Homecoming
                         by Fran Severn

     When Suss picked up the life signs, he was sure his instruments were 
malfunctioning. Nothing living belonged in this system. The planets were too 
small, had too little atmosphere, and were too far from supply routes.
     But when he orbited the chunk of rock for a second time, they were there 
again. Barely registering, but then, his gear was set to find mineral 
deposits, not settlements.
     Could be a smuggler, he thought, trying to avoid detection. Could be 
another prospector, scouting out this same system. Could be a slaver, waiting 
to catch him unawares. 
     He could just go away. The planet did not look promising. None of them in 
this system did. If the life signs were coming from another prospector, that 
craft would probably be happy to see Suss leave. Still, it could be someone 
needing help. A misfortune for the other guy; a bonus for him.
     The wreckage was easy to spot. Two sites of  blackened, shattered metal 
stood out against the dull reds of the planet. Not a chance of anything alive 
in either of them, he was sure. 
     He found an intact ship over the next rise. He'd seen holophotos of many 
craft, but nothing like this flew in the Hegemony, not that he could recall, 
anyway. It was dull gray and lozenge-shaped. He could see no signs of damage. 
     He set the scout down in an open area and waddled through the stiff wind. 
The planet's gravity was a little light for his squat, heavy-density, 
Palmerian frame, and it was bitterly, bitterly cold. None of that would bother 
him for a short while he expected to be on the surface.
     Several metallic shapes lay near the ship. He'd seen these on holophotos 
and late-hour, general consumption, tabloid news feeds. Cycron, Cybron, CY-
something. Suss shivered. Rumors of a war and holocaust precipitated by those 
creatures in a distant quadrant had reached the Hegemony. This system was 
distant from even the most remote Rim planets, but he still did not like the 
idea of that fight coming anywhere near here. 
     Wires led from the craft to an opening in a rock wall. Suss checked his 
portable monitor. The life signs came from there. A metal door blocked the 
opening. From the scored edges and dents, Suss guessed it had been salvaged 
from the wreckage nearby. He pushed it aside easily. He didn't worry about 
being unarmed. Whatever was inside was either injured or in stasis. Even if it 
wasn't, anything short of a pure energy beam would have trouble slowing him 
down.
     Suss expected to find another Cy-thing, but he was surprised. The source 
of the life signs was human. Suss grunted in surprised. Didn't see many of 
them in the Hegemony, much less 'way out here. They weren't designed for this 
kind of exploration. Too fragile, too susceptible to the elements.
     That appeared to be what had almost done this one in. He was curled up by 
the burned out remains of a small fire, huddled under a survival blanket in a 
feeble effort to combat the cold, thin air. He was wearing some sort of a 
uniform, the buckles of the jacket snapped shut. Just under two meters tall, 
hair the color of a Crispin beach, frighteningly thin and frail-looking, but 
Suss knew that all humans looked that way, even the healthy ones.
     The Palmerian touched the human's face. It was cool and the skin was 
faintly blue. He seemed to remember that the species was warm and red-blooded.
     Suss lifted him. He was able to carry kilos of heavy ore in his massive 
arms without straining. The pilot weighed no more than a newborn pup.
     Back at the scout, Suss pulled the clothing from the human and laid him 
on the med-site. He called up human specs from the computer, then reset the 
med-site for a lighter gravity and covered the human with a thermal cover, 
setting that to gradually raise the heat. Too fast was as risky as too slow, 
according to the read-out. Suss grunted. It probably wouldn't matter. This one 
was too far gone. He probably wouldn't make it. Too bad; he could use the 
company, and he guessed that the fighter had some good stories to tell. 
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     They'd tried. She never doubted that they would. Every patrol visited 
areas and monitored frequencies they'd otherwise ignore. Any anomaly on any 
scan was investigated. Each lead, no matter how remote, was followed. 
     And still he was gone.
     The fleet had kept moving. Adama had slowed it as much as he dared, 
claiming it was to give some of the ships a chance to effect repairs while 
their engines were running at less than full power. She'd seen the same hope 
in his eyes when a new possibility was raised; the same defeat when it was 
crushed.
     She'd looked up the regs. For 30 days, he'd be MIA. After that, there was 
an addendum: "PK"-- Presumed Killed.
     It was day 30.
     A box sat on the floor by her bunk. Col. Tigh had delivered it earlier 
that day. He'd  stood awkwardly in her doorway, searching for something to 
say. 
     "Personal effects," he managed finally. He held out the box. 
     She'd taken it from him and tried to look thankful. It was so damned 
small and so light. 
     "I thought Starbuck would want you to have them." 
     "Thank you."
     Tigh hesitated. "I always thought he'd make it through," he blurted, then 
turned and hurried away.
     She sank to her knees and opened the box. Two battle uniforms, his dress 
cape and boots, a civilian shirt and pants, underwear, socks. A zippered bag 
with soap, shampoo and his razor. A bottle of aftershave. A wooden box holding 
a few fumarillos and a box of matches. Two sets of Pyramid cards. Two 
holophotos of her. A small box containing his Star Cluster. A data pad with 
his service record. Another with his logbook. A couple of technical manuals 
about the Viper. A few notes about a gambling system scribbled on a pad. A 
hand-held calculator.
     That was it. Starbuck had never had much and had never seemed to want 
much in the way of possessions, but this seemed so very little. A whole life, 
a whole person, and so little to show that he'd ever lived. 
     Someone tapped at her door. Boomer was outside, his face impassive to 
anyone walking by. She knew him well enough to know that only masked his 
emotions. 
     They walked quietly to the O Club. Apollo and Sheba were already there, 
sitting at a back table. It was still early. Most of the pilots and officers 
were still at their duty stations.
     No memorial was planned, no service, nothing official. The squadrons lost 
too many people to do that. It was bad for morale. Goodbyes were said in 
private.
     Apollo stood as they approached. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. 
Sheba's red eyes showed she'd been crying. Oddly enough, Cassie found she was 
past the point of tears. She wanted to stay calm. She did not want anyone to 
ever think less of Starbuck by the way she looked or acted. She wanted them to 
think she'd been worthy of him.
     "I keep thinking there's something else we could have done," Apollo said.
     "I never should have left him," Boomer said. "If we knew where he landed, 
we could have convinced the Commander to let us go back."
     "Don't do that to yourself," Cassie said. "You know you tried everything, 
and so did the Commander."
     Boomer huddled over his tankard and cupped it in both hands. "I can take 
going out on the launch deck and not seeing his Viper. I just tell myself that 
he's on patrol. But it's the empty storage cube next to mine. He was forever 
running out of something and stealing mine, then stashing it in his cube. I'd 
give a lot to be mad at him about that now."
     Cass patted his arm. "There's some stuff in the box Col. Tigh dropped 
off. Maybe you should check it." She finished her drink and looked at the bar. 
The regulars had their tankards hanging from a rack over the bar. "Do you 
think they'd mind leaving his tankard in here?"
     "They have to," Sheba said, "so he can have a cold one when he gets 
home."
     "Sheba..." Apollo began.
     "I won't accept that Starbuck's gone." She set her jaw stubbornly. "He'll 
get home. Somehow."
     "Hold that thought," Cassie said. She was able to smile a little. Strong, 
loyal friends. He'd been blessed. "I'm a little tired," she said. "No, Boomer, 
you don't have to walk me back," she said as he rose.
     "I want to," he answered. "Besides, if any of us leaves you alone 
tonight, we won't hear the end of it when he gets back."
     Sheba hugged her tightly. Both women were misty-eyed. 
     "Let him go, Sheba," Apollo said when Cassie and Boomer left.
     "No. I won't. I can't."
     Apollo stared at the table.
     "Why?" she said. "I could accept it if I just knew why."
     "Because we're at war and Starbuck was a Warrior and Warriors take 
chances and Warriors die," Apollo said wearily.
     Sheba took death and defeat as enemies and stayed angry at them. "The 
lights. The Seraphs. They brought you back. Why not Starbuck?"
     "You told me they said it wasn't my time."
     She nodded.
     "So it must have been his." He put his hand over his eyes.
     "I won't give up hope."
     Apollo said nothing. He was a squadron commander. Rarely did he finish a 
quatron with as many Warriors as he started. Part of his job was sending his 
companions, his friends, out on missions from which they didn't return. He'd 
long ago found that giving up hope was less painful than wishing forever. He 
envied Sheba her faith.
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     "I was always taught that it's impolite to stare," he said. He refused to 
try to see his observer. He laid still, staring at the ceiling.
     "You can't be afraid that I'll jump up and grab you," he continued. "So 
why not have the courtesy of letting me get a good look at you?"
     More silence. Fine. Let them stare. He closed his eyes.
     "You are my first human," a voice said behind him. It was smooth and 
liquid. It almost gargled. "A good specimen, according to the specs."
     It finally moved to the side of the cot, where Starbuck could look at it. 
It was long-limbed, gray-green, looking loose and springy. The skin was 
covered with black-tipped nodules. It gave off a faint hint of rotting 
vegetation.
     "You will command a most satisfying price."
     "Humans aren't slaves."
     It pointed a many-jointed digit at him. "This one is," he crooned. The 
finger traced the line of his jaw, his shoulder and down his arm. It left an 
oily residue like slime from a Piscon garden slug.
     It began to pace the perimeter of the cot. Starbuck tried to follow him 
with his eyes for one circuit, then decided not to play the game. He forced 
himself to relax, to continue staring at the ceiling. "I have many questions. 
Your clothing. Your weapon. Both are new to me. Explain them."
     Starbuck wondered if he could feign the real weakness he'd felt when he'd 
awakened on Suss' scout. He wanted to buy himself some time. His resistance 
courses covered torture by Cylons and others hostile to the Colonists. He 
wasn't sure exactly where the slaver fit.
     The creature palmed a wafer-thin, opaque sheet and pressed it against 
Starbuck's temple. Blinding pain filled his head.
     "You will feel nothing but this pain whenever you think of anything other 
than the answers to my questions," the voice said, soft and soothing. "The 
pain and my voice are all that exist in the universe." The being pulled the 
sheet away. Gasping, Starbuck forced himself to meet the creature's gaze. This 
guy was easier to hate than the Cylons.
     "Since you are human and new to the Hegemony, I'll assume you do not 
understand your position. I will give you a second chance. Next time, the 
wafer stays on until I am satisfied. Explain yourself."
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     M'ya tok gaped as his ship approached the Galactica. The massive craft 
was the spearhead of a long line of vessels. He was amazed at the variety of 
sizes and types of craft in the convoy. Everything from interstellar 
transports to tiny vessels that looked as though they should not be flying at 
all, much less struggling along as part of this exodus.
     But the lead ship -- the Battlestar -- was unlike anything he had ever 
seen, beyond anything he had ever imagined. The crews that had already made 
contact and visited the ship had not exaggerated. Even in the silence of 
space, the ship seemed to throb with an audible power. Her crew alone had to 
number in the thousands; he could barely guess at the passenger compliment.
     Impressed as he was, M'ya tok was also concerned. This fleet was fleeing 
the destruction of its home worlds. He'd been told there had once been twelve 
battlestars, but only this one survived the war. What sort of enemy could 
conquer such ships?
     His craft was dwarfed by the maw of the landing bay. M'ya tok was jostled 
as it passed through the gravity barrier and entered the atmosphere extending 
outward from the ship.
     He checked his appearance in the reflection of the cockpit glass. A large 
ruff of dark blue hair covered the back of his skull, coming forward to the 
two, tiny, perfectly round ears. His deep-set eyes were darker than his hair 
and were framed by curving folds. Four pairs of folds bisected his face, 
joining in the center at the indentation that held his olfactory sensors. A 
long, thin, straight mouth provided a counterpoint to the folds. He brushed an 
imagined hint of lint from his clothing with a broad, 3-fingered hand. His 
robes accented the grace with which he moved, a reflection of the confidence 
of those who were in command and belonged there. 
     Satisfied, he smiled at his image. Truly, the Hegemony could not have 
sent a finer-looking representative of the Diland race.
     He glanced at the others in the delegation, Dilands all. From what he had 
learned, these humans were not used to dealing with many races other than 
their own. Best to introduce them to the variety of life forms in the Hegemony 
slowly. Besides, he thought as his pilot landed with the softest of 
touchdowns, so many of the other races were so --- common. The less the humans 
knew of them, the better. At least until the Hegemony decided what to do about 
the humans themselves.
     The welcoming committee from the Galactica was waiting as the Dilands 
stepped onto the landing bay. As senior delegate, M'ya tok was the last to 
leave his ship. He sniffed the air appraisingly. Recycled, but basically 
clean. Even the expected scents of a flight deck -- propellants, lubricants, 
cleaning fluids -- were muted. That spoke well of their level of technology. 
Less developed groups would not be bothered with the almost petty 
environmental concerns.
     A small group of humans approached. M'ya tok palmed his translator. The 
humans were not skilled in Basic, and he had not had enough time to master any 
of their languages. Their mechanical ability was impressive, but they had not 
yet developed a common tongue. Hence the need for translators. 
     The leader of the humans -- a small, wizened-looking man -- bowed as he 
stopped before M'ya tok. 
     "Welcome," he said. "I am Sire Dumra, president of the Council of the 
Twelve, the civilian government of this fleet. May I present the other members 
of my committee?" He turned slightly and gestured toward a tall, thin-faced 
woman dressed in flowing lavender robes. "Siress Tinia." She bowed slightly. 
M'ya tok approved of the way the lights in the landing bay reflected off her 
dark, carefully-braided hair.
     "It is my deepest pleasure to welcome you," she said.
     "As we are under martial law," Dumra continued, the translator picking up 
the President's distaste for the situation, "the leader of this fleet is the 
commander of this battlestar, Adama."
     Dumra be damned, this man was the master of this trio. Authority emanated 
from him. He bowed very slightly, his eyes assessing M'ya tok, the other 
members of his group, the design of his craft and M'ya tok's mutual assessment 
of him, Dumra, Tinia and the battlestar.
     "Welcome, Sire M'ya tok. It is my great pleasure to welcome you aboard 
the Galactica," he said in a voice that demanded attention. He gestured toward 
a large lift. An honor guard of tan-uniformed men and women snapped to 
attention as they turned. "The full Council is eager to meet you," he 
continued. The woman, Tinia, was a half-step behind them. Dumra, he noted, 
followed far in their wake.
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     The prod-carrying guard pushed Starbuck forward.
     "Here's a special one," Gla Pri said. "A human. Young. Strong. Don't get 
many of them out here. He was working as crew on a prospector's scout. Ought 
to last the whole harvest."
     If the manager was curious about the appearance of a human, he hid it 
well. "Fine," he said, barely glancing in his direction. The prod guard 
gestured, and Starbuck moved to the pen away from the Fulalns. 
     He started to pass by a small shack at the gate of the pen. The prod 
guard pushed him inside. It was dark and hot and smelled of something burning. 
     Large, strong paws grabbed him and gripped his head. He caught the motion 
of someone moving toward him, holding something glowing. Before he could 
struggle, the glow was pressing into his face, burning into his cheek. 
     There were voices, laughter. Starbuck forgot his slim grasp of Basic in 
the shock and the pain. The brand was pulled away and a splash of cold liquid 
landed on the burn. Then he was pitched outside into the soggy ground of the 
holding pen.
     More hands grabbed him. More guards. "Won't need these!" someone was 
saying as they pulled off his boots. "Drag you down." His wrist shackles were 
snapped off and he was finally left alone.
     He lay in the mud, his eyes tearing from pain, not sunlight. After a 
while, he was able to sit up and gingerly fingered the burn. The other new 
slaves -- all with fresh, red, raw brands -- looked as dazed as he felt. 
     
     They were there to harvest deloque, a delicacy found only in the swamps 
of a few, widely scattered worlds of the Hegemony. Plentiful enough where it 
grew, but hard to harvest. Machines could not function for long when half-
submerged. None of the planets could support a population large enough to 
provide manpower for the harvest. Migrant, paid labor could not afford the 
passage to the planets. Besides, paying them would only run up the already 
high costs of the musky, savory, ambrosa-red fruit. 
     Slaves were the solution. Cheap, plentiful, they could work until they 
dropped or drowned. If they made it through the harvest, they'd be sold off 
again, adding to the profits. If not, they were a legitimate business expense. 
No need for shelters; when night fell, they could crawl out of the muck onto 
whatever spot of higher ground they could find and wait for first light. There 
was no need for daily food rations, they could eat whatever appealed to them -
- vegetation, small reptiles, insects, as long as it wasn't deloque.
     The one slave who disobeyed that order died. It happened so quickly, 
Starbuck later thought he'd imagined it. 
     It was early morning. He'd wakened in the still grayness, sensing 
something moving near him. He tensed. Larger, hungry creatures of the swamp 
sometimes worked up enough nerve to feed off the slaves. He'd learned to spend 
the night in the center of whatever group he was with. The guards also liked 
to patrol among the captives, picking some to randomly taunt and knock around. 
For the most part, he'd been left alone. The guards seemed uncertain of what 
to make of the human, limiting their fun to the races where they could predict 
the reaction. 
     
     Heavy rains had started two -- or maybe three -- sectons ago. He'd lost 
track. It wasn't just rain. Powerful thunderstorms rolled above them, spears 
of lightning lacing across the black, roiling clouds. The storms seemed to 
start spontaneously and last for centars.
     It was the change of seasons, the other slaves explained. It meant the 
harvest was almost over. By his reckoning, about half of the slaves had 
survived. The others had collapsed from exhaustion and starvation, or fallen 
victim to the creatures that moved among the reeds and roots in the night. The 
survivors were moving back toward the base camp where they'd started. Once 
there, they'd be packed into the hold of some ship and taken to be sold 
elsewhere. He hoped it would at least be someplace dry.
     He squeezed water from the sleeves of his tunic. He'd peeled it off in 
the heat before he'd worked a full day and wore it tied around his neck. The 
shirt provided scant protection from the insects that dined on his arms, back 
and chest as though he was an imported delicacy. At night, it made a thin 
cushion against a tree trunk or the sharp marsh grasses. The rank and squadron 
insignia pressed against his face, leaving one imprint he didn't mind. 
     Once it began to heal, he hardly thought about the brand. It did not 
become infected, though only the gods knew why not. There was a numb tightness 
under his left eye. That was all. He guessed he was lucky he hadn't been able 
to move away, or the branding piece might have gone high of the mark. 
     An airboat carrying fresh guards flew towards them, kicking up spray. The 
large, rear-mounted fan propelled the downpour in all directions. If it was 
possible to become even more waterlogged, they did. 
     If there was any consolation, it was that the guards were as hot, wet and 
miserable as the slaves. This group were all relatives of the porcine manager, 
Starbuck decided, ne'er-do-well cousins and brothers-in-law and other familial 
misfits all banished to this nameless world to make their fortunes before 
being readmitted to the good graces of their loved ones. 
     Unfortunately, in addition to their bad looks, they shared bad tempers. 
As the deluge continued, they were seeing the last of the deloque disappear 
under the rising waters of the swamp. They pushed the slaves to move faster, 
but the prisoners were hampered by the new, stronger currents swirling among 
the trees. 
     Starbuck was among the tallest and strongest of the slaves, and even he 
was having trouble keeping his footing and gathering the fruit. More than once 
the ground dropped off unexpectedly, and he went under, coughing up foul-
tasting water while he grabbed for a secure tree limb when he came back up.
     They were pushing the slaves to move faster now, as the group Starbuck 
was with slogged on the edge of a stand of trees. The very tops of the marsh 
grasses were all that was visible. He seemed to remember sleeping in the reeds 
when they worked this area before.  
     A guard pointed toward a deloque bush and used his prod to aim a slave 
toward it. She was half Starbuck's height, covered with short, now-matted, 
golden fur. Two dark lines ran from either side of her pursed mouth, coming in 
to frame a dark, square nose before ending just beyond her equally-dark, 
almond-shaped eyes. Her limbs were long and thin out of proportion to her 
body, and she moved with a confident, easy grace. The strength of her look 
made the guards back off, as though they were under her command. It also meant 
they took pains to give her extra attention.
     They'd spoken a few times in the few minutes between darkness and 
exhausted sleep. She never told him her name or that of her race. She'd been a 
passenger on a freighter headed for a meeting of those who weren't supporters 
of the Hegemony, when they were overtaken by a well-armed slaver.
     "Gla Pri?" Starbuck asked.
     She nodded, her cat-like irises growing narrower at the sound of his 
name. "He is very well connected with the Dilands," she whispered. "They use 
him to dispose of dissidents."
     He told her his story. She was sympathetic and she gave him news. "There 
was word about a number of unknown vessels on the edge of the Hegemony before 
I was taken. It could only be your fleet. They will rescue you."
     "How? They aren't looking for me. They think I'm dead."
     "Word of a human in the slave market will make the rounds. If your fleet 
trades with the Hegemony at all, they'll find a merchant trader who's heard 
about you." She purred. "All you must do is stay alive." She touched his arm 
with a small, furred hand. "Remember me when you are free. Remember all of us. 
I hope your friends find you, then I hope you lead them to destroy the 
Dilands."
     "Would you settle for Gla Pri?"
     "As a start, yes."
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     There had been great discussions at the highest levels of the Hegemony 
Core. The skills and benefits the humans brought with them made their 
continued presence most desirable. If the Council of the Twelve was 
interested, the Hegemony would investigate appropriate planets where the 
Colonists could resettle. Those that wanted to, of course. If there were some 
who wished to continue the quest for Earth, they would be outfitted with 
everything the Hegemony could provide to help them on their way.
     Siress Tinia caught Adama's eye as the invitation was announced. She 
pursed her lips as if to remind him of their conversation. He didn't need it. 
     "It is certainly a most agreeable offer," Dumra said on the shuttle back 
to the Galactica. With all of the members of the Council on board, the flight 
had become an unofficial Council meeting. There was no way of keeping the 
offer secret. The other captains and guests from the other ships would spread 
the word as quickly as a cold through a crowd. 
     "Would we have to share planets or would we each have our own, like in 
the Colonies?" This from Sire Oblaas of Sagitara. He rearranged his headpiece 
so that the cloth continued to hide his face. Only his dark eyes showed from 
behind the cloth. Living with the other Colonists and their more relaxed 
clothing standards had been hard on the survivors of his planet.
     "That will remain to be seen," Dumra said. "Certainly, there would be 
room for each tribe to live independently, I would think. After all, we've 
largely managed to do that on the fleet ships."
     "You've isolated yourself well enough that you believe that, my good Sire."
Adama watched the others. None of  them seemed to have any thought other
than accepting the Hegemony's offer.
     The conversation continued. He couldn't call it a discussion, for there 
was only one point-of-view expressed: the fleet should end its exodus and 
settle in the Hegemony.
     "You are maintaining an unusual silence, Commander Adama," Siress Tinia 
said. "What do you think we should do?"
     "I worry about our hosts," Adama said. Worry what they are up to, though 
I can't for the life of me say why I feel that way. "I fear we may repay their 
generosity by leading the Cylons to them. I fear their peaceful lives will be 
disrupted by our war."
     "But surely, Commander, you can not truly believe that the Cylons are 
still in pursuit!" Dumra looked around the Council members, checking to insure 
that they shared his opinion. "We have not had any contact with them for many 
quatrons."
     Adama bowed his head. "You are absolutely correct, Mr. President. I've 
been accused of not knowing when to recognize change when it comes. For so 
long, I have been required to think of nothing but the threats to the fleet. 
It is a habit that is hard to break. Perhaps the threats are finally gone, and 
it is now time for change. I pray with all of my being that if we decide to 
remain within the Hegemony, it is the right decision for our people."
     Dumra and the others, even Tinia, seemed satisfied with his answer. They 
resumed their chatting. Adama walked to the cockpit, where Apollo and Sheba 
were handling piloting duties. Boomer and Bojay stood behind them.
     "Do you think they'll actually vote to stay, Commander?" Sheba asked.
     "It's the sort of sure bet Starbuck would have loved," he said. He saw 
Apollo stiffen and noticed Sheba's startled look. She concentrated on the 
panel instruments. Boomer and Bojay were both silent.
     "I wonder what sort of work ex-Warriors will find," Bojay said finally.
     "I have a sinking feeling we'll end up piloting intra-system transports," 
Boomer said. "About as exciting and interesting as watching grass grow." He 
put his arm around Bojay. "Want to go into business together? I can see it 
now: B&B Transport Services."
     "Sure. It might be dull, but I bet it's profitable."
     "What if there are those who want to continue on to Earth?" Apollo asked. 
     "You heard the representatives," Adama said. "The Hegemony will outfit 
the ships with whatever they need and send them on their way."
     "You'd go on?" Sheba asked Apollo.
     He nodded. "We don't belong here. At least I don't. I think we were meant 
to find Earth."
     Adama rested his hand on his son's shoulder. "So do I."
     Sheba turned to look at him. "Will you stay, Commander?"
     "I don't know," he answered. "I don't know what role I would play in a 
new set of Colonies. What does an old war-daggit do when the war ends?"
     "The Cylons could show up again," Bojay said.
     "Once we're settled, we'd have no defense against them, nor would the 
Hegemony. I'm not eager to be at the head of another defeat, Lieutenant. That 
possibility alone is enough to keep me in space."
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     Starbuck winced as the auctioneer's assistant grabbed him by the arm and 
steered him off the platform. The broken arm was the worst of the mementos 
given to him by the porcine guards from the deloque harvest, although when he 
tried to take a deep breath, he guessed a couple of bruised or broken ribs had 
been tossed in as a special premium. What the hell, the dull aches were 
diversions from the fresh pain of the latest encounter with the branders.
     The roustabout took him to a sales desk. A stocky, hairless, leather-
skinned  creature with huge eyes glanced at him as he was delivered, then 
refocused his attention on the clerk.
     The paperwork took only a few minutes. The creature's credslip was 
approved, and he was handed the documents that verified the sale and ownership 
of the human.
     "You got your own brand?" one of the sales desk asked. 
     Starbuck tensed. He tightened his jaw and steeled himself. Here we go 
again.
     The wide-eyed buyer studied Starbuck's cheek. A fresh burn slashed 
through the mark that identified his previous owner. 
     "I'll take care of that myself." 
     "It's a free service."
     "Thank you, no."
     The clerk shrugged. Considering that it had numerous arms, it was an 
impressive performance. "Suit yourself. It's extra for the shackles if they're 
not branded."
     Wide-Eyes paid the price, including the supplement for the shackles, and 
led Starbuck out of the auction hall. 
     They moved quickly through the crowded streets. His new owner never 
looked back to see if Starbuck was following. He knew, as did the Warrior, 
that Starbuck didn't have any other choice. It wasn't as though he could 
exactly blend into the crowd. Even if he could, shackled, filthy, and dressed 
in rags, it would be hard to convince anyone he was something other than a 
runaway slave.
     He concentrated to keeping the fast pace set by his keeper. Part of him, 
a very large part, was reeling at the notion that he accepted that he was a 
slave. The other part was trying hard to convince himself that -- for the 
moment -- he had no choice. 
     The alien paused at an intersection and looked up and down the street, as 
though he was searching for something. He grunted, nodded, grabbed Starbuck's 
wrists and hurried them across the intersection as hovercars and large, long-
haul transports swept past.
     They stopped at a self-service mobile lodging. Several doors faced a 
small alleyway off the main street. Belangia inserted a thin card into a slot 
by the door. There was a click, and the door swung open.
     It was the sort of generic, all-species room such lodgings needed to be. 
A mattress imbedded into the floor for those who needed to be on the ground. A 
panel folded against the wall, which opened into another mattress. Metal 
tracks along the wall allowed the bed to be raised or lowered from the floor 
to a few inches from the ceiling, to accommodate heights and cultural 
preferences. A few cushions and simple chairs, one table, and several wall 
indentations at various heights completed the furnishings. There was a video 
transmission center built into one wall. 
     "Let's see what we have here," the creature said. It motioned Starbuck to 
the middle of the room. "Turn around." Starbuck did so, slowly. He wondered 
what kind of impression he was making. A great specimen of the human race: 
grimy, bruised, and half-starved.
     He finished his turn to find the alien had clasped his broad, flat hands 
together and was holding them under his chin. "Oh, yes. Yes!" it chirped in 
obvious delight. "Wonderful!"
     "I'm so glad I live up to your expectations," Starbuck said. He didn't 
try to hide the sarcasm in his voice. It might be risky, but he didn't think 
this new owner would punish him for a smart-ass remark, and he'd been unable 
to deliver such a remark for a long, long time. It felt pretty good. He held 
out his wrists, trying to angle them to favor his broken left arm. "Can you 
take these things off?"
     Belangia fluttered his hands. "Oh, that's quite impossible. Unbranded 
slaves must be kept shackled. It's the law."
     Starbuck gestured to his face. "This isn't a brand?" 
     "The old one has been canceled. Your new owner will apply his own mark."
     "You're not my... owner?" Saying the word left a bitter taste in his 
mouth.
     "Just an intermediary."
     Starbuck sighed. "Look, my arm's broken, and these things make it hurt 
like hell."
     "Broken?" The creature seemed alarmed.
     "Yeah, the bone is broken. I'm damaged goods."
     "Oh, dear." Belangia shook his head. "This could make your resale much 
more difficult."
     "What's wrong? You can't get a refund if you can't find a buyer?"
     "Of course not! All sales are final in the slave market."
     His matter-of-fact tone cut through the last of Starbuck's mental 
defenses. He sank onto the mattress on the floor, all the fight drained from 
him. He rested his arms on his knees and hung his head. On that first 
transport, so long ago, he'd vowed to hang on and somehow get home. He knew 
now that he'd been fooling himself. It's not over yet. You're just tired. The 
self-administered pep talk failed totally. Keep going for what? Harvest more 
deloque? The fleet's gone, Starbuck. You're dreaming if you think you'll ever 
see that hunk of metal in the middle of nowhere again.
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     W'yan oke knew about such things; he was no stranger to ambition. He'd 
spent years carefully cultivating connections throughout the Hegemony, 
planning his own political rise. M'ya tok was a newcomer, impatient and brash, 
young, and not suited to the intricate, albeit sometimes ruthless, 
maneuverings of the highest levels of the government. The Old Guard respected 
traditions and forms; even the bloodiest bloodless coups were performed with 
the highest level of civilization. That M'ya tok's straightforward manhandling 
of situations was often successful alarmed W'yan oke and other, more 
established leaders. It bespoke of a sorry lowering of standards within 
society. 
     But the arrival of Starbuck could change all of that. W'yan oke strolled 
through his garden as he thought through the situation. M'ya tok had 
positioned himself to take charge of the humans. It was he who reported to the 
Hegemony Core about the condition of their fleet, the wares they had to offer 
for sale or trade, their needs. It was he who suggested that they be invited 
to settle; he who was leading the survey for the appropriate planets for them. 
     Harmless enough. Even noble, not to mention profitable, for the Hegemony 
in general and the Dilands in particular. W'yan oke paused to smell the 
blooming jarzmin flowers that lined the walkway. Their heady scent followed 
him as he continued. 
     Add Gla Pri, however, and the situation changed. The slaver and M'ya tok 
were inexorably linked in the minds of the Hegemony Core. Not everyone in the 
Core Worlds appreciated the blatant working relationship between the two. 
Ambition and greed was one thing; publicly aligning yourself with the least 
tasteful elements of society to achieve your goals was something else.
     Not that slavery was socially unacceptable. It was the cornerstone of the 
commercial success of the Hegemony. Cheap, plentiful labor. Effective means of 
controlling the populations. Very profitable for those skilled in the dealings 
of the market. 
     But a fresh infusion of skilled, freeborn labor or of marketable, branded 
beings was something the Core needed to discuss. The implications about the 
effect of both of the existing commercial operations and the future economic 
planning for the Heg were substantial. Where would these humans be useful? 
Would they be one of the few races whose attributes rendered them above the 
threat of slavery? Would they be willing to accept the Dilands as their 
rightful rulers and administrators? 
     If there was any way to infer that M'ya tok had designs on the fate of 
the humans that had not been discussed and approved by the Hegemony Core, his 
reputation would be far more than tarnished. It would be as dead as a 
flattened wumfcat. 
     And the proof was under his roof -- responding, W'yan oke sincerely hoped 
-- to the tender ministrations of his physician. When it became known that a 
human from the fleet had been taken prisoner and sold as a slave by Gla Pri -- 
not once, but twice!! -- it would be obvious that M'ya tok was a maverick who 
planned to operate without the counsel or approval of the Core.
     Not to mention how the humans would react when they discovered the real 
intentions of their supposed benefactors.
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     "How's it going?"
     Boomer turned to see Apollo standing in the doorway of the loadmaster's 
office. 
     "What are you doing here?"
     "Checking up on things." Apollo wore the serious expression that screamed 
to the world that he was totally on duty.
     "Aren't you on furlon?"
     Apollo shrugged. Like Boomer, he was in uniform, but unarmed. "If I am, I 
guess I can spend it whatever way I want, can't I?"
     "Checking on supply shipments? That's a great way to relax."
     "I know you weren't real happy about this assignment. As long as I'm 
here, why don't you go on? I think Deitra and the other girls were heading for 
the shopping district."
     "I know where they're headed. Want to join us?"
     "Maybe later." Apollo picked up a data pad from the loadmaster's desk and 
studied it.
     Boomer watched him. They'd been together for too long for him to believe 
that Apollo was giving the data pad any real attention.
     "How long are you going to keep running?" he asked.
     Apollo whirled around. "I though you'd gone."
     Boomer shook his head. "You know, Apollo, martyrdom does not become you."
     He refocused on the pad. "I don't know what you're talking about."
     "I'm talking about what you're doing here. Stocking up supplies for the 
fleet and plotting where you'll go when the rest of us settle."
     "You're staying then?"
     "I haven't decided. But whether I stay behind or go with you, it'll be 
because it's what's right for me, not because I'm running from things that 
hurt me."
     "I don't know what..." he began .
     "The hell you don't! Zac and Serina and Starbuck. Look, at least you know 
what happened to Zac. There wasn't enough rubble left of my family's 
neighborhood to even begin looking. I'll never know if the Cylons got them 
that night or if they were captured and executed later. It's cost me sleep, 
Apollo. But I've let it run its course. 
     "I didn't know Serina all that well. You loved her, and that was enough 
for me. But Starbuck..." He swallowed. "I beat myself around the head for 
sectons, Apollo, blaming myself for leaving him out there. I kept telling him 
I wouldn't go. He finally switched off his comm unit so I'd head back to the 
fleet. It's what I had to do and we both knew it. But that didn't make it any 
easier.
     "He'd be angry; no -- he'd be hurt if he thought that you were going on 
furlon and enjoying yourself if there was any reason to keep looking for him. 
But there isn't. I feel like a traitor for saying that, but there just isn't." 
     He felt his eyes burning. "I never knew anybody more alive than him, 
Apollo, but our dying isn't going to bring him back. And it spits on his 
memory, too."
     Apollo stood with his back to Boomer, too straight, too erect. "Sheba 
accused me once of trying to corner the market on pain," he said tightly. "I 
don't know. I think if I take it all on myself, it's easier on everybody 
else."
     "No," Boomer said softly. "You can't spare everyone else. Life just 
doesn't work that way. I lost one dear friend that day. Most of the time since 
then, I feel like I lost two."
     He rested his hand gently on Apollo's shoulder. They stood in the quiet 
office, listening to the sounds of the loading outside.
     "If we leave now, we can catch up to the girls in time for dinner."
     Apollo nodded and placed the data pad on the counter.  
     They strolled through the crowded streets. Apollo let himself relax. 
Boomer was right; the load and the pain could be shared. That was the point of 
friendship and of family. And denying the existence of someone you cared about 
was unfair to everyone -- the living and the dead.
     For the first time since filling out the paperwork that declared his 
friend dead, Apollo let himself think about Starbuck. To his surprise, there 
was no pain. He could almost feel Starbuck walking with them, eyeing the 
aliens brushing by, fingering the merchandise being held out for sale, and 
undoubtedly trying to find the local gambling chancery. He smiled at the 
thought.
     They reached an intersection and stopped. A collision between two 
freight-hauling hovertrucks blocked the way. The drivers, one very large with 
massive biceps, the other tall with many eyes, were yelling at each other in a 
mixture of Basic and their native tongues.
     Boomer was fascinated. "I didn't know you could cuss in Basic," he said.
     Apollo hadn't spent much time working on the language. "Really?"
     "Yeah. The eight-eyed one just compared the other guy's mother to the 
larval stage of a flesh-eating insect. The other one ---" He frowned in 
concentration. "I'm not sure of all of the vocabulary, but I think he just 
made a few suggestions that are anatomically impossible."
     An official-looking hovercraft pushed through the crowd and what appeared 
to be the local constable climbed out. The crowd struggled to get past the 
backed-up vehicles blocking all of the roadways. Apollo and Boomer found a 
narrow side passage and took it, thinking it would intercept another major 
road.
     They were blocked again, this time by a line of beings moving slowly down 
the alley. The walked single file, heads bowed, led and followed by tough-
looking guides.
     "Wonder what this is all about," Boomer said. He and Apollo had to press 
themselves against the plastered wall of a building to let the line pass.
     One of the shuffling creatures stumbled on the rough pavement. Apollo 
caught its arm. It looked up and murmured a thanks. That much Basic Apollo 
knew. Then it caught his sleeve and looked from him to Boomer. Still clutching 
Apollo's tunic, it began talking again, fast and excited.
     "I'm sorry," Apollo said. "I don't understand." He turned to Boomer. "Can 
you tell what..." he began.
     Boomer was staring at the creature with an expression of disbelief and 
shock. He caught its arm as one of the guides approached.
     "Move it!" the guide said, grabbing the other arm.
     Apollo couldn't follow much of the conversation that followed. Boomer 
held fast to the creature, talking -- no, it seemed to Apollo he was asking 
questions -- even as they hurried down the alleyway. Boomer was almost frantic 
as he argued with the guide, who Apollo was beginning to think acted more like 
a guard. He was sure of it when they reached the end of the passage. The 
creatures were being loaded into a decrepit-looking transport. Two of the 
leaders pulled the being from Boomer's grip and herded it onto the transport. 
It soared away in a cloud of dust.
     "No!" Boomer howled as it left him standing in the middle of the road.
     "Boomer!" Apollo caught his arm and pulled him to the sidewalk before he 
was run over by passing vehicles. "What is it?"
     "That creature! It said it was a slave. That several quatrons ago, it was 
on a transport with a human dressed like us. He said his name was..."
     "Starbuck!"
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     "Apollo!"
     He turned to see Sheba, Deitra and Cassiopea strolling towards him. The 
women were giggling as they juggled bags overstuffed with purchases. Passing 
humans and other creatures watched them with amusement, admiration or 
curiosity, depending on their cultural conditioning. How could they be so 
carefree? he wondered. Didn't they realize what was happening?
     Of course they didn't, he reminded himself. How could they?
     "Have you seen Boomer?" Sheba asked. 
     "We've been stood up!" Deitra complained. "He was supposed to meet us at 
the harbor for dinner, but he never showed up."
     "We'll just have to let you be our escort," Sheba said. She grinned 
mischievously and wrapped her hand around his arm. Cassiopea did the same on 
his other side.
     "You're about to gain a new reputation as a ladies' man," she teased. 
"Think of the rumors -- seen squiring not one, not two, but three women!"
     "Three beautiful women, according to our waiter," Deitra continued. "He 
offered to arrange for us to meet some of Kittewan Station's most eligible 
male residents."
     It was clear that the three of them had enjoyed some of the Hegemony's 
better ambrosa. "Boomer had better watch out," Sheba giggled. "It was 
suggested that perhaps we would like to remain here and --- how did the waiter 
put it? --- improve the scenery and elegance of this forsaken outpost of 
civilization." 
     Sheba and Cassiopea tried to stroll along the promenade with Apollo, but 
he didn't move. He didn't take well to teasing under the best of conditions, 
and this surely wasn't one of those times. He pulled himself away stiffly. 
Sheba looked hurt, but Cassiopea caught something in his eyes.
     "What's happened?" she asked, all teasing gone.
     "Is Boomer all right?" Deitra questioned. Now alerted, she and Sheba 
could see his tension.
     "Boomer's fine." He shook his head, trying to find the words. "Cassiopea, 
look, it's probably a misunderstanding or a false hope, but...there's a chance 
Starbuck's alive."
     Sheba dropped her purchases and caught Cassiopea's arm. "What are you 
saying?" Cassiopea asked. She'd gone from giddy to sober. Now she went numb. 
"What do you mean?"
     "We met this creature who said it had seen Starbuck several sectons ago." 
No point in telling her he might have been a prisoner. Not yet.
     "Where? How? What happened? What creature?" All three women peppered him 
with questions. Passers-by stared curiously at the group of humans gesturing 
and babbling at each other on the busy street.
     He held up his hands to quiet them. "It was leaving on a ship tonight. 
Boomer's at the Harbormaster's, trying to stop it from taking off. I found my 
father and M'ya tok. They're alerting the merchant vessels and anyone else who 
might have some news." 
     Deitra picked up the fallen bags -- hers, Sheba's, Cassiopea's. "What are 
we waiting for?" she asked. She began moving rapidly down the street.
     "Where are we going?" Apollo asked, even as he fell into step behind her.
     "The Harbormaster's," she answered, as though the answer was obvious.
     They found Boomer pacing in front of the locked entrance gate to the 
spaceport. The Harbormaster's office was locked and dark. She'd gone out the 
back door of her office. It opened into the spaceport compound. He'd called to 
her, tried one more time to explain and win her help, but she'd ignored him.
     "She said there were three big ships leaving tonight. If she was right, 
they've all gone," Boomer told them. He gestured to the sky. "I watched them 
take off." His shoulders sagged as he looked from one face to the other. "I 
flat ran out of ideas." He forced himself to look at Cassiopea. "I'm sorry. I 
let him down again."
     "Let him down!" she said. "Apollo told us the whole story on the way over 
here. If it weren't for your bothering to learn Basic, we wouldn't have this 
lead."
     "M'ya tok promised to help with the search," Apollo told him. "He said 
it's a long shot, but it's the best we can hope for."
     "Hope," Cassiopea said. She rested her head on Boomer's shoulder. "Oh, 
God, that's something I ran out of a long time ago."
     "All of us did," Apollo answered.
     They formed a small cocoon in the warm darkness, Deitra and Sheba holding 
onto Cassiopea as she clung to Boomer, Apollo wrapping his arms around their 
shoulders. 
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     They lifted off from a small, private strip behind the mansion. Ch'ea 
explained quietly that most of the land they could see was part of W'yan oke's 
estate. He was much more than a successful importer. He was probably the most 
important merchant in Kittewan Station. 
     Aside from W'yan oke, Starbuck, Ovie-do and Ch'ea, the only other being 
on the ship was the pilot. He looked something like Belangia; Starbuck guessed 
they were the same race.
     It was a small craft, about half the size of a passenger shuttle. The 
seats were comfortable, and there were plenty of portholes to catch the view. 
Ch'ea spent much time in the tiny galley, preparing a plate of pastries and 
some strong brewed drink for W'yan oke and Starbuck. 
     He wouldn't have believed it possible a few days earlier, but food held 
absolutely no interest for him. He tried to pay attention to the conversation 
W'yan oke tried to hold, but he kept staring out the porthole, straining for a 
glimpse of the fleet. 
     "We are approaching," the pilot said. Starbuck moved quickly to the 
cockpit. Outside, the massive Colonial Movers freighter rode in orbit. Beyond, 
he could see some of the other ships. The precious agro-ships, usually 
separated in the convoy, now side-by-side to facilitate operations. The Senior 
and Orphan ships close enough to allow quick shuttles to the surface. He 
pointed them out to W'yan oke. Each dot took on a familiar identity as they 
approached. 
     There were many other ships weaving among the fleet, freighters from the 
surface, shuttles, private craft, equipment haulers. W'yan oke's small craft 
attracted no attention.
     Finally, there she was, the Galactica. Starbuck swallowed as she took 
shape. He could see the dark panel of the bridge, the lights from every 
porthole. For a hunk of metal in the middle of nowhere, she was particularly 
beautiful.
     He'd toyed with the idea of asking the pilot to let him handle the 
communications, but now was glad he hadn't. As much fun as it might have been 
to startle the bridge crew, he doubted if he could have gotten the words out 
without choking up.
     "Contact the Galactica," W'yan oke told the pilot.
     "I'm afraid not," the pilot answered.
     "What?"
     "We are not going to the Galactica." Starbuck turned to see Ovie-do and 
Ch'ea facing them. The tall, thin alien held a small sidearm.
     "What are you doing?" W'yan oke demanded.
     "We are taking you prisoner, Master." Ovie-do said. Starbuck did not like 
the particularly nasty tone he used. 
     He fired. 
     The weapon was on a stun setting. W'yan oke had enough time to look 
surprised before he crashed to the deck. Starbuck had enough time to watch 
W'yan oke fall and look up at Ovie-do  before the tall, thin creature shot 
him, too.
     He'd never been stunned before, although he'd seen the vids and been told 
about it during training classes. It was as though every nerve ending and 
every synapse went dead. There was no pain, no sensation, nothing. He lay on 
the deck, unable to move, unable to open his eyes. He was aware of the weight 
of the air he was breathing, and glad that he was able to do that. 
     He could hear, though. Ovie-do and Ch'ea were dragging something across 
the deck -- W'yan oke, he guessed. They were talking. 
     "...out the airlock," Ovie-do said.
     "No, we need him. Both of them." Ch'ea answered.
     "I know. But that doesn't change how I feel."
     "Feel later. We must act now."
     Sensation was starting to come back. His fingers and toes tingled. 
Starbuck opened his eyes. They focused gradually. He almost wished they 
hadn't. They were passing the Galactica, swinging behind her on whatever 
course they were now taking. He could see the inviting lights of the landing 
bay. Every bit of him struggled to move, to scramble to the controls and yell 
for help. Instead, he was as inert as a beached Piscon jellyfish. 
     Ch'ea and Ovie-do dragged him to the passenger compartment. They flipped 
him onto his stomach, binding his wrists behind him, snapping shackles on his 
ankles, and wrapping a gag securely around his mouth.
     "I am sorry, Starbuck," Ch'ea said when they were finished. She propped 
him up against the bulkhead. "This is only a delay. We are taking you to a 
safe place."
     Safe place? He wanted to scream. What could be safer than the Galactica?
     He looked at W'yan oke, who was similarly bound and gagged. Pure terror 
shown in his eyes. Oh, Lord. Are these Gla Pri's people? Again? 
     He studied the backs of his latest set of captors. They were sitting in 
the cockpit, ignoring him and W'yan oke, secure in the knowledge that they 
could not escape. Starbuck struggled with his bindings and discovered they 
were right.
     Beyond them, he could see the ships of the fleet grow smaller, turn to 
spots of light, and then disappear.
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     Adama found Apollo in his briefing room, studying star maps. The Captain 
did not hear Adama enter. He was frowning over the images as if his 
concentration alone would force them to yield their secrets. Adama knew that 
feeling well.
     "Any breakthroughs?" he asked.
     Apollo started. "Father! I didn't hear you come in." He clicked off the 
viewer and began stacking the data pads. Adama shook his head.
     "Don't stop. If you find things you have questions about, you won't have 
many more chances to ask them."
     "It's not as though we're leaving tomorrow."
     "No, but we will be very busy between now and when you do go."
     Apollo gave his father a level look -- the same look, Adama realized, 
that he had so often given his son. A Commander's look.
     "You're still not going to come?"
     "I cannot."
     Apollo's expression reflected his refusal to agree. "I don't understand. 
The whole idea of searching for Earth, for the Thirteenth Tribe -- it all 
stems from you. This is your vision, your quest. You can't tell me the 
Hegemony holds any fascination for you."
     "I have a duty, Apollo. You know that."
     "You've met it!" He gestured beyond the room, outward to the fleet. "You 
led this remnant of humanity to a new home. You've done your job. It's up to 
them to rebuild their lives now."
     Adama poured a glass of  brandee and sipped it slowly. How many of 
Apollo's arguments stemmed from loyalty over conviction?
     "The Council of the Twelve, the people of the fleet -- they've argued 
with you every chance they had." Apollo continued. "Can you imagine what 
they'll be like now?"
     "Probably worse than ever," Adama admitted. "Not all obligations are 
military, Apollo. Are these people so bad that they deserve to be led by the 
likes of Dumra and Uri without opposition?" He smiled wryly at his son.
     Apollo did not return the smile. "It's just that..." He stopped and shook 
his head, staring at the desktop. Adama waited. Apollo would take his time 
reaching his real point. "I want to make this journey with you. I want your 
company, your wisdom. I want to be with my father. Not my Commander. I want 
Adama, my father. I need you. Boxey needs you. His grandfather. His Aunt 
Athena. I've lost enough family to this damned war. I don't want to lose more 
to the peace."
     Adama studied his son's face. There was pain and pleading in his eyes. 
     "We still have time," he said. He was not ready for the inevitability of 
their final parting. 
     Apollo accepted that, for the moment. 
     "How many are going with you?" 
     "A few hundred. Less than a thousand. Settling is awfully seductive."
     "M'ya tok is looking for an appropriate vessel."
     "He says he is," Apollo said sourly. "Just like he says he's looking for 
Starbuck."
     Adama sipped his brandee. Sometimes talking with Apollo was like working 
an archeological dig. You had to gently work through the layers before you 
found the substance of the matter. 
     "You don't think he is?"
     "I do, but the more we talk about it, the more we think we'll never know 
if he finds him." Apollo's look was troubled.
     "We?"
     "Boomer, Sheba and Deitra. I don't want to burden Cassiopea with this. 
That creature we met was a slave. The Harbormaster referred to them as slaves. 
She said they were from the market, the slave market, like it was the most 
accepted thing in the galaxy." He sat behind the desk and tapped the edges of 
the piles of data pads until they were precisely aligned. "If Starbuck's 
alive, Father, they may not want him to get back to us. Who knows what 
condition he's in, physically or mentally? Even if he's healthy, they know how 
we feel about slavery. His being a prisoner won't make the Hegemony look very 
good to the rest of the fleet. We might decide to take our cubits and our 
purchasing power and leave."
     "I don't think commerce is your main concern."
     "It's not. I keep thinking that by letting M'ya tok know about Starbuck, 
I may have put him in danger, Father." His eyes were fearful as he considered 
the possibilities. "Whatever's happened to him, I could have made it worse."
                                         *** *** *** *** ***
     Starbuck swallowed the bile in his throat. He barely listened to Gla Pri. 
Instead, he stared at W'yan oke's body. The Diland had been a slaveholder and 
had used him to play a dangerous political game. Did that make him evil enough 
to deserve to die, and die like that? Whatever his motives, he was one of the 
only creatures since his capture who had treated him with any kindness. Didn't 
that count for something?
     He looked at Gla Pri. What the hell, he was going to die anyway. This 
time, he had no doubts about it. May as well let the famous Starbuck 
insubordinate mouth get a final hearing.
     "Sorry, I wasn't listening," he said lightly. "I was thinking how all of 
this has totally messed up my social calendar for this secton."
     Gla Pri gestured to Cy. The Cylon pinched Starbuck's arms more tightly 
behind him.
     "Easy, Cy," Starbuck grunted. "You know I bruise easy."
     "The Ch'ea do not respond to this," Gla Pri said, holding the wafer up 
and studying it. "Something about their peculiar genetic makeup. I will have 
to find another way to question her."
     He smiled at Starbuck. "You should know more about the Hegemony, 
Lieutenant, since you will be spending the rest of your life here. There are 
so many races, so many species. Some are simply herds, easy to understand, 
even easier to control. They barely boast organization, much less 
civilization. 
     "Then there are those with more complex groups, those with civilizations, 
with histories. You humans pose a challenge to us. We need to know much more 
about you, so we know how to handle you."
     "That's your plan, then? Get us to settle in the Hegemony, drop our guard 
and enslave us?"
     "Perhaps. We won't know how best to use you until we know about you. All 
about you."
     He reached toward Starbuck. Instinctively, the Warrior pulled back, only 
to bump his head against Cy's metal body.
     "Come, come now, Lieutenant," Gla Pri crooned as he pressed the disc 
against Starbuck's temple. "This won't hurt a bit."
                                         *** *** *** *** ***

These are excerpts from the Battlestar: GALACTICA novel _HOMECOMING_ by Fran 
S. Levy, a sequel to the BG elements (without the G80 silliness) of the 
episode THE RETURN OF STARBUCK. This novel is available through:

Clean Slate Press