghastly
display you put on with Dixie Clemons."
     "Ah, yes," he said nostalgically.  "What did the press call it?  Oh,
yes.  My 'sexual olympics.'"
     She made a loud tsk tsk noise.
     "This is an absurd situation, Adele, you know that.  To have you
here, floating about the White House, expressing your disapproval of me? 
Undercutting me in front of..."
     "I didn't say that, Mollary.  Kindly don't put words in my mouth, or
attribute me to actions that I don't intend to engage in.  While in the
presence of others, your courtiers and other rabble, I wouldn't think of
saying anything the least bit demeaning, or, in any way, challenging your
authority."
     He stared at her, feeling as if he'd just been hit in the head with
a brick.  "Are you serious?"
     "Of course I'm serious.  Respect for the man is one thing; respect
for the office is something else again.  Private is private, Mollary, and
public is public.  It would be nothing less than hypocritical of me to
embrace the privileges of being the wife of the Ruler of the Earth while
tearing down that same Ruler in the eyes of his subordinates.  I'm here
to help you run the planet, Mollary.  To run it with wisdom and good
sense.  But you can't do with without the respect of others, and a woman
who diminishes her Ruler husband while others are within earshot, by
extension, diminishes all of Earth.  Because right now, you're all
Earth's got.  Heaven help us!"
     "I see."
     For a long moment he said nothing, and then he reached over and
tapped a small button on a little desktop console.  It sounded a chime
that immediately brought Harmon running.  The cabinet member glanced with
clear apprehension at Adele.
     "Kindly bring my wife and her belongings, to the First Lady's suite
at once."
     "Yes, Your Excellency," said the cabinet member, his head bobbing
obediently.  
     "Thanks, Mollary," Adele said. "Boy, I could sure use a hot shower
right now; the stop-lights signals still aren't back in operation yet,
and the traffic's been brutal."  And then, to Mollary's complete
astonishment, Adele bowed in a perfect curtsy, bobbing her head, bending
her knee in such elegant fashion that it seemed as if she'd been doing it
all her life.  As she did so, she extended one hand and let it hang there
for a moment.  
     Mollary, surprising himself to a degree, stepped away from his desk,
took her hand and gently kissed her knuckles.  Adele looked up at him,
then, and there was actually a sparkle of merriment in her eyes. "If we
play our cards right, Mollary," she said in a low voice, "we might
actually have some fun."  That said, she rose, turned her back, and
strode from the Oval Office.
     He sat there for a moment in silence, and then, very softly, he
began to count out loud. "Three...two...one..."
     'Why are you counting?" came the voice of Ptahepe.
     "A private joke," Mollary said to him, not even bothering to turn
his direction.  "You will allow me my occasional indulgences in such
things, I hope.  I have so few these days."
     "The woman."
     "What of her?" asked Mollary.
     "She is...unexpected."
     "Women often are."
     "Her presence could be...troublesome.  Have her leave."
     "For no reason at all?" Mollary demanded.
     "You are the Ruler of the Earth.  You do not need a reason."
     At this, Mollary stood, stepped away from the desk and walked
straight toward the shadowy edges of the room from which Ptahepe always
seemed to materialize----it was as if he stepped sideways out of space. 
"Even a ruler does not like to do things without a reason," Mollary told
him.  "Those who do so tend to lose things, such as their popularity. 
That is often followed by the loss of life, or at very least certain
bodily appendages to which I have become quite accustomed, thank you very
much.  I can handle Adele."
     "We are not convince," Ptahepe paused a moment, then stepped ever so
slightly into the light. "You like the woman, don't you.  Through your
bluster...and her abrasiveness...you still like her."
     "It is not about 'like.'"     
     "What, then?"
     "You," Mollary said, stabbing a finger at the Cylon, "have no idea
how it felt.  That woman, and others, pushed at me, yammered at me to
advance through the ranks of the new Earth society.  They wanted me to
obtain power so that they, in turn, would know comfort and privilege.  It
never stopped.  And Adele C. Vaughn was the loudest in proclaiming that
want.  And so I made her my sires.  I admit it; it will amuse me to have
her nearby, so that she can see first hand what being a bureaucrat
amounts to.  To be the pride and puissance of Humanity.  To be one with
I, who am..."
     "Our servant."
     The words, harsh but true, hung there in midair.  Mollary had
nothing to say in response.
     "Let her remain, if it pleases you," Ptahepe said quietly.  "But do
not let her get too close to you."
     "That will not happen," Mollary said with confidence.  "She has no
real desire to get close to me.  She wants to enjoy the power and
prestige, but I know her.  She will become bored with it soon.  And she
will tire of watching people treat me with respect.  She will find that
she cannot hold her tongue; it will be too galling for her.  She will
leave of her own accord, and in that way I will be spared a needless
conflict."
     "Very well.  But know this, Mollary...if it does not develop as you
say...the consequences will be upon your head." And with that, Ptahepe
had faded back into the shadows.
     "The consequences will be upon my head." Mollary had replied, making
an amused noise deep in his throat.  "Aren't they always?"

*****
          
     "Well, Vir, I must say you look emaciated.  You should eat
something," said Adele C. Vaughn who was now Siress Mollary."
     Vir was immediately on his feet, putting his hand on his stomach. 
"I've...gotten many compliments, actually."
     "Well, let me have a better look at you," Adele said.  She walked up
to him, gripped him by the shoulders, and turned him this way and that as
if inspecting a side of beef.  He started to say something, but she
shushed him as she continued her examination.  Finally she turned him
around to face her and said brusquely, "I suppose it's healthier for
you...still...you're not quite as huggable as those Colonial bitches say
you used to be."
     "I'm not as...what?"
     And Vir was dumbfounded as Adele threw her arms around him and
squeezed him tightly.  "I'm glad to meet you, Vir," she said.  She
stepped back and looked up at him with an amused sparkle in his eye. 
"From attaché to ex-officio member of the Council of Twelve.  Awesome!" 
She looked closely at his face.  "You do look a great deal wan, though. 
Far too many worry lines.  And you're eyes..." She held his chin, staring
into them, not unkindly. "They've seen terrible things these past years,
haven't they.  Things you'd much rather have closed them to."
     "Well...yes...but if I had, I would have kept bumping into
furniture."
     She laughed at that, and then gestured that he should sit.  He did,
and she did likewise.
     "Not to sound presumptuous, Adele...Siress Mollary..."
     "Adele, please.  We can be friends."
     "We can?  I mean...yes, of course."  Vir felt as if his entire world
was spinning off its axis.  He needed time to cope with the shifting
ground beneath him.  "Adele...how long have you been here?"
     "The better part of a year, actually," Adele told him.  "I very much
doubt that Mollary thought I would be here this long.  Truthfully, I
wasn't expecting it either.  Things have just...worked out."
     "Worked out...how?  Are you and he..." Vir wasn't quite sure to
proceed with the sentence.
     "The secret of our marriage's success has been our lack of
communication," said Adele.  "I wouldn't say that we communicate all that
much more now.  But when we do, there is a----relaxed manner about it. 
We've been thorough much in the past year, Vir...particularly him.  It's
changed him.  Made him more than he was...and less.  I think he's trying
to strike a balance now."
     "And you're providing that?"
     "After a fashion, in a small way," she allowed.  "There's still much
that needs to be done, much that needs attending to..."
     At that moment, the door opened.  Tyler stepped in quickly...and
came to a dead halt when he saw Adele and Vir.  He forced a smile, and it
was rather obvious that it was an effort to push it onto his face. 
"Councilman Vir," he said with so much cheerfulness that he sounded as if
he were drugged.  "They told me you'd arrived.  Shame on you for not
informing us ahead of time.  Siress," and he bowed to Adele, "I can
attend to the councilman's needs from this point. I'm sure you've got
other matters of far greater importance than need attending to..."
     "Greater importance than chatting with my new friend?" she said,
scoffing. "Not right now, no.  Of course, to some degree I owe that you,
Mr. Tyler.  The A.G. here," she said, turning to Vir, "has gone to great
effort to try and minimize my calendar of activities.  Isn't that right,
A.G.?"
     "No disrespect intended, Siress, but-----I don't know what you're
talking about."
     "I'm sure you don't," Adele said flatly, in a tone of voice that
caused Vir's bladder to feel slightly weakened.  "Now, if you don't mind,
A.G., Vir and I were in the middle of a discussion.  I'm sure you
wouldn't want to disturb us, would you?"
     "Of course not," said Tyler, as he bowed deeply and exited backing
up.
     All business, Adele turned back to Vir and said, "That man's got to
go.  He oozes crap.  Why in the bloody hell does Mollary keep that scary
bastard around for, anyway?  He's arrayed an entire support group of key
appointees, all of whom are loyal to him instead of Mollary.  I'll do
whatever it takes to rid the White House of him and his species.  That,
at this time, is my major concern.  Well, that and Mollary..."
     "He's my concern as well."
     "Is there some specific thing that's prompted you to come here?" she
asked.
     Something in Vir's head prevented him from being utterly
forthcoming. He wasn't precisely sure what it was, but he knew he just
wasn't comfortable with telling Adele about Koma.  Perhaps she might
think he was being used, or that he was foolish for becoming involved
with mage-techs, even initiate mage-techs.
     "I've...been hearing things," he said carefully.
     "What kind of things?" She leaned forward intently, and it was quite
clear that she wasn't going to settle for vague generalities.
     But thanks to his lack of talent for dissembling, he knew that he
tried to make something up, he'd fail miserably in the endeavor.  So he
cast his mind back to his conversations with Koma, and something came to
him.  "K0643," he said.
     She looked at him oddly. "What's that?"
     "It...has to do with space exploration," he told her.
     "Space exploration?" Adele looked rather confused.
     Small wonder.  Vir was somewhat befuddled about the matter himself. 
"Yes.  I've just been hearing----well-----odd things in connection with
it.  I was hoping to see what Mollary knew about it..."
     "Let us see what I can find out first," Adele said thoughtfully. 
"I'll make sure that Mollary knows you're here.  He'll probably want to
see you this evening.  In the meantime, I'll make a few inquires into
this...K0643, you said?"  He nodded.  She rose and said, "Come.  I'll
show you to your guest quarters."
     "Thank you. And...if I may say so, Adele----I'm really pleased over
the way this has been working out.  After my recent experiences..."
     "Experiences?" She looked at him curiously. "What kind of
experiences?"
     "Oh, well...it's nothing you really need to worry about.  It was my
problem...well...not anymore..."
     "Vir," she said with an air of impatience, "just tell me what you
mean."
     "Well...it's just that, when I saw you, I was...I'm a little ashamed
to say it..."
     "You don't have to concern yourself, Vir. Just say what's on your
mind."
     "Well...I took one look at you and thought, " 'Oh, Good Kobol, not
another mistress.  Not after my involvement with Dixie Clemons.'  But I
realize now that I was completely..."
     She took him by the arm and sat him down so forcefully the bench
shuddered under him.  She sat opposite him and said, very slowly,
"What...'involvement'...with Dixie Clemons?"
     He told her everything, and as she did, Adele grew paler and paler. 
The only thing he left out was the exact details of what Dixie had been
saying to the unseen "Mr. Secretary."  But he gave enough generalities to
put across his sense of personal violation.  When he was finished, she
whispered, "You----incredibly lucky man..."
     "Lucky?"  He couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard.  "Adele,
with all respect, how could anything about that experience possibly be
considered lucky?"
     "Because," she replied, "you're still alive and kicking."

*****     

     That which had been hidden for millennia was only days away from
discovery. 
     The casualties were rising.
     And in the darkness, the Cylons stood ready.  They spoke among
themselves, communed.  How many casualties would there be?  How many
Americans would be sacrificed to the defenses that belonged to something
that had been hidden for so long that it had been forgotten by all save
the most loyal.
     The answer came back:  fifty percent.  Perhaps sixty percent of the
Americans would be lost in that first burst of energy.  The Dark Ones, of
course, could have started the homing device with no casualties at all. 
For the Cylons, however, it was trial and error.  And the Cylons had no
desire to sacrifice any of their own.  So naturally it made sense to use
their pawns.  They were a trivial concern.
     All that mattered was the Hidden Base.  The base that could only be
reached through K0643.  The Hidden Base, known to the Cylons as Shaddam. 
Shaddam, the place that would enable them to bring the power of the Dark
Ones to the galaxy once more.  And if they did their job properly,
why...perhaps the Dark Ones would see the greatness of their work and
would return.  Return to praise the Cylons, and raise them up above all
that lived, or at least, all that remained living.
     The Cylon Alliance was becoming impatient.  To be so close...so
close...and yet have to proceed with caution.  It was maddening.  
     But they maintained their patience, for time was on their side.  It
was not, however, on the side of the rest of the galaxy...

*****     

Chapter 20

     Ramiro Gross swayed into Ham Tyler's office with his customary wide
gait.  Tyler stared at Harmon and wondered if it was possible for the man
to get any fatter.  As it was, Gross's girth was so impressive that it
was hard for him to ease himself into a chair and, once he was there,
disengaging himself from it became equally problematic.
     For all that, Harmon had a rather avuncular manner that made him
quite pleasant to spend time with, and a boisterously loud attitude that
was well suited to someone who was appointed the White House Press
Secretary..
     "Mr. Tyler, if you have a moment, I need to talk to you," he boomed
to Tyler, sliding into a seat before Tyler could possibly have the
opportunity to tell him to come back later.  The ancient wooden chair
creaked protestingly under his bulk, but Tyler was used to that.  "I
assure you, it won't take long."
     "What is it, Rammy?" asked Tyler, putting aside his paperwork.
     "Um...there's been a good deal of interest being expressed lately in
relation to K0643.  Being the press secretary, people tend to come to me
about such matters, and I address their queries, particularly when public
statements  might become necessary.  Plus, when the inquiries come from
high places..."
     Tyler put up his hands in the hope of getting Harmon to focus.  He
had an annoying habit of going of on ungodly tangents.  "Could you be a
bit more specific, Rammy.  What inquiries?  What high places? And why
should a public statement be necessary?  K0643 is just one of the
assorted job works being overseen by me, in coordination with NASA, of
course.  I don't see how the public need concern itself overmuch."
     "I would've thought that to be so, Mr. Tyler," said Gross,
scratching his copious chins.  "The interest has been happening by
degrees, however.  First----we've been getting quite a few inquires from
families of astronauts who went to the planet...those who disappeared and
haven't been heard from again."
     "If astronauts get tired or bored or just desert their posts, it's
hardly our fault," Tyler said impatiently.  "A certain degree of wear and
tear was expected."
     "Wear and tear's one thing, Mr. A.G.. But outright disappearances? 
That's never happened on a space mission before."
     "Right.  Still, that's hardly our fault, either.  Is there anything
else?"
     "I'm sorry to say it, but yes.  Siress Mollary has also been making
inquiries..."
     "Adele?" Tyler let out a long, frustrated sigh.  "Why?"
     "I don't know.  But she's been checking about, and she's garnered
some information..."
     "Why was anything said to her at all?" Tyler demanded.
     "Because what she sought wasn't classified information," Gross said
reasonably.  "Should anything have been kept from her?"
     "No. No, I guess not." Tyler leaned back in his chair, rubbing the
bridge of his nose, feeling suddenly very, very tired.
     Thinking of the project made him think of Dixie.  After all, it had
been she who had come to him in the dream and urged him on.  There had to
be an answer to it all, of that he was quite sure.
     He had deliberately distanced himself, however, from Dixie's
activities, and particularly those activities that were coordinated
through the office of Secretary Shannon.  He suspected that Shannon was
beginning to intuit something about Tyler's feelings for her, and those
feelings might be misinterpreted.  If there was one thing Tyler didn't
want to allow, it was anything that might be seen as weakness.
     But...
     "Rammy," Tyler said, leaning forward in a manner meant to suggest
that great secrets were about to be imparted.  Gross tried to respond,
but leaning forward wasn't his forte.  So he stayed where he was.  "I'm a
bit...worried about several individuals.  Several people have attained
important positions in a variety of...projects.  Since I have you here, I
thought perhaps I might entrust you with their names, and that you might
check into their current whereabouts for me.  However---it might be best
if you did this without letting anyone know that the request came from
me.  And I would also rather you didn't speak to Secretary Shannon about
the matter."
     "Secretary Shannon?" Gross raised an eyebrow.  "Is there a reason to
doubt..."
     "No.  Not at all.  But----it's what I prefer.  Can I trust you to
honor it?"
     "Sure."
     Tyler rattled off a half-dozen names, the vast majority of whom he
was picking at random off the top of his head.  One of the names
mentioned, however, was that of Dixie Clemons.  Gross didn't appear to
react to her name anymore than he did the others whom Tyler mentioned.
"And once I've found out what you want to know?"
     "Then relay the results to me."
     Gross nodded. "And what about Adele?"
     "She's becoming a pain in the ass, that lady," Tyler admitted. 
"Still, as long as His Excellency doesn't want her to leave, we've got no
choice but to honor his wishes in the matter.  Right?"
     "What if he changes his mind?"
     "In that case," Tyler said quietly, "so does her location."

*****

     Gross nodded, smiled, left Tyler's office...and went straight to
Rolland Shannon to inform the secretary that, yes indeed, his hunch had
been right, and Tyler had inquired about Miss Clemons.
     Wheels within wheels.  And moving like a cybernetic wraith, through
the minds of each and every player, flowed Ptahepe, secure in the
knowledge that the Cylons would ultimately benefit from all...

*****     

Chapter 21

     When Vir came to, he felt a throbbing at the base of his skull, and
when he tried to rub it he discovered that his hands were chained to the
wall of the cell that he was occupying.
     He pulled at the manacles and had absolutely no success in budging
them.  As the reality of his situation started to dawn on him, he pulled
with greater and greater aggressiveness, but his only response was the
loud rattling of the chains.  By rapid degrees, his panic level began to
elevate, and he pulled with even more ferocity, still to no avail.
     Then he shouted, but that was an even bigger mistake, because he
only succeeded in making his head hurt mightily.  It was at that point
that he managed to come to the realization that he was experiencing a
thumping hangover.
     That, in turn, led him to remember the previous night, which had
been one of great festivity and merriment.  He was utterly perplexed as
to how something that seemed to be going so right could possibly have
ended up so wrong...

*****     

     Some fourteen hours earlier Vir had puttered around in his quarters
and wondered when, or even if, Mollary was going to take the time to see
him.  Indeed, he was wondering a great many things, up to and including
whether or not his presence on Earth was one great big mistake.
     Then he reviewed, once again, the reasons he had come.  The claims
of a greater darkness that had fallen upon Earth, that the Cylons had
gained a hold over Mollary.  And above all of that, he recalled the sense
of personal humiliation over the entire business with Dixie.  All of that
served to steel his resolve, and made him more determined than ever to
see through what he had committed to do.  
     There was a knock on the door to his quarters, and he went to open
it.  Adele was standing there, and there was an unmistakable look of
concern on her face. "I have some information for you regarding K0643,"
she said without preamble.  "It's a planet."
     In quick, broad strokes she laid out what she had learned of the
world.  Of how it was a pet space shot that had been initiated by A.G.
Tyler. Of how people were vanishing from the landing site.  "I'm
wondering if there isn't some kind of cover-up attached to it," Adele
said suspiciously.  
     "But what would they be covering up?  Is there any concrete example
of wrongdoing?"
     "No, but I..."
     "Well!"  boomed a fairly loud voice. "Well, well, well!  And what is
this, eh?  Is my former aide-de-camp dallying with the wife of the Ruler
of the Earth, eh?"
     Vir was astounded at the change that had come over  Mollary.  What
he was seeing here was the Mollary of old.  A man in good spirits, in
good cheer, a man who appreciated the presence and even the companionship
of others.  He didn't simply walk into the room, he practically exploded
into it, with huge strides that ate the distance between himself and Vir
in no time.  He embraced him as he would an old friend, and Adele as
well, which astounded Vir all the more.
     It was at that point that Vir became convinced Koma was completely
wrong.  This wasn't a man who was being controlled by the Cylons, whose
life was beholden to creatures hiding in darkness.  No, it was simply
impossible.  Mollary was no good at concealing things from Vir, Vir knew
far too much.
     But...
     Mollary had known about that attempt on Troy's life.  He had found
that information somewhere, and from his attitude and actions the last
time they'd been together, it had very much seemed as if Mollary was
acting like a man who knew he was under constant observation.  Could that
have been the case at the time, but he was no longer under such scrutiny? 
Or was it that he had just gotten so used to it that he acted as if it
meant nothing anymore?
     Vir decided he didn't dare relax his guard.  He did, however, return
the embrace.
     "You must come to my private dining room this evening...this very
centon!" Mollary declared.  "We shall discuss old times...we will laugh
as of old...we will make sport and make merry, eh?  We shall celebrate
your return home, Vir, for whatever the reason is that you have chosen to
bless us with your presence.  What is the reason, eh?"
     "I'm just lonely, Mollary," Vir said quickly.  "Just anxious to feel
the ground of Earth under my feet again.  And I wanted to breathe the
fine air of the legendary world instead of the recycled atmosphere of the
Galactica.  You must know the feeling."
     "Ohhh, I know it very well.  Very well indeed.  And Adele, you are
looking fit this evening."  He kissed her suavely on the knuckles.  "You
will bring the illustrious Vir to the private dining room, and join us,
eh?  We will make an evening of it, yes!  Adele, I can trust you to make
sure that Vir does not get himself lost in this vast abyss that is my new
home."
     "You can count on me, Mollary."
     "You know, Adele...these days, I believe I am finding that to be the
case more and more.  Well!"  And he clapped his hands and rubbed them
together briskly.  "I have a few more stops to make during my early
evening of good cheer.  I will see you in...shall we say...a centon?"
     "Sounds great!" Vir said cheerfully.  It was the first time in ages
that he was actually looking forward to spending time with Mollary.
     "Excellent!  Excellent!"  Mollary then draped his hands behind his
back and walked out of the room.
     "My!  He certainly is...boisterous," Vir observed.
     "That was how he used to be all the time, when we first met," Adele
said.  "And you know, the thing that I consider most upsetting, is that
at that time, his outspokenness and boisterousness were remarkably
annoying to me.  More...they were an embarrassment.  But now I look upon
it, and it's taken me this long to realize...that he can be a rather
charming individual."
     "I've always thought so," Vir said tactfully.  Without a doubt, the
obvious change in Mollary's attitude was sufficient to lend a certain
amount of hope to Vir's expectations for his stay on Earth. 
Nevertheless, the words of Koma stayed with him, and he had brought along
several rather potent bottles of wine just for the occasion.
     When he joined Mollary that evening, Adele was already there, and
after a brief pause, while his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere, Mollary
seemed delighted when Vir produced his alcoholic donation.  Before long
he was completely involved with the evening's private festivities.
     What impressed Vir the most was the easy camaraderie that had grown
between Mollary and Adele.  Here there was laughter, merriment and open
appreciation of each other's presence.
     And as Mollary had become more and more inebriated, his attitude
seemed to go beyond that of a man who was becoming drunk.  He seemed
liberated, deliriously so.  His laughter rang out so loudly that
occasionally guards stuck their heads in to make sure nothing was amiss.
     "Vir, where have you been all this time!" Mollary cried out,
clapping Vir on the back and then sliding off a chair.  "I had forgotten
what it was like to have you as a drinking companion!"
     "That's probably because I don't really drink very much," Vir
replied.
     This just caused an even bigger reaction of hilarity from Mollary,
who poured himself another drink, decided that the glass was too
time-consuming, and took a swig directly from the bottle.  Adele hadn't
had nearly as much to drink as Mollary, but she was quite nicely toasted
herself.  Vir was amazed to see that, in that condition, the woman was
positively giggly, more like a teenage girl than the stern and severe
woman he'd given him the impression she was.
     "To Earth!" Mollary called out, raising the glass, which was still
full.  He took another swig from the bottle, then threw the glass.  It
shattered against the wall, spreading thick purple liquid across it. 
Mollary stared, bleary-eyed and said, "I suppose that should have been
empty, yes?"
     "It should have been empty, yes!" Adele said, laughing.  She hauled
herself to her feet.  "Mollary----I'm going to call it a night."
     Mollary looked out at the dark sky.  "That certainly would have been
my guess," he agreed.
     "Good night, sweetheart," she said, and then she kissed him.  It was
quite an overt gesture for Adele, and Mollary was clearly surprised by
it. Their lips parted, and then she touched Mollary's cheek and said
softly, "Perhaps I'll see you later." With that, she walked out.
     "What do you think she meant by that, eh?" asked Mollary, taking
another swill of ambrosa.
     "I...think maybe she meant that she would see you later."
     "You know, I think she did." Mollary looked wistfully in the
direction that she had departed.
     It was at that point that Vir took a deep breath, and then he said,
"So...tell me about Ptahepe."
     At first, Mollary said nothing at all.  It was as if his
alcohol-saturated brain needed extra time to process the comment.  Then,
slowly, he turned his gaze on Vir. His eyes were so hazed over that it
was impossible for Vir to get a feeling for what was going on behind
them. "What...did you say?" he asked.
     "I said...tell me about Ptahepe."
     Mollary waggled a finger and Vir drew closer. With a sodden grin on
his face, Mollary said, "I would not...say that name again...if I were
you..."
     "But...is there a reason you can't tell me about Ptahepe?"
     That was all Vir remembered.

*****

     In his cell, Vir realized that that was the point when Mollary had
whipped the bottle of ambrosa around and knocked Vir could.  That was
where the dull ache at the base of his skull had come from. Knowing it,
however, didn't make the knowledge any better, nor did it improve his
situation.
     "Help!" he called experimentally, but nobody responded.  He shouted
once more for aid, but it was no more forthcoming the second time than it
had been the first.
     The evening had gone terribly, terribly wrong...to put it mildly.

*****     

     Mollary had never in his life sobered up so quickly, so completely. 
The moment that name had escaped Vir's lips, every bit of inebriation had
dissolved.
     Part of it was that the keeper had been snapped to full
attentiveness when the Cylons' name was mentioned.  Part of it was
Mollary's immediate realization that something had to be done, and done
instantly.  Unfortunately, he had no idea what that something might be,
and so he had reverted to the simplest and straightforward means of
handling a problem, especially when it involved hearing something that
one did not want to hear.  He silenced the source.
     In this instance, silencing the source entailed nothing more
involved than knocking him cold.  That he had managed with no effort.
     He stood over Vir's prostrate form, and naturally, as he had already
suspected would occur, Ptahepe emerged form his state of perpetual
hiding.  Never had the Cylon seemed more grave than he was at that
moment.  "This one must die," Ptahepe said.
     "No," Mollary said.
     "Pleading will not help."
     "That was not a plea.  That was a statement."
     "Do not defy me."
     Without a word, Mollary crossed the room to a saber hanging on the
wall...ornamental but nonetheless lethal.  He pulled it from its sheath
and turned to face the Cylon.  He held the sword firmly in his right
hand.  His intent for its use was clear.
     "I defy you," said Mollary.  "I will kill you if I have to."
     "You are insane," the Cylon told him.  "I'm an intelligent machine. 
I'm not even alive in the conventional sense of the word.  Besides, you
know what I can do to you.  The pain..."
     "Yes.  The pain.  But I'm drunk right now, drunk enough to ignore
any pain you inflict.  And a drunk lunatic with a sword can still do a
great deal of damage.  
     To demonstrate, he took two lurching, staggering steps toward the
Cylon.  He was having trouble standing, and his hand-eye coordination was
almost nonexistent.  But that didn't make the blade any less deadly as it
whipped through the air.
     "Now then, Mollary said. "You can try to stop me...with the
pain...but the question is...will I still be able to cut off your
head...before you stop me completely."
     "Even if, by some miracle, you could kill me with that toy," Ptahepe
said quietly, "I will simply be replaced by another of the Cylon
Alliance.  And my replacement will not be nearly so generous as I have
been."
     "Perhaps, but you will still be dead.  Unless, of course, you own
life means nothing to you, in which case your death will be----besides
the point."  He took another several steps, slicing the sword back and
forth like a scythe whacking through wheat.
     It was clear that he was not bluffing.
     Ptahepe did not back down.  As a Cylon he was incapable of
panicking, or even coming close to panicking, of course. Instead, he said
coolly, "Very well. Simply have him locked up for now.  We shall settle
his situation later.  I give you my word that I will not call for his
death...if you do not attempt mine."
     Mollary considered this, as well as his alcoholic haze would allow
him.  Then he tossed the sword aside, lurched to the door, and summoned
the guards.  They saw the Ruler of the Earth's condition, and saw the
motionless Vir upon the floor.  What they did not see was the Cylon who,
to Mollary's utter lack of surprise, had vanished.
     "Lock him up," Mollary said."
     "What are you charging him with, Your Excellency?" asked one of the
guards.
     Mollary stared at him through bleary eyes.  "For asking too many
questions.  Pray that you don't wind up his cellmate."  Then he staggered
out into the hallway, his thoughts racing like an out-of-control Viper.
     He had been deluding himself into thinking things could go back to
the way they had been.  That he might actually be able to find happiness
and camaraderie with loved ones.  He had been fooling himself.  By having
people close to him, he was simply putting them in danger from the Cylon. 
At least Amber had a sort of dispensation, her presence in the White
House was a tradeoff for having to endure Ham Tyler as Attorney General. 

     But Vir...poor, stupid Vir, deluded Vir, Vir who had somehow
stumbled across the name of Ptahepe and, in uttering it, had drawn a huge
target on his back.  What was going to happen to him now?  Mollary had to
get him out of the horrific situation that he had hurled himself blindly
into.
     Friends, lovers.  They were liabilities to him, he understood that
now.  Luxuries he simply couldn't afford.  For as long as they were
around, he would continue to fool himself into thinking that he could
have something vaguely approaching a normal life.
     He entered his quarters and stopped dead.
     Adele was in his bed.
     Draped across the top of the bed, she was dressed in an alluring
nightgown, with an inviting smile playing across her face.  Not even on
their honeymoon, the requisite consummation of their marriage, had she
looked so glad to see him.
     "Hiya, Mollary," she said. "Thought you'd never get here."
     "You can't be serious," he told her.
     "Aw, don't sweat it," she assured him. "I know you've been drinking
a bit, and won't necessarily be at you're best..."
     "But...now?  Now?  Certainly, you can't be..."
     "Mollary," she said with a gentleness of which he would have thought
her incapable.  "I can be serious.  I am serious.  What reason could
there possibly be for me not to be serious.  Try to understand that."
     He did.  He wanted to take her in his arms, to love her.  But even
as he wanted it, he knew that it was impossible.  Those who were close to
Mollary, those whom he had loved, had a nasty habit of dying.  The
further that Adele was from him, the better, for her sake.
     And besides, he had the monstrosity sitting on his shoulder. What
if, in the act of love, she managed to detect it?  At the very least,
thanks to the keeper's presence, there would be no privacy.  Everything
that he and she felt and shared would become part of the awareness of the
Cylons' Imperious Leader.  The notion was ghastly, horrific.  Something
as personal, as private and intimate as that, belonging to those hideous
creatures?  It would be as if she were being raped without even knowing
it.  And he, Mollary, would be the instrument through which it had
occurred.
     He cleared his throat and tried to give his best impression of
someone seized with anticipation of an event that was eagerly awaited and
long in coming.  Adele, actually----Lords of Kobol help him----giggled in
a faintly girlish manner.  "Why, Mollary.  You seem positively nervous. 
I haven't you this nervous since our wedding night."
     "I was not nervous on our wedding night," he said archly, stalling
for time as his mind raced.
     "Oh, of course not. That's why you were trembling the entire night."
     "You left the windows open and there was a stiff draft."
     "And is anything ----stiff----this evening?" she asked.
     Mollary gulped.  He hardly recognized the woman.  She had never been
an enthusiastic bedmate, even in the earliest days, and he had just
written that off to a fundamental lack of interest on her part.  He was
beginning to perceive, however, that it wasn't lack of interest in the
act, so much as it was in him.
     For a moment, he considered it.  Then he felt the keeper stirring on
his shoulder, as if its own interest was piqued, and immediately he
dismissed the idea from his mind.  However, dismissing Adele was not
quite as easy.
     And it had to be done with finality.  There was no choice; he just
couldn't risk a recurrence of this night, not ever.
     He tugged uncomfortably at his shirt and said, "If you wouldn't
mind----I could use a few minutes to slip into something..."
     "More comfortable?"
     "Exactly, yes." He nodded.  He backed out of the room, never taking
his eyes off her.  He allowed his breath to steady, his pulse to slow so
that his heart wasn't hammering against his chest.
     And then he summoned Tyler.  Quickly, straightforwardly, he outlined
for Tyler exactly what he wanted done.  The minister's eyes widened as
Mollary explained it.  Of course, this was something that was solidly
within Tyler's comfort zone; indeed, he would probably enjoy it, for
Mollary knew all too well that there was no love lost between Tyler and
Adele.  The unjustness of it rankled at Mollary; of the three of them
this night, the only one who would actually have a pleasant evening was
Tyler, who was certainly the least entitled.  Truly, the Lords of Kobol
had a perverse sense of humor on some nights.

*****     

     Adele was beginning to wonder if Mollary would ever return.  It was
one of those situations where one starts to ponder how long one would
stay before realizing that the person being waited for was not going to
show up.
     Then there was a sound at the door, and she looked up. Mollary was
standing there, smiling at her, dressed, indeed, in far more
loose-fitting attire.  He looked younger, more handsome, more vital than
when she'd first laid eyes on him.  Or perhaps it wasn't really him; 
perhaps it was here, or the way she was seeing him. 
     She said nothing then.  There didn't seem to be any need for words. 
He came to her then, lay with her, and kissed her more passionately than
she could ever recall.  She was stunned at the vehemence of it.  
     But why?
     Did he mean for it to last him for the entirety of their future, as
if this was it, the last time they would be together.
     Immediately she brushed the notion aside as ridiculous, paranoid. 
This was their time, and nothing was going to spoil the mo...
     The doors of the bedroom burst inward.  Mollary immediately sat up,
his head snapping around, and Adele saw that there were several guards
standing in the door.  In between them was Ham Tyler.
     "You had best have some incredibly good explanation for your
presence here, Tyler," growled Mollary.
     Tyler took two steps forward and said in a firm, unyielding voice,
"Your Excellency...I'm sorry to inform you that we've uncovered evidence
indicating that Siress Mollary was plotting against you."
     "What kind of bullshit...?!" Adele said immediately.  "You've gotta
be kidding!"
     "Do you think, Siress, I would charge you if I weren't one hundred
per-cent sure?" asked Tyler, reeking with disdain.  "I'm more than aware
of the gravity of the charge and everything that's involved.  So rest
assured that I wouldn't say this unless I knew it for a fact.  She's got
allies, Excellency.  Allies who'd like nothing better than to see you
removed from office.  She's to search out that weakness, and when she's
compiled them, she and her allies will strike."
     "Mollary, for God's sake, throw this bastard out!" Adele said, her
rage building. "Don't listen to these crazies!  They...he..."
     Mollary was looking at her in a way that she couldn't even begin to
decipher.  It seemed to be a mixture of anger and horror and infinite
loss.
     "I should have known," he said quietly.
     The immensity of the meaning implicit in those words stunned her at
first. "You----you can't actually be saying that you believe these
sons-of-bitches!  You..."
     "Why else!" he demanded. "Why else would you embark on this
seduction!  What was it to be, eh, Earthling?  Poison, perhaps?  Or a
simple knife between the ribs?  Or did you just want me to lower my guard
sufficiently so that I would tell you something you could use against
me?"
     "Mollary!" She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. In absence of
anything else, rage began to eat her alive.  "You'd actually think I'd
pull something like that?  Me?!"
     "Get out of here," he whispered.
     "Mollary...?"
     "Get out of here!"  he fairly exploded. "Take her away!  Lock her
up!  Now!"
     "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" she shrieked as she got to her
feet, and then the guards were upon her, dragging her out.

*****     

     Mollary watched her being pulled away.  He felt as if his heart was
being ripped out along with her.  Her voice echoed up and down the
hallway, her protests, her voicing of her hurt, but there was nothing he
could do.  Nothing he dared do.  He was still shuddering inwardly at the
vomit feeling he'd had of the Cylon watching his final, amorous moments
with her in a sort of clinical manner, as if he were not a man but a
laboratory specimen being put through his paces.
     Tyler approached Mollary.  He had never seemed quite so tentative
before.  He said in a low voice, "Enough, Excellency?"
     Mollary couldn't even stand to look at him.  "Get out," he said in a
voice that sounded as if it were being issued from somewhere beyond the
grave.
     For once in his life, Ham Tyler was wise enough to leave a room
without endeavoring to have the final say.

*****     

Chapter 22

     The next morning, Adele was brought before him.  It ached Mollary
just to look at her, but he kept is face impassive...as deadpan as
Adele's own was.  Guards on either reside of Adele, watching her wearily. 
Mollary thought their caution was rather amusing in its way, as if they
were convinced that somehow this small woman would overwhelm them.
     He sat behind his desk in the Oval Office,, with Tyler standing
nearby, watching with narrowed eyes.
     "Adele C. Vaughn, also known as Siress Mollary," Mollary intoned,
"evidence has been uncovered that indicates treasonous activities on you
part against my government."
     "Oh, I'm damn sure it has," she said crisply.
     "If you are tried...you will be condemned."
     This comment clearly startled Tyler.  He turned and looked at
Mollary and said, " 'If' she's tried, Excellency?  Surely..."
     'It is our decision," Mollary continued, as if Tyler had not spoken,
"that such a trial is not in keeping with the more forgiving and tolerant
tone of this administration and the United States of America.  My
administration's cause, at present, is to heal rifts and build for a
greater Earth.  That cause will not be served by the condemnation and
execution of the wife of the Ruler of the Earth.  If forced to take that
road...we will walk it, of course.  But we are offering you the
opportunity to depart, now and forever.  You will maintain your title and
station, but you will never come within one hundred miles of the White
House.  And if you persist in seditious activities, this case will be
reopened and reexamined.  That is the offer I am making to you, Siress."
He paused, and then added, "I suggest you take it."
     She regarded him for a long moment. "What was it, Mollary?  Was it
that I reminded you too much of the man you had been---and could be?  Or
was it that I reminded you too much of the man you are.  For you to buy
into some trumped-up charges..."
     "What is your decision, Siress?" he said coldly.
     "Well, let me think," she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. 
"Either I can choose certain death...or I can choose the option of
keeping away from a  place that I never want to set foot in again, and
refraining from activities that I never embarked upon to begin with. 
What a difficult choice.  The latter, I should think."
     "Very well.  Your belongings have already been packed for you. 
Personnel will be provided for you to escort you to wherever you wish to
go."
     "I wish I could escort you to where I wish you would go,"  Adele
shot back. "Or was that a seditious thing to say."
     "No.  Simply rude.  Goodbye, Adele."  For a moment his voice caught
and then, sounding husky and forced, he said, "Enjoy...your life."
     Not sounding the least bit conflicted, Adele shot back, "Goodbye,
Mollary.  May you rot in hell."
     When she was gone, Tyler turned to Mollary and began,
"Excellency...that might not have been the right thing to do.  Leniency
could be viewed as weakness, in some quarters."
     "Tyler," Mollary said very softly, "if you say one more word---just
one----I will demonstrate my strength of moral character by breaking your
neck with my bare hands.  Yes?"
     Tyler, wisely, said nothing.
     Mollary walked away from him then and out into the hallway...only to
discover Amber   running toward him, looking quite distressed.  He could
surmise the reason.  He tried to walk past her but she would have none of
it, instead saying, "Excellency!  Adele, she----I---I thought everything
was going so..." She threw up her hands in frustration.  "I don't get
it!"
     "If the blessings of the Lords of Kobol are with you, Amber,"
Mollary said, "you never will." And he headed off down the hallway.

*****     

     Vir looked up forlornly as the door to the cell opened, and he gaped
in astonishment when he saw Mollary standing there.  
     "What am I doing here, Mollary?" he demanded.
     Mollary glanced at the manacles and then called to the guards,
"Unlock him.  Release him."
     "Release...you mean it's over?  I can go?  I..."
     One of the guards walked in with the key and undid his manacles. 
They popped open and Vir rubbed his wrists, looking in utter confusion at
Mollary.
     "It was a misunderstanding," Mollary said.
     "A what? Mollary, you knocked me cold with a bottle of ambrosa! 
Just because I said a name!"
     "A name," Mollary replied, "that, if you are very, very wise, you
will never say to anyone, anywhere, ever again."
     "Mollary, listen to me..."
     "No, Vir.  I am Ruler of the Earth now.  I don't have to listen. 
That is one of the conveniences.  You will listen.  I will speak.  And
then you will leave."  He took a deep breath, glanced at his shoulder,
and then said, "We have different roads to walk down, Vir, you and I. 
And we must watch each other from a distance.  Do you understand?  A
distance! The thing is...we cannot be hurt.  Not really.  Death holds no
terror for either of us."
     "It...it doesn't?"
     "No.  For we are protected, we two.  Both of us.  Protected by
visions, protected by prophecy.  You know of what I speak."
     Vir, in fact, did.  He knew of Mollary's prophetic dream wherein he
had seen himself, an old man, dying at the hands of Kar.
     And Vir had been present when Siress Morella had made a prediction
that both of them would lead the descendants of the Thirteenth Tribe
toward their salvation, with one picking up where the other would leave
off upon his death.  But she had not been as to who would be the first to
do so. Obviously it had been Mollary.  That meant that Vir would continue
the work upon Mollary's passing, which meant that---until Vir actually
took over---he was safe from harm.  At least, from fatal harm.
     "We can tempt our fates," continued Mollary, "but ultimately, they
should be on our sides.  Each of us, in our way and to a degree---is
invincible.  However, it is a funny thing about the fates.  It's not wise
to push them too far, because they have a tendency to push back.  So---I
suggest we pursue our destinies at a comfortable distance from one
another, lest our mutual fates become crossed, and the result is to the
liking of neither of us.  So----promise me that you will not speak of
these matters again.  That you will return to the Galactica, and keep
your head out of the line of fire.  Can you promise me that, Vir?"
     Vir gave it a long moment's thought.
     "No. I'm sorry, Mollary----I can't," he said finally. "I will never
stop hoping that you retreat from the road that you're walking.  I will
never stop searching for a means to turn you away from it.  And I will
never stop being your friend---even if, eventually, I find that I have
become your enemy."
     At which point, Vir firmly expected that the manacles would be
reattached to his hands, and that he would be tossed back into his cell,
to be forgotten by all.
     Instead, Mollary smiled. Then he patted Vir on the shoulder and
said, "Close enough." He gestured for the guards to follow him, and
moments later, Vir was alone in the cell, the door wide open.
     "Mollary?" Vir called cautiously.
     At that point, Vir was just paranoid enough to believe that---if he
chose to walk through the door---he might be shot under the guise of
being an escaped prisoner.  But when he stuck his head out...fully
prepared for it to be blown off...he saw no one in the hall.
     He walked cautiously down the hallway, then saw a door standing open
at the end.  He emerged into sunlight, possibly the sunniest day on
Earth, he thought.
     Sunny----but there was a chill, as well.  Although he couldn't quite
be sure whether the chill was in the air, or in him.
     As soon as he had taken several steps away, the door slammed shut
behind him.  Vir turned and saw that he was outside the White House. 
There was no way back in.  That was all right with him; there really
wasn't any place in there for him anymore.  At least, not for the time
being.

*****     

     Ham Tyler felt as if he was having a reasonably good day.  It wasn't
going exactly the way he had hoped...but all in all, it wasn't bad.  He
settled in behind his desk, prepared for the rest of the day to be fairly
productive.
     At that point, Gross showed up, all joviality and pleasantry, and
brought Tyler the information he had requested.  Calmly and methodically,
he went over each name as Tyler nodded, and listened to each one, and
acted as if he cared about any of them aside from the one he was waiting
for.  
     Then Gross got to Dixie and her activities---where she had been,
what she had been up to, and, most significantly, whom she had been up to
it with.
     Tyler managed to contain his reaction, instead simply nodding and
taking in that bit of information with the same equanimity with which he
had attended to the other names.  He actually managed to wait until after
Gross had left and was a significant distance from his office before he
had let out an agonized and strangled scream.
     At that point, he didn't know whom he wanted to kill more:  Vir, for
whom he had no assassination plans up until that point, or Mollary, for
whom he had a very detailed assassination plan all worked out.  Either
one, however, would give him extreme satisfaction.

*****

     In his private quarters, Sire Mollary watched the slowly receding
figure of Adele, walking proudly away down the main walk, head held high,
dignity intact.  He thought, for some reason, that he heard a distant
scream, and decided that it was just his soul giving voice to its
feelings.

*****     

     Vir walked the perimeter of the White House, heading toward the main
street.  As he did so, he saw, not far away, Adele C. Vaughn.  She and a
small entourage of guards were heading in the other direction.  For just
a moment, he was sure she clearly spotted him out of the corner of her
eye, as she cast a half glance in his direction.  Then, thrusting her
chin out slightly, she pointedly turned away from him and walked off in
another direction.
     "Hello?  Are you busy?"
     The voice startled him.  It came from his immediate right.  He
turned and saw, standing at the mouth of an alleyway, a cloaked figure
who he was already coming to know quite well.  On either side of the
figure, however, stood two more cloaked individuals whom he didn't know
at all, one male, one female.
     "Actually, 
     As Vir departed the Galactica, he didn't notice Koma watching him
go, nor did he see two other similarly robed figures who were standing
beside Koma, one male, one female.
     "Actually, Koma, I'm not busy at all.  Who are your associates?"
     "These?" He nodded to the female and male in turn and said,
"Purnia...Kris...this is Vir.  Vir here is going to help us save the
galaxy...providing he's not doing anything important at the moment."
     "No," Vir said, glancing in the direction of the White House, which
now seemed very far off. "I won't be doing anything especially important
for...oh, I'd guess at least a decade or so."
     Purnia looked him up and down with open skepticism.  "Are you sure
he's going to be of use to us?"
     'Oh, absolutely," Vir responded, as if she had addressed him.  "You
see...I'm invincible."
     "You're very fortunate," said Kris.
     And Vir thought that, far off in one of the upper White House
windows, he could see the small, distant and vague outline of Sire
Mollary, looking out at the city and then turning away.
     "More fortunate than some," said Vir. "Far more fortunate...than
some."

THE END