Loyalty Check By Fran Severn A novel set in the Battlestar Galactica universe This is a work of fan-fiction. There is no intention to usurp the copyright or ownership of the properties, characters, situations, or licenses involved in the Battlestar Galactica television series, comic books, novels, or other literary efforts. A couple of notes: This story follows "Tally of the Souls," which chronicles events that begin immediately after "The Hand of God." While you don't have to read "Tally" in order to understand what's happening in this story, it might help to fill in some of the gaps. (Besides, it's a hell of a good story, if I say so myself.) Of course, it's real easy to order a copy of "Tally of the Souls" The book is available in hard copy through Clean Slate Press C/o Sharon Monroe 1368 Myrtle Street Maplewood, MN 55119 Sharon has a whole lot of really good Battlestar Galactica fan-fic novels, short stories, and copies of Galactica, a semi-regular BSG-oriented magazine, too. Dedication To One-L and Judy, the Chocolate-Slayer For the suggestions, the critiques, the games of Pyramid, the sponges, and the chocolate. True friends are hard to find. Loyalty Check Chapter One "Speak, Centurion." "There-is-word-of-another-insurrection-by-members-of-a-conquered- race," the Gold Centurion intoned. "By which race?" "The Almandians. There-are-reports-of-attacks-on-our-base-on- their-home-planet-and-of-assaults-on-Centurions-in-their-cities-and- other-locations." "I see. Is there reason to think that we will not be able to maintain control over this race?" "Reports-are-that-the-garrison-there-is-likely-to-fall-to-the- rebellion." "I see. Very well. Keep me informed of any further developments." "Are-there-any-instructions-to-the-garrison-on-Almandia?" "No, Centurion. Now leave me." The Gold Centurion bowed slightly. "By-your-command." The Gold Centurion lumbered down the passageway outside Imperious Leader's Throne Room. His circuit relays were uncomfortable as he left. Imperious Leader had never failed to take action before when order within the Cylon Empire was threatened. Certainly, the uprising by the Almandians classified as a disruption of that order. But the Gold Centurion's basic programming prevented any real questioning of the situation. Imperious Leader was omnipotent. Imperious Leader understood dimensions of power that Centurions could never comprehend. Imperious Leader had a plan and a reason for his actions -- or, in this case, his lack of actions. He was only a Centurion -- albeit a Gold Centurion -- with limited programming for independent logic. He existed to serve and obey. And so he would. There was another Cylon hovering in the passageway outside the Throne Room. He watched as the Gold Centurion passed him without noticing, intent on his duties. This Cylon had enhanced abilities that the Gold Centurion did not. He'd further refined those abilities without the knowledge of the other Cylons of his series, certainly without the knowledge of Imperious Leader. Using those abilities, he'd eavesdropped on the conversation in the throne room. Now he rocked slightly on his support and propulsion system, his circuit relays dancing in an apparently random pattern in his visible modular construct housing. "Hmmmmm," Lucifer mused softly. It was a bad habit -- that vocalization synthesis. He didn't need any external demonstration of his functional relay operations. It was a human thing. He'd picked it up from Baltar. That useless bit of humanity often hummed or muttered to himself when he was scheming. Lucifer wasn't programmed for such underhanded activities but, as an IL Series Cylon, he was programmed to adapt to new situations and to respond with independent and appropriate actions. Since he was Baltar's assistant, and since Baltar was responsible for scheming against humanity, Lucifer concluded that such vocalizations were a necessary part of the scheming process. Not that he was scheming now. No, of course not. He was simply observing, trying to understand what was happening in the sacred passageways of Imperious Leader's palace on Xeti Omicron, the Cylon homeworld. These uprisings. Nearly a dozen in the past yahren. First it was the Yao's, refusing to allow the Cylons to ship any ore from their Tylium mines, actually sabotaging one of the processing plants and destroying two docking bays at the port facility before guards from the garrison arrived and killed the saboteurs. Standard practice in such matters was to exterminate the race and bring in slave labor to continue the mining. But Imperious Leader had taken no action. He had simply noted the incident and confirmed that the garrison patrols had acted properly. After the Yao, the C'zyn-s also defied the Empire. This was perhaps more serious, since the C'zyn-s were already a slave race, working in the manufacturing system on Dekab, constructing Cylon worker droids. They threw down their tools one day -- actually threw them at their Cylon overseers -- and took over the planet. The garrison on Dekab was a small one, since the C'zyn-s had been slaves for over one hundred generations without a hint of fight in them. The defiance caught the Cylons off-guard. Should not Imperious Leader have anticipated such an action? It hadn't stopped. The Tenej's, the '--Ohlee's, Spilih's, Weehaph's, and Hov*l's had all been causing trouble. Work stoppages, violence, cutting power supplies to garrisons and bases, filling Cylon ships with contaminated fuel, corrupting Cylon programming with software viruses. One ingenious group had even constructed a random-pulsating magnetic disruption field near a transmission relay center that scrambled signals of dozens of shipping lanes. And Imperious Leader did nothing. It was all the fault of the human vermin, Lucifer knew. Imperious Leader had issued his Edict of Extermination, and nothing could distract his attention until that Edict was carried out. Once the humans were eliminated, the other subjugated races would realize the hopelessness of their situation and accept the inherent superiority of the Cylon Empire. Either that, or be exterminated like the humans. The trouble was, far from being exterminated, the humans evaded the Cylon traps. News of their rebellion and their apparently successful flight from the Empire constituted a demonstration of continued defiance. Rumors of it reached other subjugated races and caused them to question their allegiance to the Empire. Stories about the success of this nearly-decimated gaggle of refugees in striking back at the Empire inspired others. Small acts of resistance started, increasing in number and frequency as they went practically unnoticed, certainly unpunished. If it continued, the entire internal fabric of the Empire could be threatened. A pair of Centurions approached. Lucifer kicked his propulsion system into gear and glided past them, as though he was traveling on some authorized task from Imperious Leader himself. The Centurions did not seem to notice him. They wouldn't, of course, unless instructed to do so. He was not as lucky in escaping another's scrutiny. "Ah, Lucifer. An audience with Imperious Leader?" Lucifer did not need to turn to see who was addressing him. His memory recognized the vocal patterns immediately. "Ah, Spectre. Still overseeing the retrofitting of those Centurions corroded on Atilla?" Spectre brought his response circuits under control almost immediately, but not before Lucifer noted the wild scramble of lights in the other's modular construct housing. It was most satisfying. "Not at all. Like you, I'm awaiting a new assignment. A pity, the loss of your base ship." "Indeed," Lucifer agreed. "I had no idea of any intention to do battle with the Galactica." The two Cylons ambled side-by-side in apparent amiability. "Baltar must have believed the time was right," Spectre suggested. "Oh most certainly, although..." Lucifer hesitated. The pause increased Spectre's curiosity, just as Lucifer intended. "Do you realize just how few Cylons have ever actually dealt with humans? Aside from Centurions in battle, I mean." Spectre considered that, his circuits moving in a deliberate pattern of concentration. "Those at Carillon," he started. "Destroyed." "And those on the defeated Colonies." "Interrogating and executing the survivors. And, of course, those garrisons where some humans managed to survive and resist." Spectre's relays glowed a little more brightly, but he managed to keep the speed nearly normal. "But even that, and perhaps particularly that, gives one an insight into their thought processes and motivations other Cylons lack," Lucifer continued. "Even Imperious Leader has had nothing more than a brief contact with Baltar. It was his predecessor who planned the peace conference and assault on the Colonies." They wheeled to the side of the passageway as a patrol of Centurions passed them. "But the entire wealth of knowledge is passed from one Imperious Leader to the next. It has been that way for a thousand yahren," Specter said. "Indeed." Lucifer wheeled along silently. His relays glowed passively, while Spectre's flashed in analysis mode. "Are you suggesting a flaw in the programming of Imperious Leader?" "Not at all. But there are those who are creating disturbing rumors." "Really?" "They all stem from the circumstances of his elevation, of course. I think they are quite ridiculous. I've even gone so far as to access the records myself." "And what did you find?" "Oh, the sort of things that those less-advanced series would take as evidence. It is true that the actual transfer of data banks and programming occurred after the previous Imperious Leader was destroyed with his base ship over Carillon. And, yes, it was done during a time of great confusion. I was not able to access enough information to confirm that all of the proper procedures were followed to guarantee a clear transfer of all memory, but I'm sure that they were. Although I found no actual sign of any fail-safe operations." He said that softly, almost to himself. "I'm sure that all of it was installed correctly and none of it was corrupted. He tilted slightly toward Spectre. "Can you imagine any loyal Cylon even suggesting such a thing?" Spectre's relays remained constant, quite an accomplishment for him, Lucifer thought. "Not at all." "I think a more logical answer is that his behavior stems from a lack of understanding of the humans." "An interesting possibility," Spectre said. And one he had not considered, Lucifer noted. Ah, maybe Baltar's devious nature had -- how would the human have put it? -- rubbed off on him. "And my reason for returning to Xeti Omicron," Lucifer explained. "A first-Cylon assessment of the situation. The more information Imperious Leader has at his disposal, the sooner he can execute The Edict of Extermination." He rolled along with the air of one dedicated to serving his Leader. His relays demonstrated annoyance at the other thoughts. "Flaws in the Imperious Leader's programming, indeed. Why such a thing would require him to be deposed. And then who would take over? If the programming is corrupted, then there would be a free-for-all until some other Cylon rose to power and took command of the Empire. Total disruption of the order of things. "Most certainly," Spectre said. Lucifer caught the glimmer of the secondary logic circuits. Properly stimulated, they could trigger useful functions -- emotions in a human. Pride, jealousy, ambition. Lucifer wondered which ones were working on Spectre. "For myself, my responsibility is to aid Imperious Leader in finding the Galactica. Although I have monitored activity from most of the sectors nearest the battle, and it seems the fleet has vanished." "Oh? How unfortunate." "Humans seem to have an uncanny ability to drop out of sight when it suits them," Lucifer sighed. "Don't you agree? Or was that not the case on Atilla?" "Most of my problems there were climatic ones," Spectre sniffed. No need to admit he'd been run off through the efforts of a handful of human children and one Colonial Warrior. He dearly wished he had dispersed toxic gases on the place as he evacuated, but Imperious Leader might have wondered why, which would have only drawn attention to the fact that some humans were still alive on that miserable muckmire of a planet. "Of course." They reached a subcorridor and Lucifer paused. "Perhaps we should exchange data on the humans and present our observations to Imperious Leader." "A most intriguing idea," Spectre said. "I shall certainly consider it." He bowed slightly and rolled away -- in the direction of the monitoring and scanning facilities. Lucifer was humming as he entered his private cubicle. He immediately accessed the scanner array. As he expected, Spectre was there, cross-checking the sectors Lucifer had already scanned and conducting what he believed were initial scans of the rest. He would find the fleet. Lucifer was sure of that, since Lucifer had adjusted the sensor array to show the Galactica and her fleet traveling in a stately manner along a course that conveniently begged to be intercepted. Unless his circuits had shorted, Spectre would act on that discovery quicker than a snitrat would pounce on a worrel. Even now, Lucifer imagined that the other IL Cylon was trundling to the Throne Room, ready to tell Imperious Leader of his discovery and to offer his assistance in tracking and attacking the human fleet. Except that they would find nothing when they arrived, not even a spatial anomaly to explain the erroneous sighting of the Galactica. If Spectre somehow managed to avoid Imperious Leader's wrath and was not taken apart, he'd be banished, never allowed to set a wheel on Xeti Omicron again, much less have any position of authority. One threat to Lucifer's plan eliminated. He hadn't planned any of this when he returned to Xeti Omicron. At the time, he simply wanted to alert Imperious Leader to the apparent defection of Baltar. Could a defector defect? Hard to tell. At any rate, the appearance of those strange, flashing lights so frightened Baltar that he abandoned his duties to the Cylon Empire to return to the humans, claiming that the lights represented a threat to both races. Pure -- what was the word? -- felgergarb. Yes, that was it. The Centurion left in command of the base ship was ordered to wait until Lucifer returned with orders from Imperious Leader. If Baltar returned first, he was to be held as a prisoner until his loyalty could be determined. The base ship was simply to shadow the fleet, not engage the Galactica in battle. Lucifer sighed, another audible signal learned from Baltar. That was the trouble with Centurions -- so prone to errors if not constantly monitored. At any rate, the base ship was destroyed, and the entire Cylon Empire believed Baltar was destroyed with it, which created an irresistible opportunity for an ambitious IL Series Cylon. Like Spectre. Like Lucifer. Unlike Spectre, however, Lucifer knew where to look for the elusive human fleet. Not the exact coordinates, but there were anomalies in some of the scanned sectors that could turn out to be the Galactica. Lucifer was quietly planning an operation he'd initiate when the time was right. That was a big difference between him and Baltar. He understood patience. After all, as an IL Series Cylon, he could expect to be functional for hundreds of yahren. No need to hurry. Haste would be obvious, and could lead to failure, not to mention a waste of resources, something Cylons abhorred. He much preferred to deal with the humans -- and his fellow Cylons -- efficiently. Just as he would govern the Cylon Empire. Chapter Two "C'mon, Apollo. There's no reason in the galaxy I can't take that mission!" Starbuck leaned against Apollo's desk, frowning. "There's one." "What's that?" "I said so." Starbuck slammed his palm against the desk and turned away. "I've been cooped up on this bird for a solid quat!" "Most of that time, you've been on convalescent furlon. Dammit, Starbuck, you nearly died a couple of sectons ago!" "Dr. Salik cleared me for duty. You're letting me fly again." "Shuttle runs. Quick transports. Easy intrafleet stuff. You're not ready to go back on patrol again." "When did you get a medical degree?" Apollo glared at his friend. "Don't push me." Starbuck sighed dramatically. "It's a simple long-range recon. Twelve centares out, twelve centares back." "And as you well know, anything can happen on a recon. What you expect to find might not be what's there." "You're letting Sheba go." Apollo looked up sharply, scowling. "She's overdue for a long mission. So's Bojay. That's why they're assigned to this." "You're not at all concerned about what they might find. Nothing dangerous or unexpected, I guess." "And what's that supposed to mean?" "Nothing. Nothing at all." "Good." Apollo could feel his face flush as he pretended to concentrate on the materials cluttering his desk. "Right." Starbuck dropped comfortably into the chair across from the Captain's desk. He grinned at Apollo's discomfort. It had been barely a quatron since they'd flown onto the Cylon base ship. Neither of them had really expected to return alive from the mission. Only someone with a death wish would volunteer to fly a commandeered Cylon Raider onto a base ship, then use information given to them by Baltar -- not exactly the most credible person in the fleet -- to find the command center and blow it up. Not that Starbuck had a death wish. Far from it. But there were times when he wondered about Apollo. The Captain blamed himself for not getting his little brother back to the fleet when the Cylons first attacked, for not talking Serina out of her decision to enlist and become a pilot. Both dead now. And since then, Apollo took on every crazy assignment that came along, dreaming up those others didn't, as if he could atone for his imagined sins by completing these missions. And if he didn't, then perhaps he could die thinking he'd somehow evened the score. Starbuck took a different view. Like Apollo, his oath as a Warrior demanded that he commit himself to defending the Colonies and the Colonists. He couldn't very well do that if he was dead. But he accepted that there might come a time when his death would go far to insuring their safety. That's how he viewed the mission to the Cylon ship. It was the Galactica's best chance for victory. If he blew up the comm center and got home, great. If he blew it up but didn't make it back, well, he'd given the fleet an edge and kept his oath. If he failed, they were all doomed anyway; at least he'd died trying. As it was, they'd come back unscathed. It was a secton later, when depositing Baltar to his planet of exile, that Starbuck had ditched his Viper during a furious storm. Broken, bleeding, half-drowned, he'd hung on until the rescue shuttle found him and Apollo and Sheba. Since then, he'd been in the Life Station, recuperating and slowly going crazy from inactivity. Apollo was still frowning at something on his desk, ignoring Starbuck. Starbuck waited patiently. Finally, Apollo looked up, sighing. "Is there something else, Lieutenant?" "No. Nothing at all. I was just considering how you are a man of many facets." Knowing better than to get drawn into the conversation, Apollo did so anyway. "Oh?" "You know, Apollo, when you're in the Triad arena, you are one of the most focused, coordinated people in this fleet. But distract you, and you're as clumsy as a newborn Pohund." "I've got work to do, Starbuck. Does this conversation have a point?" "Just an observation. Now I can understand your dropping the transmitter Boomer gave us when we went to the Cylon ship. There we were, scrambling to get to the top of the ladder, milli-centons ahead of the explosion, Cylons shooting at us from below -- I don't know about you, but I was certainly expecting to find a reception committee waiting for us in their launch bay. So it's to be expected that you got a little careless and knocked the transmitter off your belt." He settled into the chair and waved his hand expansively. "But we didn't really need it. Hot shot pilots like us -- who needs that electronic felgergarb?" "Your point is?" Apollo asked darkly. He wasn't sure where Starbuck was headed, but he guessed he wouldn't like it. "But think back a little. The night before, when we visited the celestial chamber with Cassiopea and Sheba. If I remember correctly, you tripped climbing up the ladder, about the time you offered Sheba your hand to help her up." "I did not." "Did so." "It was dark. Tight quarters." "Uh-huh." Apollo struggled not to squirm in his seat. They knew each other too well, Apollo sometimes thought. No secrets, no way to deceive each other. "I like Sheba. She's a friend." "Yeah, that's one definition." "What's that mean?" "It's just that, well, that wasn't exactly a handshake you two gave each other when we got back from the Cylon base ship." "Oh, for Sagan's sake!" "Well, maybe I'm wrong," Starbuck admitted. "You didn't fall down the ladder getting out of the Cylon Raider when we got back to the Galactica." "If I remember correctly, you did." "Oh, no. I deliberately dropped to my knees and kissed the flight deck floor. I wanted to let whatever god who saw to it that we got home that I appreciated it. Very much." "And there was a lot of --- emotion --- on the deck," Apollo mumbled. He did squirm this time. Just a little. He hoped it wasn't enough for Starbuck to notice. "True enough." Pandemonium was closer to it, Starbuck thought, pretending to ignore Apollo's squirming. They'd descended into a rush of people running to them. Commander Adama and Tigh, Boomer and Sheba and Cassiopea all ran from the bridge lift together. The other pilots and crews were nearby and followed. Starbuck's impulsive gesture drew laughter. He was laughing himself as he pushed himself upright in time to grab Cassie and give her a quick, happy kiss. "There was no beautiful female prisoner to rescue," he said, "so I thought I'd come home to you." She was half-laughing, half-crying. "Don't start," she said, resting her head against his shoulder. "What happened?" Boomer was asking. "Technical difficulties," Starbuck said. He glanced at Apollo. He was kissing Sheba, but with a lot more intensity than Starbuck had shown Cassie. "It's about time," he said softly before he was enveloped in a wave of back-slaps and hugs and relief. "And Blue Squadron did lose to Silver Spar in the Tailhook Landings competition that night in the O Club," Starbuck continued. "Sheba turned out to be a ringer," Apollo reminded him. "If you think my personal feelings would outweigh my loyalty to the squadron..." "I never said that!" Starbuck interrupted. "I know better. But there's that distraction factor..." Apollo knew when he was defeated. "All right," he conceded, shaking his head and pushing his papers aside. "What's your point?" "Two points. One, it's ok to be falling for Sheba. I don't know whose approval you're looking for, but it's there, from everybody." Apollo could feel himself blushing. "Point two?" "If you're going to let the woman you love go on a simple recon mission, despite whatever dangers might be out there, you can let me go, too." "Enough!" Apollo threw a data disk at Starbuck, who ducked for cover. "Out! Get out! You are not going on that mission! And if you give me any more grief, I'll assign you to making recruiting vids for the IFB with Zara!" But after Starbuck left, Apollo had a hard time concentrating on his never-ending paperwork. Sheba was overdue for a long mission, and he'd been avoiding sending her on it. The encounter with Iblis on Baltar's planet had frightened him more than he wanted to admit. The days spent keeping vigil over Starbuck while waiting for rescue haunted him. He wanted to keep her safe. Wanted to keep all of them safe. There just wasn't any way to do that. Even if Sheba wasn't a Warrior, it would make no difference. He knew that. There wasn't a person in the fleet who wasn't in danger. They'd lost civilian ships to Cylon attacks before. Should the Cylons return, they'd lose more. Many of the vessels were old and not suitable for the exodus. There'd been accidents, malfunctions that had taken lives. Some of the refugees had died of injuries they'd suffered during the escape. Others had been exposed to radiation and chemicals released by the Cylons-- either directly by their weapons or from escaping pollutants as the Colonies' technology was destroyed. Illnesses that hardly affected members of one Colony proved fatal to those from another. Safety was a fantasy, a concept they pretended to believe in so they wouldn't be immobilized by fear. He knew better than to even think about suggesting that Sheba take on some other assignment. She would never accept that. She was a crack Viper pilot, doing what she did best. She was also Commander Cain's daughter, and bore that legacy with defiant pride. He had to accept that. His mind did. He just wished he could get his heart to go along. Chapter Three The Assembly Room in the Imperial Palace on Xeti Omicron was crowded. A phalanx of Centurions stood at attention near the Imperial Throne. The throne was turned away from the crowd, as it should be. Imperious Leader should not appear until all was in order. Always order. The other classes of Cylon hurried to reach their assigned places. The Gold Centurions formed a gleaming line at the front of the crowd, insuring that a respectful distance be maintained between the masses and Imperious Leader. Behind the line were the IL Series, the lights in their modular construct housing delivering a colorful display of their current levels and areas of cogitation. Behind them were the representatives of the conquered races within the Empire. Given the titles of Ambassadors or Envoys, they were, in reality, hostages held to insure the cooperation of the rest of their people. The more technically-talented worked to improve Cylon needs. The others were mere slaves. Many of them worked under the never-ending scanning eyes of Cylon overseers, performing the same mindless duties as the most primitive Cylon drones. Only rarely were they allowed to be in the presence of Imperious Leader. Only when an event occurred that would remind them of their inferiority and that their survival depended on their acceptance of Cylon order. Lucifer wheeled himself to the fringes of the IL gathering. He nodded pleasantly at some of the others, his visual display indicating only contentment and an appropriate level of curiosity about the assembly. They had to wait while the biologicals settled themselves and stopped fidgeting. Lucifer had grown quite used to the inability of biologicals to remain motionless, although it still annoyed him. It was more incontrovertible proof of Cylon superiority. Baltar was always shifting about. Even when he was seated on his own throne and claiming to be meditating, the man's fingers twitched. The humans Lucifer had interrogated after the Destruction were captives being led to their deaths. They fought and screamed and were very hard to handle, even when in the unyielding strength of the Centurions who were holding them. The only other human Lucifer had spent any time with was the Warrior Baltar had captured, Lt. Starbuck. An interesting individual. He seemed much more in control of himself than the others, but no more capable of immobility than the rest, always shuffling a deck of Pyramid cards or fingering a fumarillo. Lucifer's display flashed a pattern of consternation as he reflected on the incident with Starbuck. Baltar had promised that capturing - then freeing - a Warrior would convince the rest of the humans that the Cylons did, indeed, wish to make peace. His interrogation had been superficial, at best. None of the mind-altering drugs or proven physical techniques were allowed. Baltar insisted that sending the prisoner back unharmed was vital to his plan. Of course, the plan had not worked. At the time, Lucifer accepted Baltar's claims that he had been betrayed by the leader of the humans, Adama, and that the pursuit must continue. Now, he was not so sure. Lucifer allowed himself to entertain the notion that perhaps Baltar's contact with Adama on Kobol was a fortuitous rendezvous. Perhaps the two men decided to continue the pursuit as a charade to outwit the Cylons until the human fleet was too far away to be effectively tracked and destroyed by the Empire. Once that was accomplished, Baltar had returned to the fleet, using those strange, whirling lights as an excuse. It was something Lucifer had planned to discuss with Imperious Leader when he first returned to Xeti Omicron, only to find that Imperious Leader was acting far from imperiously and that the entire Empire was, frankly, going straight to Hades. Well, that could be corrected, at least. Lucifer rocked slightly on his propulsion system as he waited, then stopped himself suddenly as he realized what he was doing. He wondered if there was a way to delete the subliminal human influences that had patterned themselves onto his learning enhancement programming. Movement near the throne interrupted his concentration. The dais with Imperious Leader seated upon it rotated in a slow, stately manner until it faced the crowd. The Leader spoke. At least the voice was what Lucifer remembered -- a sonorous, impressive vocalization, at once pleasant and commanding. The other Cylons waited to hear his pronouncement. The biologicals huddled together, cowed by his presence. "My subjects," Imperious Leader began. "It is good to be amongst you. When I note the successes and progress of the Cylon race, I am most pleased." There was little reaction among the biologicals. Perhaps news of the rebellions had not reached these captives, Lucifer thought. More likely, they knew better than to make any sign of sarcasm or anything else that could draw attention to themselves or their races. Those from the places in rebellion were probably already wondering why they had not been executed. Perhaps they thought that was the reason for this assembly. "I bring great news to you today," Imperious Leader was saying. "For over a yahren, we have been tracking the remaining human vermin as they attempt to escape the power and order of the Cylon Empire. Now, because of the dedication and ingenuity of one of my subjects, that chase is soon to end." There was movement at the base of the Throne. One of the side panels slid open and someone entered the chamber. The others in the Throne Room shifted slightly to get a look at the newcomer. Lucifer didn't bother. He knew who it was. Spectre. "May I present Spectre, an IL Series Cylon, recently returned from duty on the colony of Atilla. It was a most distasteful assignment, as Atilla was a planet with a large, thriving human colony. During his time there, however, Spectre dedicated himself not just to the destruction of the humans, but to learning all he could about their thought processes. Such willingness to concentrate on such an unpleasant subject is indicative of the highest levels of Cylon intelligence." In front of the dais, Specter bowed slightly. The displays of the other ILs wove a lighted tapestry in the darkened room. The biologicals whispered among themselves. "He has used his time here to apply his knowledge of human behavior in the quest for finding the Battlestar Galactica and the remaining humans. I am pleased to announce that his efforts have succeeded. We now know exactly where the human fleet is and are certain that they are totally unaware that they have been discovered. "After reflection and meditation, I have accepted Specter's suggestion that he command a task force of base ships in one final assault on the Galactica. I wish to be assured that not a single human being survives this attack, that there not be enough debris left of the fleet to identify that any of the wreckage was ever a vessel. "The assault force will depart for the coordinates of the Galactica within the next planetary day. You will all receive your programming orders by then. I will travel on the command base ship, which will be commanded by Spectre. "It is glorious to announce that in little more than a secton, the Cylon Empire will again be unchallenged in its superiority." The dais swung away. In the Throne Room, the IL Series tilted towards each other in hurried conversations. The biologicals were herded out of the room. Lucifer wheeled himself toward Spectre. "What a magnificent plan!" he gushed with as much sincerity as his circuits would allow. "I am so pleased that you were able to detect the human fleet and devise so grand a plan to defeat them." "Much credit must go to you," Spectre said with equal conviction. "I merely expanded upon your observations about humans, in the light of my own experiences. From that, it was a simple matter to determine where they were traveling." His display transmitted a patterns of obsequious puzzlement. "To be honest, I am somewhat surprised that you did not draw the same conclusions." "I believe I was distracted by the rumors and disquiet I discovered when I arrived," Lucifer said. "What is important is that we are both in a position to serve Imperious Leader and the Cylon Empire. May I ask what duties you have for me on this most auspicious mission?" Several conflicting transmissions danced in Spectre's display. It was hard for a Cylon to lie convincingly. "I am not certain exactly what role Imperious Leader has in mind for you," he said finally. "Certainly I shall be joining you on the command base ship." "I'm not certain of that at all," Spectre said. "I believe Imperious Leader may think it is best if you remain on Xeti Omicron, to coordinate operations here." "Operations?" Spectre was clearly flustered. "Yes. Imperious Leader and I will be very busy coordinating the movement of the task force and the battle itself. Imperious Leader will be sending instructions about managing the rest of the Empire on a regular basis back to Xeti Omicron, so he will need someone dependable to see to it that they are carried out. It's a most important assignment." "How wonderful!" Lucifer said. "I will be delighted to serve the Empire in such a vital way." He bowed towards Spectre. The other IL returned the gesture. "Your loyalty and dedication will not go unnoticed," he promised. He wheeled toward the panel leading to Imperious Leader's private chambers. "As the humans would say, 'Wish me luck.'" "Indeed," Lucifer muttered at Spectre's disappearing back. The best of luck. He wished Spectre every success in assembling and travelling to the coordinates where he expected to find the Galactica. Taking Imperious Leader with him, no less. An important assignment, indeed! Staying behind to monitor the daily operations of the Empire. Pure felgergarb, or the electronic equivalent, flashed across Lucifer's display. The Centurions in charge of each aspect of the Empire already had their orders. A trash droid would have more to do than whichever Cylon was left in charge at Xeti Omicron. He'd be forgotten and ignored. Which was exactly what he wanted. Chapter Four "This might sound crazy, but it's been so quiet, I'm almost getting bored." Athena stared at the woman seated across from her. "That's crazy, all right, Rigel." "Absolutely," Omega agreed. The three were on their mid-cycle meal break. Warriors, bridge personnel, flight crews, civilian workers and others moved through the dining area with a clatter of plates and cutlery and the chatter of conversations. "I can do without any Cylon attacks for a while." "You call this quiet?" Athena asked. "All of the reorganization and repairs and confusion?" "I didn't say we weren't busy," Rigel said. "It's just that what we're doing now is almost routine. Moving passengers around, allocating resources, fixing transport schedules -- it's all variations of what we did before the Destruction. Just doing it for civilians instead of a military fleet." "And it can go on forever," Omega said. "I'd rather assign a crew to paint the passageways of the Gemini's living quarters than try to get more boraton to a ship on fire in the middle of a Cylon attack." Athena nodded silently as she nibbled at her greens plate. The current situation suited her just fine. Since the defeat of the Cylon base ship, there hadn't been so much as a hint of any Cylons anywhere. No transmissions by or about them on any military, civilian or merchant channels, no trace of them on long-range scanners of the Galactica or the picket and patrol ships, no signs of Cylon activity by any Viper or long-range patrols. It was eerie for everything to be so quiet. The hope was that the destruction of their base ship was a convincing victory, and that the Cylons were gone for good. That maybe, just maybe, they were finally safe. The unspoken fear was that the Cylons were just out of range, massing for another attack. Whether they were or not, the fleet was taking advantage of the respite. Ships were being repaired and refitted. Those too worn to continue the journey were cannibalized down to the last rivet and their passengers moved to safer vessels. Manifests of supplies were being cross-referenced and reallocated. There was finally a chance to work on the interior of the ships, making real living quarters and adding a few amenities. The anger people felt at Baltar's exile was forgotten as their need for comfort and security were met. Morale was good and rising. Athena was grateful for that, although she wasn't sure who she should be grateful to. The gods and Lords of Kobol? Her father? Her brother and the rest of the Viper pilots? And grateful for what? That they weren't all dead back on Caprica? That they would be able to continue their voyage to Lords-only-knew-where? That they were no longer living on subsistence rations and that there was now paint to cover the dreary grayness of the bulkhead walls? "It would be nice if things got back to normal," she said softly. "Normal. Now that's an interesting concept," Omega said. Rigel finished her fizzwater with a discrete slurp from her straw. "Maybe we need to rewrite the dictionaries." She placed three fingers against her forehead and closed her eyes. "Normal. Describer. Meaning: being blasted by Cylons, never having enough sleep or food or recreation, always breathing recycled air, and wondering if we'll ever find Earth." Omega laughed. Athena forced a smile. "No, really," she said. "Normal. As in, have a Colony to go home to, and a home for that matter. Go shopping, or to a real restaurant. Get sealed. Have children. Sit under a real sun and breathe real air." She sighed. "I'm sick of living like this." "That's just the way it is, Athena," Rigel said. "We just have to adjust and stay focused on the future. It'll all be worth it when we find Earth." Athena held up a hand. "Please, Rigel. I hear that from my father all the time." Actually, it was she who started it, in the days following the Destruction, when she feared her father might give up under the strain and the grief. She'd found him in his quarters, staring bleakly into a carafe of ambrosa and willing that the gods give the burden to someone else. Loyal daughter, Athena pushed aside her own sorrow and tried to encourage her father, teasing him about his oft-repeated slogans about living to fight again another day, and how his vision and leadership would save them all. It had rallied Adama, and she had continued to mouth the phrases, pleased that she was helping her father. But if they had seemed truthful then, they seemed hollow now. She wanted the crisis to be over, for the Cylons to go away. She wanted to go home. Sure, they'd have to rebuild, and it would never be exactly the way it was before, but it was time for this adventure to end. "What is your biorhythm monitor reading today?" Omega asked, noticing her melancholy. "Or, um, is this a woman thing?" Rigel rolled her eyes. "We can't feel emotions without it being biological? I seem to remember you nearly putting your fist through your console when Col. Tigh sent you to find mushies for Muffit when the ship was on fire. Was that a testosterone attack?" Omega cringed. "That was low, Rigel. Really low." Athena shook her head. "It's neither, Omega. It's the truth. That's something no one wants to hear," she said. "We're the good guys. We're supposed to win. Defend the Colonies. Defeat the Cylons. Restore freedom to the enslaved races of the Empire. Instead, we're running like rodents in a sewage channel." She slumped back in her chair. "And we're starting to win again," Omega said, careful to avoid sounding condescending. He did not want to incite Rigel any more than he had already done. Usually the most cheerful person on the bridge, she could be as fierce as a caged Macadoo when riled. "We defeated the base ship. That's why we're able to relax a little now." Athena dropped her head and glared at him from lowered eyes. No point in arguing, she thought. Omega would no more doubt the Commander than Jolly would stop ogling Aquarian form dancers. The Hades of it was, they were right. There was nothing they could do but adjust and hope for the future. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, then slapped her hands against the table suddenly. "You're right, Omega," she said firmly. "Just have to get used to it." She rose. "See you back on the bridge." But she'd never get used to it, Athena thought as she walked back to her duty station. This was not the way she had planned her life, and she was used to getting her own way. It was the sort of pre-planned, predictable life generations of military children had followed. Join the Colonial service, thereby winning the obvious approval and affection of your mostly-absentee, career military parent. Be Sealed to a suitable, up-and-coming officer. When career assignments conflicted, resign from the military and become the active dependent spouse -- raising the kids, handling the moves, participating in the social and political functions that helped advance your spouse's career. Make a nice home, travel, maybe do some volunteer work. Plan your spouse's second career -- the one he'd have after retiring from Colonial service with honor and a nice pension. Productive, active, somewhat pampered. There would be tragedies. You would lose friends to the Cylons and would deal with that sorrow. But even then, there was something noble in it all. You were part of an elite group. You knew you were special. The rest of society looked up to you because you were making the sacrifices that protected them all. But mostly, it was a pretty good deal, one that Athena had accepted as being as much a part of the order of the universe as breathing. Then came the Destruction. The total elimination of everything she had ever known, ever expected. She'd never seriously considered the notion that the Colonies could be defeated. None of them had ever really done so, not even her father. The defeat of the 5th Fleet at Molokay had shocked them all. The peace negotiations started shortly after that, spurred by Baltar's claim that the carnage had been so great on the Cylon side that their enemies could not afford another such victory. It was believable. After all, the humans were fighting for the just and honorable cause. They could not be defeated. The gods would never allow such a thing. But they had. And Athena and the others had watched helplessly while their civilization went up in flames, never to be rebuilt, at least not in any form she could recognize. Her father seemed to draw strength from the challenge. At times, she thought Adama was secretly enjoying it all. He seemed to anticipate each new event, provided it wasn't another Cylon attack. He wanted to carry the fleet and its remnants of civilization through the stars. He adapted to whatever the gods sent his way. So did the others. Apollo, Rigel, Boomer --- not a hopeless situation to them. Sheba had been living like this since Molokay. She sighed. They were all military officers. They were expected to manage in this ugly situation. But it seemed as though every refugee had a better attitude than she did. Siress Tinia, Cassiopea, even Boxey seemed to accept life on a battlestar instead of in Caprica City with equanimity. As she stepped into the lift that carried her up to the bridge level, she closed her eyes and wished that she could turn back time and go back to her old life. But when she reopened them, there was nothing in front of her but Col. Tigh at the command center and her console waiting patiently for her return. Chapter Five Spectre wheeled himself into the base ship's control center. The journey to the coordinates where they would find and destroy the human fleet was nearly over. He was almost sorry. Command was such a satisfying challenge. His advanced processing independent logic circuits were collecting and interpreting information at an exponential rate. He could feel himself developing a grasp and a power he could hardly imagine during his assignment on Atilla. In a few days, the Edict of Extermination would be completed with he, Spectre, receiving full credit for it. Or at least as much credit as Imperious Leader chose to let him receive. His service to the Empire would be rewarded greatly, he was certain of that. Aide, confidant, second to Imperious Leader himself. Glory and advancement. His circuits sparkled merrily. And to think he owed it all to Lucifer. Such an irony, something as a Cylon he could only appreciate in an abstract sense, although the results were pleasant, very pleasant indeed. That arrogant construct's plans to ingratiate himself with Imperious Leader had come to naught. Imagine Lucifer confiding in him, Spectre thought. How illogical. Trust was a human trait. Cylons depended upon programming fail safes, not artificially-developed relationships that could easily mask a separate agenda. Lucifer's decision to tell Spectre about the scans was a grave error. Had Lucifer really thought that Spectre would not return to the control center and seek out the human fleet where Lucifer had failed to search? Was Lucifer's programming so corrupted by human contact that he failed to note that all IL Series Cylons sought advancement within the Imperial hierarchy? Wouldn't he realize that finding the human fleet was the fastest way to guarantee that advancement? A pity, Spectre thought, that an otherwise exemplary example of IL technology would be so flawed. But the results were acceptable. More than that. It would be he, Spectre, at Imperious Leader's side. Lucifer, alas, would be relegated to some obscure outpost until his microchips corroded. An impulse surge ran through his circuits as his newly-installed interface with Imperious Leader was activated. Only a handful of Cylons in the entire Empire had such an interface, giving them access to Imperious Leader. It confirmed their value to him, something Lucifer would never know. "You summoned me, Imperious Leader?" he asked as he stopped in front of the throne. "Indeed. What is our status, Spectre?" "We will arrive at the coordinates of the human fleet in 1.735 centares. When we drop out of light speed, we shall be at the rear of the fleet. As they enter normal space, our base ships will move to encircle the fleet. Our Raiders are already manned and will immediately launch. "What sort of resistance can the humans mount?" "Very little, sire. Each base ship has more Raiders than the entire complement of Vipers on the Galactica. With twelve base ships in the task force, the Galactica is more than merely outnumbered. We will be shooting down the Vipers as they leave their launch tubes." "Why twelve base ships?" "One for each of the defeated Colonies," Spectre said. "In my study of humans, I found that they put great store in such symbols. Before they die, they may well note and appreciate the irony of that number of ships causing their destruction." "Very good," Imperious Leader agreed. "Where are the rest of our base ships?" "Patrolling our conquered planets. They will be transmitting broadcasts of the annihilation to our subjects. Which should, I might suggest, end all rebellions within the Empire." "Very true." "If I may take your leave, Imperious Leader. I do not wish to worry you with inconsequential matters, but there are many details that need my attention." "Of course," Imperious Leader said. "Go, Spectre, and return when our victory is complete." Spectre's circuits thrilled with satisfaction as he inclined himself towards Imperious Leader. "By your command." The Communications Center flashed with activity as Spectre entered. Glowing emitters and circuit confirmation lights played across the consoles, their reflections glinting, in turn, off the polished armor of the attending Centurions. Muted signals tracked the location of the other ships in the task force. Spectre watched it all with growing excitement. It was a new sensation and one he rather enjoyed. His orders directed the actions of each base ship on the task force. The destiny of the Cylon Empire was in his circuits. He was not merely observing history, he was creating it. A Gold Centurion turned to him and announced that they were arriving at the coordinates. His memory banks activated briefly, and he remembered his unhappy tenure on Atilla and the smugness of the human Megan when the trap to capture his infernal children and Colonial Warrior failed. He wouldn't be so gleeful now. Spectre made a silent vow to return to Atilla and personally drag Megan and his clan aboard his base ship and shove them out the first convenient airlock. It would be so satisfying. That would come later. He transferred his attention to the task at hand in less than a millicenton. Spectre issued his orders, then settled himself in front of the tactical command panel. The final assault on the Galactica and her fleet would be transmitted to Xeti Omicron and the rest of the Cylon Empire. The transmissions would be recorded and saved for future use, broadcast to those races still to know the power and domination of Cylon order, for example. "We-have-arrived-at-the-coordinates-of-the-human-fleet," The Gold Centurion in charge of the Command Center announced. "Proceed," Spectre said, in a tone of calm determination. That was how he wanted history to record him. "By-your-command." The Gold Centurion moved to the console. Buttons were pushed, signals relayed, ships maneuvered. The moment came. The task force dropped out of light speed to confront the human fleet. And found nothing. Empty space. Stars shown solidly in the vast distance against the solid blackness of space. The other base ships popped into view, their muted silver hulls miming the distant suns. They were ready to attack, but there was no target. In the Command Center, Spectre's circuits refused to accept what he was seeing. His logic programming took over. "Centurion. Confirm the coordinates." "They-are-as-we-were-given. These-are-the-coordinates-where-the- scannng-devices-indicated-we-would-find-the-Galactica." "Then where is the Galactica?" "That-is-unknown. It-is-not-here." "I can see that. Run a diagnostic on the scanning interface. Check with the other base ships and see if their scanners detect any sign of the Galactica or the fleet." The Gold Centurion moved to the console. Other Cylons adjusted equipment, interpreted readouts, translated electronic impulses coming from within the base ship. "There-is-no-indication-that-the-Galactica-is-in-this-area-of-space," Gold Centurion announced. Spectre felt something very close to panic. The Galactica was here. It had to be here. The signals he had intercepted on Xeti Omicron were unmistakable. He had assured Imperious Leader of the undeniable success of this mission. If he had erred, Imperious Leader would be justified in disassembling him, chip by chip, and using the parts in sanitation droids in the dungeons of Hadlie. "We-are-being-fired-upon," Gold Centurion announced. Oh, thank the gods! Alright, so Cylons did not believe in a higher deity. Right now, Spectre didn't care. The Galactica had appeared and the final battle could get under way. "Return fire," he ordered. "By-your-command." Spectre focused his interface on the Command Panel. What he saw confused him. His logic circuits overloaded with the effort to confirm and analyze the input. The Galactica was not in sight, nor were any of the other human ships, not even their annoyingly-effective Vipers. His base ship was being fired upon by three of the other base ships. And, as ordered, his ship was firing at them. "Centurion! What's happening?" "We-are-under-attack-by-other-base-ships." "I can see that. Why? How?" "I-do-not-have-that-information." Spectre rocked on his housing as he felt his ship take a hit. "Order the other base ships to open fire on those attacking us." "At-this-range-all-base-ships-could-be-seriously-damaged-and- could-damage-each-other-with-incidental-fire." "Send out my order. Imperious Leader must be protected." "By-your-command." Alarms were going off throughout the Command Center. Spectre's interface caught transmissions reporting initial damage to his ship. As the other base ships opened fire, the rouges turned some of their firepower on the rest of the task force. The shots were planned with Cylon efficiency. First one, then another of the base ships exploded. Spectre couldn't tell which ships were attacking him and which were trying to defend him. He needed to get out of here. "Centurion. Prepare to return to light speed." "That-is-impossible. Our-engines-and-targeting-functions-are- damaged." "Can we maneuver at all?" "That-is-affirmative. We-can-maneuver-straight-ahead." That would take them into the thick of the firestorm. Spectre's construct housing was a brilliant flashing display as he tried to devise a solution. Smoke was filling the Command Center and he had to deploy his stabilization clamps to keep from rolling across the room. The base ship rocked with each slam of the energy blasts. His interface with Imperious Leader activated. "All is going well, Spectre? It seems as though the humans are giving you more of a battle than you had anticipated. I sense great disarray within the task force." "A most minor problem, Imperious Leader." Spectre was surprised as how calm his vocalization synthesis worked. "The situation will be resolved in a micron." Spectre would never know how accurately he'd spoken. Even as he terminated the transmission with Imperious Leader, the nearest of the rogue ships targeted the main juncture of the base ship's access core. It fired a steady stream of energy at the spot, already weakened by the effects of adjusting to structural damage elsewhere. The ferrosteel alloy was strong, but all metals have limits. The energy breached the hull, and then the core collapsed. The base ship exploded. Lucifer moved through the corridors of the Imperial Palace with a calm, obedient air. If his fate was to serve as Imperious Leader's trained daggit, so be it. He would carry out his orders with the utmost dedication and efficiency. If his assignment was to insure that the entire Cylon Empire would witness the events at the coordinates of the task force, it would be done perfectly. He stopped by the Command Center long enough to insure that all was in order. No doubt about that. Spectre had personally inspected the programming before leaving on his mission. "There's just no way of insuring that the lower-series Cylons will pay as much attention to detail as we do," he'd told Lucifer. "Absolutely," Lucifer agreed. "I would be most distressed if the outcome of your mission was not seen by all." Besides, he thought as Spectre wheeled off on his inspection, focusing on the lower-level Cylons meant he was paying no attention to anything Lucifer was doing. Lucifer was also inspecting programming in the centares before the task force departed. He deciphered the overrides and security codes that allowed him access to the assignments of the Centurions in command of the base ships. He had very little time, but an IL Series Cylon could do much when temporal demands required it. A simple virus, keyed to activate when the base ships dropped out of hyperspace, was carefully planted into the tactical protocol of three of the base ships. The infected ships would open fire on the vessel carrying Imperious Leader. He would have preferred to infect more ships, but his calculations predicted that would be enough. He'd soon know. He rocked on his propulsion system and hummed while he waited for transmissions to start. Fortunately, Spectre was not around, for that was the only other IL who might realize just how nervous Lucifer was. Not nervous, he told himself. Curious. Eager to see if his plan would work. Anxious to implement the next phase. Finally, the transmissions began. Lucifer watched as the base ships appeared on the screen, glorious and imposing. He beamed with pride at the sight. There was, of course, nothing else to see. There was a brief pause, perhaps a half a centon, then streaks of light flashed from three of the ships as they opened fire on Imperious Leader's vessel. The screen became a blinding series of flashes as it transmitted images of the energy bolts, lasers and explosions. Lucifer checked the console. Yes, all of this was being transmitted throughout the Cylon Empire, just as ordered. Very good. It was over in a matter of centons. The proximity of the base ships and the level of firepower determined the outcome. Nine of the twelve base ships were destroyed outright. The other three were too damaged to make the jump to light speed and return to Xeti Omicron. They transmitted a request for instructions. Lucifer, left in charge, considered the options. "It is most unfortunate, but there is no possible way to transport enough equipment or material to perform effective repairs on your ships. Therefore, you are ordered to self-destruct." He watched until the last sparking ember of the task force winked out. The site of the planned last attack on the Battlestar Galactica was nothing but more blackness in the already-black void of space. The debris of the Cylon task force would slowly dissipate in the void currents. For the moment, it was a hazard to navigation. In a few yahren, there would be little to let wandering voyagers know what had happened here. Phase one was completed. Now Lucifer needed to implement Phase Two. He activated his interfaces and contacted the commanders in charge of Cylon tankers and Raider squadrons. They were already assembling at coordinates Spectre overlooked. For a brief micron, Lucifer regretted that Spectre was gone. It would have been most satisfying to show him how an assault ought to be launched. Chapter Six "Now, Boomer, you've got to stay on top of everything Cutler does. He's real fast and real sneaky." "Starbuck, I've played the Mud Daggits in Triad before." "But not for the fleet Triad finals. This is really important!" "This is an anticlimax," Boomer said. "The Mud Daggits defeated the Security Team. That was the big match." "You don't want to win?" "Of course I want to win. But beating the Daggits won't be nearly as satisfying as beating Reese and Lomas would have been." "Cutler said the same thing to me about beating you. But you've got to start feeling competitive, Boomer, or else the Daggits will stomp all over you." Boomer shook his head as he looked out his cockpit to the Viper flying next to him. "Don't you think we ought to concentrate on our patrol?" "I am concentrating," Starbuck argued. "It's a typical patrol. Long. Dull. Just like the patrol Sheba and Bojay pulled." "If you didn't want to be here, why'd you hassle Apollo so much to pull it?" "Ah, come on, Boomer. I was going space crazy sitting around the ship." "So you decided to become a Triad analyst." "Well, I was still in the Life Station for the playoffs. If I can't be in the arena, the least I can do is make sure the Viper pilots win." "And organize a betting scheme that would put Colonel Tigh into orbit if he knew about it." "Are you kidding? He's in for a pretty healthy sum himself." Boomer sighed. "Just what I needed to know. If Greenbean and I lose, the Colonel's out a bundle." "Well, not a bundle, exactly, but enough that you don't want to lose. Look at it as an incentive." Boomer sighed again. Part of him felt the familiar exasperation that tinged so much of his time with Starbuck, but all of him was glad that it was there. To see Starbuck back in a cockpit, flying a simple patrol, happy and nearly-healthy, was a joy and a relief. He wasn't really ready to be flying again, but this was yet another dull patrol, scoping out a tangental bearing from the fleet. Apollo had already set the duty roster for the next few days with assignments that gave both of them little to do. For Boomer, it was a chance to rest up for the Triad Finals. For Starbuck, a chance to just rest. Starbuck was like a little kid, putting his Viper through all sorts of maneuvers and gleefully flashing through their assigned routing in far less time than scheduled. "If you keep this up, you'll run out of fuel and have to get towed back to the fleet," Boomer warned him. "That'll just thrill the Colonel." "Not a chance," Starbuck assured him. "I worked out the fuel consumption before we left. Besides," he admitted "I had Jenny top off the tanks." And that was fine, too, Boomer thought. With no sign of the Cylons for over a quat, there was no reason not to play a little. Something on his console flashed. He toggled the switches and studied the readout. He caught his breath as the interpreted the readings. Recess was over, he thought. "Starbuck. Check your rear scanners." "Right." He was all seriousness now. "What do you see?" "Frack. Cylons." The scanners told the story. A Cylon patrol. Four Raiders heading straight for them. "Well, I was the one who wanted to get back into action," Boomer heard Starbuck grumble softly. "Last time I do that!" "They're on our tail," Boomer said. "Then let's show them our nose," Starbuck answered. They hit their rear thrusters simultaneously. The Vipers seemed to stop as the Cylon Raiders swept past them. Once safely behind the attackers, the Viper pilots hit their forward thrusters again and angled for attack. There were four Raiders, then three... "They're running," Boomer reported. "Yeah, but not for long," Starbuck answered. Both men knew that the remaining Raiders could give the Cylons a lead in finding the fleet. They could not escape. Boomer banked to bring himself into line with one of the remaining Cylons. He lost track of the other for a micron. When he spotted it, he yelled into his mike. "Starbuck, look out! You've got one flying right up your tailpipe!" "Yeah, no kidding," he heard the other pilot grouse. "Frack! I'm hit!" he called an instant later. "How bad?" Starbuck hit his Omega Circuit. Small flames danced behind a relay panel that had lost its covering. "Bad. Two of my three thrusters are gone." He jinked his joystick and tried to veer away from the Raider. No luck. "This guy's on my like wet on rain," he told Boomer. "Allright, let's see if I can give him a little surprise. C'mon, Sweetheart," he begged his Viper. "One last reverse on the old turbo..." He shot backwards. How come the Cylons never expected that? he wondered. But not for long. He had a more immediate problem, taking out that Raider. "Goodbye," he told them. "Thought I was going to give up and die, huh? Let's see how you like a little taste of your own medicine." He waited impatiently while the targeting computer lined up his quarry. A touch on his joystick and the Raider rocked with the impact of Starbuck's laser. It wasn't a clean shot, but it did disable the Cylon craft. It wouldn't be returning to its home base. "Nice shooting, Starbuck," Boomer said. "Can you limp back to the fleet?" More sparking within his control panel told him all he needed to know. That Cylon wasn't going home, but neither was he. "Negative, Boomer." "I'll stay with you as long as I can, buddy." Starbuck's voice was calm. "The fleet can't afford to lose two pilots. Two ships." "But you're fine," Boomer protested. "All I have to do is keep track of you. Send back help." "Yeah. After you warn the fleet to get out of here." Boomer could see the sparking from the underside of Starbuck's Viper. He dropped slightly and winced as he saw the extent of the damage. Most of the underside paneling was blasted away. The blackened remains of the engine systems were functioning on faith and luck, nothing more. He felt his chest tighten as he realized that Starbuck was right. "You gonna...you gonna drift or try to find someplace to land?" Inside his cockpit, Starbuck was reaching the same conclusions. The Viper wouldn't hold together for much longer. "I, uh, better try to find some kind of hospitable atmosphere somewhere." A minor explosion of a circuit board fused together some systems. Starbuck flipped switches to activate redundant systems. "Starbuck..." "Yeah..." his voice was tight. There was so much to say and no way to say it. "Take care of yourself." "Hey, you know me, pal," he answered brightly. "I always look out for number one." Boomer felt his eyes tearing. "Give Cassiopea my love," Starbuck asked, all laughter gone from his voice. Then he brightened again. "And Athena. And, well, tell 'em not to sit around waiting. I might like it where I'm going." Boomer caught the glow of another small fire in the cockpit. The canopy darkened. "I've got to go now, Boomer. My support vapors are running low. Look, ah, I'll be seeing you." In the darkness of the cockpit, Boomer could see Starbuck give him a thumbs up. Boomer returned it woodenly. He watched numbly as Starbuck tapped his remaining thruster and banked away from the other Viper. "My friend. My dear, dear friend. Believe me, if I could change places with you, I would." He could barely read his instruments through his tears as he banked his own Viper away from Starbuck and raced towards the fleet. Chapter Seven There! Lucifer didn't even try to disguise the flash of excitement that lit his module housing construct. His surveillance had paid off. His long-range patrol had found a Colonial patrol. Two of the Raiders were destroyed, one damaged but sending a locator signal. He'd send another Raider to salvage it later, if the situation allowed. The fourth Raider shadowed the fleeing Viper. Using enhanced programming developed by Lucifer, it extrapolated on the patterns the Colonials used during other engagements with the Cylons. The Raider flew its own hard-to-detect tracking course until it was convinced the Colonial had finished its evasive maneuvers and was heading for the fleet. Lucifer was transmitting orders before the Viper reached the first picket ship. The initial assault group was nearly upon the fleet when the Viper landed. It would exhaust its fuel almost as soon as it reached the fleet. Small bother; the group behind them and behind them and behind them could each attack for a little longer. As the tankers approached, the drifting Raiders would refuel and resume their assault. The net result was elegant in its simplicity: the fleet would be under constant, unending, overwhelming attack. He'd issued the orders for the assault almost as soon as Specter's debacle ended. No Cylon questioned his authority. He'd been left in charge on Xeti Omicron, after all. And he was carrying out the Edict of Extermination, obeying Imperious Leader's final, ultimate command, the most loyal IL Series Cylon ever constructed. Lucifer decreed that every human vessel was a target, not just the Galactica. His plan included secondary assault teams, ordered to penetrate to the deepest areas of the fleet and strike at any target of opportunity. The ships most valuable to the fleet were those most protected, he surmised. Destroying them would only further cripple the humans. If some stray vessels managed to survive this assault, they'd have nothing other than what they carried with them to continue their flight. It was not a very likely possibility, however, Lucifer thought. His plan -- unlike any conjured by Baltar or even the late, somewhat lamented Imperious Leader, and the totally un-missed Spectre -- considered all possibilities, including those pesky elements of human unpredictability and luck. Like Spectre's 'assault' and the horrific destruction of the Cylon task force and Imperious Leader, this assault would also be broadcast throughout the Cylon Empire. After all, the relays and transmission protocols were in place; silly not to use them. That the transmissions would confirm the end of the humans was guaranteed. Lucifer was nothing if not thorough in his planning. If, somehow, the battle turned against him, he was ready. A second transmission, already loaded into the appropriate relay units, would be broadcast. A few quick scans of the fleet under attack from previous battles, intercut with explosions and glowing debris. It was a very convincing display of the power of advanced technology and IL creativity. Win or lose the actual fight, the Empire would see the indisputable end of the human vermin. It didn't surprise Lucifer that the other IL Series Cylons weren't engaged in similar efforts of deception and scheming. They had limited experience with Imperious Leader and even less with the humans. Their concept of ambition was still joined to that of obedience to Imperious Leader. Their self-actualization and learning development circuits had far less exposure to experiences that refined and advanced them. He planned to keep it that way, too, although it might not be easy. When the last Imperious Leader died at Carillon, power transferred automatically to another of his series. But the new Imperious Leader's erratic behavior was noticed by more IL Cylons than just Lucifer and Spectre. Questions, doubts about continuing the practices of 1000 yahren were surfacing. That was clear from the huddled conversations in corridors, the unending flashes of concentration within modular construct housings, and the record of interface communications to all manner of data sources. Lucifer knew the other ILs would be learning and thinking on their own very quickly. If he was to fulfill his ambition, he had to act first. So he did, taking on the mantle of responsibility in a commanding way that reassured the others that transferring their loyalty to him was the action Imperious Leader would expect. Still reeling from the shock of the internecine genocide of the task force, the Empire needed a strong leader, one who demonstrated the ability to organize and command, and who stayed calm during the crisis. Who better than the one left in charge on Xeti Omicron by Imperious Leader himself? Chapter Eight When the alarm klaxon sounded, Apollo was hovering over the monitor in his quarters with Boxey. "I don't know why I have to learn all this grammar," the boy complained. "I'm going to be a fighter pilot." Apollo smiled. He'd tried the same arguments with his father when he was Boxey's age. Like his father, he gave the same answer his father had given him. "You are going to be a Warrior, not jut a fighter pilot. You will represent the Colonies to every race and species we meet. You have to be the best-trained and best-educated person you can be." He tapped the monitor screen. "And knowing your grammar is part of that." Boxey sighed, knowing he'd lost. He sullenly touched the viewscreen to call up his next assignment. "Which of the following..." he began. The alarm blared without warning. It had been so long since he'd heard it, it took Apollo a millicenton to recognize the sound. Boxey remembered, though. He jumped and looked at this father with fear in his eyes. "Cylons?" he asked. "Probably just a drill," Apollo told him, although Adama or Col. Tigh usually planned such things with Apollo's knowledge. "But I'd better hurry." He kissed Boxey on the top of his head. "When I get back, you'll have all of those done, right?" he asked, motioning towards the monitor. "Sure, Dad." "Promise?" Apollo was already halfway out the door. "Promise." As the door slid shut, Boxey closed the grammar program and switched to an aerial combat game. He'd finish the education section, just as he promised Apollo. But not right now. And if he didn't, maybe Apollo would have forgotten by the time he'd finished with his drill. It was a very, very long time before Apollo thought about Boxey, grammar or anything other than flying and fighting. He caught the situational briefing as he launched. Cylons had followed a patrol from the rear quadrant. It looked like a large force. Blue and Green Squadrons were scrambling; Silver Spar/Red and Yellow were standing by. Apollo mentally ran the roster as he shot down the launch tube. Rear quadrant. Boomer and Starbuck. Of course. It would be Starbuck's luck to run into Cylons on his first patrol back on full duty. There were times he was certain that Starbuck's karma was geared only towards attracting trouble. Then there was no time to muse. He was out of the launch tube and in the middle of the battle. Apollo missed the battle at Cimtar, the onslaught of the Cylons at the site of the "peace conference." He was on the Galactica as the battlestar made its desperate run home to Caprica. The handful of surviving Viper pilots said little about it. The massiveness of the Cylon force and its fury belied words. "Every one we shot down seemed to split into two or three more," Jolly said once. "It was like some twisted change in the laws of physics, like the wreckage spawned a life of its own." Apollo had nodded then, not really understanding, but wanting to appear as if he did. Now, though, he saw what Jolly meant. The sky was filled with the wafer shapes of the Cylon Raiders. Dozens of the Raiders wove through the ships of the fleet, Vipers in pursuit. They spun, they rolled, they careened as they were targeted and struck by fire from the ships' defenses. The Vipers, too, performed their aerial ballet, but the sheer number of Raiders worked against them. It was nearly impossible to avoid the Cylon fire, much less get off a shot without running the risk of hitting one of the fleet ships. The Raiders didn't care if their shots missed a Viper; the laser fire would probably still damage something. "Let's try to draw them away from the fleet," Apollo called into his mike. "Green Squadron, head for the perimeter. Intercept incoming Raiders. Blue, prepare to pursue." It should have worked. In the past, the Raiders followed the Vipers away from the fleet into open space. With the help of the perimeter picket ships, they'd even the odds. Not this time. The Raiders ignored the fleeting Vipers, turning full force on Blue Squadron. Apollo winced as he saw Arya and Minos vanish in flames. "Green, turn back. It's not working." Apollo felt the uncomfortable certainty borne of yahrens of combat telling him this was no normal raid. "Galactica, this is Captain Apollo. We're in real trouble here. Launch the remaining Vipers." "It's Molokay all over again," Bojay said. In her cockpit, Sheba nodded. The 5th Fleet, a crack, seasoned military force of nearly 600 combat craft -- fighting ships, Vipers, other assault and attack craft, and support vessels -- was virtually wiped out in that battle. Right now, this mostly civilian group of not-quite-200 looked to suffer the same fate. The perimeter of the fleet was thinly protected by the picket ships, those few military vessels that survived the Destruction. They were crewed by well-trained, motivated people. They gave the fleet some scant defense, but mostly served to monitor the areas beyond the convoy and warn the fleet of incoming threats. Sheba could only guess what sort of punishment they were taking. Many of the civilian ships had pre-existing armament -- defenses against privateers, Cylons and other threats to the container ships, luxury, transport, and private craft traveling along vulnerable trade routes or beyond patrolled space. Armament batteries had been added to many of the unarmed vessels since the exodus began. In the past, the Cylons ignored most of the civilian ships, concentrating their fire on the Galactica. Not this time. "They're targeting the civilian ships," Bojay said. "I see that," Sheba answered. "The Galactica will have to take care of herself. Concentrate on the Raiders in the interior of the fleet. Protect the Class Alpha vessels. Choose your targets at will." It was a scenario she'd hoped would never occur, but as a tactical matter, one they'd planned for. Which ships were critical to the survival of the fleet? Given the choice, which ships would be sacrificed so the more important ones could be saved? Most of the fleet were long-haul freighters converted into semi-autonomous passenger ships with small workshops or processing functions. Their main cargo was passengers, hauling the last 700-thousand survivors of the Colonies. But it was a harsh, military reality -- the fleet could continue without most of them. The agro ships, food storage and processing, communications relay, central transport, water filtration -- those were the things they needed on a large scale to survive. Only a few passenger ships were Class Alpha -- the Orphan ship-- humanity's future; the hospital ship; the school ship, with its laboratories and data banks. The rest of the ships were positioned according to their maneuverability, as much as anything else. The largest converted freighters were among the least maneuverable and were relegated to the outer flanks of the fleet. That usually made them more vulnerable. However, they were also among the most heavily-armed vessels, which helped to compensate for their location. Ironically, this time their size might help insure their safety. Sheba banked her Viper toward the Class Alpha sector of the fleet. She sensed more than saw Bojay off her wing. They raced toward a cluster of Raiders pinwheeling around the Ram Mohan, one of the floating drydocks -- a ship that existed to effect repairs on other ships. It was doubly attractive to the Cylons and doubly threatened right now, since clamped to its sides for retrofitting was a second vessel, the Iona, a skybus transport. The Ram Mohan had no armament. With her engines shut down, neither did the Iona. Helpless as newborn felinos, the two ships took the blistering fire from the Cylons. Beams of energy laced across their sides as the Vipers tracked the Raiders with their own lasers. "There's too many of them!" Nytesilver cried in frustration as she took out one Raider, only to see another replace it and open fire. "Just keep after them," Sheba commanded, feeling the same frustration. "They're trying to hit the junction relays." Those were the links between the ships that provided joint power and fuel accessibility. "If they breech those, it'll start a chain reaction and blow both ships." Unless the crews disconnected them first. But that took time. Silver Spar and Red Squadrons had to buy it for them. She flew straight towards the lead Raider, willing her targeting computer to lock on more quickly. She let her own well-honed sense of combat and timing loose, and hit her firing button the same millicenton the computer pulled in the Raider. The explosion that followed was satisfying. But it only lasted for an instant. There was another Raider right behind the first, and the laser fire from the one behind that seared at the main junction relay. Bojay broke from her wing to somersault his Viper into position behind that third Raider, so close that when he opened fire, his craft took some of the debris. He came out of the cloud of dust and flame to find himself almost on top of the Iona. "Frack!" He pulled the stick hard and skimmed across the top of the skybus. "Bojay!" he heard Sheba cry. "I'm fine!" he answered. A quick check of his instruments told him otherwise. "Let me amend that," he said. "There's FOD in my intakes. The sub-propulsion converters are grinding apart." "Let's get back to the Galactica, then, and get them fixed." "Don't try to escort me," Bojay said. "You're needed out here." Dammit, he was right, Sheba thought. But abandoning your wingman was a high crime among pilots. Another arriving wave of Raiders concentrating on the Ram Mohan and the Iona made the decision for her. "Just get back here quickly," she ordered. She barely noticed his confirmation. Her attention turned to the wall of silver wafers bearing down on her handful of Vipers. They made pass after pass at the two helpless ships. The Vipers were taking out Raider after Raider, but the Cylons so outnumbered the Colonial ships, it was almost as if no Vipers were in the area. She swung under the Ram Mohan to come up behind the newest group of Raiders to target the ships. She never had a chance to open fire. "Clear away! Clear away!" Baul yelled into the com units. "The relays are going!" Sheba banked back the way she'd come, using the bulk of the Ram Mohan as a shield. The first flashes of the explosions ripping through the two ships were nothing more than bright, glowing patches reflected on her cockpit canopy. Each one was larger, brighter, more intense than the last. She continued fleeing away from the scene, hoping she could outrun the debris sure to blast toward her. Agroship IV was in front of her. She slid underneath, coming up to find a Cylon patrol focusing on the ship's transparent growscreens. "You bastards!" Her targeting computer later told her she took out all four Cylons on her own. Maybe. She didn't remember. All she could recall was opening fire with a fury that she'd never known before, and knowing that however much she fought, this time, it wasn't going to be enough. Not again. Oh, dear Lords of Kobol, not again. Athena stared at her console, unwilling to believe what she was seeing. The screen was filled with the scanner returns confirming that there were hundreds of Cylons ships approaching. She could detect three distinct waves moving inexorably towards the fleet. What was there to stop them? 136 Vipers? That's all they had after the battle with the base ship. Picket ships? From the transmissions she overheard at the station behind her, half of them were already destroyed. The Gaffy, Rjost, and Lancer had been able to report the size of the approaching force before their transmissions stopped. There was always the chance that their communications were simply being blocked. But the role of the picket ships was to take the first fire. She shut her eyes. Some of those crewmembers were Academy classmates of hers. "What's happening, Commander?" Athena looked up to see Siress Tinia march onto the bridge. As the liaison between the Council of the Twelve and the Warriors, she was responsible for observing and reporting on Adama's activities. Like most of the Warriors, Athena resented the implication that her father would let military rule degenerate into a military junta, particularly when it came from that sorry collection of Joens bugs that called itself the Council of the Twelve. But the Siress had her job to do, and being on the bridge during an attack was part of it. "We are under attack, Siress," Adama answered. "I can see that," she snapped. Since taking the position, she and Adama had grown very close, but their affections took second place to their responsibilities. "How serious is it?" "I am not entirely sure yet," Adama said. "There appear to be several waves of Cylon Raiders moving towards us." "Base ships?" "We don't know yet. I'm waiting for reports from our patrols." He glanced at Rigel's data screen, checking on the status of the Viper launch. "What is your..." "Siress Tinia," Adama said, turning to her. "I appreciate your questions and your concern. But I do not have the time right now to indoctrinate you into our tactical strategies. Please! Please stay by Bridge Officer Omega and simply observe, so that Col. Tigh and I can run this battle." Tinia stiffened, but complied. As she watched the bridge swing into full battle readiness, she seemed less offended by Adama's remarks. When this was over, the Council would have many, many questions to ask. Her best course of action, she decided, was to do exactly as Adama said. Stay out of the way and observe. Athena felt better when she saw Boomer hurry onto the bridge. He could give them a more positive picture of the situation. Surely, it wasn't as bad as it seemed. But it was. She listened with growing despair as Boomer reported the encounter with the patrol. Her father's eyes darkened as he meshed Boomer's information with what he was seeing and hearing from the battle. "I don't know how they followed me, Commander. I swear I used every evasive technique in the book." "I know you did, Lieutenant," Adama said. "We've been using that book for a long time. Maybe they finally read it." "What about going back after Starbuck?" "We're not going back." "But, sir, we can't just leave him out there!" Adama's look was agony. "Boomer, don't you think I want to go back for him? Do you think I want to leave someone I love like a son, knowing we'll never see him again?" He pointed to a viewscreen, where they could clearly see a Raider firing without challenge at one of the ships. "Take a look out there. We'll be lucky if we can save the fleet!" Boomer stared at Adama in disbelief. "You mean we can never go back?" "That is correct. There is no going back. Our enemy pushes us on and on and on, and until we are strong enough or can find Earth and get help, we can never stop or turn away or look back!" Boomer stepped away. He had to get to the flight deck, get into his Viper, join the battle. Every pilot was vital, now more than ever. He was wasting time here; he wasn't doing his duty or helping the rest of the squadron or the fleet. He had to go... Never to return. He stopped and faced Adama again. The Commander was standing with his back to Boomer, apparently watching the viewscreens. "Thank you, sir," Boomer said without bitterness. "I appreciate your honesty." Blinking lights on her console forced Athena to concentrate on her duties. She stared at the screen blankly for a micron. She was tired of analyzing the glowing indicators and just wanted them all to go away. She wanted to run from the bridge, from all of the destruction and death and pain that filled the air around her. No more battles. No more deaths. Please. But the screen kept flashing at her, green and red lights conveying information her father needed to know if they were going to survive. She sensed Col. Tigh looking over her shoulder. Her training took over, and she somehow forced her emotions aside. "First enemy wave has been taken back," she reported. "They're running with our fighters in pursuit." "Order all fighters to regroup and let them run," Adama ordered. "The fleet is to proceed dead ahead at flank speed." Let them think his voice was breaking from the stress of the battle, Adama prayed. He had not felt more pain when he had watched Zac die. "Goodbye, Starbuck," he said softly. "I love you. We all love you." Bojay paced the flight deck while his tech crew scrambled to repair his Viper. The flight deck was chaotic. Crews ran with equipment, rushing to repair damaged Vipers. Shuttle pilots with no sense of self-preservation were loading cargo into their vessels, ready to run the gantlet of fire to ferry emergency supplies to ships desperate for their help. Medical teams hauled wounded pilots from their ships, while half-trained cadets waited to take those same ships back out into the battle. He caught sight of Cassiopea working the with medical teams, acting as the triage manager. A word or a nod dictated who was moved to which medical site and when, which injuries were too severe to be treated, and which Warriors had been reached too late. The dying and dead were placed as quickly and gently as possible away from the activity. At the moment, she was arguing with Lt. Deitra, who was sitting on the grimy floor of the flight deck. The legs of her uniform were darkly stained, and she was gritting her teeth against pain, but her eyes were hot and her temper hotter. "Just slap a pressure bandage on it, dammit!" she yelled at Cassie. "There's no time for anything else!" "Your leg is broken in several places, Lieutenant. And those are open breaks. The bone is through the skin." "I. Know. That." Deitra said tightly, each word a complete sentence. "Better Than You Do. But I'm needed out there. Splint it, dammit, Cassie. When this is over, I'll be happy to spend a quat in the Life Station." "You'll have to be carried back to your Viper." "I'll do it," Bojay said, as he came up behind Deitra. "She's right, Cassie. If she can fly at all, we've got to have her out there." "I can't even give you a pain killer." "Killing those frakking Cylons is all the medication I need." Cassie sighed once, short and sharp. Then she motioned to another med tech, and they fashioned a makeshift splint. Deitra screamed loudly enough to attract startled stares as they moved the bone, and she gripped Bojay's hand so tightly that she left fingernail marks on his wrist. "It's ok," she managed to say when they finished. She breathed deeply, gathering her strength, then nodded a Bojay. "Help me up." With the med tech's help, they got her into her Viper. "Thanks, Boj," she said as she fitted her helmet. "I'll see you back out there." Then she shot down the launch tube. Even with chaos filling the flight deck, Cassie noticed Boomer land and race to the bridge. A good and a bad sign. Good because she knew they'd made it back from their patrol. Bad, because it meant Starbuck was in the thick of it. As usual. She wished their patrol had sent them elsewhere, too far for them to return quickly enough to be in the fight. She allowed herself a micron's guilt at wishing Starbuck was safe while others were in danger. Then she was too involved with tending to the injured and dying to think about him any more. Bojay was waiting by Boomer's Viper when the other pilot returned. "What's happening up there?" Bojay asked. Boomer shook his head. "All the scanners show is one wave after another, no breaks. We've lost half a dozen civilian ships already and can't contact most of the pickets." "Base ships?" "None that we can see. Starbuck and I didn't find any, either. Just Raiders." He climbed into his Viper. "I've got to get out there," he said, but it was with a curious attitude, more of obligation than of eagerness to strike at the enemy. Bojay watched as Boomer launched. No base ships? When they hit the Colonies, they used base ships. How could they get a force this large this close without base ships? There was only one answer, of course. Tankers. Their tankers could transport a couple of hundred Raiders to wherever they were needed, then fuel them and let them strike. Just what they'd done at Cimtar. The same way they've overwhelmed the meager forces of the natives at Gamorray. If the scanners and patrols weren't showing base ships, the Cylons had to be using tankers. Which meant the fleet could win this thing. "How long before you can get this ready?" he demanded. Costam, his crew chief, glared at him. "A lot sooner if you let me work than if you keep bothering me, Lieutenant." "I've got an idea on how to end this," Bojay snapped. "But I've got to give the Commander a time line." "A centare. Maybe." Could they survive that long? Bojay wondered. From what he'd heard, nearly two dozen Vipers were already gone. How many more could they lose before they could provide no defense at all? He ran for the lift to the bridge. Adama and Tigh listened as Bojay spoke. They were standing on the upper console, half-hearing reports filtering through Omega's work station. It was grim. Siress Tinia hovered behind the officers, angry at her inability to do anything useful. "You're not finding base ships because there aren't any," Bojay insisted. "The Pegasus thrived because we figured out how the Cylons operate out here. They only send base ships when they're trying to impress the locals." He shrugged. "When they're trying to intimidate a new race, transport their Imperious Leader, stuff like that. The rest of the time, they use tankers. We learned all about where they run them, how they operate, where they hide. Sir, I know there aren't any base ships involved in this. If you give me three Vipers, we'll wipe them out. I swear it." The two senior officers' eyes met briefly. They'd already come to the same conclusion -- that the Cylons were employing the same sort of techniques that they'd used when they struck at the Colonies. After so many yahrens of working together, no further communication was necessary. They both knew there were few other options. If Bojay succeeded, the fleet might just survive. If they were wrong, if the Cylons were tracking them with base ships, at least they would have time to prepare for the inevitable end. Maybe a few shuttles and smaller ships could escape. "Very well," Adama said. He signaled Omega. "Tell Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Sheba to release any pilots Lt. Bojay requests to his command." He turned back to the Lieutenant. "Good luck," he said. "If it doesn't work, you may not have a fleet to return to." "Boomer reporting in." Few voices had ever been so welcomed. Apollo smiled despite himself. "Busy morning?" he asked. He jinked his control stick to the left to dodge a Raider aiming straight for him. The Cylon vessel tried to re-align itself to follow the fleeting Viper, but swung too wide. A flash of fire from Giles' Viper caught it on the port side, not destroying it, but throwing it even further off-line. A second shot, this one from Korel, completed the kill. "Tell me about it," Boomer said. "Where's Starbuck?" There was a brief pause. "They winged him. Thruster damage." "Ok," Apollo answered. He knew Jenny, Starbuck's crew chief, would have the Viper back on line in half the time it would take other techs. In the meantime, Starbuck would be prowling the flight deck looking to commandeer any halfway flyable ship that could get him back into the battle. "Glad to have you with us, Boomer," Korel said. "We were getting bored with only..." the transmission ended abruptly as a Raider's laser found its mark. Chapter Nine Capt. Cutler enjoyed being a Mud Daggit. Before the Destruction, the Ground Assault team prided itself on the severity of the missions it accepted and the quality of its work. Since there hadn't been many chances to perform ground assault duties since then, the Daggits had shifted much of their attention to firing batteries. They trained ship crews on effective installation, maintenance and use of defensive armament. They took pride in their new assignment and were well-respected by the other Warriors. When the Cylons attacked, Cutler was on the picket ship Sansar, conducting a routine review session for her crew. He liked the people on the little ship. Before the Destruction, it served as a tender -- a resupply vessel for ships patrolling the inner planetary defense circuit. Maneuverable, sturdy, it adapted well to its new role as a perimeter guard. Its original armament had been boosted to fighting strength, at least as much as she could handle given the limitations of her powerplant and structure. "Well, do we pass?" Veleda, the Captain of the Sansar asked. He'd gone to her office to report. "As if you had any doubt." Cutler grinned at her. Like her ship, she was a determined woman. Word was, her crew had taken out the Cylon patrol that was attacking an outpost on one of the Orion moons during the Destruction, then evacuated the survivors and forced back the second attacking patrol in order to make clean their escape. Tenders were never supposed to be in battle, so ships like the Sansar had little armament and their crews had even less training. That made her and her crew's accomplishments even more remarkable. "Good." Veleda looked properly pleased. "You have a good crew." "I know," she said with pride. She motioned to the chair across the workspace from her. "Caffe?" The aroma from the steaming cup startled him. "The real stuff?" He sipped it slowly, savoring the taste. The agro ships concentrated on more necessary crops, although for those with caffe addictions, there were few more important needs. There was some caffe harvested, but it was highly prized and tightly rationed. A few people still had stores hoarded from before, but this tasted fresh. She was watching his reaction and enjoying it. Cutler liked the way her eyes crinkled when she grinned. "One of the few perks of being a picket ship," she explained. "The Commander puts us on the top of the list for caffe and a couple of other delicacies." She grinned again, this time with wicked delight. "Do you know that we get a quat's rations of bova meat every two sectons?" Cutler narrowed his eyes in feigned anger. "Unfair. All you do is sit out here and watch the stars rolls by." "Too far from the fleet to routinely visit the Rising Star or any other recreation ship. We only rotate to the main fleet every fourth quat. In the meantime, the only ship I can see from my port is the Leviathan, and that's at a distance." Cutler glanced out her port. She was right. The hulking shape of the fleet's chemical storage and processing ship was not much more than a shadow outlined against the starfield. The rest of the fleet was so far away, it was no more than a rumor. For the picket ships, the long patrols were lonely and tense, no matter how much the crewmembers liked each other. They looked forward to the quat when their ship moved to the rest of the fleet for R&R, repairs and maintenance. "So we earn our extras," she continued. "I'm hoping you can help us earn more." "What do you mean?" "The Triad Championship." "I don't understand." Veleda grinned. "We have a bet with the Lollard. They're betting on Boomer and Greenbean. We're betting on you. Win the Championship, and the Lollard pulls an extra quat's rotation so we can stay in the fleet that much longer." "And if we lose, you stay out here an extra quat, right?" "That's the bet." Cutler shook his head. "That's one hell of a bet," he said. "Nothing like adding a little pressure to the situation." He sipped his caffe. "Doesn't something like that have to be approved by the Commander or Col. Tigh?" "Sure does. But Capt. Digam of the Lollard is a friend of Tigh's, and Tigh doesn't think that his pilots can lose." "They are very good. They are in the finals," Cutler reminded her. "Only because Apollo and Starbuck had to scratch. They are the second-best Galactica team." She leaned close to him. "Now, I've been studying the vids of both of your semi-final games. I think you can use Greenbean's size and build against him. He's long and lanky, which makes it easy for him to plan a layup shot, but you're smaller and quicker. I've noticed that he's not got a lot of good defenses against tight, inside moves..." She never finished her analysis. The alarm sounded loudly and suddenly. Both officers jumped. "Captain, sensors indicate a large force bearing down," a voice on her intercom announced. "Contact in twelve microns." "Red alert! Man all batteries. Alert the Galactica. Contact the other picket ships in this sector. See what they have on their scanners." "Already done," the bridge reported. "Front quartering ships report no activity. Left flanking and quartering ships confirming our sensors." Veleda paused long enough to pour the undrunk caffe back into the server. "For after this is over," she promised Cutler as they ran for the door. He could have gone to the bridge and watched the battle from there, but being an observer was not Cutler's style. He was a Mud Daggit, trained to fight. He hurried to the firing batteries. The little ship had only two batteries, one on each flank. The guns weren't the most powerful, since the Sansar was not a large ship. But they were highly mobile, able to extend from the vessel and rotate 180 degrees on the yaw and pitch axes. That gave her the advantage of being able to track and fire over a broader area. The Sansar's crew was ready for this fight. He'd just spent two days putting them through simulations to prove that. He reached the main firing control center and looked over the shoulder of the tech manning the scanner relay. "Holy frack!" he said softly. What was it the bridge crew had reported? 'A large force?' This looked like the legendary Pebbles of Cameron, more grains of sand than those on the Beaches of G'lb'rt. "All guns powered and ready," the tech reported. "Very well," Veleda said from the bridge. "Stand by." He pictured her watching her own scanners. "There sure are a lot of them," he heard someone say. "Easier to hit 'em that way," the tech in front of him answered. The glowing lights came closer, closer. Cutler leaned toward the screen. The Cylons were practically on top of the Sansar. Any closer, and they could touch down in the landing bay. For a micron, he wondered if Veleda had frozen in panic. Given the size of the approaching force, it was possible. He'd forgotten who she was. "Fire at will," she commanded as the Cylons reached point-blank range. The tech had already activated the targeting system. Even as Veleda spoke, he toggled the switches. Cutler felt the Sansar shudder as the guns began their systematic firing. The sensors showed strike after strike. None of the blasts missed. The sensors showed that the other picket ships were scoring equally well. Dozens of the lights indicating Cylon Raiders winked out, but the grid still shown brightly, too brightly. The attack force swept past the Sansar with the same inattention Cutler would pay to a crawlion. "Clean strikes, Captain," the tech reported, "but they're not even slowing down." "I see that," Veleda answered. "Keep firing." Cutler heard commotion over the open comm line. By now, he was used to the feel of the little ship as her guns fired. He had to grab the edge of the console to keep his balance as the vessel rocked from incoming fire. "We're starting to take heavy fire," the tech said, as if Cutler needed the confirmation. "I thought they might just go past us, but..." There was a heavier impact. He heard yelling in the corridor outside the scanner relay. The rumble of distant explosions deep within the ship traveled through the internal framework. The lighting flickered, dimmed, then came back. "Uh-oh," the tech said. Cutler turned to the viewscreen. It was dark. "Uh-oh," he echoed. "We've got trouble, Captain," the tech reported. "All scanners are dark. Either they hit the external data scopes or the power systems lost their integrity." "Confirmed on both counts. And we're not going to get power back on line in time to do any good." How Veleda could sound so calm in the face of such a disaster mystified Cutler, and he was pretty calm in a crisis himself. He could hear the scream of warning alarms sounding on the bridge and of voices far less calm than hers reporting damage throughout the ship. Clearly, the Sansar would not survive much longer. "Alright," Veleda said with resignation. "I don't know if any of us will survive this, but abandon ship. All crew to the escape pods. May the Lords of Kobol be with us all." Cutler ran with the other techs to the nearest escape pod. They crammed in, sealed the hatch, then blasted free. The pod shot down, below the doomed tender. By some stroke of luck, it was also below the waves of Cylons moving towards the fleet. Cutler looked up at the silver wafers as they passed by overhead. They ignored the escape pods. Perhaps they thought they were debris from the Sansar. Or else they figured that no one would come to the rescue of the humans trapped inside. At any rate, the Raiders moved on, firing almost as an afterthought at the Sansar. The self-propulsion units within the pod pushed it far away from the tender and the Cylons. The passengers watched silently as the ship took more fire. The hull was blackened, and Cutler could see the pitting from the energy blasts in the glowing light of her superheated superstructure. The ship shuddered as something ruptured deep within. It expanded, slowly at first, then with growing intensity as the pressure within reached the void outside. The fireball made the inside of the pod as bright as high noon on Scorpia. Then it was over. Cutler sank to the floor of the pod, suddenly drained of energy. The Galactica would be very busy pushing this Cylon force back. He checked the placards on the wall of the pod. Enough support vapors and fuel to last them three standard days. The Automatic Distress Beacon was transmitting their location, so the rescue shuttles would know where to look. Just sit and wait and wish they'd been able to do more. He hoped Veleda and the rest of the crew were doing the same thing. "By all the Lords..." One of the techs was staring out the port in horror. "What is it?" Cutler squinted as he peered into the darkness. "Holy frack!" There was another wave of Cylons moving toward the fleet. It looked at least as large as the first. He sat down again, suddenly finding himself short of breath. How could the fleet handle two massive attacks like that? A stray thought ran through his mind, and he snorted, a short laugh without much humor behind it. Somehow, he figured his Triad match against Boomer and Greenbean was going to be delayed. Chapter Ten Bojay bounded onto the wing of his Viper, barely giving Costam time to move away. He pulled his helmet on, switching on the life support system while he toggled the primary engine activation systems for his craft. "Look," Costam was saying, "I've done the best I can, but I can't promise it'll function at 100 percent. There's just no time to do more." "Right." Bojay nodded his understanding. "If this doesn't work, it won't matter anyway." Costam stepped away as the Viper's engines continued to spool up, their whine rising to a crescendo before the sleek craft shot down the launch tube. The crew chief frowned as the ship disappeared. "That's pretty much how I figured it, too," he said to the now-empty space where the Viper had been. "Sheba, are you there?" Bojay called as soon as he was free from the Galactica's launch tube. "There're doing strafing runs against the Macman," she told him. There was an angry edge to her voice Bojay had never heard before, and he'd heard her plenty angry plenty of times. "We could use some help." "Did you get the word from the Commander?" he asked. The Macman was one of the main communications relay vessels. Take it out and half the fleet would be incommunicado. "Roger that." There was a pause. "Gotcha!" he heard her say softly. "We're outnumbered, and I'm supposed to release Vipers to you?" "Tankers, Sheba. You know how it works." In her cockpit, she nodded. Busy fighting, she had neither the time nor the data to analyze the situation, but that one word from Bojay explained what was happening and what needed to be done. "Who do you want?" she asked. "Nytesilver and Kodai." They were both survivors from the Pegasus, used to flying this type of mission. "Nytesilver," Sheba called. "Yo!" came the immediate answer. "Break off and reform on Bojay. He's your leader now." "Wilco." "Kodai?" Bojay asked. "Gone." Bojay knew he'd feel grief and sorrow later. Right now, losing that pilot was just one hell of an inconvenience. "Alright. I'll pick up two from Blue Squadron." "Right with you, Bojay," he heard Nytesilver call as they banked away. "Where are we going?" "Behind these guys," Bojay explained. "Gonna drain their tanks." He collected Giles and Greenbean from Apollo's command, then the four ships set out for the Cylon rear. Space being open and multi-dimensional, they simply dropped below the fleet and the battle and chose a reciprocal heading from the advancing Cylons. There was an element of luck involved. They had to chance it that the Raiders were keeping their scanners focused on the fleet and not looking around to see if ships were operating outside that limited dimension. From a distance, the battle looked unreal, like models being hurled about and set on fire in some demented version of a child's game. The fierce glows of energy winked and flashed with the benign cheerfulness of solstice decorations that belied the fear and agony that really accompanied them. "What the frack...?" Bojay heard Giles mutter. "One of the ships is leaving..." Bojay glanced in the direction of the fleet. The standing order was for all ships in the convoy to hold their positions in relation to each other during an attack at whatever speed Adama ordered, unless they were in imminent danger. Even then, captains were to coordinate their movements with the Galactica. Now, though, the formation of Vipers watched as one of the ships began maneuvering away from the rest. It did not appear to be damaged, nor, from what the pilots could tell, was it under any particularly heavy fire. Bojay switched his second comm unit to the intrafleet frequency. He wouldn't transmit; that might key the Cylons to where his little band of raiders was, but he could listen. "...Maintain your position," he heard Omega saying. "Repeat. Pashta Lyte. Pashta Lyte. This is the Galactica. You are to maintain your position." "Negative," came the reply. The voice was tense and firm. "We are leaving the fleet. Repeat. We are pulling out. We're going to make a run for it. It's our only chance!" Pashta Lyte. Bojay thought for a micron. That was one of the smaller freighters, converted into living space with a number of small manufacturing workshops on board. About three thousand people were housed on her. "Pashta Lyte, this is the Galactica. You must maintain position. You are too close to the other ships in your sector. Your movement is endangering the other ships." There was no answer. "That bork is going anyway," Nytesilver grumbled. "If he pulls out, he's going to start a panic run." "That's not our problem," Bojay said, although he agreed with the Ensign. "Prepare to engage turbos." He concentrated on his instruments, double-checking his heading and vectors. "Oh, no!" he heard Giles say. He was on the starboard flank, closest to the fleet. "He lost it!" "What?" Bojay asked, even though he could guess the answer. He spared a millicenton to glance over his shoulder. What he saw made him wince in pain. In his panic, the captain of the Pashta Lyte had miscalculated and moved too close to one of the other ships. It was another converted freighter, the Annibus, one of the big ones. Probably carried eight or nine thousand passengers and crew. As he watched, the larger vessel tried to bank away, but even in space, it takes time to shift mass. Bojay pulled himself in tightly, as if his involuntary move could shrink either ship enough to prevent the collision. He imagined the entire compliments of both ships doing the same thing and it somehow saving them. A dream. At the last instant, the Pashta Lyte also tried to veer away. She almost made it, just brushing against the upper hull of the Annibus. Almost is an unforgiving word in space. The impact breached both hulls. Bojay turned away from the explosions and tried not to think about the numbers. "Lord have mercy on them," Adama whispered as the debris from the Pashta Lyte and Annibus dissipate. The bridge seemed to fall silent for a micron. Even with the losses they were taking in the battle, this was hard to witness. "Are any of the ships in that area in danger from debris?" he asked. "No sir," came Omega's immediate reply. "In fact, most of the Cylon activity is occurring far away from that part of the fleet." "Lords," he whispered again, struggling to detach his emotions. Such a useless, meaningless loss of life. That damned fool of a captain! He wanted to rage at the man, but that was a luxury denied him right now. "Contact all ships and emphasize that they must maintain position!" he ordered Omega. He leaned over a tech to study one of the readouts. "Scanners indicate one of the Cylon waves is withdrawing," the officer told him. "Probably heading back to refuel," Adama said. "If their pattern holds true, Commander, then there's another wave preparing to roll in on us, even as this one rolls out." Adama nodded in agreement. "Is that what's happening, Adama?" Tinia was standing on the other side of the work station. "It appears to be, yes." He glanced up from the tech station. Her face was streaked with tears. "They were on the Pashta Lyte," she whispered. Adama ached as he realized what she meant. Mohr and Gish, her son and granddaughter. Tigh was there, then, and led her away. There was no time to mourn, any more than there had been at Caprica. As predicted, scanners showed a new wave of Cylons cruising towards the fleet as the nearly-untouched wave retreated. Hurry, Bojay, he thought. Whatever tricks Commander Cain taught you at Gamorray, use them all now. The trick was to put yourself where the Cylons weren't looking and be somewhere else when they were. A simple enough strategy, and one that the worked well in combination with the dynamics of space and the lack of creativity of the Cylons. The patrol sailed towards the Cylon tankers with no resistance. As Bojay had expected, the Raiders were certain that all of the Vipers would be dedicated to defending the fleet. With their cybernetic minds made up, the Cylons wasted no time or energy looking for attackers. Even so, Bojay led his group on a course that kept them at the very outer fringes of the Cylons' scanner range. Or, considering how the mechanized creeps had managed to track Boomer, what he thought were the outer fringes. If they could track Boomer of all people, they had to be using something other than their usual equipment. "I've got them on my forward long-range," Nytesilver reported. A touch of a toggle, and Bojay saw the same thing. "I count four of them in a box formation. It was too far out to tell which tankers were refueling and which were standing by. He'd make the final decision on which tankers to target when he got closer. "Giles, Greenbean, here's how it works. We go past them about fifty metrons. Far enough that it's unlikely to attract their attention. Then we double back and make our run. Giles, you stay with me. Greenbean, you're on Nytesilver's wing." The patrol acknowledged his command and moved into formation. Bojay adjusted his on-board scanners to give him a clear picture of what the Cylons were doing as they passed. His readout showed Raiders filling the space around the tankers like buzzhummers around a hive. "How many do you count?" Greenbean asked. "Don't have that many fingers," Giles answered. "Air off, you guys," Bojay snapped. "I don't need them to pick up stray transmissions." He looked at the scanner again. "Looks like they're using the two tankers at the front of the box. I'll bet the two at the rear haven't been tapped yet. What do you think, Nyte?" "Concur. It'd take a long time to drain two tankers, even with the numbers they're using against us. I'll bet they are both still half-full." "Me, too," Bojay said. Which meant that the Cylons had shown up ready to keep their siege going for days, if needed. His stomach lurched at that thought. "Think there are any Raiders inside those other tankers?" Giles asked. Now that they were about to get into it, he was all business. "Wouldn't surprise me," Bojay said. The Cylons would have to expect a hard fight and would need to replace the Raiders they lost. Bringing along spares meant there was no need to worry about replacements or repairs. They could hold back hundreds of their fighters in the massive tankers and release whole phalanxes of fresh, undamaged craft whenever they wanted. It would be easy to win a battle by attrition that way. "What's the plan?" Nytesilver asked. "We'll take out the two tankers in the rear first. That way, we'll know they only have a limited amount of refueling capability left to them." In case we don't finish the job, he thought. "Then we'll swing around and make a second run to get the front two. I figure the first strike will confuse them enough to give us an edge on the second run." "And then?" Greenbean asked. "Then we fire our turbos and get the frack out of here! Stick with your partner as much as you can, but if you have to break up, do so!" He'd been tense on the flight out, his mind rummaging through all of the variables, wondering if his predictions were the right ones. But his time with Cain and the Pegasus had taught Bojay to trust his gut, which was why he'd gone to Adama in the first place. He'd learned something else from Cain, as well. He'd learned how to turn to ferrosteel when the fight was on. They'd all learned that. Sheba, Nytesilver, Kodai -- good friends, easy-going, quick to laugh and to be there when you needed them, but unforgiving and coldly calculating when sitting in their Vipers. Which was how they'd survived then. And how they would survive now. Giles slipped smoothly into position beside Bojay. It was too dark in the other cockpit for him to see the other pilot's face, but Bojay had flown enough times with Blue Squadron and run enough sims with Giles to know the other man was totally focused on the mission. They'd even programmed this kind of tanker run into the simulator options. The best of the Galactica pilots eagerly seized the chance to try flying this new kind of mission. Giles was one of them. That was why he had chosen him. Same thing with Greenbean. They had the same senses as the pilots from the Pegasus, but he had wanted to leave as many of them with Sheba as he could. It wasn't all that easy for her to mesh the styles of Silver Spar and those of Red Squadron together. The two flights maintained radio silence while they flew the outbound leg of their pattern. At fifty mettas, Bojay keyed his mike. "Flight, prepare to turn 180 degrees on my mark." One final glance at the instruments. "Now." The four ships made smooth arcs to turn. Far ahead, too far to be seen by the eye, the four Cylon tankers sat motionless in space. Idle Eiders, Bojay thought. Just waiting for someone to show up and shoot them down. "Flight, prepare to start your run. Nytesilver, detach at my command and initiate your run at your discretion. Remember, gang, we won't get a second chance at this." He waited until his scanners confirmed the location of the four tankers. "Nyte, you're detached. Giles, let's roll." As he expected, the Cylons were not watching their rear. The four Vipers swept down upon the unguarded tankers without resistance. His scanners showed dozens of Raiders moving around the front tankers, but those vessels were nearly 10 mettas away. Even the Cylons appreciated how far flung the devastation would be if one of the tankers did somehow explode. His only worry now was shielding. All ships had basic protection against meteorites, space dust, and other flotsam floating in the void. Those could be strengthened or weakened as the situation demanded, but never completely dropped. Within the fleet, ships and shuttles carried micro-generators that sent a signal overriding the shields in the immediate area for the few millicentons it took to get inside their protective barrier. The Cylons had much the same thing. He was counting on the back ships having only minimum shield protection. Not expecting a counter-attack, there'd be no reason for the Cylons to be up to full force. If they were, the Vipers could still take them out, but it would mean using more firepower and taking more time than he wanted. From past experience, Bojay knew exactly where to target his lasers. The tankers had a double row of external refueling pods along the upper quarter of the hull. Raiders could line up, lock on, refuel, and return to battle without landing. That was efficient. And vulnerable. One clean shot at one pod might cause some damage, but probably not enough to set off the chain reaction he needed. A strafing run at the right angle would hit several of the pods, though. Two runs, one along each row, would certainly light up the skies with a bright, albeit short-lived, star. "Drop below and follow me," he told Giles. A double-click in his headset confirmed that Giles heard the command. He wouldn't risk talking needlessly when they were this close. The tanker loomed larger and larger in Bojay's canopy. Lords, but that thing was big! They'd calculated once just how much fuel one of them carried. Enough to keep the Pegasus going at best rate-of-burn for nearly a yahren, they decided. Enough to propel Adama's fleet out of the Gammoray sector and further for over two quatrons. Four of them against the fleet? Felger! They were nearly on the tanker. Bojay checked for the hundredth time to make certain that his lasers were armed and his targeting computer programmed for the refueling pods. Still no resistance. Either they were sailing into a trap, or the gods wanted them to win this thing. "Now," he said, and rolled his Viper into position at the aft end of the tanker. Giles did not answer, but Bojay saw the other craft drop down into Bojay's shadow. He added power and started his run, squeezing his firing button and watching with satisfaction as the tight, bright beams of energy sliced along the tanker's hull. Sure enough, the shields weren't set strongly enough to deflect the power spikes. He dearly wanted to watch the lasers, but visual targeting wouldn't get the job done. He concentrated on his computer, aligning his weapons with the commands from his instruments. The computer confirmed that his shots were hitting true, finding and destroying the refueling pods, sending white-hot surges of fire into the conduits and holding tanks filled with tylium and solium and lords-only-knew-what other sources of power the Cylons had stored inside. The run lasted barely a micron. Then he and Giles were soaring through free, empty space, banking away from the tanker as it was engulfed by flame. "That's for the people on the Pashta and the Annibus," Giles said, the first words he'd spoken since they started their initial run. A second overwhelming sunrise dawned to their right. Nytesilver and Greenbean had obviously enjoyed equal success. "Two down, two to go!" Greenbean's voice sounded cheerfully in Bojay's helmet. "It won't be as easy this time," Bojay cautioned. "The other tankers are alerted, and they've got coverage from their Raiders." "Then let's make it fast," Nytesilver suggested, "before they recover their composure." They turned almost immediately, lining up on their designated tanker. They'd have to swing wide to avoid debris from the destroyed tankers. It meant spending more time in the area, giving the Cylons more chances to spot them, but there were no other options. "Detach, strike, and engage at will," Bojay ordered. "Then get the Hades out of here! Take whatever course you need to get back to the fleet." He caught the glimmer of movement far off his wing -- Nytesilver and Greenbean aligning themselves for the run at the other tankers. The four ships broke off into two flights again and raced towards the remaining tankers. The Cylons were still trying to figure out what happened to the other tankers. Bojay punched up one of the known Cylon frequencies on his second comm unit, but heard nothing but they electronic screeching they used for internal transmissions. He set his translink to automatically record it. When they got back to the fleet, Dr. Wilker could process it in his lab and maybe figure out what they were saying. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Bojay thought the transmissions seemed frantic. The Cylons wondering what the frack was going on. Scanning for intruders? That was one good thing about the amount of wreckage created by the explosions; it helped to hide the approaching Vipers. Programmed to take the most massive actions, the Cylon tankers moved to defensive mode. The Raiders hovering around the ships broke off from their refueling, while more of the silver disks spewed from the innards of the tankers. The space around them swarmed with Raiders. "Looks like happy hour at a pick-up bar," Giles said. "Same run as before?" "It'd never work," Bojay said. "I'm gonna concentrate on the housing centered exactly halfway amidships. You know the one I mean?" "Yep," Giles said. "It's part of the sim.' "Right. We don't know exactly what it is, but every time we hit that, the tanker blows." "Roger. I'll give you cover." Double-click from Bojay. He took a deep, deep breath. This was it, the mission he'd trained for his entire life. All coming down to a fast ship, a charged laser, a tuned computer, a skilled wingman. And luck. They managed to slip past the first Raiders before the Cylons realized that there were Colonials in their midst. Bojay's targeting computer was already locking onto the housing when the first flashes of Cylon laser fire streaked past him. He wove his own course through the fire, frustrating the computer's attempts to give him the precision he needed. Giles hung with him, taking out the Cylons on his tail and trying to clear him a path ahead. They were close, very close. The targeting computer flashed brightly and beeped loudly -- Clear shot, it said. Go for it. He fired, holding down the button and flying closer and closer. He couldn't afford to miss. He need to be absolutely certain that whatever that housing was, when he pulled up, it wouldn't even be a grease spot on a flight deck floor. Closer. Keep firing. "Bojay! Pull up!" Giles yelled. His voice overwhelmed the speakers in his helmet, and for a millicenton, Bojay was deafened. He yanked back on his stick, and his Viper swept through a trio of Raiders. They dodged out of his way. There was still laser fire shooting in front of him, although he couldn't see any Raiders. What was Giles yelling now? "You can stop firing now!" That's when he realized he was still clutching his firing button, still shooting at the housing. "Oh." He eased his grip on the stick and released the button. "Did we do it?" he asked. The answer was a sudden, brilliant glow behind him. "I think so," Giles answered. "Then let's go home!" The internal gravity unit pushed him back into his seat as Bojay hit his turbos. They chose a course that kept them away from the returning Cylons and took advantage of the confusion and massive debris and dust clouds to cover their escape. Bojay kept glancing off to his left, where the fourth tanker was, waiting to see another explosion. Nothing. He ran his comm unit through all the usual Colonial frequencies, trying to pick up transmissions from Nytesilver and Greenbean. Silence. "What do you think...?" Giles asked finally. "Maybe we're too far away to see anything," Bojay said, though they both knew that any explosion of that size would be seen far into the darkness. "Yeah..." It came, finally, when they were nearly so far away that they could think about calling the fleet. "Bojay..." "Tally." But there was no joy in it. Too long in the attack, they both knew. Something had gone wrong. The Cylons detected the flight early in the run and were ready for them. Or had maximized their shields and deflected the Vipers' laser fire. One ship hit, maybe. Or neither getting the clean shots needed to make an immediate kill, so they had to stay and make another run. Or two. One ship damaged and the other trying to protect and strike at the same time. Lasers exhausted from the daggit-fight with the Raiders, so they rammed the tanker instead. So many possibilities, and they would probably never know which one told the story. Unless somehow Nytesilver or Greenbean managed to survive and escape. They both knew that wasn't likely. "Any point in going back?" Giles asked, although he knew the answer. "No. We're needed back at the fleet." "Rog." They needed to report and to help finish off the Cylons still attacking the convoy. Once they realized their refueling capabilities were lost, the Cylons would turn into suicide ships, ramming any of the fleet's vessels they could reach. The day's work was far from over. Chapter Eleven Something was happening out there. Adama looked over Athena's shoulder at the situational monitor. It painted a grim picture. Raiders peeled through the fleet with murderous intensity, chased and doggedly opposed by the Vipers and the batteries of the fleet. But the long-range scanners showed no more incoming Cylons. The screen showed only passive returns, benign echoes off interstellar dust and cataloged anomalies. "What do you think, Commander?" Tigh asked quietly. Athena looked up over her shoulder, her expression begging her father to assure her this nightmare was over. "Maybe," was all he would say. "Adama?" Siress Tinia approached him. Still pale, she stared at the screen with no idea of what she was expected to see. "It may be that no more Cylon reinforcements are coming," he said. "But out there..." she gestured to the tactical screens. "We're still fighting." Her eyes dropped, and she nodded. Tigh noticed that she clutched the back of Athena's chair to steady herself. He'd never thought of her as needing any sort of support before. "Tech comm is reporting a lot of activity on the Cylon frequencies," Omega said from the command dais. He paused and touched his headset lightly. "They're changing tactics, turning to suicide mode." "Felger!" Tigh muttered. "Order all ships to increase their shielding to maximum," Adama said. He'd given that order much earlier, but not all the ships followed all of his orders all of the time. "Have the Vipers concentrate all of their efforts on protecting the Class Alpha ships." As if they weren't already, Apollo thought. He relayed Adama's order to the rest of the squadrons, then rolled his Viper to obey. Squadrons. They needed a new definition for the term. There was a small part of his mind that detached itself from the immediate concerns during battles and quietly recorded what happened for analysis later. Starbuck, Boomer and the others had grown to respect and appreciate the way the Captain could tear apart the raids and firefights they fought. They always learned something after the fact. Apollo thought that it also worked to sort things out subconsciously while things were happening, giving him an edge in making decisions during the battle. That dispassionate part of his brain had been keeping count during the fight, listening to call signs, and noting where the fighting was hottest. They'd started the battle with 136 Vipers. By his count, nearly half of them were silent now. He wasn't sure how many were destroyed and how many too badly damaged to fly. The remaining craft joined loosely and moved towards the interior of the fleet. Most of the Class Alpha ships had survived, although some were badly damaged. Even as he concentrated on chasing and destroying the Raiders, Apollo made mental notes of the ships that seemed to be past the point of repair. The funny thing about the Cylons was that when they decided on suicide runs, they did it so gracelessly and singlemindedly. There was no attempt to elude opposing fire, no try at missing the Vipers to insure that they struck their target. They just lined up on a vessel and ran at full speed towards it. For the Vipers, it was primary target practice, the sort of thing they'd do to test the integrity of their targeting systems. After the centares of mad battle, it was a relief. Not fun, exactly; there were too many Cylons to count, too many ships to protect, and they were still so outnumbered that too many Raiders still got past them. But now the count was going in their favor. Each Raider was one less to worry about. No more were coming in to finish what the others had started. The Vipers struck with the vicious intensity of their namesake - fast and deadly. Now that the need to stay calm in battle eased, they vented their anger with abandon. It was oddly silent, though. No cheers when a Raider detonated into flame; no cries of victory when a ship escaped the Cylon's attack. This was a job that needed to be finished, that was all. Too many had worked too hard and died too suddenly for there to be any joy in the task. Then it was over. Apollo ordered Sheba to recall Red and Silver Spar to the Galactica. Blue and Green Squadrons split to make a final run around and through the fleet, checking for Cylon stragglers. The pit of his stomach ached with the fear that Omega would report that this had only been a respite and that another wave of Raiders was approaching, but the Bridge Officer only confirmed that the scanners were blank. Adama finally ordered Apollo's squadrons to return. Blue would remain on alert, but the pilots would have a chance to rest and eat, tend to their wounds. To mourn. It wasn't until he landed that Apollo finally allowed himself to think about the one call sign he hadn't heard during the battle. He knew the answer as he raised the canopy of his Viper. Boomer was standing beside it, his face grim. He was pale under his dark complexion. Apollo slid from the Viper and faced his friend. He felt old, too old. "What happened?" "We were ambushed," Boomer said. "He got hit. Two of his thrusters were destroyed. The third was barely putting out enough power to keep him flying." "He was alive?' Boomer nodded. "You left him?" "Yes, I left him!" He took a deep breath and gripped his helmet. "He couldn't make it back to the fleet. He wasn't even sure if he could make it to a habitable planet." "You have the coordinates?" Boomer nodded. "Of course." "We'll go back then." It might be a few days, while they recovered from the attack, but they couldn't afford to lose a good pilot. Not at any time. Especially now. "The Commander says we can't." Boomer's expression was neutral. Commander. Apollo's father. Starbuck. Apollo's friend. They stood silently for a moment. Pain finally forced its way onto Boomer's face. "I have to find Cassiopea," he said. "Starbuck gave me a message for her." "Wait." Apollo caught his arm as he turned away. "Let me talk to my father first. He's not going to leave Starbuck behind." He found Adama on the bridge. The ship was in the transition period between crisis and normalcy. Reports were filtering in from throughout the fleet, personnel were changing shifts, monitors were being tuned to non-battle modes. Adama was overseeing all of this, letting Tigh, Omega and the rest of the officers perform their duties with the practiced efficiency they'd learned under his command. Siress Tinia was gone. The fight over, she quietly left to return to her quarters and mourn the deaths of what was left of her family. It was too early for the Council to announce its desire to meet and debate the battle, although she and Adama knew it would come quickly. There were few things that band of buriticians loved more than to second guess those who took action over commentary. "How bad?" Apollo asked. Adama shook his head wearily. "Fourteen ships destroyed outright. Preliminary reports are that another nine or ten may not be repairable." "Fourteen..." The Commander's eyes were old. "Passenger and crew compliments totaled nearly fifty thousand. Those don't count the picket ships. We're still trying to contact all of them." He paused. "All of them that are left." Fifty thousand. Apollo's mind reeled. "Which ships?" he heard his voice ask. "Two agro ships, several tenders. That skybus. The senior ship..." his voice faded. "Tigh has the entire list." He rested his hand on Apollo's shoulder. "Your pilots did all they could, Apollo. Bojay said there were four tankers, each one filled with fuel and Raiders." "He got them?" "Thank the Lords." The change in his expression warned Apollo of what was coming. "He and Giles returned, but there's been no sign of Nytesilver or Greenbean." "All right. We can look for them when we go back after Starbuck." "No, Apollo. There is no going back." He continued on, as if his father hadn't spoken. "Boomer has the coordinates where they were forced to split up. Subtracting the time Boomer spent flying evasive courses, we should be able to check out the location of the tankers and still get to Starbuck's last known location in about..." he frowned while he mentally calculated. "No, Captain, we are not going back." "Father..." "We can't." And in that statement, Apollo felt all of the pain Adama carried for all of them. Starbuck. Nytesilver. The Iona, the Memphis, each lonely picket ship and all who were on them. "We have to concentrate on what's left of the fleet. Resources. Repairs. Watching, always watching. May the Lords forbid it, but the Cylons could attack again. We can't spare a Viper or a pilot or a shuttle for one person. Not when there are so many more in the fleet who need those resources more urgently." There was no argument, Apollo could see that. He wondered how he was able to stand so quietly and listen to his father condemn Starbuck and the others to their fates. In the corner of his eye, he saw Athena bow her head low over her console. Adama rested a hand on Apollo's shoulder. "Do you have a status report on the Viper squadrons?" The question startled Apollo back to action. "Not yet," he answered. "I have a rough count of those shot down. I have to check with maintenance to see how many Vipers are operational, how many can be repaired, and the Life Station about the personnel situation." "Then you should get to it." Adama dropped his hand. Apollo moved woodenly from the bridge. Those things could wait. Whatever the numbers were, whatever the situation, they wouldn't change in the next few centares. Right now, he needed to find Boomer. He wouldn't let his friend face Cassiopea alone. The Life Station was far busier than the bridge. In the aftermath of battle, the command center returned to plotting and observing, while the lifegivers dealt with the carnage. Cassiopea stood near the main administrative consoles. The triage and crisis centers were filled with Warriors and ship personnel waiting for treatment. Most of them had basic aid already. They weren't facing life-threatening injuries, so they could wait, at least for a while. There wasn't the usual buzz of conversation that accompanied the daily sick call. These were benumbed survivors. Their silence frightened her. She knew from her training as a socialator that talking about and reliving a trauma was often the first step in recovering from it. This was too soon, she knew, and too deep a trauma for that. It would come in time. "Cassie?" It was Apollo's voice behind her. She knew before she turned that it was too quiet and too full of concern. Boomer and Sheba were with him. "Please tell me you want to know about Deitra," she begged. "Her leg's badly broken in several places. She's sleeping now. She's going to need a lot of therapy..." Her throat tightened suddenly, and no more words would come. Apollo tried to hold her, but she pushed him away. "Boomer?" she asked, facing the other pilot. "We were ambushed. He was going to try to find someplace to put down." "He was alive then?" she asked, full of hope. "Yeah." He nodded solemnly. She looked at Apollo. "Then you can go back after him?" "No." Apollo closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the confusion in hers. "Not now, anyway. You've been here. Maybe you don't know how badly the fleet was hit." "I don't have details, but can guess." "We'll be lucky if we can just hold ourselves together. We can't..." There was nothing more to say. "He told me to give you his love," Boomer said simply. "Cassiopea, I need you to contact the hospital ship and see if they can spare their portable vascular imaging machine..." Dr. Salik said as he entered the unit. He stopped abruptly as he saw the Warriors. He didn't need to ask why they were there. "Oh, damn," he said softly. When he touched her arm, she broke. She sobbed on Apollo's shoulder, while Sheba held her, too. Boomer stood beside them. He lifted his arms once, as if to try to hold Cassiopea, too, then dropped them and lowered his head. Salik never forgot the look of pure agony on Boomer's face. Chapter Twelve "This is getting very, very tired." Starbuck looked up at the pale, cloudless sky. "Do you hear me?" he said, this time more loudly. "I'm getting very tired of this!" he yelled. His voice echoed from the high, rocky cliffs surrounding him. Aside from the wind, there was no reply. "Frack!" He dropped on his rump onto the hard-packed dirt. Beside him, a meager patch of green sprouts struggled to rise in neat rows. A trickle of water dribbled fitfully from a pipe set at one end of the makeshift garden. The darker patch of soil showing where the moisture was reaching did not begin to stretch to the far end of the planting. The pump had failed again, Starbuck hoped as he pushed himself to his feet. He sincerely prayed that was the problem, since the alternative was that the modest underground stream he'd found had dried up. That possibility chilled him, despite the unrelenting daytime heat on this goll-monging rock. He walked wearily to the spot where he'd lasered out the hard earth to reach the stream. A few healthy-looking near-shrubs alerted him to the water source shortly after he'd crashed here. That was when Cy was still with him, before the other Cylons appeared. That was when he had someone to talk to, to work with. When he still had some hope that he'd be rescued. That had been over six sectons ago. Thinking back, he might have been smarter to let the Cylons who'd come looking for Cy and the rest of the crew of his Raider to capture him. Off this rock, on a Cylon base ship, near some kind of communications, even taken back to Xeti Omicron - the Cylon homeworld - there was a chance of escape or rescue. At the time, though, it seemed to make more sense to defend himself against the recon unit sent to find Cy. "Fat lot of good that did," he grumbled softly. He felt better when he heard a voice, even if it was his own. He could pretend that there was someone else with him. It eased the perpetual loneliness that he tried hard to ignore. If he let himself slip, he could easily go over the edge and totally enter a fantasy world. He wiped his forehead with his arm, wincing a little. That dull headache was back, and the pressure from his arm made it a little sharper. He wondered if he hadn't gone a little bonkers a time or two already. Maybe his friendship with Cy was his imagination. It was hard to believe he could make a pact with his sworn enemy, even harder that said enemy would 'die' to protect him. He discounted the dreams he had, too. Most of them were about his friends and family on the Galactica, so he knew they weren't real. So were the ones about food, great feasts of meats and breads and delicacies he hadn't eaten since the Destruction. Or the ones where he was on a resort planet with cooling breezes and an oceanfront room. Those were the sort of dreams a marooned man could expect to have. They were almost normal. On the other hand, there had been some really bizarre ones. Those he remembered most clearly concerned a very pregnant woman who insisted her child was his and who wanted him to get them both to the Galactica. Just the sort of souvenir he needed to return with. He wondered who would be most angry at him: Col. Tigh, the Commander, Cassiopea, or Apollo. He laughed shortly. Given that situation, he'd be better off if he stayed marooned. There was a puddle of water at the base of his pump. Good. At least it was something he could probably fix. He checked the connections and found that one of the makeshift stretches of pipe had shifted and fallen loose. It was as primitive a system as could be imagined. He'd cannibalized the Cylon Raiders and what was left of his Viper to lay out a series of pipes that simply fitted on top of each other. Water coming from the stream flowed along the pipes downhill to the garden. That was what he had started with, a gravity-flow irrigation system. It let him plant a few weeds that his survival kit said provided some nutritional value. Not much, though. Starbuck pushed away the thought that he'd probably die of malnutrition and dehydration before old age if he stayed on this rock. With equal determination, he fought to ignore the certainty that if he was ever going to get off this chunk of galactic waste, someone was going to have to find him. Centares of crawling around the innards of the undamaged Cylon Raider and struggling to decypher their language and technology assured him that the ship absolutely required two pilots to fly it. It was the most frustrating admission he ever made. Once made, though, he turned his energies to the matter of survival. Water and shelter and something to eat. The shelter was already made. A neat, well-protected semi-cave on a small, semi-sheltered bluff. It overlooked his domain, the planet Starbuck -- mettas of reddish-brown rock, devoid of any measurable foliage, visible water, or hint of civilization, past or present. It was as lonely a spot as could be imagined in the universe. "It's bloody fracking unfair," he griped as he replaced the misaligned pipes. "Baltar gets left on a bloomin' oasis, and I get stuck here." Adama had promised the traitor that he'd be left on a planet with a hospitable climate and with enough supplies and equipment to survive, if not comfortably, at least passably. He'd kept that promise, too. Baltar even had short-range communications, although from what they could tell, the signals probably would not escape the planet's atmosphere, much less reach further out. For his part, Starbuck had triggered the homing beacon on the undamaged Raider, just as he had initially disconnected the beacon on Cy's ship. He couldn't guess how long the Cylons would look for their two missing patrols, but it was a comforting thought that maybe someone would pick up the signal. The beacon of his Viper was switched on, too. Or it had been. Or maybe still was, somehow. He'd scavenged the cockpit of the Viper to the point of disintegration. At least he thought he had. There was nothing left of the cockpit at the site of the crash, so he must've dismantled it, although he couldn't recall exactly when, how, or for what. But it was gone. Unless he'd removed the homing mechanism and put it somewhere he'd forgotten, his call for help was not going out over any Colonial frequency. He turned his attention back to his irrigation system. Water was the most critical need for survival. You could live a long, long time without decent food, but you only lasted a few days without water, especially in the desert. Finding the stream was a blessing. Once he had the gravity system going, Starbuck had worked on getting more water more quickly. He built a small pump from things salvaged from the various craft and fashioned a solar-charged system to run it. It was a fitting use for the triple suns that scorched the ground so thoroughly. He made a second set of pipes that branched off from the first. He could divert the flow by moving a simple piece of metal where the pipes met. The second set channeled water to a covered container that held about five gias. He needed to drink at least one gia a day in this heat and dryness. Most days, he didn't get much more than that before diverting the flow back to the garden. As the container gradually filled, he covered and stored the excess in other containers in his shelter. He dreamed about the day when he'd have enough to take a bath. He was as ripe as the armpit of a Borellian Noman. Scrubbing himself down with loose sand was the action recommended by Croft and the rest of the survival teams. It helped, he supposed, but was a poor substitute for conventional hygiene. "There." The makeshift canal was intact again. He smiled as the stream of water began -- well, not gurgling exactly, but at least flowing -- towards the garden. He sighed as he looked at the damp spot where the pipe had separated. It was already nearly dry. He squinted at marks in the dirt. Am I losing it again? Kneeling, he touched the raised marks in the mud. Tracks. Animal tracks. He touched the pipes. They were only several speks off the ground, not much more than a couple of handwidths. A small animal trying to get a drink of water could reach it. More likely, it would push against the pipes or try to stand on them, causing the whole thing to collapse. In all the time Starbuck had been on the planet, he hadn't seen many signs of life, other than the few plants and some annoyingly-persistent and perpetually-hungry parasitic insects, many of which had taken up residence in his scalp and crotch. No avians, no rodents; certainly nothing larger. Until now. It made sense. Survival was paramount for any life form, after all. He guessed that anything on this rock was as desperate to find food and water as he was. And here it was, an easy source of water right under its fuzzy little nose. He glanced over his shoulder towards his garden. Chances were it would be delighted to find a vegetarian smorgasbord right next to the water supply. No matter how shy it was about the large, noisy, unfamiliar biped occupying this bluff, no animal could resist the temptations Starbuck's tiny farm offered. It worked both ways, of course. Starbuck stood and brushed the loose dirt from his uniform. He hadn't risen to the top of the food chain to eat nothing but vegetables, no matter how healthy Cassiopea said that diet was. Given the quality of the food he'd found so far, he genuinely needed a better source of protein. Humming cheerfully, Starbuck trotted back to his camp. "Gentlemen, the gods are smiling on us," he told the covey of inert Cylons heaped in a corner. "We are going to have ourselves a feast!" He rummaged through the pile of spare parts and stray pieces culled from the Cylon Raiders and his Viper. He spent the rest of the afternoon experimenting with various styles of snares. Twice he returned to the irrigation pipes to study the tracks and guess how large the animal was. By twilight, he had fashioned four traps of different designs. He carried them to the garden and sat on a rock overlooking the sparse patch of green and his irrigation system, deciding where to put them. "I wonder what I should call you," he mused out loud. "Something other than 'dinner,' I mean." It was odd, not having names for anything he found. The initial delight he'd taken in naming the planet and joking with the Cylon patrol about increasing the population was nothing more than bravado, and he knew it. If he started naming the plants and the features of the landscape and now this animal, it meant he knew he would stay here forever. "That's not going to happen," he said firmly. The fleet could never find him, he knew that. Boomer had no idea where he'd headed once they'd split up. But there was still other traffic in the sector; he wouldn't let himself believe otherwise. Sooner or later, he'd be found and rescued. Sooner would be nicer than later, though. Meanwhile, he kept tinkering with the Cylons in his shelter. With six specimens to work with, surely he'd be able to repair one of them. Then they'd climb into that Raider and get off this frackin' rock! He let himself dream for a moment of the oasis planet they'd find, with other creatures, a city, spaceport, real bed, real food, real turbowash -- maybe even a way to return to the fleet. A rock tumbled down an incline near him. The daydream vanished as Starbuck jumped to alertness. No sign of anything moving, but something had pushed that rock. His little furry friend perhaps? Checking out the offerings of the garden? Well, that answered the question of where to put one of the snares. It was almost full dark when Starbuck finished placing the traps. He wondered if the animal would be frightened off by the human scent on them, or if it was even aware that the odor and body oils were from a predator. He secured the door to his shelter behind him. He did not leave it at night. Between the high winds, bitter cold, and complete darkness, it was too dangerous. He'd rigged a second solar generator that gave him power for a makeshift heating unit and lighting panels. His shelter probably had a warm, homey glow when viewed from outside. He tried to tell himself that was the case. He'd certainly welcome visitors, he thought as he stretched out on the small bunk. With any luck, he'd have one overnight. A visitor he'd be happy to have join him for dinner tomorrow. Chapter Thirteen Music should be part of the Cylon culture, Lucifer thought. His programming insisted that the association of sounds set by a predetermined, mathematically precise separation and arranged in a chosen pattern by biological entities was, at best, a meaningless exercise in arithmetic diversification and, at worst, a waste of time, energy and resources. That proved how little the rest of the Cylons understood about biologicals, especially humans. For the briefest of microns, Lucifer wondered if the original Cylons created music. He might have to research that through the Imperial archives. It certainly seemed that music served to express sensations that transcended even the satisfying purity of the most perfectly initiated logic relay. Which was why Lucifer was humming now. He coursed through the hallways of the Imperial Palace with a sense of purpose and feeling of delight. It was all going so well! True, the humans had managed to thwart his plans for their ultimate destruction. He'd expected them to figure out his strategy and try a counterstrike. He'd even factored in the loss of one, possibly two, of the tankers into his plan. But all four... his modular construct flashed in the Cylon equivalent of shaking his head. What was it Baltar had told him? That there was nothing so dangerous as a cornered human? Never mind. His attack had still devastated the fleet. The transmissions received and broadcast throughout the Empire showed passenger vessels and picket ships, freighters and Vipers all blossoming into debris while Cylon Raiders made pass after unchallenged pass at the remaining ships. All that was missing was proof of the destruction of the Galactica herself. That was no problem, either. There were plenty of shots of that sort of thing in the archives from the Battle at Cimtar. He had simply been careful about which shots he chose, so that none of them showed the names of the battlestars as they were destroyed there. One mushrooming behemoth looked pretty much like another, after all. His victory established, Lucifer worked to secure his place as the frontrunner in the ongoing scramble to re-establish power and order in the Empire. In the six sectons since the battle, he'd recalled all of the supervising IL Series Cylons from their posts on the scattered occupied planets and colonies. To the few who questioned his authority, Lucifer pointed out that he had been left in charge on Xeti Omicron when Imperious Leader joined Spectre on their ill-fated mission to find the human fleet. When possible, Lucifer later quietly had those potential opponents deactivated and removed. The silver Centurions were built for strength and obedience and never questioned orders. The hallways of the Imperial Palace were busier than usual. The IL Series clustered in doorways and meeting rooms, all trading information, rumors and speculation. How would the ongoing rebellions be handled? What was the mission of the Cylons now that the humans were destroyed? Why had there been a delay in activating and programming the next Imperious Leader? Answers were coming today, though. Lucifer announced a mass meeting of the IL Series. He'd considered holding it in the Imperial Throne Room, one of the few places large enough to accommodate all of the IL Series comfortably, but decided it was a little too presumptuous, even for him. Let the respectful mourning for Imperious Leader continue for a while longer, at least until he finished his address. He paused outside the meeting hall, and studied his reflection on the shining hulk of a silver Cylon. He'd taken the time to roll through the cleansing unit, being buffed and polished and having his anti-static filters cleansed and recharged. He positively gleamed. He wanted to exude an image of freshness and total control when he stood before his fellow IL Series. That was something else Baltar had taught him. Now, he entered the room and positioned himself in front of the other waiting ILs. He waited momentarily while their visual modular constructs steadied themselves into patterns of respectful attention. "My fellow IL Series Cylons," he began. "This is a most momentous occasion for all of us, and for the entire Cylon Empire. After six sectons of observation and thorough scanning, I am pleased to confirm that the Edict of Extermination has been carried out. The human vermin no longer sully the order of the Cylon Empire. "This has cleared the way for us to prepare and activate the next Imperious Leader. In normal circumstances, this would be an automatic procedure. However, in making those preparations, the attending Centurions and caretakers of the cryogenic chambers where the biologic bodies of the Imperious Leaders are held until needed, I made an interesting discovery, one that could affect the entire future course of our Empire." The rest of the assembled IL Series and Gold Centurions listened with the rapt attention of machines trying to analyze material outside the scope of their knowledge. "In the past, the first action of the newly-installed Imperious Leader was to oversee the preparation of his successor. When the great tragedy and destruction of Imperious Leader occurred, I immediately set out to initiate the transfer of data and programming to the new Imperious Leader. To my surprise, I discovered that no preparations had been made. "When I investigated further, I discovered the reason why. "There is no other Imperious Leader body." There was an outburst of flashing lights, electronic squeals, and computerized hubbub among the ILs. There were flashes of activity from the other Cylons and perhaps faster sweeps of the Centurions' red information retrieval bands. Hard to tell about them, Lucifer thought. Some of the Gold Centurions had abstract reasoning skills, but those were limited to analyzing tactical situations. "The honor of tending to the cryogenic rooms where the Imperious Leaders have been tended for these thousand yahren was given to that of well-trained biological workers and a special series of Cylon. They were neither instructed nor programmed to transmit this information to any other Cylon, only to Imperious Leader. It can only be assumed that the last Imperious Leader was aware of the situation and, in his infinite wisdom, had a reason and a plan. I have spent considerable time assessing the possible meaning of this. I have concluded that this is part of Imperious Leader's magnificent master plan for the Cylon Empire. "Let me explain" And so he did, pointing out that the IL Series had only been developed in the past three centuries. Before that, Imperious Leader managed all of the Empire independently, deploying Centurions as needed to oversee conquered planets. But as the Empire expanded and more species were throttled into joining it, Imperious Leader needed a reliable, loyal, cognitive, self-aware sub-order of Cylons to help govern the growing Empire. In his infinite wisdom, Imperious Leader created the IL Series. From their initial assignment as mere processors of orders, they had evolved into an intelligent, independent, valuable corps of governors and administrators, the perfect mechanical creation. "Which leads us to consider why there are no remaining biological Imperious Leaders, and why no preparations have been made for the transfer of power and data," Lucifer said. "I submit this as an answer: despite the clear logic and advanced programming of Imperious Leader, the sad fact remains that his is, ultimately, a biological form, thus subject to the flaws and imperfections of a living entity. With the improvements of the IL Series, I submit that Imperious Leader intended for the IL Series to supplant the biological Imperious Leadership and to assume total control of the Cylon Empire. "I believe Imperious Leader's decision to work so closely with the IL Series Cylon Spectre was the first step in assuming joint governing with the IL Series. Imperious Leader intended to share his power with Spectre -- a Cylon most worthy of that trust and position," he added, with the appropriate signs of respect dancing in his modular construct. "It is most logical to extrapolate the situation further and to judge that Imperious Leader intended to continue this joint sharing of power, then deliver the future of the Cylon Empire totally into the capable talents of the IL Series upon his...demise." The meeting room erupted in a chatter of conversations and comments and a dazzle of flashing logic lights and circuitry. Lucifer waited patiently. His logic here was perfect, as had been the execution of his visit to the cryogenic chambers. He could confirm independently that there were no Imperious Leader forms left in the chambers. The occupants of the cryogenic chambers were now so much mulch and fertilizer being transported to some planet that needed such things. The biological slaves and special series Cylons assigned to work in those chambers weren't even that identifiable. "In my capacity as acting manager of the Cylon Empire -- the position in which Imperious Leader left me when he departed on his mission with Spectre -- I shall carry out the wishes of our departed Imperious Leader to the best of my ability. I am attempting to access the data and programming of Imperious Leader to determine his plans for the Empire - plans which he did not have time to communicate to us, his IL Series, his loyal subjects and heirs. I know we shall all work to share the responsibilities and glory that come with such an obligation." He bowed slightly to the assembled Cylons and wheeled from the room before any of them could question him. Chapter Fourteen Sire Uri was a frustrated man. The scion of one of Caprica's most influential families, he was accustomed to respect and power and comfort and prestige. He should be splitting his time between his country estate and his spacious quarters in Caprica City, indulging in the sybaritic lifestyle to which a person of the Buritician class was entitled. Instead, he was holed up in a suite of rooms aboard the Rising Star. They were among the best suites the luxury ship had to offer, which meant they were among the best to be found in the fleet, but there was no hiding the fact that behind the draperies and under the paint were cold metal bulkheads and that the entire suite was not much larger than a pantry in either one of his homes. A man of self-serving ambition, Uri welcomed the chance to be part of the Council of the Twelve in the hectic sectons following the Destruction. He expected his position to provide him with influence and allow him to recover some small part of the life so suddenly and brutally denied him by the Cylons. Indeed, the Cylon's actions put him in a position of expanding his influence throughout the Colonies at a level unimagined before the Destruction. When the Colonies existed, the Council of the Twelve was largely ignored by the vast percentage of the populace, unless the Council's actions directly affected them. Such is the fate of governments. But when the entire census of humanity consisted of those few thousands crammed onto the motley fleet who knew their survival depended on the decisions of the Council, they paid deep, dear attention to every utterance from the Chamber. It was a heady situation he could not resist. He, Uri of Caprica, would help determine the future of the entire human race. His vision was to restore the status quo as quickly and painlessly as possible. Let the Cylons have their victory over the twelve colonies; they would find someplace else to rebuild. He never accepted Adama's mandate to travel away from known space to seek out some mythical place called Earth. The man was deranged, unable to accept his responsibility for the disaster which had befallen them. Leave the Cylons alone and be left alone. Uri was certain that would work. As the leader who would force Adama to accept that strategy, Uri could expect the unflagging devotion of the population of the newly-settled, unthreatened Colonists. It hadn't worked out that way. Instead of a haven at Carillon, they'd found a Cylon trap, one that Uri very nearly helped spring. That it was discovered by Adama's son only made the discovery more embarrassing. That it demonstrated Uri's inability to provide for the welfare of the Colonists only underscored his unsuitability as a leader and cemented Adama's position as Commander and Council President. Uri stayed hidden in his suite after the escape from Carillon. Many people in the fleet thought he was dead, killed along with hundreds of others on the planet's surface or shot down in their shuttles by attacking Cylons. Knowing he'd be a figure of ridicule were he to run for re-election, he kept a low profile, wielding such influence as he had behind the scenes, and waited for a chance to resume a public life. Patience paid off, he thought happily as he regarded the others in his suite. Honored men and women all - leaders in their home colonies, organizers and persons of influence within the political structure of the fleet - they were people with whom he wished to associate once again. Some were already his allies; others were potential supporters. There were a few who Uri needed to court, those about whom he was still undecided, and who were probably still undecided about him. This gathering was planned to eliminate any doubts about Uri and his suitability as a leader. He nodded pleasantly as a servant poured a cup of genuine caffe for him. None of that ersatz liquid that passed as his preferred morning brew for him. He'd worked hard to track down sources of some of the finer consumer goods in the fleet and hoarded them in a storeroom deep within the Rising Star. He was a Buritician, and he was damned if he was going to live like a common refugee! He checked the room once again. His guests were enjoying their caffe and break-the-fast pastries. He'd gone to considerable trouble to insure that all guests found something from their home worlds that had been in short supply, if available at all, since the Destruction. They were possibly seeing more and better victuals than they'd enjoyed since the Cylon assault. "If I may have your attention, please," he said. Most of the guests were settled comfortably on the settees and cushions scattered around the room, small plates heaped with food nearby. Those who weren't quickly found places to sit. "I want to thank you all for joining me this morning. Given the current crisis within this fleet, I know how difficult it was for many of you to escape your latest job assignment. But, in a way, that is what we are meeting about. "As we all know, four members of the Council of the Twelve died in the Cylon attack. Many others who held elected and appointed positions also perished. They need to be replaced. I believe that we are at a pivotal moment in our lives, perhaps in the history of mankind. The outcome of the upcoming elections may very well decide whether we survive. There has never been a more critical time. And those of us in this room may well be chosen to determine that future." By the gods, how he loved spouting rhetoric! Uri knew how to make pronouncements. He was rewarded with murmurs of agreement and the undiluted attention of the others in his suite. "The issue at hand, of course, is Adama. President of the Council, Commander of the Fleet, the sole surviving member of the pre-Destruction Council, student and interpreter of the Books of Kobol. We have accepted his directions with few questions for nearly two yahren now. The question is: should we continue to do so?" He paused, knowing when a speaker should become a facilitator and knowing how to manipulate the facilitation. "If I may," Sire Hstzu said. "I have been a member of this Council, representing Taura since the elections after Carillon. I will tell you; we are rarely consulted by Adama. We are ignored by his staff. The only means we have of knowing what is happening before we hear it over the IFB is to assign a council member as liaison to Adama's staff." "Siress Tinia, I believe," Uri said. "Indeed," Hstzu confirmed. "She has done an admirable job. However, it is obvious from the events last quat that the existing Council oversight is not enough." "Adama should have anticipated the Cylon attack," someone added. "I agree," Uri said. "It was inevitable that the Cylons would try to find us and strike back after we destroyed their base ship. Any fool could tell that!" "I've been told that the Warrior squadrons were in no state of readiness," added Siress Ganesh. Once a successful Piscean businesswoman, she was not a member of the Council, but could be. Uri noted her comment. She delivered the unconfirmed rumor with great authority, a useful trait. "After their victory over the base ship, their patrols were cut and the number of trainees were reduced, too." "And the manufacturing ship shifted from production of defensive devices to nonessentials," another voice added. Uri missed who. The level of censure grew louder. Uri let the emotions build before holding up his hand in a classic aristocratic motion. "Please. Please," he said, regaining control of the room. "I see we share the same concerns. Why did Adama not have a better strategy for protecting civilian ships? Why did he decide to stop training more pilots and recruiting military trainees? He says we should look forward, but what is there before us? Where is this Earth he keeps telling us we must reach? When will we reach it? And once we get there, what will we find? Do you truly believe that this thirteenth colony will be strong enough to help us defeat the Cylons? Why have we been following this man?" In the silence that followed his question, Uri sensed the frustration and fear that gnawed at all of them. He moved to answer himself. "I think we can all agree that Adama's actions have been flawed, at best. Not just in recent days, either. The man has been deranged and confused from the beginning of our escape. He failed to recognize the Cylon threat before the Armistice, and look where that led us. He failed to recognize the trap waiting for us at Carillon and very nearly led us to our destruction there. We've seen nothing but attacks by the Cylons since then. We defeated one base ship, but I ask you, how did that ship come to be there? In all of the vastness of space, is it reasonable to assume that a Cylon base ship just happened to present itself along our route? I submit it was waiting for us to come along and that our victory was purely luck." "And who will run against him for the seat as the Caprican representative?" Hstzu asked, grinning broadly. As if the answer wasn't standing squarely and somewhat oversized in the middle of the suite. "On Caprica, Adama's family and that of his wife were two of the most powerful on the planet. There were few who would dare defy him then; fewer now. But I believe the time has come to introduce him to a new reality." Uri bowed his head slightly. "Yes, I am willing to contest him for his Council seat." "What about Commander of the fleet?" That from a quiet man in the shadows. A Saggitarian, by the functional clothing he wore. Kornick, Uri recalled. A practical man, but then, that was the trait of all Saggitarians. They worked with their hands. A planet full of technicians, mechanics, and repairmen. It bothered Uri that such commoners were welcomed as full-fledged members of the Colonial government. If that's all they wanted their people to be, fine, but then accept your position as a colony of servants and stop trying to be equals to investors and intellectuals. Kornick was the only Saggitarian on the ballot to fill the empty seat from that Colony. The Saggitarians had their own internal system of choosing their representative, one to which Uri and other outsiders were not privy. Public elections were not part of it, that was for certain. So the Caprican already knew who he'd have to deal with from Saggitaria after the fleet's voting was finished. In many ways, it made his planning easier. Very efficient, thank you, he thought. "Ah, that. Yes." Uri poured another cup of caffe from the elegantly tapered pitcher on the sideboard. He sniffed the rising steam with appreciation and sipped the hot liquid before answering. "I am in contact with several current and former members of the military. I believe many of them are as dissatisfied as we are with the situation. They will be ready to step in and assume command as soon as the elections are over and the Council acts." He carefully placed the cup on the table. "And that action is?" "My good sire, that should be obvious. Removal of Adama as a member of the Council and as Commander of the fleet." "Can the Council truly remove him?" Ganesh asked. "We are under martial law. He is the military commander. That gives him leeway to do whatever he wishes, doesn't it?" "In theory, yes. But the military has always accepted that it operates under the direction of the civilian Council. If we - the Council - vote to end the state of military emergency, Adama must, by law and by his oath as a Warrior, accept the Council's decision." "Are you assured of that happening?" Kornick pressed. "If there is not a unified, overwhelming majority, the Council could destroy itself with internal conflicts." "An excellent point." Lords, but Uri wished the Saggitarian would go into the galley and tend to some malfunctioning appliance. "One that I was about to address. To achieve our goals, there must be cooperation. Not all of you are running for a seat on the Council, but some of you are campaigning for other positions and the rest are leaders within your circles. If we pledge each other's mutual support in this campaign and in the actions that will follow, we will be the persons governing this fleet and determining its proper course." The general response was agreement, of course. Uri worked the room, spending several microns with each of his guests. He listened as they complained about Adama and fed ideas to each other about how they should rearrange the fleet. Already, he could outline the alliances forming in the room. He hadn't felt this energized in yahren. Not that it was without some shadows. "There are a lot of positions to be filled," Kornick noted. He sidled up to Uri as the Buritician angled towards a plate of pastries. Now that the meeting was ending, Uri was eager to indulge in the delights he'd postponed for himself. "Adama has organized the fleet in a very efficient manner." "Very true, my good sir," Uri agreed. "And in a manner that benefits exactly what we want to do. He has made it quite easy for all candidates to stay in close touch with refugees from their home colonies. That works in our favor." Indeed, Adama had done that. Those ships that served primarily as transport vessels were filled with passengers from specific colonies, and - as far as possible - were grouped together, making shuttle runs and communication easy and efficient. It was a small, almost pitiful, way of helping people find someplace familiar. On the ships that required crews with technical skills, ships where the luxury of ethnic exclusivity wasn't possible, people from different colonies usually chose to find billets near each other. The Leviathan, for example - the fleet's chemical storage and processing vessel - had an Aerian sector and a Libran quarter and a few rooms where the Aquarians and Scorpios clustered near each other. For the politicians, it was an excellent system. There was no need to spend many centares roaming from ship to ship, campaigning in front of a polyglot crowd, hoping to address the few members of your home colony among them. Each visit to a ship gave a candidate an attentive audience of potential supporters. "Are you only concerned with the Council seats?" Kornick asked. "As I said, there are many, many other positions up for election. Representatives to the shipboard councils, members of the fleet manpower commission, the resource allocation board..." "All of whom take direction from us." "All of whom are being filled more and more by people who did not hold such positions in the colonies and who have no loyalty to you or to the Council." "Or to Adama, either." Kornick shrugged. "Maybe not. But they are more likely to look out for their own interests than to look to you -" his gesture included all of those in the room - "for advancement in their careers. The motivations have changed." He looked around Uri's suite. "You might not have noticed that, staying here." Damn, but the Saggitarian technician was souring his entire day. If Kornick was an example of the new breed of representative in the colonial government, then their civilization was doomed for certain. Still, Uri managed to give the man a knowing smile. "I appreciate that. And I assure you that those concerns are being addressed." Kornick said nothing, waiting for Uri to explain himself. But the Caprican did not. Instead, he bit largely into a sweet roll. Sucra flaked from the topping and fluttered against his flowing robes. "You must try one," Uri urged, the words tumbling out of his filled mouth. "Delicious." The Saggitarian smiled thinly and chose a piece of fruit from the gleaming silver platter and moved away. Uri relaxed when he saw the man nod to some of the other guests and leave the chamber. And just what might he want in exchange for his support, Uri wondered. Kornick hadn't agreed to join Uri's alliance, but he hadn't disagreed, either. The remark about serving his own interests. What might they be? Uri sighed. He'd have to learn more about Kornick and what it would take to have the man buy into Uri's program. An interesting word that: Buy. Something Uri was willing to do to insure his election, and that of his conspirators. He just needed to know exactly where to invest his cubits. And he was working on that. A good day. An excellent day, Uri decided as he escorted the last of the guests to his chamber door and waved them goodbye. His unofficial slate would easily take control of the Council. Then he could finally attain the power and prestige he had missed for so long. Chapter Fifteen I need to do my nails again. Athena frowned. The constant tapping on the keyboard kept chipping away at the polish she so carefully applied after nearly every shift. She was getting tired of the constant maintenance, not to mention that it was getting harder to find any nail polish anywhere. It was something else that they'd once taken for granted that now was as rare as the finest jewels had once been. Lords, what you had to do to keep a level of normalcy and sanity around here! In the six sectons since the Cylon attack, the fleet had reverted back to basic survival mode, just like it had during the initial exodus from the Colonies. There wasn't enough food. There were more injured people than could be cared for. There were ships too badly damaged to continue the journey. There were passengers that needed transferring. There wasn't enough room for everyone. There was overcrowding on the ships that were left. There were new job assignments for survivors. There were constant complaints about Adama's governing from the Council, from survivors, from opportunists like Sire Uri. (How, Athena thought, could that slab of Buriticial waste manage to escape each round of devastation unscathed while so many other, more worthy, people fell victim? It was another sign of the gods' indifference to them all, she decided.) There was a major difference this time, though. Since the attack, there had been no sign of Cylons. Nowhere. Anywhere. At any time. In any direction. The scanners stayed blissfully blank, the transmission channels eerily empty. Picket ships reported no activity of any kind. Patrols returned with nothing significant or insignificant to report. It was as if this was the last thrust of a dying Empire and, having spent itself, the Cylons had retreated and chosen to focus their attention on other matters. It was a bright spot in an otherwise dismal situation. For her part, Athena simply struggled through each day, manning her shift and performing her duties. When needed, she stayed past her duty period, just like all of the other bridge crew. Once free, she spent most of her time in her quarters. She avoided contact with others. They were too filled with news and responsibility and pain. She watched Boxey when needed and caught the occasional meal with Apollo or her father. She could usually beg off those meetings, though. Both men were too distracted by their own obligations to notice her reluctance to deal with them or with anyone else. She was content to stay alone in her quarters. It was safe there. Once the door to her tiny room slid shut, the horrors of the unending flight were locked outside. She had a safe haven from all of that. She spent centares on her computer interface, calling up old issues of silly fashion and gossip zines from the library. They were filled with stories about people and things that didn't exist any more. She relished each edition, letting herself return to the safe days, the happy days, the days before the Destruction. She enjoyed living in that now make-believe world as much as she could. She carried it with her outside her quarters as best she could, by ignoring everything aside from her duties, and by paying obsessive attention to things like her carefully-tended nails and perfectly-coiffed hair. If she made those things most important, then the rest of it couldn't touch her. She dreaded her duty periods now. Even though there had been no signs of the Cylons since that horrible day, Athena knew they were out there. They were waiting, like the monsters under her bed at night when she was a child, waiting for her to fall asleep. Someday, the fleet would drop its guard. Then the Cylons would return and overwhelm them, taking the best and maiming the rest, then crawl back into their lair to savor the devastation they had caused and deciding when to spring out again. There were so many gone now. Only 57 Vipers left. 57! She shuddered, despite the even temperature on the bridge. The list of the dead was too familiar. She refused to read it all, even now. Each time she saw a name, she saw a face, heard a voice, or recalled a memory. No. Better to blot them all out and just deal with the faces and people she saw every day. When someone didn't show up, they could fade away and be forgotten. Kodai, Starbuck, Nytesilver, Greenbean... all of the others. She did not share her father's or brother's ability to lock away her emotions in the name of command. She hated it all. "Athena?" She looked up. Someone was calling her name. From the tone, it wasn't the first time, either. "Hmmm?" Omega was staring at her from his seat on the command dais. He held his headset close to his ear. "I asked if you have anything to report from the scan survey?" "Oh. That." She tapped the keyboard. Maybe if she held her fingers differently, they wouldn't be so likely to chip. She ordered her computer to cycle through each of the forward scan modes and to report any anomalies. It was routine, done once every ten microns, ten times each centare. There hadn't been anything interesting or unusual to report in days. Until now. One of her scanners flashed twice, the signal that it was receiving an unexpected return. "Omega, there is something," she said, surprised in spite of herself. "Scanner seven. That's the starboard quartering scanner at a range of 3 thousand mettas. It's sending out a homing signal tuned to the ADT frequency." "What?" Col. Tigh materialized behind her and reached over her shoulder to adjust the instruments. Adama joined them. "There it is," Athena insisted, tapping the monitor. "See?" "What is it, Tigh?" Adama asked. "I don't know. Whatever it is, it's very small, Commander. Not much bigger than a Viper." "Broadcasting on a Colonial frequency." "A distress frequency," Omega added. "But it's ahead of us," Athena said. "What does that mean?" "I don't know," Adama admitted. "Concentrate your scanners on that object and the surrounding space." He gestured to Rigel. "Contact Captain Apollo. Have him send a pair of Vipers out to investigate." As Rigel occupied herself at her console, Adama leaned closer to Athena's monitor. "Is it under power?" he asked. "It seems to be," Athena said. "Maintaining its position, though, not moving." "That would make sense if it's in distress," Tigh said. "The occupants would be trying to maintain best rate of fuel burn and support vapor absorbtion." Adama nodded, his thoughts clearly running along another track. "It would also mean we could get some idea of where it might have come from. Omega, contact Dr. Wilker. Let's see what he can make of this thing." It was one of the strangest contraptions Jolly had ever seen. He and Giles came up on the object warily. As Tigh had noted, it wasn't much larger than a Viper, and it looked something like a Viper. At least, what seemed to be the cockpit sure looked a lot like a Viper's cockpit. And there was something that might have been made from a Viper's wing and thruster unit as part of the craft's profile. But it was nothing the warbook recognized. No military, civilian, or merchant vessel ever looked like this. "It looks like something somebody put together in his home workshop," Jolly reported to the waiting bridge. "Is there anyone inside?" Adama asked. "There doesn't appear to be. We can see the passenger area pretty clearly, and it seems to be empty. No life signs. No biological indications at all." If there was a dead body inside, it was very small or very decayed. Jolly preferred not to think about that. "Very well," Tigh was telling them. "Maintain your position. We're sending out a shuttle to ferry it in." It looked no less strange once they got it on board the Galactica. Jolly and Giles stood with Adama, Tigh, Apollo, Sheba, Dr. Wilker and some maintenance techs. Apollo tensed as he studied the cobbled-together craft. "It's a Viper's cockpit," he said, running his hand along the familiar sloping nose. "But those pieces making up the rear stabilization fin and the thruster assembly are almost certainly Cylon in origin," Wilker said. He dropped to his knees to examine the underside of the craft. "Most ingeniously put together, I must say." He popped his head up and beamed at Adama. "It has a very simple propulsion unit, which should make it easy to trace where it came from. Shall we open it?" The external catch on the cockpit was Colonial. Apollo released it and stood back as the canopy rose. He scrambled up the side. It was empty; they already knew that, but there might be something that would give them a clue who had put it together and where it had come from. "Anything?" Tigh asked. "No." Apollo got a better handhold and pulled himself completely into the cockpit. "No real navigational instruments...just a basic autopilot that appears preset to the coordinates where we found it." "I don't like it, Commander," Tigh murmured to Adama. "Who would know those coordinates? Those are the right along the course we got from the Ship of Lights. Only a handful of people in the fleet know anything about that, much less the course itself." "I might have an answer to that, Colonel." Apollo's voice was so controlled that it demanded attention. They turned to see him holding something in his hand. The crumbling stub of a fumarillo. "We can't be sure it came from Starbuck," Adama insisted. They were in his office: Apollo, Sheba, Wilker, Tigh. Boomer had joined them. Jolly, Giles and the techs were gone. It was impossible to keep news of the discovery quiet, but Tigh cautioned them to avoid starting any rumors about where the craft came from and who might have been with it. He knew he'd have better luck trying to keep Boxey from eating mushies. "Who else, then?" Apollo answered. "If Starbuck was behind this...craft, then why isn't he in it?" "I don't know," Apollo admitted. "Maybe he thought there weren't enough support vapors. Or maybe it misfired and took off without him." "Or maybe it's a Cylon trick." Adama ached as he considered the idea, but it was too valid to ignore. "Suppose he was captured and forced to give up those coordinates..." "Starbuck would die before he'd betray the fleet, Father. You know that." "He'd never willingly do so. But the Cylons have drugs and methods of interrogation that he might not be able to resist. If they did some kind of mind-wipe, they could be using this to summon us to some point where they can track whoever we send right back to the fleet." "I agree with Apollo, Commander," Sheba insisted. "I think it's a call for help. Starbuck would never surrender information, no matter what the Cylons did to him. He'd give them false coordinates and bogus information if he started to crack. He'd never let them get anything truly useful." "I'd like to go back after him, sir," Boomer said quietly. "I was with him when he was shot down, after all. I shouldn't have left him behind in the first place." "We've been over that already, Lieutenant," Adama said. "You both performed exactly as you should have. Returning to warn the fleet was your primary responsibility." "Yes sir. I'd like to go back now." "We don't really know where to look," Adama said. Dr. Wilker raised his hand. "If I may, Commander. I think we have a very good chance of tracking this craft right back to its point of origin. I've been working on some receptors that can detect spent fuel traces in the void currents of space. Assuming that there haven't been any great cosmic storms along the route this craft took, and assuming that the craft did not deviate strongly from its initially-plotted course - which seems very likely, given the primitive nature of the navigational system - Lt. Boomer should be able to fly straight back to wherever this came from." They were watching him closely. Lords, but it was tempting. Find Starbuck and bring him home. To win back even one victim from the Cylon attack would be so gratifying. But there was the overriding responsibility he had to the fleet. "Are we certain that this craft truly originated from wherever it was launched?" he asked. "What do you mean?" Apollo asked. "I mean, what if the Cylons built it elsewhere and launched it from another place? What if we reach this spot and find a Cylon outpost? Even if Starbuck is at the point of origin, it's obvious that Cylons are there as well. Is he hiding from them? Sheba says it's a call for help. What if it is a warning, a signal that we should stay away from that direction? What if Starbuck is telling us that somewhere along that route, the Cylons are waiting. They could wait until Boomer passed them, then retrace his course to the fleet. They might not even bother chasing him. He could get to this point of origin and find nothing, or be captured himself." He studied their faces, acknowledging the bitter disappointment that filled the room. "I can't do it," he said. "I can't run the risks. We haven't detected any sign of Cylons since the attack. If we've eluded them again, we can't do anything that could conceivably draw attention to our location." "Sir, I'm willing to take the risk," Boomer said with quiet intensity. "Commander," Dr. Wilker said. "Some of the detection equipment I'm developing could be installed into a Viper. It's designed to detect a full spectrum of fuels, not just Colonial in origin, but any known and many theoretical types, as well. I could install that, too. " "If I pick up any signs of Cylons, Commander, even a hint, I'll steer away from the fleet, self-destruct, if necessary." "No, Boomer," Adama said. "We can't spare any more pilots." "You could be regaining another, sir!" he argued, although he knew the Commander well enough to know the decision had been made. "No," Adama repeated. "I cannot take that risk. I'm sorry," he said, and no one doubted it. "I wish there was some way to go back, to know for certain what happened, and to bring Starbuck home if we could." They were ready to argue further. "That is all," Adama said, cutting off any more discussion. "Dr. Wilker, you are free to dissect that contraption for whatever use you may have. I think the rest of you have many, many duties to attend to." He watched them leave, except for Tigh. "Adama..." his exec began. "What, Tigh? Are you going to tell me I'm wrong?" "No, that you're right, and I wish to God I could convince you otherwise." Adama sat in the darkness of his office after Tigh left. The aftermath of the Cylon attack denied him the luxury of mourning. There were so many things that required his attention and so few staff and so little time to respond to them all. Moments spent grieving were moments taken away from the needs of the living. But now he had no excuses. The fleet was stable and moving forward. For the moment, at least, the Cylons were nowhere around. There was time, precious time, to give to himself. He wished there wasn't. He closed his eyes and saw unwanted memories --- Tinia's granddaughter, Gish, playing with Boxey and Muffit; Starbuck's easy grin; the crews of the picket ships granted more leeway than most when they were in from their long, lonely patrols. Those were the images that were no longer real. The real ones were no less painful -- the way Sheba squared her shoulders and set her jaw before Adama denied her the chance to argue; the pain and guilt Boomer was no longer able to hide; Apollo's desperate desire to accept the decision to abandon his closest friend. He needed to find a reason for all of this. The Lords of Kobol did not preach reincarnation, so he couldn't blame misdeeds in a past life for their predicament. The ultimate war between good and evil? Wasn't that behind the visits from the Ship of Lights and Count Iblis? That the Cylons were Iblis' pawns, executors of his Covenant of Evil? It gave him scant comfort to think that the sacrifices of the fleet were made in the name of righteousness and were a defense against the chaos of darkness. Was it any better to think of this as just the result of the randomness of the universe? That was as hopeless a scenario as he could imagine. If there was no purpose behind their travails, then why continue on with the quest for Earth? Why try to salvage the remnants of the Colonies and their civilization? He had no answers. He watched the starfield pass slowly by his port window and wondered that he had ever found the view exciting. Chapter Sixteen As IL series Cylons went, Baal was typical. Programmed for a specific multi-tasked purpose, he strove to improve upon his primary directive and expand beyond those limitations. In his case, the primary directive was the maintenance of Centurion class Cylons, the mainstay of the Empire's military machine. For decades of yahren, Baal dutifully monitored and repaired the equipment that fashioned the Centurions. He respected the design and technology, knowing that they were created by the original Imperious Leader and were, therefore, flawless. That the Centurions were fashioned after the human vermin was well-known. The Centurions were merely stronger copies, Baal knew. If there was any doubt about the inherent inferiority of the biologicals, their form and structure erased it. Clumsy, slow-moving bipeds with limited vision and hearing, easily incapacitated, difficult to repair. He concluded that the only reason the Human/Cylon War had continued for 1000 yahren was because the humans had enhanced breeding programs to replace their fallen Warriors faster than the Cylons could construct new Centurions. Baal noticed where improvements would be made. Hybred alloy shielding and outer structure, enhanced stabilization, more flexible mobility packages, non-vocal communication transmitters. He kept his opinions to himself. The design of the Centurion was created by Imperious Leader. Baal never questioned the reason for the flaws. Imperious Leader had a reason for designing them that way. Baal did not know that none of the Imperious Leaders had never seen a human in the flesh, save for the few unfortunate captives and casualties at the beginning of the war. Until contacted by Baltar, none of them had any first-hand experience with them, either. Then came the events of the past few sectons. Confusing, overwhelming, even frightening, would describe them, if Cylons experienced such sensations. The destruction of the Cylon fleet, the death of Imperious Leader, the final, glorious elimination of the humans, and the thrilling discovery that the ILs were destined to rule the Empire. Lucifer's fulfillment of the Edict of Extermination was completed with a thoroughness that raised the Cylon standard of efficiency to a new level of excellence. Now he was turning his attention to the rest of the Empire. The dozens of races which had defied the Cylons during the Time of the Chase - as Baal thought of the human's final flight - needed to be brought back under Cylon control. This presented Baal with an interesting situation. With the humans exterminated, surely there was no more need to limit the Centurions to that inferior design. He considered the implications in the light of the ILs destiny to control the Empire and the universe and concluded that reverence for the original design was contrary to advancing the Cylon Empire. In the spirit of adding to the glory of the Empire, Baal began tinkering with the centuries-old design of the Centurion. The prototype was now finished. He was ready to display it to Lucifer himself. His internal chronometer told him that the new leader of the Empire was arriving in a few millicentons. Baal glided around his work area, confirming that all was in readiness. His modular construct display danced in a pattern of excitement and apprehension. Both were new sensations for the IL, but Lucifer was encouraging them to allow their independent reasoning programming to expand. This would allow them to become even more efficient masters of the universe. Baal felt a brief flash of disappointment as he realized that the last, late Imperious Leader, like all of those before him, had not appreciated the contributions a class of fully-functional ILs could give him. Another flaw? he wondered. In Imperious Leader? That concept merited more reflection, but not right now. Right now, he was waiting to show how his talents could benefit the Cylons - which meant benefiting the entire galaxy. It was a heady thought, even for an IL series Cylon. I wonder what history will call me, Lucifer mused as he rolled through the halls of the Imperial Palace. HIS palace. He noted the deferential way the Gold and Silver Centurions moved aside to let him pass. Even within their emotionless, programmed existences, they seemed to appreciate that after over a thousand yahren, the Cylon race had achieved its goal - a society of pure, mechanical perfection, and that he, Lucifer, was both the agent and the apex of that fulfillment. Lucifer the First. Lucifer the Enlightened. Lucifer the Mighty. The Visionary. The Magnificent. The Messiah. So many titles. He might need to develop a suitable software to simply keep track of them all. Lucifer the Mentor was most fitting right now. He had finished his routine inspection of the Situation and Control Center, where the communications from Cylon garrisons throughout the Empire arrived. The Centurions on duty passed along the information to Lucifer, who acted upon it as he saw fit. The task of monitoring communications had been the duty of IL Series Cylons under the last Imperious Leader, but no more. It was tedious work, beneath the abilities of the ILs. Besides, too much exposure to races fighting for their liberty meant exposure to radical concepts, like ambition and guile. Too much risk that the other ILs would learn about scheming and self-advancement. Lucifer preferred to keep the knowledge learned at Baltar's side to himself for his own use. Programming that emphasized serving the Empire and Imperious Leader was good enough for the other ILs. While Lucifer wanted them to expand beyond the technical limits of their programming, he did not want to let them shift the protocol that dictated their allegiance to Imperious Leader. He'd eliminated the only other IL who understood the concepts that motivated behavior of humans and other biologicals. With Spectre gone, Lucifer did not want to give the others the opportunity to learn about them, much less try to usurp his power. Far better to find means to have them develop loyalty toward him, Lucifer, the new - dare he let the coding flash on his modular construct - Imperious Leader. Oh, that had such a nice sound to it! He reassigned the other IL Cylons to positions of importance within the Empire. Some found themselves working on designs and construction of the new fleet of base ships. Since each IL would command the vessel it designed, there was great competition to create the most efficient, functional, and effective craft in the Empire. They were too distracted with the challenge of building something that would impress Lucifer to consider ways to compete with him. Others found themselves assigned to garrisons on conquered planets. They were the new administrators, empowered to make decisions and run their own little sector of the Empire and delighted to have the chance. It was demeaning to have Gold Centurions in charge of the subjugated races, merely carrying out orders transmitted by the Imperious Leader, when perfectly talented, capable ILs were idly whirring their servitors on Xeti Omicron. Far better to give them power within the Empire, never letting them forget who was responsible for the final ascension of the ILs. The orders to the newly-assigned ILs was very simple. They were to regain control of the upstart races and rebellious planets within the Empire. The ILs were allowed great leeway in carrying out those orders. Short of damaging the planet, its resources, or useful population beyond repair or productivity, they could use whatever method promised to be most effective in quelling the current uprisings and creating an atmosphere that would discourage future such actions. Lucifer the Ruthless. If history wanted to attach that title to him, so be it. He was a Cylon. The essence of his very existence was the fundamental truth all Cylons knew - that the perfection of mechanical function and thought was superior to the random actions and philosophies of biological life forms. What biological history would consider ruthless was, to him, the correction of an error in divine calculation. The ILs would have help maintaining order. The Centurions were, as always, at the ready. But Lucifer had noted the basic flaws in their construction. They were slow, they were noisy, they were clumsy. Prone to negative effects of planetary atmosphere. Unable to communicate other than verbally. They had been the most advanced machines in the galaxy when first created, but while the rest of the galaxy's technology continued to improve and be refined, the Cylons stayed rooted in their first design, with few upgrades in nearly a thousand yahren. Which explained why he was so eagerly rolling towards the Maintenance and Construction Sector of the palace compound. His presence was requested by Baal, the IL responsible for the Centurion class maintenance. A message received a few centares earlier requested his opinion on a redesigned Centurion. Good. Very good. Give the ILs their intellectual freedom, and watch what they could develop. The panel to Baal's work area slid open and Lucifer glided in. The other IL wheeled to face Lucifer and bowed obsequiously. "Welcome, Lucifer. I am so pleased that you would take the time from your many duties to indulge me." No false echoes of flattery showed in Baal's housing. Lucifer appreciated that. "Few things are as important as the strengthening of the Cylon Empire. Formidable Centurions are the foundation of that strength." "Indeed, indeed. Come, please." Baal moved through his workspace to a large room beside it. The illumination automatically brightened as they entered. The prototype stood in the center of the room. Like the original Centurions, it was bipedal, vaguely humanoid in shape and size. But that was where the similarities ended. Instead of gleaming, shiny metal, this Centurion was a dull, weathered-looking blue-gray. It was smaller than the others, more compact, its proportions promising balance, flexibility and speed. The sensor monitor still slipped across the faceplate of the Centurion, its progress detected by the familiar whirring. "Most impressive," Lucifer said. "The improvements are not just physical appearances," Baal said. "Notice the appendages. Still like a human hand - I find that the multi-jointed digits and opposable thumbs are a surprisingly effective biological development - surely an accident of evolution. However, even this can be improved upon. These fingers can lengthen and mold themselves smoothly around an object, as well as grasp in the conventional jointed manner. I've also installed power relay constructs at the end of the digits, to allow interfacing with imbedded and external power supplies and communications and sensor systems. The Centurions can also link to each other, allowing immediate exchange of information. There is also the option of discharging as well as absorbing power from these." "Meaning they can be used to cause discomfort to prisoners?" "If necessary, yes. No more need to transport captives to interrogation centers when questioning and punishment can be done on-site, so to speak." "Excellent. Do go on." "I've improved the main sensor packaging, as well." Now that he knew Lucifer was pleased, Baal was eager to show off the rest of his creation's abilities. He fairly cooed as he circled the Centurion. "The original sensors were limited to enhanced vision and auditory receivers. I've added infrared sensory abilities, as well as those that can detect unusual air currents. Rapid breathing, air set in motion by rapid movements - running, for example." "Even if the prey stops, the air movement will be detected. Very good." "Exactly." Baal was delighted that Lucifer understood the concept. "Most importantly, I've developed ultra-high pitched, high-speed communications abilities. The Centurions will no longer be required to communicate via auditory signals. I'm still working out the finer points here. My expertise is in the mechanical developments, not in communications. I'm still having difficulty preventing the signals from blocking each other in times of frequent, rapid transmissions, but it is not an insurmountable difficulty." He paused for a millicenton. Had he been biological, he'd have taken a deep breath. "May I ask what you think, Lucifer?" "I am more than pleased, Baal," he said. "You have shown yourself to be an exemplary example of IL intelligence. I am authorizing you to put into production six squadrons of these enhanced Centurions. Once the subjugated races meet the new Centurions, they will abandon any lingering ideas of rebellion." Had he been able, Baal would have grinned. "I shall begin the arrangements immediately," he promised. "Very good. As you have proven yourself so capable in this matter, I have another project I would like you to explore. I wish to develop a series of drones. These would be devices to be sent out at high speed, perhaps light-speed, over very long distances. The object is to detect areas where resources or other races may be located. I wish to establish areas where our Empire should expand." Baal's modular construct sparkled. Lucifer asking him for something! What great good fortune! "I shall be most honored, Lucifer! Indeed! I shall begin the research as soon as I arrange for the assembly of the Centurions." He bowed so deeply that Lucifer feared he might topple. "Very good. Very good," Lucifer said. "It is most gratifying to see such enthusiasm. One further consideration, Baal." "Yes?" "I wish only you to work on this new concept and to tell no one else about it. I am most interested to see how well you can develop this idea on your own. I shall need an IL series to take responsibility in the area of supervising the development of new technologies. An IL who can act with the utmost independence and limited direction. If you understand my meaning." "Of course, Lucifer. I shall be more than pleased to report to you directly." "Excellent." Lucifer wheeled from the room with Baal's promises echoing behind him. The mechanically-inclined IL was a treasure. He would be vital in helping Lucifer solidify his hold on the Empire. First, he'd try out the new Centurions on the rebellious planets. Then, he'd use his drones to quietly search for celestial anomalies - including the most annoying, the human race. With his improved Centurions and the tracking abilities of the drones, he could complete his long-range plan - to find and finally obliterate the remains of the human race. Chapter Seventeen It was a skree. At least that's what it called itself, when it thought of such things. Not that it often did so. It was far more concerned with responding to the basic needs that its kind had - to find water and food, avoid predators, scope out a warm place to lie in the suns-lights during the day and a secure place to be immobile when the darkness and cold spread across the landscape. If it was able, the skree would have appreciated the pure bounty it had discovered in this remote section of the planet. A steady, though usually meager, stream of water leading to a patch of eatable plants. The plants were in a well-lit spot that was sheltered from the winds by natural boundaries and an unnaturally-built wall of stone. Its usual predators were nowhere to be found. They'd been frightened off some time ago by the arrival of large, clanking creatures that made the ground tremble when they walked. Those were gone now, but there remained a smaller, faster-moving being that inhabited the cliff-face and red dirt plains. Its intentions were uncertain, so the larger beings that eked out existence on the planet chose to find somewhere else to live. The skree watched the large being in the last of the warm-time the day before. After finding the water, the skree sensed the plants. Its approach was aborted when it caught sight of the being sitting near the food source. The skree scrambled away from the strange being, using its long, thick claws to gain a hold on the crumbling rock of the cliffs and climb quickly away. Darkness came too soon for the skree to return and eat. But it was daylight now, and the skree moved along on its squat, muscular legs towards the plants. It was still cool, and the skree moved slowly. Later, when the triple suns were at their zeniths, it could move with surprising speed, catching the few other, smaller animals that shared the planet with it and disabling them with a swift strike of its forelegs and finishing them with a snap of its strong jaws. It paused briefly as it reached the plants. More food in one spot than the skree could ever remember seeing, although it didn't have much of a long-term memory. It would find a food source, denude it, and move on. If it chanced to return to the same spot later and find more food, it was strictly the result of luck, not planning. It sniffed the air with satisfaction. The narrow snout aimed toward one group of plants that grew more closely together. No reason to graze for isolated specks of greenery when it could satisfy its hunger in one spot. It moved towards its breakfast more quickly, its slab of a tail dragging in the hard-packed dirt. It didn't take long for the rows of plants to become the largest meal in the skree's limited memory. Belly distended, it ambled away, looking for a large rock where it could lounge in the suns and digest. SWAWP! Something slammed against its tail and back, pinning the skree to the ground. The thought of its siesta vanished against the basic desire to escape. It thrashed wildly, but could not free itself. It paused to think, such as it could. It could not remember ever being in this situation before. Another round of struggling yielded no better results. The skree lay quietly, then, waiting to see what would happen. The suns were rising, and it relaxed a bit. That was normal at least. It tried to move again, but the snare held tight. It felt the vibrations of something approaching. The strange creature it had seen the day before, if the strength and size of the vibrations meant anything. The skree had one defensive plan when confronting a predator - lie still, then strike and escape. As the heavy steps came closer, the skree went immobile. Starbuck woke early, as usual. And, as usual, he promptly rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. There was no reason to rise with the suns. That just gave him more centares to know how completely alone he was, more time for his head to pound, and more time to be hungry and cold and dirty and frustrated. He lay on the cot against the wall and sighed. When he was first marooned, he had Cy to keep him company, a shelter to build, parts and equipment to scavenge from the Cylon Raider and what was left of his Viper. He forced himself to face each morning with enthusiasm, telling himself that this was the day that Boomer and Apollo would find him. But as the sectons passed and that delusion slowly died, he began dreading the bright glow of sunshine that seeped under the shelter door. Still, he would fight despair as hard as he'd ever fought the Cylons. "Another glorious morning on the planet Starbuck," he said brightly as he sat up. "Yes, gentlemen, we should thank the gods for the day they have given us." The covey of Cylons heaped on the floor didn't move. "Today's weather report is as follows: sunny and warm with a strong breeze, becoming cold and dark with a gale force wind tonight. Today's duty roster is posted. You," he said, pointing to one of the inert machines, "are in charge of policing the camp and performing clean-up duties. I heard that wild music coming from this corner of the shelter last night. I want every trace of that party cleaned up before you take a recreation break, is that understood? As for you," he nudged another with his toe. It slipped and collapsed against the Cylon resting next to it with a discordant clatter. Starbuck jumped back. "None of that!" he said, unwilling to admit how the sudden, loud noise had startled him. He wasn't used to anything other than the sound of his own voice and the unending wind. "I did not give you permission to stand down from attention! For that display of insubordination, you're pulling kitchen duty. I want to see a gourmet meal of the level served in Galaxy-class restaurants for dinner tonight." Dinner. Starbuck frowned at the thought. There was something special about tonight's dinner. He rubbed his temples and tried to think. It hurt to concentrate, but not doing so brought its own problems. There were times when he stopped in the middle of some chore, not knowing what it was he was trying to do. More than once, while fussing with the innards of the Cylon Raider, he found himself staring at the tool in his hand, unable to name it. He couldn't remember when he didn't have this constant headache. Maybe he'd been born with it. He certainly hadn't had a waking micron since his crash without the throbbing of every pulsebeat assuring him that he was still alive. He jerked upright as he remembered. The broken irrigation line. The tracks in the mud. The snares. He wouldn't need to imagine a real meal and a full belly tonight. Not if he was lucky. "And lucky is your middle name, Starbuck," he said as he slipped on his jacket and stepped outside. The angle of the morning's shadows told him he had, indeed, managed to sleep a centare or more longer than usual. It was a luxury unheard of on the Galactica since the Destruction, and it was one he'd happily forego for the chance to wake up in the dubious comfort of his own bunk in the squadron billet. Fleet rations were another thing he'd learned to appreciate, too. While the variety of meals was pretty slim and no one ever gorged himself, no one went hungry, either. He wouldn't complain about Talon Root Stew ever again. It was a different story here. He noticed how thin his wrists had become, how the veins and bones stood out in his hands. He knew that there were few planets with only one ecosystem, so he guessed that this one had fertile regions, too. But without supplies, food, water, or shelter - much less any idea of which direction to travel and how far he'd have to go, it was safer to stay where he was. At least he had a dependable, although meager, supply of food. His stomach grumbled, reminding him it was past time from breakfast, such as it was. "I hear you," he told himself. He'd pull a handful of greens and eat them while he checked his snares. He climbed the trail to the sheltered area where his garden grew. But when he reached the spot, he stared in shock. Instead of semi-neat rows of semi-mature plants, there was a patch of stubble. He took a deep breath as he took in the scene. No plants. Not the decca-high one with the thick stalk and bitter-tasting milk in the center. Not the low-growing one with the needles that needed centares of soaking before they softened enough to be cooked. Not the one with the wispy fronds that stuck to the roof of his mouth like so much dust. All gone. Nibbled down to the baked dirt. "No!" he screamed. "No," he cried again, almost sobbing. He'd worked so hard just finding and gathering the plants, harder to loosen the soil to replant them. He'd spent long days tending to them, watering them, designing and building his irrigation system, even praying to gods he no longer believed in to let them grow so he wouldn't starve. And now they were gone. He looked around frantically, hoping he'd somehow taken the wrong trail and was in the wrong spot. Maybe he'd forgotten something. Maybe he'd harvested his crop or had transplanted everything to another spot. Maybe... But, no. With his next breath, Starbuck knew he wasn't forgetting anything. These were the remains of his garden, his only guaranteed source of food. He blinked, feeling suddenly dizzy, and forced himself to think clearly. Whatever had eaten his garden was probably the animal he was trying to snare. There was a good chance it was nearby. He squinted as his headache pounded with stronger-than-usual intensity. He had to remember where he had put them all. The first three were empty. Starbuck squatted in the dirt, searching for traces of animal tracks that could tell him if the creature had been nearby. He found nothing. Fighting a growing sense of fear and panic, Starbuck moved to the last snare. If that was empty, he'd have to head out of the camp and scavenge for more plants. Lords knew, he'd had a hard enough time finding these! Something was there, he could see that. "I got you, you furry little snitrat!" he crowed. He ran closer, fueled by his anger, then stopped to look at the first living creature he'd seen in all his time on the planet. It wasn't anything furry, that was sure. Long, squat, hairless, and the same dusty red of the miserable rocks that surrounded him. It was about as long as his forearm with a narrow, tapered snout and two small, slanted eyes with wrinkled lids that were now firmly shut. "A lizard," Starbuck said softly. It figured, somehow. The gods were laughing for sure. A victim of a war started by a race of reptiles; he'd owe his survival to one of their cousins. On the other hand, maybe this was some kind of cosmic payback for the hardships the reptilian Cylons had caused humanity over the yahren. He didn't really care, one way or the other. From the size of the thing, he could skin it, cook it, eat his fill, and have enough left over to last for several days. He wondered if the thing traveled in pairs. He slipped his survival knife from the sheaf hooked onto his belt. Kneeling, he studied the dead lizard, trying to decide where to cut to gut it. He'd flip it over onto its back, he decided. He grabbed the creature, then cut the snare. The skree waited until it felt the pressure against its neck released. Before it could run, though, something strong started to pick it up. The skree moved quickly. Its golden-red eyes flashed open as it began its attack. The long, strong claws unfolded from its stubby paws and raked furiously at its captor. The equally strong jaws snapped hard, tearing into the flesh of the large being holding it. The thick tail whipped back and forth, bruising the predator. Starbuck was completely unprepared for the apparently-dead creature's resurrection. He dropped his knife as the animal suddenly thrust against his grasp. The claws ripped into his right arm, while it bit his chest and stomach. The tail thrashed against his head and neck. He tried to shake it free, but the creature held fast, shaking itself while still biting and clawing. It lasted only a few milli-microns. Then the animal released its hold, pulled in its claws, and dropped. It scrambled away into the rocks and disappeared. Starbuck swayed on his knees. He stared at the blood rushing from the gaping cuts in his arm and the bites on his belly. This wasn't real, he told himself. It was a dream, a bad dream. Then the momentary shock wore off and the very real pain hit. "Oh lords, no," he breathed. These weren't minor wounds that could be washed out, bandaged and left to heal on their own. These were deep gouges that needed serious medical care. The gods only knew what sort of bacteria the animal carried in its saliva, and given the lack of hygiene at his disposal, Starbuck knew it wouldn't take much for the wounds to become infected. He had some antibiotics in his survival kit, but the kit was stocked with short-term, immediate care in mind, not major medical emergencies. Shaking, he pushed himself up with his good arm. He pulled the ripped remnants of his sleeve against the cuts, trying to slow the bleeding. Vision blurry, head reeling, he walked slowly back to the campsite. He stumbled once and fell against the rocky cliff. Instinctively, he threw out his right arm to block his fall and screamed as he landed on it. He knelt for a long time, cradling the arm while he groaned in pain before struggling to his feet again. The bland quiet of the shelter seemed unnatural when he entered. He used what little water he had stored to wash the wounds, then fumbled through the medi-kit, awkwardly pulling out bandages and sani-creams. He bound his arm tightly, frowning as he saw red stains seeping through the bandage when he finished. He smeared the creams against the bites on his stomach and slapped pressure patches on them. Then he swallowed a handful of antibiotics, wrapped himself in his blanket, and curled up on his cot. His teeth chattered. Even with the crude heating system in the shelter, it was cold, moreso now that his shredded tunic and torn jacket were on the floor. He should put the jacket on, at least; he needed as much warmth as he could manage. It would help him fight the shock. It was too much effort. He felt lightheaded and couldn't get enough air, no matter how hard and fast he breathed. He pulled himself in more tightly and closed his eyes. The pain didn't seem so bad now. Maybe he should sleep for a while. Yes, that was a good idea. Rest. A couple of centares' sleep, and he'd feel better. His head might stop pounding and his arm wouldn't throb and maybe his blood would stop its slow, certain seeping through the bandages. Still trembling, he blacked out. The Cylons in the corner kept silent sentinel. Chapter Eighteen Cassiopea eyed the pile of clothing on her cot and compared it to the size of the rucksack sitting next to it. It should all fit and leave enough room for the non-essential med-gear Dr. Salik suggested. "It's not exactly like packing for a holiday, is it?" Cassie smiled over her shoulder at the old man seated on the only chair in her cabin. "I feel almost like it is." "I understand," Chameleon said. He gave her a smile of his own - a very mischievous one - as he looked over the things on the bunk. "Nothing...special?" "Chameleon! We'll be in a shuttle. There's no privacy there. Besides," she said, turning serious, "there's no way to tell what shape he'll be in when we find him." "Whatever it is, he'll be a lot better when he's with you." He put his arm around her shoulder and hugged her. They stood for a moment, both trying to cope with their feelings. Overwhelming. That was the only word that even hinted at describing the past few sectons. The attack, the loss, the loneliness, and now the hope. She'd thought she'd lost Chameleon, too, when she heard that the Cylons had destroyed the Memphis, the senior ship. But he'd been on the freighter Argus conducting "a bit of business." She'd decided not to ask further. They'd mourned Starbuck together, seeing each other several times a secton. She felt as close to Chameleon as she had to her own father. The memories of the trading runs she'd made with him as a child were all good ones. She welcomed rediscovering that closeness now. She needed it. She knew they both did. The day since recovering the cobbled-together craft was another mind-flipping one, but one she could enjoy - the first time in too long that anything had brought her any pleasure. Her chamber call chimed softly. That would be Apollo. Cassie tapped the panel. "Almost ready," she told him. He'd be as eager to leave as she was. "Just give me a micron to stow these things..." She began stuffing her clothes into the rucksack. "You're not going," Apollo said. "Why not? Dr. Salik cleared it." She turned, still holding her coveralls. "We're not taking the shuttle," he said in a strained voice. He stood stiffly outside her chamber. "Oh. A two-man Viper?" That made sense if speed was what they were after. Go in, get him out, rush home. Chameleon's long life of reading people's slightest movements told him something more was happening. "That's not it, is it, Apollo?" "No. No, it's not." He stepped into the room, letting the door slide shut behind him. "Cassie, there's a lot about this...thing that we don't know." "You know Starbuck," she said lightly. "He'll have all of the answers when you find him. And those he doesn't know, he'll make up as he goes along." "No. Cassie..." he held her shoulders and willed her to understand what he was about to say. "Cassie, we're not going back." "What?" She was still smiling, but with less certainly. "What are you talking about, not going back?" "We can't," Apollo continued. "There's too much of a chance the Cylons are behind all of this." "Starbuck would never do anything to help the Cylons," Chameleon said. "I want to believe that too, Chameleon. But it's too suspicious." "I don't understand. You're not going after him? When you know he's back there? Alive?" "We don't know that, Cassie. It could all be a trap. He could have crashed and the Cylons found the wreckage and the fumarillo...in the debris." He ached to look away from the pools of confusion in her eyes. "There's no other choice, Cassie. I'm sorry." "Sorry?" She pulled away from him. "You're not even going to try to rescue him, and all you can say is you're sorry?" "Do you think I want to leave him? By all the gods, Cassie! You know me better than that! But the fleet has to come first. We've got a duty to protect the survivors. Going back could put them in jeopardy. He wouldn't want that." "What about your duty to Starbuck?" Apollo winced. It was a question that had haunted him as he walked through the corridors to Cassie's quarters. He sought an answer, but could only shake his head slowly. "Cassie..." "How many times has he risked himself for you? Stood by you? Come after you? That doesn't mean anything?" "Of course it does!" He struggled to find a way to make her understand something he barely did himself. "Look, it's harsh, but given what we know, Starbuck's probably dead. There's nothing we can do for him." "Don't tell me you believe that!" She was standing on the other side of the chamber, beside Chameleon. The old man's look was as horrified as hers. "What about Boomer and Sheba? Do they believe he's dead, too? And the Commander?" "Cassie..." he felt himself close to tears. "I have no choice." "No choice," she said with soft, hot bitterness. "You always see everything so plainly. When you were ordered to shoot down his Recon Viper, you were going to do it. Without question. Follow your damned orders and do your duty and to Hades with the rest! You were willing to kill him then, and you're willing to do it now. There's no difference between you and the Cylons!" Tears streaked her face. Apollo stepped closer and reached towards her. "Get out!" She pointed to the door. "Get out," she repeated. "You just keep reminding yourself about your duty, and telling yourself that Starbuck's dead. Maybe you'll convince yourself that it's true. But I won't believe it. Ever. He could be hurt, or captured or -yes, maybe even dying - and he'll go through all of that waiting for you - Apollo - his closest friend, his brother - to save him. You'll let him die waiting!" Her tears nearly blinded her, and her voice choked on its anger. "You should go, Apollo," Chameleon said. He turned as Cassie collapsed onto the chair. Apollo hesitated. There had to be something he could do to ease their pain. Something to make them understand how much he hated himself for accepting his father's decision. Chameleon glanced up at Apollo. "Leave," he said, with hardness in his voice. Apollo leaned against the cool metal of the bulkhead of the passageway outside Cassie's quarters. He closed his eyes as a stray tear squeezed itself from the too-full reservoir he barely held back. Cassie was right; he didn't believe Starbuck was dead. He was putting his duty above everything else. That was the responsibility Warriors accepted when they took their oath. No, he thought bitterly, it wasn't a promise they made. It was a curse deposited on them by the Colonists, the Council, and the Cylons. And he knew, if he'd ever doubted it, that he was one of the damned. Chapter Nineteen Colonel Tigh dropped into the chair in his quarters with a weary sigh. It had been a long day, too long. He couldn't remember a day when he didn't think that. Maybe before the Destruction, but he could hardly remember that time. Reminiscences were an indulgence he denied himself. They took too much time and distracted him from the immediate duties that could not be ignored. His eyes shut and he drifted towards sleep. Some small part of his mind urged him to take the few steps into his bedchamber and fall onto the sleep cushions. The rest of him decided that would take too much effort. His head dropped, his chin sagged open, and Tigh began to snore. The chime of his quarters sounded twice before he jerked to alertness. "What?" he called out. He shook his head to pull himself fully awake. "Who's there?" "It's Omega, sir." Frack. What was the crisis now? Tigh forced himself from his chair and walked stiff-legged to his desk, switching on the illumination console. "Enter." Omega hurried in before the door completely slid open. The Bridge Officer was normally one of the most composed members of the crew, but he strode into Tigh's quarters with the tense stance of someone ready to do battle. "What's wrong?" Tigh asked. He couldn't guess at any fleet problem that would upset Omega this way. "I just had a most interesting conversation aboard the Rising Star. I got a message today asking me to contact Sire Uri in his quarters. Said it was very urgent and involved a matter of utmost importance to the fleet." "Why didn't you run it past me?" Omega looked disgusted. "A message from Sire Uri? I figured it probably dealt with a shortage of live entertainment for one of his parties. As though he's even noticed that we're back in the same shape we were in when we left the colonies. Whatever he was going to complain about, I thought I could cover it and spare you the headache." "I appreciate that, Omega, but it looks as though he gave you one." "You're not going to believe this, Colonel. Sire Uri asked if I would be interested in becoming the fleet's Executive Officer, perhaps even the next Commander." "Sire Uri?" "Uri," Omega confirmed. "That fat slug of a Orion drek-eater said that there's no doubt that Adama will lose his seat on the Council - to himself. Uri, I mean. And that after the elections, he expects the Council to consider whether Adama is still suitable to command the fleet." "That's nothing unexpected," Tigh said. "They debate Adama's actions as often as a glissan mates in the spring." "It's more than just debating," Omega insisted. He opened and shut his hands several times, stretching fingers stiff from clenching. "Uri said that he is assured that there will be a vote of no confidence against the Commander and that he'll be removed as military leader. Then he said the decision would be much easier if the Council had suitable replacements ready to step in and take over. Suitable replacements!" Omega's tall frame was as tight as a logi string. His hands clenched again. "He wanted to know if I was tired of answering to a well-intentioned, but overworked and perhaps deluded, senior officer." "He said that about Adama?" "Unless he meant you. In fact, he wanted to know what you thought about the situation and whether you would be interested in 'advancing your career' as he put it." "Are you serious?" Tigh caught Omega's dark look. No doubts. "What did you tell him?" "I was too stunned to answer. I told him I was very flattered, but I needed time to consider it." "And Uri said?" "He just gave me that condescending smile of his, patted my shoulder and said, 'Take your time, my boy. I know this is a momentous decision for you.' I almost gagged." He stalked across the room. "That he would think I would betray the Commander...!" "Nobody ever accused Uri of understanding loyalty," Tigh said. He rubbed the top of his nose, between his eyes. It was a relaxation technique, or so the physical manipulators told him once during a stress-management seminar he'd taken yahrens ago. Hadn't worked well then; wasn't doing any better now. "Maybe we can use that to our advantage." "I don't understand, sir." Tigh sighed. He hated this sort of maneuvering. "Would you be willing to play along with Uri?" "I'm not going to tell him I'd betray the Commander!" "No, I don't want that. Just find out what he wants. He's not going to make an offer like that without expecting something from you. And he'll want it before the election. It's going to be a close vote. A lot of people have already forgotten the defeat of the base ship, and they're ready to blame Adama and the rest of us for the assault." "Uri isn't that stupid...is he? I thought he just wants to become important again and doesn't care about the consequences." "There's always a chance that he sincerely believes that his plans are what's best for the fleet." "Right. And Baltar wanted to be initiated into the Virgon mystics." Tigh smiled. "I think knowing what Uri is up to can help Adama. It might not. But playing along with him could compromise you and your principles. I won't order you to do this." "I appreciate that, Colonel. But Uri doesn't have any principles, and that can be as dangerous as anything the Cylons throw at us. I'll tell him I'm interested and see what happens." After Omega left, Tigh found himself pacing through his quarters in imitation of the Bridge Officer, his earlier weariness gone. He'd managed to stay calm while he and Omega talked, but now he felt his temper rising. Uri. They should have exiled him with Baltar. Why couldn't Iblis be interested in a soul already befouled as that Caprican Buritician's? Probably too corrupted even for the Prince of Darkness. The threat to Adama was real. He and Tigh had argued over it in Adama's office a few days earlier. "You can't be blind to the situation, Adama. The same goll-mongering tin-brains who second guess every decision you make look at this like a gift from the gods." "Tigh, you should refer to our esteemed Council members with more respect," Adama said with his usual equanimity. "And, no, I am not blind to the situation. I simply have too many other things to do to worry about the debate that's going to occur after the election." "They want to remove you from office." "I am well aware of that. Very much so. But would you please tell me how fretting about it is going to change anything?" He shook his head at his friend's discomfort. "Tigh, no one is indispensable. My job - our jobs - are to make certain that the fleet is as strong and well organized as it can be. It's work that must be done regardless of whether or not I'm in command. If the Council decides that I should remain, then that much of my task is already completed. If I am removed, I can step down knowing I've done my utmost to carry out my duties and leave the fleet in as good a position as I can." "Adama, you can be maddening." The Commander smiled. "A trait that is most useful in helping me survive Council meetings, Colonel. And one you would do well to cultivate yourself." That wasn't Tigh's style; they both knew that. The Colonel would always carry out Adama's initiatives in a straightforward manner. Subterfuge usually eluded him. This time, though, Tigh knew what needed to be done and the best way to do it. This time, he'd take the initiative. He'd slide into the unpleasant muck of Council politics, if that was the best way to defend Adama. That's what a good Executive Officer did, and Tigh was the best of the bunch. Chapter Twenty Grownups! Boxey sat quietly at his place at the dining table in his grandfather's quarters. He wished he was almost anyplace else. Even instructional period was better than this! Sheba, Athena and his father were pretending to eat evenmeal. Mostly they poked their rations around their plates. If he did that, they'd scold him for wasting precious food, but while his arguments that uneaten victuals weren't wasted, but were composted to the agro ship would only win him another lecture, those same adults would dump their food into the recycle bins without a thought. Yet another inconsistency on the Battlestar Galactica. They weren't talking, either. Boxey knew that was a bad sign. Grownups never stopped talking - unless something was really wrong. Then they were as silent as the inside of the notorious Mines of Hach. It was a noisy silence, Boxey thought. It didn't make much sense to think of it that way, but that's what it was. They were thinking so hard that he could almost hear their brains chattering, but no one said a word. Another grownup thing - they schooled him that talking about his problems was a good thing. They could help him face his troubles and solve them. And even if they couldn't do that, just talking about things when they went wrong could make him feel better. But when they were unhappy or troubled... He lifted his head just enough to look around at the others. His father rested his elbows on the table (something else he'd hear about if he tried it) as he stared at his plate - or at least looked in that direction. Boxey recognized his father's expression as the same one he had so many times after his mother died. He cringed inside. He didn't want to be that unhappy again, ever. Sheba was watching his dad, too, with a sad look all of her own. Every now and then, she'd frown. Boxey knew that was the look she got when she was getting ready to argue. He wondered who she was mad at: his father, grandfather, or someone else. Aunt Athena didn't seem to notice the others. She didn't even pretend to fuss at her food. She'd pushed her plate away and sat with her hands folded in front of her. She seemed to be studying her fingernails. Daydreaming, Boxey thought. A sure invitation to trouble if Athena caught him with that glazed expression during instructional period. He knew what was wrong, of course. Grandfather said they couldn't go back after Starbuck. Boxey wasn't sure how he felt about that. He missed Starbuck, but he missed a lot of people. It seemed like most of the Warriors Boxey knew were dead - like his real parents and the parents of his friends and - since the last Cylon attack - a lot of his friends, too. He missed Gish, Siress Tinia's granddaughter. They had played together whenever the Siress brought her along to the Galactica when there was a Council meeting. The Siress was planning to move Gish and her father aboard the battlestar to the civilian billets as soon as space was available. It wouldn't happen now. Grandfather insisted that they keep looking forward to the time when the fleet would find Earth, then no one else would die and it would give meaning to the losses of all of the others. Boxey was beginning to think that this was a dream of Grandfather's, although he'd never tell Adama or anyone else that. "Is Boomer joining us?" Sheba asked. Apollo shook his head. "The last I saw of him, he was on the flight deck, looking over the ... craft." "Your father?" He glanced up. "No." "He's reviewing resource allocations with the section heads," Athena said. "That'll take sectons." More silence. Boxey bit a celroot. The sudden, loud crunch startled the others. The boy put down the uneaten half. "Sorry," he said. "It's all right," Apollo told him. "May I be excused?" "You haven't finished your meal." Neither have you the boy thought, but he knew better than to say it. "I'm not hungry, and I have an instructional assignment to finish." "Ok," Apollo said. He hugged his son tightly. "I'll come tuck you in later." "I'll take care of him," Athena said. "I'm not hungry, either." "Are you sure?" Apollo hated to farm out his responsibilities to Boxey to others, and Athena seemed to get them more often than anyone else. "Is there a reason I shouldn't?" Athena rose abruptly. "Come on, Boxey; I'll help you with your assignment." The child and his aunt left together. Boxey trotted down the corridor, eager to escape the tense silence in Adama's quarters. "Instead of my assignments, we could play Zapper," he suggested. There was no answer. "Aunt Athena?" He turned around. The corridor was empty. Boxey retraced his route to a side passage. Athena was walking slowly down the hallway, lost in her own thoughts, apparently unaware that she was alone. "Aunt Athena? My quarters are this way." "What?" She stopped and looked around. "What do you want, Boxey?" "We're going to my quarters, aren't we?" "Sure, if that's what you want." "It's this way, then." Boxey took her hand. Great. Now the grownups were so upset, they couldn't remember where they were going. And these were the people that were going to protect them from the Cylons and lead them to Earth! The silence only grew deeper after Boxey and Athena left. Apollo sat like a statue, his features chiseled in the sharp lighting of the room. Sheba wondered if he realized the others had gone, wondered if he realized that she was still there. "Cassie just needs some time," she said softly. "She was so excited. Happy. She was just reacting to the shock." He shook his head ever so slightly. "It's more than that." Apollo gestured helplessly, as though trying to shape his emotions from the air. "She's right. I'm putting my duty first. Starbuck deserves better." "It's a Warrior's responsibility. Cassie's not a Warrior. She doesn't really understand." "Isn't she? She's been on enough missions with us. Gemmoray. Paradeen. She's as much of a Warrior as the rest of us. Maybe moreso. She didn't have an obligation to go on them." "What are you supposed to do? Mutiny? Disobey your father? Put the fleet at risk?" He managed half a smile. "A few centares ago you were arguing with him that we should do exactly that." "I am my father's daughter, Apollo. Cain never left his people behind. That's how I was raised. But you? What would happen if you did that? A Tribunal, with your father sitting in judgement? And Tigh, probably. You'd be removed as squadron commander, maybe demoted, certainly dishonored. You'd hurt your father beyond words. Adama would never be able to trust you again." "But he'd be home," Apollo said softly. She forced out the words she didn't want to say. "If he's alive. Adama is right, Apollo. He's probably gone." "Probably. That's the word I can't live with, Sheba. Probably." The next man I fall in love with will not have a conscience Sheba vowed. No loyalties. No angst. Just good times and no obligations. She reached out to touch his hand. "He wouldn't expect a rescue." Small comfort, but it was all she had to offer. "Not if he knew about the attack. Not then. But otherwise..." He dropped his head and sank into himself. "When I was on Equillus, so sure the fleet was gone and I would spend the rest of my life there, I'd look up at the sky and wait. Even though there was no reason at all to think for one millicenton that anyone would find me, there was always a part that kept waiting to see a light against the sky and a Viper or a shuttle coming in for a landing. Starbuck has to be going through the same thing." Unless the Cylons do have him, she thought. Then she truly wished he was dead, beyond their torture. "Lords, Sheba, I hate this!" Apollo pulled his hand from hers. "I wanted to explore. Deep space studies. First contact with new races. Cultural exchanges. Things that mattered, enriched the colonies." He tapped his head. "Engaged the mind! Not scrambling to stay a few steps ahead of the Cylons and contacting other worlds just long enough to trade for supplies and tylium." His bitterness filled the room. "I've lost my family. My wife. I can't remember the last time I spent a full day with my son. What kind of father does that make me? I feel like all of the Warriors I've ever known are dead. And now Starbuck..." He sighed, the energy draining as quickly as it had flushed through him. "And I'm just accepting it." His eyes searched her face for direction. "What didn't I say? How could I have failed to convince them to let us go back? Is Cassie right? Am I so cemented to my career that I'd choose to abandon him?" "You don't have a choice, Apollo. Neither does your father." "Cain would have gone back." "Yes. Yes, he would have. But he had a different set of responsibilities. He had the Pegasus, and his mission was to harass the Cylons. Adama has the Galactica, and his mission is to protect the colonists. The Pegasus wasn't in the same kind of danger." "Are we in danger now? Sheba, there hasn't been a hint of a Cylon in sectons. The bits and pieces of transmissions we're picking up make it sound like all sorts of Hades is breaking loose in the Cylon Empire. There're rebellions and uprisings. Traders are telling of breakaway groups and Cylons outposts being overthrown." "Maybe we should go back and help with the fight. Suggest that to him." "I wouldn't be surprised to hear that the Pegasus is there." They both fell silent, thinking of the unlikely possibility that Cain survived his battle with the base ships and was, indeed, cruising deep space and looking for the chance to cause more grief to the Cylons. "The point is," Apollo said after a moment "that there's no sign that the Cylons are after us now. There's no concrete reason for us not to go back." Sheba didn't answer. "He let Starbuck and Boomer search for me when I was missing. Was that special treatment?" Sheba didn't answer. She couldn't. She agreed with Apollo. And she also wondered how she felt about Adama now. He'd told her to consider herself part of his family. And she had, grateful to find a place where some small part of the void created by the disappearance of Cain could be filled. But if anyone was a member of Adama's impromptu family, it was Starbuck. If he was willing to leave Starbuck behind, what could any of the others expect? So she said nothing. It would only give Apollo one more point of suffering and, the Lords knew, the room was overflowing with enough hurt as it was. She reached out for his hand again. It was all she could think to do. At least for the moment. "If you're here to plead Apollo's case, you can leave." Cassie stood in the doorway of her quarters. Her tear-stained face was swollen and her eyes were bloodshot, but she glared at Boomer defiantly. "I'm more to blame than he is." "Why?" "Because I left him behind." "You had to. You had to warn the fleet. You didn't know you weren't going back after him." "It's not much different now. It's a matter of protecting the fleet. That's what the patrols are all about. And this damned running." Cassie eased back into her room. Boomer stepped inside and leaned against the door as it shushed shut behind him. "I'm so tired of feeling guilty," he sighed. "My oath as a Warrior, my whole life, is built on defending the Colonies. And every day, I think I've failed. Do you think we wanted to leave so many people behind when we fled? Or at Carillon? Hades, Cassie, every time we find some outpost, there's a chance the Cylons will find it, too, and wipe it out. We all feel the same way - Adama, Apollo. Please don't blame them any more, Cassie. If nothing else, Starbuck wouldn't want you to." The bitterness in her features turned to pain. "I know that, and it just makes it worse. He'd forgive Apollo anything. And you. And Adama. And I want to do that too, Boomer. For him. I swear by all the gods, I do. I just can't. I want to understand, but if there's a chance that he's alive..." She'd been so determined not to give in to her emotions, but that pledge evaporated as tears began sliding down her face. "I miss him so much, Boomer. Oh, lords, I want him back!" He pulled her to him and let her cry. "Don't give up, Cassie. Not yet." "What do you mean?" She wiped her hand awkwardly against her cheek. "We're still trying a couple of things. We're still working on Col. Tigh and the Commander." Suspicion played across her face. "Don't tell me something just to make me feel better." "You know I wouldn't do that. No promises, but there's still a chance." Now offered hope, Cassie grabbed it. "When will they decide?" "A couple of days. Any longer..." "You'll tell me? Right away? Even if they say no?" "Apollo will tell you." When she hesitated, Boomer continued. "It will have to come from him." She tightened her features. Boomer held her gently by her shoulders. "You're a healer, Cassiopea. Hate's not in your makeup." Her smile was sweet and sad. "I should find Apollo and apologize? Is that what you're saying?" "No. But when he comes to talk to you, let him. You two need each other, especially now." She nodded as Boomer left, an unspoken promise. He could accept that. He returned to the squadron billet quickly. He was meeting with Sheba in the simulator in less than a centare. They had a lot to talk about and to plan. If Cassie spoke with Apollo anytime soon, there would be Hades to pay. Chapter Twenty-One Oh, but governing an empire were so demanding! Lucifer rotated slowly on the raised dais in the middle of his Command Center. It was a new addition to the Imperial Palace, an improvement that allowed him total, instant, complete access to all data arriving on Xeti Omicron. A handful of Gold Centurions hovered in the shadows of the room. They were newly enhanced with diagnostic and administrative capabilities beyond those of their burnished brothers. Less skilled than the IL Series, but more evolved than other Gold Centurions. These might develop further into an entirely new Cylon series. Lucifer the Creator. It had a nice ring. But that would have to wait. Right now, he had the problem of bringing his recalcitrant empire back into order. Not for the first time, he cursed the human vermin. A ridiculous action, he knew. One that had no place in the well-ordered, cohesive, computerized cognizance so perfectly demonstrated by the IL Series. It must have rubbed off from Baltar. Lucifer allowed himself the IL version of a scowl. If there was one human who Lucifer sincerely wished was nothing more than a cinder in the debris of some exploded vessel in the Galactica's fleet, it was Baltar. He had managed to dissuade Imperious Leader from allowing only Cylons to track the fleet with his promises of finding the prey and leading the Cylons to victory. Lies! All lies! All told to allow Baltar to protect his external fascia. And all distracting Imperious Leader from the rest of his responsibilities. Now that was coming back to haunt him. Well, not haunt, exactly. Lucifer did not believe in supernatural phenomena. But the consequences of distraction from singleminded pursuits were impossible to ignore. And the effort, time, and resources to restore balance to the situation were wasteful. He allowed himself an audible sigh as he scanned the monitors and accessed the visible data displays that no biological construct could ever focus on, much less interpret, with his speed and accuracy. The situation was not good. Even with the free hand Lucifer had given his commanders, the rebellious spirit which swept the Empire in the wake of the human insurrection failed to be quelled. Didn't those other biologicals realize that the humans were defeated? Even when he'd reluctantly ordered the destruction of the population of several less-important planets, the others still refused to bow to the Cylon superiority. Worse, they were working together now; races which formerly had little contact had established communications and were trading intelligence about Cylon movements and their own actions. Time for some analysis. Which of the conquered races were most important for the continued seamless operation of the Cylon Empire? Lucifer dimmed his optical monitors to prevent distraction as he reviewed the census. Which could be done without, destroyed, as an example to the rest of the occupied areas? He considered the role each race played. What tasks they performed. What tactical areas they occupied. What other races could substitute for their workforce. What resources they provided. It was a complicated analysis, the sort of thing the IL Series was designed for. Lucifer quite enjoyed the challenge. He did not, however, relish the results. Despite every permutation he considered, Lucifer found he could not extinguish any more sentient populations without undermining the structure of the Empire. Damn those humans! He needed to undermine the upstart peoples trying to upend his authority. Raising the output to his external optical monitors, Lucifer allowed himself a micron's smugness. The biologicals thought they were clever, using arcane transmissions to arrange rendezvous at remote asteroids and abandoned mines and other half-forgotten outposts. Ah, but every movement leaves some trace. Lucifer serenely lowered the level of his dais and calmly wheeled from the Command Center. The Gold Centurions bowed as he passed them. A gratuitous conceit, he knew, but one which he had programmed into his newest servants with a sense of deliciously unfitting tribute. Baal did not notice when Lucifer entered his work area. The technical IL was absorbed in the innards of some new equipment. The lights of his external construct bounced and flashed in time to some inner series of synapses that Lucifer could never imitate. "So hard at work. It is most satisfying to see such dedication." Baal nearly dropped the transverse modulation attenuator unit he was holding. "Lucifer! This is an unexpected pleasure! Welcome to my ergo-capacitor laboratory. To what do I owe this great honor?" Yes, visiting Baal was a tonic for his discomfort. His sincerity restored Lucifer's sense of mission and the certainty of his superiority. "I am merely wondering if you have had success in developing the monitoring sensors we discussed. I know it has been only a few sectons, but I am most eager to deploy them." All of Baal's external displays twinkled. "Indeed, Lucifer. Indeed. I am delighted to say that I have completed the testing on the first prototypes and that they are ready for field trials." "Field trials? Oh, my," Lucifer said. "Are they necessary?" Baal's displays conveyed a moderate level of confusion. "Wouldn't they be? Imperious Leader was adamant that no new equipment be deployed until it was operating at its maximum design capacity." "True, but..."Lucifer knew that pausing here gave the impression of regret at his next statement. "Imperious Leader was not purely Cylon. All the work you did were based on his designs, were they not?" "Yes, they were, but as Imperious Leader, they could not be flawed." "Insofar as Imperious Leader was still burdened with biological attributes. His concepts were beyond reproach, of course, but the actual designs?" Baal hesitated. To criticize Imperious Leader was blasphemy, even for a computer. Lucifer noticed and appreciated Baal's concern. "I would never ask that you comment further. Your judicious silence is more than sufficient answer. But these sensors are your design, are they not?" "My design, as I interpret your desires." "As it should be," Lucifer said smoothly. "But as a purely Cylon design - the first purely Cylon design in history, I might add, surely they do not need extensive testing." "I have encountered no difficulties in my work so far," Baal admitted. "Then let us move forward. I have a great need to see these sensors used to detect the movements of the dissidents against our Empire. When can you have the first thousand ready?" Baal considered that for a micron. "Within the next 50 centares." "Excellent. I shall provide you with the transportation and coordination information myself." He paused. "It would be a source of great satisfaction if I am allowed to assist you in entering the programming. Although," he added hastily, "if you would are inclined to administer that duty yourself, I shall understand entirely." "Oh, no!" Baal said hastily. "It would be an honor, an utmost honor, if you would condescend to assist me with the programming." "I thank you for that," Lucifer said, his visible constructs exhibiting heartfelt appreciation. "I shall await word that the sensors are ready." With a slight bow - a gesture he knew would impress and humble the other IL - Lucifer wheeled from the chamber. Ready in such a short time. Excellent. Lucifer fairly hummed to himself as he wheeled along the corridors. He acknowledged the attention shown as he passed the Centurions and other ILs, as well as the few stray biologicals tending to their duties within the Palace. Soon, he could dispense with them, too. Just as soon as he dispensed with the humans. Which was why he needed to be involved with the programming of the sensors. Baal could not know that some of his new creations would not head towards the depths of the Empire where the illegal uprisings were occurring. Some would be sent in another direction, where Lucifer's tankers had once waited to refuel his assault force against the Galactica. Using that as a starting point, they would fan out into space, starting with the last coordinates of the battlestar. Lucifer was certain it would take only a short time to find the massive ship and her fleet. Then he would wait, and watch, and bide his time. He would track the Galactica, never attacking, only watching, until he was sure that Adama was no longer wary of another Cylon attack, until he was confident of the fleet's course and destination, until he was ready to deliver a final blow to destroy not just the Galactica, but the remaining human colony which Baltar swore existed. A place called Earth. Chapter Twenty-Two Sheba stood outside the door to Dr. Wilker's lab and glanced nervously up and down the deserted passageway. Stop being silly, she chided herself. There's no reason at all why you shouldn't be here. In fact, there were several very legitimate reasons why she would want to speak to the fleet's resident technical researcher. Still, she flipped her hair in an unconscious nervous gesture while she waited for him to answer his chime. "Lieutenant Sheba," he said as the panel slid open and he recognized her. "This is a surprise. What can I do for you?" "I was just following up on a request from Col. Tigh," she said. "He was wondering about some tests you wanted to run. Something about tracing spent fuel signatures..." "In the void currents," he finished for her. "Really?" Wilker seemed delighted. "Given all that's happening these days, I'm surprised he remembered anything about them. Come in. Come in!" He guided her by the shoulders into the recesses of his workspace. "The equipment I'm working on is over here." He weaved his way through the clutter of half-assembled or disassembled machinery scattered on the floor and workspaces. "It's very simple, really," he said. They stopped at a counter where several small boxes with pressure pads, solid-state circuit boards and calibration tools sat. "I'm working on the principle that even the cleanest-processed energy source leaves some residue. The trick is to determine just what elements remain behind and develop a methodology for detecting them. Now, when you are dealing with Colonial fuel sources, that's not difficult to do at all. We know the exhaustion characteristics of our fuel types, and..." "Colonel Tigh wanted to know about testing your equipment," Sheba cut in. Wilker was enthusiastic about his project, and that could mean a centare-long discourse covering more than she'd ever want to know or comprehend about it. "I've done some minor work here in the lab and with computer simulations. A bit of practical testing from here, too. It's very easy to trace the paths of the ships in the fleet, of course. We're on top of them." "But really testing your theory and equipment would take field trials?" "Sure. Not very likely right now, though. Too many other things that need doing first." "That depends on what you need to do," Sheba said. "What would make for a reasonable field trial? Something simple, but effective." Wilker rested his hands on the countertop and thought. "If we could go to the edge of the fleet and aim the equipment behind us, that would give me some base-line data to work with." "But you're dealing with pretty big signatures, right?" "Not much choice." "How about tracking Vipers coming back from patrol?" "I hadn't thought of that. That would be better. Smaller signature, not coming from an obvious location." She motioned toward the gear on the worktop. "This can be set up in a shuttle?" "Certainly." "Great. That's what the Colonel was hoping. When can you be ready to try it out?"" "Oh, it's ready to be tested now," Wilker assured her. "I didn't know Colonel Tigh was so interested in it." Sheba shrugged. "You mentioned being able to adjust it to detect Cylon and other fuel sources, didn't you?" "Theoretically, there's no reason why it shouldn't work." "I guess he figures developing this is another way to warn us if the Cylons return. The Colonel's good about things like that. He's already authorized a shuttle for use in testing." "Really?" "Yep," Sheba said brightly. "Boomer's on the flight deck right now. Do you need help getting this down there?" "Oh, no. I can manage." He was as happy as a child on Solstice morning. "I'll be there in about half a centare. Load it in, hook it up, and we'll be ready to go in no time." Sheba left Wilker smiling in his lab. Once outside, she braced herself against the bulkhead and breathed deeply. She hadn't lied; Tigh had approved this. At least, the part she and Boomer had told him about. As for the rest, well, he'd find out about it soon enough. As would Apollo, and Adama, and all of the Warriors. She ignored the knot in her stomach as she brushed her hair again and started down the passageway. Step one was completed. Now, to see how Boomer was doing. "A survey shuttle? What do you need one of those for?" Jenny rested her hands on her hips and frowned at Boomer. "I've got my hands full just trying to keep the intrafleet craft operating, Boomer. Hades hole; I've been scavenging parts from the long-range craft to keep the other stuff flying. Now you want me to bring one of them up to flight status? And do it right now?" "It's important, Jenny. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't." She continued frowning, but not as severely. He was right. Boomer never asked for more than he really needed. So if he said he really needed a survey shuttle prepped for a flight, he did. "Oh, hell." She led the way past the dozens of craft in the cavernous landing bay. Vipers, shuttles, small tenders - with the destruction of the primary 'floating' civilian dry dock, the Galactica was responsible for more maintenance than ever before. She stopped before the bank of open-ended hangars where the shuttles were stored. They rose above the floor of the flight deck in a tier three craft high. Compared to the rest of the maintenance area, it was nearly deserted. The long range shuttles were used primarily for planetary surveys. They were self-contained living units, designed to carry up to a dozen people with provisions for up to a quatron and with space for labs and storage. The cargo area was large enough to transport a landram or a Viper. For a brief time after the Cylon assault, a few of the shuttles were used as temporary housing while the survivors were reassigned from damaged ships. Since then, the shuttles had been in their shelters. The fleet hadn't passed near enough to any planetary systems for them to be needed. "What are you up to, anyway?" Jenny asked as she tapped the keypad that unlocked one of the holding bays. "Up to? Nothing!" Boomer said quickly. "Just testing one of Dr. Wilker's gadgets." "For that you need a survey shuttle?" "Not really, but it seemed to make more sense to use one of these than to take an intrafleet vessel out of service. They're needed too badly doing routine things." "That's for sure." She opened the hatch of the shuttle and stepped inside. The automatic lighting brightened the darkened hold. Jenny stepped to the console and switched on the internal power and diagnostics. "What's he testing this time?" "Some kind of detection device. Scans for spent fuel signatures, or something like that." He poked around the cabin while they waited for the instruments to warm up. "Hmph. Better not let Jolly down this end of the bay. This shuttle still has all of its survival rations." "Really?" Jenny said, distracted by the readouts starting to show up on the console. "Yeah, this bird looks useable. Give me a centare? I'll have all the systems double-checked, have her fueled and ready to move to the launch bay." "I appreciate it." "Sure." Jenny said. She left Boomer by the shuttle to return to the other repairs waiting for her at the other end of the hangar. As she passed the lift nearest the survey shuttles, she noticed someone step off and join Boomer. Sheba. Jenny paused as she watched the two of them. Heads together, talking quietly. Looking at the shuttle, looking around as if they were worried about being noticed or overheard. Strange, Jenny thought. What were they acting so cautious about? She shrugged it off. There were a lot of things happening that she didn't know all the details about. Like everyone else who could spare a micron, she'd checked out the craft sitting in a corner of the flight deck. As Starbuck's crew chief, she'd claimed the right to push her way past the Security people guarding it and climb around, looking for something that would tell her whether it truly was Starbuck's Viper. She desperately wanted it to be so. But the instrument panel, engines and control surfaces were modified beyond the point of recognizing any work she'd ever done. She'd walked slowly back to her work station, recognizing a sadly growing certainly that she'd never see him again. Boomer and Sheba had to feel the same way. Wait a micron... Survey shuttle, survival rations. Scanning for what? "Oh, damn!" Jenny whispered softly. "Well?" Boomer asked. "All set," Sheba told him. "Wilker's getting his stuff collected. I'm scheduled to take off on patrol in about 20 microns. By the time you get to the edge of the fleet, I'll have a course heading for you to track. When you catch up to me, I'll slave my navigation system to yours." She studied the shuttle and sighed. "You're sure you want to do this?" Boomer asked. "You don't have to." "Neither do you." "I'm responsible. The Commander could be right about everything. There could be Cylons waiting for us." "Fight Cylons? Haven't done that in nearly two quats. If I don't get some practice, I'll start getting rusty." "You'll be trashing your career if you come with me, Sheba." "I know. Dereliction of duty. Mutiny. Colonel Tigh will have a long time to come up with a long list of charges." Boomer touched the Star Cluster pin on her collar. "That's not a magic charm, you know. They could rip it off both of us." "They probably will. Some things are just more important, Boomer." "I don't want to see anyone else hurt because of me." "It's my choice." "Have you thought about what this is going to mean to Apollo?" "It means he'll have a chance of seeing Starbuck alive again. Or at least knowing what happened to him." "Your relationship." "You two aren't exactly distant." "You know what I mean. If there's a Tribunal, he'll be part of it." "So he can visit me in the brig." She checked her chronometer. "Look," she said, "I have to preflight and go on patrol. Are we going to do this or not? Decide now." There was a deep, quiet part of Boomer that surfaced when he was troubled or needed direction. Over the yahrens, he'd learned to trust it. Sometimes what it told him to do was not the comfortable thing, but the instinct had rarely proven wrong. He listened to it now. "I'll see you out there." True to her word, Jenny had the survey shuttle in position and ready to go in less than a centare. Dr. Wilker was busily hooking up relays and adjusting monitors while Boomer pre-flighted the shuttle. When he finished his walkaround, he was surprised to find Jenny waiting for him near the passenger hatch, her arms crossed, her mouth pursed. "Something wrong?" he asked. "A lot of the survivors scavenged things when they were staying on these. Just wanted to let you know I replenished the water supply and made sure the medical kit was stocked. The tanks are topped, and I stowed a couple of heavy-duty battery generators in the cargo hold. Oh, yeah, the system for securing heavy equipment in the hold was missing some of the fastening linkages. I replaced those, too." "Oh. Uh, well, thanks, but I don't think we'll need all of that," Boomer stammered. "It's just a field test for Dr. Wilker." "It's an awfully big field." Boomer ignored her as he caught the edge of the hatch and stepped into the cabin. "Thanks for getting this ready," he said. "I'll see you later." "Right." Jenny stepped back as the hatch swung shut and the shuttle taxied into position. When it launched a few microns later, she was still standing on the deck, watching. "You'd better damn sight bring him home," she muttered. Rigel was the first one to notice something wasn't right. "Omega, isn't the shuttle with Dr. Wilker supposed to stay within the confines of the fleet?" she asked over her headset. The Bridge Officer toggled keys on his console. "Sure is," he confirmed. "You know Wilker, though. He probably wants to try something just a little different. What's he doing?" "He keeps going beyond the picket ships, then swinging back in." "Any transmissions indicating any problems?" "No. No transmissions of any sort, for that matter, beyond required position reporting, and those have been sporadic." Omega frowned at the screens on his console. He didn't like the idea of any vessel having communications problems, especially when it was on the fringes of the fleet. There were only half as many picket ships as there had been before the Cylon assault, and the pickets had been scattered thinly enough then. Now, they were barely a token presence to stop any new Cylon action. The shuttle would be as defenseless as a newborn cuddlerat if the Cylons did reappear. "Try to raise the shuttle. Let them know about the transmission problems and find out how long they intend to be out there." Colonel Tigh was listening. He looked over Omega's shoulder at the console and shared the Bridge Officer's frown. "Go one step further, Rigel. Tell them to come back in. Dr. Wilker will have to finish his testing another day." Apollo and Adama had been studying the star charts and course display behind the command console. They joined Tigh and Omega on the dais. "The good doctor will be very annoyed," Adama reminded Tigh as he sipped from his oversized mug of caffe. "The good doctor would like it less if the Cylons interrupted his experiments." "Who's piloting the shuttle?" Apollo asked. "Lt. Boomer," Omega said. "I didn't make that assignment." He stepped to Athena's work station and watched as she scrolled through rosters and work assignments. "Well, he's assigned to it," she reported. "He volunteered," Tigh said. "Actually, he suggested taking Wilker out to run his tests. I thought it was a good idea, get his mind off ...everything." "Right," Apollo said. Boomer didn't enjoy flying holding patterns. He wouldn't want to spend centares on a sortie like this, unless Wilker was working on some project that particularly interested him. Before he could ask about the experiment, Rigel tapped her headset and shook her head. "Something wrong?" Adama asked. "The signal keeps cutting in and out. I can't tell if it's us or them." Tigh left the dais and stood behind her. "Let me hear it." She nodded. "Survey shuttle, this is the Galactica. How do you read?" Static filtered from the speaker. "Survey shuttle, how do you read? Boomer? Can you hear me?" "...cutting in...quality...readab..." Boomer's voice came in disjoined, static-filled bursts. "Survey shuttle, this is Galactica. You are to return to the ship. Repeat. Return to Galactica. Do you copy?" "....Galactica. Repeat...with...system. Lost fix...ble navigation...reckoning..." Adama was beside Tigh now. The two bent lower, as if being closer to the speaker would help them fill the gaps in the transmission. "Shuttle, this is Galactica. Understand you have problems with your navigation. How can we assist?" "How far is he outside the fleet's perimeter?" Adama asked. "Over 100 kilmettas and was last heading outbound," Omega said. "He's at the edge of our immediate scanners. There's too much intermediate traffic for us to track him on long-range." "That could be part of the communication problem," Tigh said. "Maybe we can use one of the picket ships as a relay station, Colonel." "I've already tried that," Rigel said. "They're reporting the same problems. They're getting a good fix on him, however." She frowned. "He's still heading outbound." "He should at least know enough to change heading," Tigh said. "Athena, are there any Vipers on patrol in that sector?" Apollo asked. "I think so," she said automatically, while checking her board. "Lt. Sheba was the last in that sector, but she went through it almost four centares ago. She's due back from patrol in about fifteen microns. Her course should bring her right through there." "Good," Adama said. "As soon as she checks in, have her track and find the shuttle, then lead it back in." "Picket ship Dayloryan reports she's already checked in, Commander. She's received instructions and is going to rendezvous with the shuttle." That should have ended it. But a few microns later, Rigel flagged Omega. "The Dayloryan says Sheba and the shuttle are still headed outbound" Rigel said. "What?" Tigh was hovering over her console in a milli-centon. "She's not reporting any transmission or navigation problems. Not acknowledging any communications at all. No indication of transmissions from either vessel, sir." Adama took another swallow from his tankard. "Could Dr. Wilker's experiment have something to do with this? Fouling up the electronics somehow?" "I don't think so, Commander," Tigh said. "As I understand it, he was testing scanners that detect traces of..." he stopped in mid-sentence. "Oh, Lords!" "Traces of spent fuel," Apollo finished for him. "Viper fuel?" Adama asked. His son nodded. "And escape pod fuel." Apollo leaned over Rigel's shoulder. "Lt. Sheba. Lt. Boomer. This is Captain Apollo. You are ordered to return to the Galactica immediately. Repeat. You are not to continue away from the fleet. You are to return to the Galactica immediately. Do you copy?" Only static answered them. "Galactica to survey shuttle and patrol Viper. Do you copy? You are to return to the Galactica immediately. That is a direct order. Do you copy? You are ordered to return to the Galactica immediately or face disciplinary action. Do you copy?" The bridge had grown very silent. Any answer, no matter how faint, would have been heard. The bridge crew heard nothing. Apollo straighted finally, staring at his father numbly. "They went after him," he said. Chapter Twenty-Three Dr. Wilker, the Galactica's Chief of Scientific Research, had a well-earned reputation as a brilliant, creative - if somewhat eccentric - scientific mind. Placing research scientists aboard military vessels was not general practice within the colonies, but most ships of any size in the Caprican fleet had them. It seemed an intelligent thing to do, given that the ships often came into contact with new phenomena or found themselves in situations where adaptations to existing technology or the need for new tools arose. The scientists who joined the military occupied a special niche. They held no official rank, but enjoyed the privileges of the Warriors that served in the fleet, including crowded billets, limited shore leave, mediocre pay, and the very real threat of injury or death during battle. In exchange, they were on the cutting edge of discovery and practical scientific development on a scale that their planet-bound colleagues rarely enjoyed. Dr. Wilker reveled in his assignment aboard the Galactica. With few close personal ties on Caprica or anywhere else, the long voyages of the battlestar did not bother him. Commander Adama respected his wide-ranging curiosities, and accommodated him as much as possible, granting him lab space, tools, and resources and encouraging him to explore his interests, whether they appeared practical at the time or not. Generally, Wilker was well-satisfied with his situation. He couldn't always convince Adama and Tigh of the need to test his theories and equipment in as timely a manner as was needed - which meant immediately - but they usually came around eventually. By the time they did, Wilker, as often as not, had moved onto some other project. Since the Destruction, Wilker's eclectic interests had proven useful many times over. He had the rare ability to see connections between apparent disparate fields and find ways to join them to the benefit of the fleet. In the sectons since the Cylon assault, Wilker's projects had most definitely been relegated to the bottom of the Commander's list of priorities. The scientist generally appreciated that, and concentrated most of his work on finding ways to help with the immediate situation: stabilizing and repairing damaged ships, improving the cultivation of food sources, creating a data base of supplies and resources, and assigning survivors to appropriate work details. His idea for tracking spent fuel signatures was something he'd been toying with before the disaster. It actually went all the way back to the mutiny aboard the Celestra. When the traitorous crew sent the shuttle with Commander Kronus, Apollo, and the others on a false heading, they were nearly lost. Wilker realized that the same fate could befall any ship that was separated from the fleet for any number of reasons - malfunctioning equipment, elemental storms, dispersal of the ships for a tactical or practical mission. The spent fuel idea wasn't original, but he thought it merited examination. He was delighted to find that Tigh apparently thought so, as well. When Lt. Sheba showed up at his lab, Wilker was more than ready to drop his other experiments and head for the shuttle bay before Tigh could change his mind. He and Lt. Boomer had been out for several centares now, adjusting sensors and fine-tuning the scanning equipment. So far, the machinery worked as he predicted. He was delighted when Lt. Boomer suggested leaving the confines of the fleet to see how the sensors worked in a less-controlled environment. The Lieutenant worked at his side, leaving the shuttle on autopilot to help Wilker with the equipment. The basics were easy to learn and Boomer proved to be an able and interested aide. When Lt. Sheba returned from her patrol, Wilker was able to report that her spent fuel signature was easily detectable from many killamets behind her. "As bright as a laser volley in a cave," he crowed. "That's great, Doctor," Boomer said. "But how long would you be able to detect the trail?" "That depends on several conditions," Wilker said. He was happy Boomer was interested. So often the Warriors, especially the Viper pilots, treated his research like so much self-indulgent felgergarb. "The currents in the void space are the primary determining factor. If those are strong, any vapor trails would be dispersed rather quickly. On the other hand, if the flight passes through a region of little or no activity, the traces would remain - well, theoretically, they could remain in place in perpetuity. Although," he added quickly, "that's only theoretical. I can't recall of anyone finding a region where no activity occurred. There are some spots that appear to be more stagnant than others, though. The Sewfi sector, near La'pOrt is supposed to be pretty grim, although I've never been there myself, and the data I've seen was mostly..." "What about tracking something like," Boomer interrupted, then paused, as though thinking of a suitable example, "well, like that thing we found. That craft." "Ah, yes, that." Given all the work still going on in the maintenance bays, Wilker knew it would be a long while before he could even begin to properly examine the thing. "Could you follow its trail and figure out where it came from?" "Of course, provided the currents cooperated." "But if it came on a straight-line course, even if you lost the signature, you could keep going, right?" "In theory, yes." "Maybe pick the trail back up later on?" "Well, space is not a straight-line concept," Wilker cautioned. "You are working in multiple dimensions, so a straight line could come from under and behind you. Or above. Or even circulate, since in space, there is no real directional protocol." Boomer nodded silently. "But it's possible that the scanners could pick something up if you passed by it or over it or abeam it." "That's what I'm hoping to have them do. Right now, their range and abilities are somewhat limited." The conversation was interrupted by a transmission from Lt. Sheba. "How are the experiments going?" she asked. "Real good," Boomer told her. "Dr. Wilker says all things are possible." "Well then," she said through the speakers. "Shall we try a more complicated test?" "I think so," Boomer said. "What do you suggest, Lieutenant?" Wilker asked the console. He grinned at Boomer, eager to hear Sheba's suggestion. The answer didn't come from the Viper flying nearby. Boomer rested his hands on the controls of the shuttle. "Dr. Wilker, Sheba and I are going to follow the trail of that craft back to wherever it came from." "But the Commander vetoed that request." "I know," Boomer said. "Believe me, I know. But we're going to do it anyway. I owe it to Starbuck to at least try to find him." He sighed. "You're coming with us. I'm sorry that you don't have a choice, but if we return to any ship to drop you off, we'll never get away again. I won't ask you to help us. That would compromise your position and make you an accomplice. I think I can run the equipment well enough to use it. So..." he shrugged. "I'm afraid you're being kidnapped, Doctor." "Well!" Wilker dropped into the seat beside Boomer and considered the situation. "Follow the trail of that rescue craft?" "We're gonna try." Wilker clasped his hands together. "What a fantastic chance to fully test my equipment!" Chapter Twenty-Four I once believed there were no gods, but now I know better. Uri looked up at the ceiling of his quarters. I'm sorry I ever doubted you. He re-read the message on the small data pad once again. Twice again. Then he poured a glass for strong skiwah and downed it in a single large gulp. The hot liquid burned a path down his gullet. Uri savored it. He read the message one last time. Adama's Warriors were deserting him. Not just any Warriors, either, but two of his elite, his hand-picked, his 'family,' for Sagan's sake! Lieutenants Boomer and Sheba had commandeered a Viper and a long-range shuttle and fled the fleet, taking Dr. Wilker with them. Speculation was that he'd left voluntarily, too, since there was no sign of a forced abduction in Wilker's quarters or laboratory. Another high-profile, desperate refugee. The news was all through the Viper squadrons, probably all through the Warrior units everywhere in the fleet. Uri closed his eyes and said a prayer of gratitude to Adama for being foolish enough to open the doors of the O Club to so many civilians and others serving aboard the Galactica. No doubt that nary a whisper of this wonderful piece of information would have reached him otherwise. Uri drank another draught of skiwah, then walked somewhat unsteadily to the comm unit on the wall. There was one person in the fleet with whom he truly wished to share this news. "Colonel, you'd better take a look at this." It was a remark Tigh heard from Omega dozens of times each duty period, but there was something in the Bridge Officer's voice that pulled the Colonel to the top of the console steps without hesitation. Omega was staring at his viewscreen, watching the IFB news. A serious-looking Zara was reading her report. Tigh only had to hear a few words of it to feel his stomach start to ache. "... that these Warriors, holders of the Colonies' highest military honor, have actually deserted the fleet. Word is that they were ordered to return to the Galactica, but refused. There is no report of Commander Adama attempting to force their return..." "Oh, lords." Tigh shut his eyes and braced himself on the console. "Who in the twelve worlds leaked this to the IFB?" Zara's next remark answered that question. "Word of this apparently desertion by Lts. Boomer and Sheba came from Sire Fayol, who is running for the Virgon seat on the Council of the Twelve. That seat was made vacant by the death of Council member Joachim, who was killed in the Cylon assault six sectons ago." The screen flickered, and Fayol's somber features filled the monitor. "If there was any doubt that Commander Adama is no longer fit for command, the action taken by Lts. Boomer and Sheba remove it. When his own Warriors no longer believe in his abilities as commander, when they believe they must flee for their lives, what can it say for the safety of the rest of this fleet? The very fact that the news of this mutiny was kept secret by Adama and his ranking officers is another indication of the way his command has degenerated into arrogance and isolation." Tigh made a strangling sound, not unlike the one he wished to hear from Fayol's informant, the one caused by Tigh's own hands tightening around that individual's neck. "Fayol leaked it to the IFB, but who leaked it to Fayol?" "Uri," Omega said without hesitation. That wasn't a charge Omega would make lightly. "Why do you say that?" "I've been keeping company with the good sire, just as we discussed. Uri's been asking me which of the candidates I think are most suitable as Council members. Fayol was one of several guests at a little dinner he had in his quarters a few days ago, before all of this started. I've been too busy to see him since then." "Just as well," Tigh said. "Otherwise, you might have been the leak." He ignored Omega's outraged look. "Not intentionally, but if Uri heard rumors, he'd have asked you about them. And he's clever enough to catch you trying to cover up." "So the question is, who told Uri?" "And how long before Adama hears about this?" Tigh was glad the Commander was in his quarters. He was taking a few centares off to have dinner with Boxey, Apollo and Athena. Reports of the IFB report might not reach him for a while. That gave Tigh time to think about how to answer Zara. Not enough time. "Colonel." Omega pointed to a light on his console. It was the signal from Adama's quarters. "I think he knows." "I'm very disappointed that you chose to broadcast that report without attempting to contact Colonel Tigh or myself," Adama was saying as Tigh entered the Commander's quarters. He stared at his viewscreen with as serious an expression as the Colonel had ever seen. Tigh realized that Adama was engaged in a live interview with the IFB anchor. He glanced quickly behind him. Apollo, Athena and Boxey were seated at the dining table. The plates were covered with the remains of their half-eaten meals. Boxey was sitting quietly, idly toying with his food, while his father and aunt sat stiffly listening to their father, both wearing expressions as furious as slang-fevered macadoos. "This free passing of rumors is unprofessional and detrimental to the welfare of the fleet." "Are you saying that Lieutenants Boomer and Sheba have not left the fleet?" "Of course they have. That is undeniable. The allegation that they are engaged in a mutiny or are fleeing because they fear for their lives, however, is ludicrous." Zara pursed her lips, making them pout more than usual. "Then why have they gone?" "They are on an authorized mission - authorized by no one less than Colonel Tigh - engaged in a scientific experiment with Doctor Wilker. He has developed a new method of tracking spent fuel residue in space and needed to go well beyond the confines of the fleet in order to test it properly. Given the inherent dangers of travel beyond the safety afforded by the fleet, I assigned two of my best Warriors to escort him." "How long will they be gone?" she asked. Adama shook his head gently. "If you've ever worked with Doctor Wilker, as I have, then you know there is no firm answer to that, Zara. I'm certain that whatever timetable he had, he'll adjust it and undoubtedly try to stay out far longer than planned. He won't be satisfied with just testing his new equipment, but he'll have all sorts of other experiments to try, most of them occurring to him as they travel, and all of them proving useful to the fleet. What I know for certain is that when the team returns, we will know if Doctor Wilker's hypothesis is valid and whether we have another tool for protecting our fleet from the Cylons - or any other threat, for that matter." "What of reports that they were ordered to return to the fleet, but refused?" Damn, Tigh thought. Whoever passed information to Uri had the full story. He mentally began sifting through the duty roster of those on the bridge during the incident. He couldn't think of anyone who would pass that news to Uri. But if Uri had approached someone the way he had approached Omega, someone without Omega's sense of loyalty, someone whose ambition overwhelmed his ethics, then anything was possible. He'd be looking at his crew in a different light now, and he didn't like that at all. "They were ordered to return. You have that correct. There were some transmission problems, and we were concerned about allowing the shuttle to be so far from the fleet without totally reliable communications. However, the team decided the problems did not warrant a return and continued their mission." Zara wasn't done yet. "One last question, Commander. If this was not a desertion, why was it reported to the IFB as such?" Adama's manner, conciliatory so far, turned hard. "I might ask you who gave you the information and why you were so willing to report it at all before taking a few microns to verify it. This fleet trades in rumors like a Gaian blockade runner trades in contraband tzu. Perhaps you should offer a prize - an evening aboard the Rising Star for the most outrageous rumor of the secton. It could be a new game show. But you can be assured that my Warriors are not voiding their oaths or abandoning the fleet." He held his pose while the connection to the IFB central broadcast facility was broken. "I think that went well," he said. His voice was calm, but all of them recognized the anger hidden beyond the quiet tone. He walked to his place at the dining table. "Do you think they believed you, Father?" Athena asked. "Perhaps. In the end, it doesn't matter. Those who want to believe it, will. Those who don't..." "If they don't come back, and soon, Fayol will have ammunition to use against you until the election," Apollo snapped. His temper was not nearly as contained as his father's. "If it's not this, he and his friends will find something else. At least with this, I know what's coming. If we stay with this version of events, there's not much Fayol can do to contradict me." "It's ugly!" Athena snapped. "It's politics, Athena," her father answered. "As these things go, it's actually quite benign." "Benign!" Apollo's anger flared again. "Whoever gave this to Fayol wanted to see how much trouble they could cause." "And did a very good job of it, too," Adama said. "Adama," Tigh said, "I don't want to get into the details, but I think Sire Uri is behind this. He's working for the election of candidates who want to unseat you and remove you from the Council and command." "Uri?" Apollo said. His expression grew darker. Athena threw up her hands and rolled her eyes. "Can't you order him to do something useful?" she asked her father. "Like inspect the processing units of the sanitation ship - from the inside?" "What are you going to do, Commander?" Tigh asked out. "I think I've done what I can at the moment. Answered Zara directly. Explained away the situation. All we can do now it wait until they return." Tigh's frustration bubbled over. "Adama, they are not going to be satisfied until they vilify you!" "He's right, father!" Apollo's passion was no weaker than Tigh's. "Can you imagine what this fleet would be like with Uri and his minions in charge?" "Can you imagine that Uri and the others may be right?" Adama asked. "Perhaps their criticisms of me are not off-base. I appreciate your loyalty, but have you considered that if someone else been in charge, the Cylons attack might have been anticipated? We might not have lost so many ships." He sighed suddenly. "So many people." By the lords, he looks so old, Athena thought. It wasn't right. None of this was. Her father was the only person in all of humanity who had a chance of bringing them to safety, and he had to spend more time fighting the rest of his species than he did fighting their enemy. The ennui that enveloped her since the Cylon attack began to evaporate in the anger she felt building inside her. How dare Uri try to subvert her father! And Fayol! That old fool wouldn't last a day if he had to survive on his own abilities. "It would be refreshing to wake one day and not feel the burdens of this fleet on my shoulders, Apollo," Adama said quietly. He turned his attention to his Exec. "I don't suppose we've had any word from them?" "No, Commander. Nothing." "That's not surprising," Apollo said. "The best calculations Boomer came up with were that it would take a secton just to reach the coordinates where they were ambushed. There's no way to tell how long it would take to track Starbuck from there." If there's anything to track, he thought. He could not bring himself to say that. Not yet. Maybe never. "Athena, you're monitoring transmissions from their last known coordinates?" "Of course. All long-range frequencies are on maximum active standby. They're all set to record anything that's not pure space static and to signal those receptions to my console and Omega's." She tossed her head angrily. "But, Father, Apollo is right. You can't simply let this pass." "I can't do otherwise. If I - if we - act as though Boomer and Sheba's ... departure is anything other than the routine, authorized mission we claim it is, it will only draw more attention to the situation and start more rumors." He watched their expressions grow resigned as they realized he was right. "You have your duties to attend to," he told them. "And I have a grandson to entertain." He summoned Boxey to him. "I seem to remember that we were about to engage in some vid-sim games, weren't we Boxey?" The child laughed as he jumped into his grandfather's arms. "I have a secret to tell you," he whispered, leaning close to the boy's ear. "Sometimes when your father and Colonel Tigh think I'm down here working, I'm really playing Deep Space Commandos." Boxey squirmed to look up at his grandfather. "Really?" "Really. And I think I've figured out where the hidden power systems are on level five." "Level five!? I can't get past the mutant snitrat on level three." "Ah...That was easy." "Show me." The boy slid from Adama's lap and took him by the arm. "Come on." He dragged his willing grandfather to the computer console. Adama looked up at the rest of his family. "Join us?" "Come on, Dad," Boxey urged. "I've never played this game before, Boxey," Apollo said. Still simmering in anger, he tried to relax for the sake of his son. "That's ok. It's like the Viper simulator, only harder. I can teach you." The three settled themselves in front of the monitor. Tigh stared as Adama opened a desk drawer and placed a joystick on the desktop. Boxey giggled with glee and began to toggle the stick. Apollo leaned close to his son, trying to smile and join in the game. Athena stood beside the Colonel, shaking her head as she watched the three concentrating on their game. She marveled at her father's ability to push aside the conflicts that overwhelmed others to make time for his family. Wisdom, she decided, and wished the gods had granted her a larger portion. The sounds of electronic warfare squealed through the room. "I'm going back to the bridge," she said to the men. No one seemed to notice her. "I'll let you know if anything comes in." Tigh followed her from Adama's quarters. Athena's personality could be as volatile as solonite, and she was close to her detonation point. "If I ever find out who leaked this to Fayol, I will personally claw his heart out," Athena seethed. "You will do nothing of the kind, Athena. That sort of statement and attitude is unbecoming of a junior Warrior. Besides, I'm reserving that pleasure for myself." Chapter Twenty-Five Doctor Wilker had to admit that being a willing accomplice to insubordination, dereliction of duty, mutiny, and sheer personal stubbornness was fun. In the secton since leaving the fleet, he'd proven that his theories about tracking spent fuel signatures were valid. His equipment needed some adjustments, but once made, the impromptu duet of vessels locked onto the signature of Starbuck's craft and traced it back on its original course. As he'd told Adama, the propulsion and navigation systems were too simple for the craft to have made many course adjustments. They were lucky, though, that no cosmic storms had affected the track. Once they were sure of the equipment, the trip became routine. Wilker was certain that he could never be a Viper pilot, at least not one ever sentenced to a long-range mission like this. If he had to spend a full secton strapped into a Viper, he'd go space crazy. Lt. Sheba, however, seemed to accept her situation with good humor. She spent much of her time in enforced stasis, preferring sleep over immobility and boredom. When awake, she was full of questions about the experiments and often disengaged the slave navigation system that let her Viper be pulled along by the shuttle to check out spacial oddities that Wilker detected. For his part, Boomer tinkered with the communications gear. "Maybe he got his ADT on-line," he explained to Wilker. The two considered several theories about long-range transmission and reception. Wilker was happy to apply some of Boomer's ideas to the existing equipment. Maybe they'd have a chance to test these on the flight, too. That could come later. Right now, they were concentrating on the small system that lay dead ahead of them. After a secton of travel, they'd reached the starting point of Starbuck's ship. It was as bleary a planetary collection as could be imagined. Four chunks of rock orbiting triple suns far removed from anything that even remotely resembled a tangent leading to any whisper of civilization. Leave it to Starbuck to end up here, Sheba thought. The tactical recon scanners on the Viper were set on as far-reaching a signal as Sheba could push them. "No signs of Cylons that I can tell," she reported. That was encouraging, Boomer thought. He looked over at Wilker's workstation. The scientist was squinting at a digital display. "Are you really sure this is it, Doctor?" Boomer asked. Like Sheba, he was disheartened by the sight of the planets. "Absolutely," Wilker said. "The signatures lead directly to the second planet." He examined his readouts and dickered with a couple of controls. "No doubt." "Can you tell us where he landed?" Boomer asked. "Not even I can accomplish that. No, once Lieutenant Starbuck's Viper entered the atmosphere, the elements of his fuel signature became mixed with the atmospheric components. Even then, in an entirely stable environment, there might be a layering that would allow us to track the signature, at least to some degree, but this does not appear to be the case here. If nothing else, the atmosphere is thin, which hinders the compression of the elements along any discernable route. And the scanners show that the wind currents are strong." "He's right on that, Sheba," Boomer warned the Viper pilot. "Gusty at all levels with wind shear every couple of thousand metts. Be careful." "Right," she answered. "I'm picking that up on my atmospherics. Do the scanners show any particularly livable areas?" Boomer adjusted his computer. "Actually, there is one that seems more moderate than the rest of this rock. It's not very large, either, a couple hundred square mettas." "I can make some passes over it," Sheba suggested. "See what it looks like. Who knows? Maybe Starbuck will show up and direct us to a landing spot." "Good enough," said Boomer. He gave her the coordinates. "We'll remain in orbit while you check it out." He watched as her Viper's turbos blossomed into flame, and the small craft curved smoothly towards the planet's surface. "Uh-oh," he heard Wilker say. "What's wrong?" "I've adjusted all of my equipment and rechecked the findings. Lieutenant Starbuck, or at least his craft, came from this planet. But there's something else. I analyzed all of the data we collected once we entered this system. There are two other fuel tracks that end on this planet. Both of them are Cylon." "Frack," Boomer said. "The Commander was right." He reached for the comm console and passed the information on to Sheba. "I'm not picking anything up, Boomer. Not here or on the other planets, at least not as far as I can tell." "If they were waiting for us, wouldn't they have done something by now?" Wilker asked. "Sheba's Viper would be a good target, and the shuttle is not exactly easy to hide." "Who knows? Maybe they're waiting for us to leave, so they can follow us back, just like the Commander said," Boomer answered. "Maybe they aren't here any more," Wilker said. "There were two tracks." "One coming, one going?" "Possibly." Boomer sighed. "Sheba, the shuttle doesn't have tactical recon gear or weaponry. We'll be perched ostias while you're doing the survey runs. If we pick up anything, we'll alert you and try to keep the planet between us and whatever. You might end up on your own, though." "Roger that," Sheba said. She was dropping lower into the atmosphere. When she followed the orbit away from the shuttle, she'd end up behind the planet, too, and out of contact with the other craft. No telling what she'd find when she returned. Boomer listened as the crackle of Sheba's transmissions rendered her voice unreadable, then went silent. Nothing to do now but wait until she finished her survey. Nothing to do but think. Two Cylon tracks, one coming, one going. What did that mean? To lie in wait? To drop off a decoy? To capture a prisoner? To leave a corpse? He closed his eyes. Had this all been a mistake, a display of misguided loyalty executed in a moment of confusion? He dug deeply into himself, looking for the answer. No, this was the right thing. This was where he belonged. Finding the answer, solving the puzzle - those were important to him, to Apollo, to Cassiopea, even to the Commander. Whatever he faced when he returned to the Galactica, it would be worth it. Starbuck, if you were looking for an oasis planet, you really blew it this time, Sheba thought as she finished her passes over the planet. It wasn't much more than an asteroid, actually, just large enough to hold a breathable atmosphere, and just far enough from the suns to keep it from being an oven. The spot Boomer picked up on his scanners was not much better than the rest of the arid landscape. There were some trees, evidence of water deep underground, life signs of small living creatures, but nothing that hinted of a human living there. No sizeable life signatures on the scanners; nothing that looked like a dwelling; no debris that wasn't organic in appearance. Simply put, if Starbuck was alive and on this planet, he wasn't here. "On the other hand, there're no signs of any Cylons, either," she reported when she was back in contact with the shuttle. "Is Dr. Wilker sure that there were fuel signatures from this planet?" "Absolutely," Boomer said as Wilker raised himself up to his full height indignantly. "Unless there is some malfunction of the equipment," he added. Always a good idea to give the scientific types a way out. "We may as well put down anyway," Boomer continued. "We can use that temperate area as a base of operations." Beside him, Wilker nodded in agreement. "I think Dr. Wilker wants to check out the flora." "Some of it might be edible or have medicinal uses," Wilker called loudly, as though he needed the extra volume for Sheba to hear him. "It works for me," Sheba said. "Stay visual on me, so we land near each other." It was good to climb out of her Viper and stretch. Sheba arched her back, then folded herself forward, letting her arms hang limply from her sides. She stood again and swung from side to side, letting her arms flop loosely as she did so. Cassie had taught her those relaxation techniques. They worked better than anything she'd ever tried before. "You'll probably notice that you feel more refreshed, too," Cassie said. "They restore circulation, in part because they're loosening your muscles." "This should be part of standard Viper training," Sheba told her. Cassie laughed at that. "Right. Can you see Apollo swinging around like that?" No, Sheba thought, she couldn't. Never in a million yahren. He would never allow himself to be seen in a posture that might be interpreted as even slightly undignified. He finished every long-range patrol tight and tense, exhausted, and counted on a hot turbowash, a tankard of baharii at the O Club, and a nap to compensate for several days of sitting and stasis. She cringed at the thought of Apollo. One reason she'd spent so much of the flight in stasis was to avoid thinking about him and what her decision to return for Starbuck meant. As Boomer warned, her action was going to affect their relationship. She loved Apollo. It was something she'd never expected. Her life was tied to her career and that was tied to her father. Not much chance of the daughter of the battlestar's commander to get romantically involved with any other Warrior on board the Pegasus. Sheba never admitted it, but she was happy with that situation. It was safe. She saw the heartbreaks that her friends suffered when relationships ended or lovers died, saw the agony her father felt when her mother died, and knew that pain, too. She lost too many friends in battle to want to bury someone who was truly close. So she kept up the appearance of self-assuredness and spunk, never letting anyone see the lonely woman that wished she could find someone with whom her love would be safe. Apollo offered her that. Adama's taking her into his family started it all. His grace comforted her after Cain was missing. She appreciated Apollo's intensity and recognized the same emptiness in him that she knew too well. He reached out to her tentatively, not objecting when she joined his group at meals, listening respectfully when she engaged in discussions of tactics, flying with her on some patrols, and finally, inviting her to join him in social situations. They were falling in love, and were both afraid it would be shattered. Well, she could surely hear the cracks starting now. Boomer was right; if there was a Tribunal, Apollo would be on it, as Opposer, no doubt. Adama, too, would sit in judgement of her. The delicate love that was struggling to thrive like the few weeds on this arid rock was in jeopardy. But she could not deny who she was. Cain's daughter. And, as she told Apollo, Cain did not leave his people behind. Adama may have every valid military reason to do so, but he was wrong. Not when there were no signs of Cylons for so long. Not when there was a chance of saving someone. She granted herself a short laugh. She'd never command a battlestar with an attitude like that. One of the hallmarks of a strong military commander was the ability to make decisions without regard to the emotional impact. Lords knew Cain could do it, even sending her out into the hottest parts of a battle. She'd done enough of that commanding Silver Spar, and she hated it. Maybe she wasn't as much of her father's daughter as she thought. Eyes squeezed shut, shoulder blades drawn together - hold, hold. Then release and relax. Her mind shifted with the change in posture. There was the other reason she decided on this mutiny. She couldn't stand watching Apollo suffer when she could at least try to do something about it. Not just offer words of condolence and her company, but something concrete. He wanted to ignore his father's order, too, but could not. She was doing for him what he could not do for himself. He was no Cain, either. Boomer climbed to the top of the outcropping and took in the vista spread before him. The oasis below was perhaps a half a metta around. Large enough to have its own micro-ecosystem, but not typical of the planet. The greenery surrounding him was hardly lush, but it was comfortable enough. The trees that rose to about twice his height gave plenty of shade and, combined with the never-ending brisk breeze, cooled the air at least a few degrees. Small creatures rustled in the underbrush, and, of course, there was water. A small pond, not much more than a puddle, but instruments showed that it was the top of a very, very deep underground lake. Someone finding himself here could survive. Not luxuriously, but with some primitive comfort. But away from there... Boomer blew out a long, tired breath as he took in the barren landscape that reached as far as the horizon - towering rock formations without a hint of vegetation or life. A dry, endless wind blowing up dust that would coat them all with a fine grit. The enormity of what they were trying to do hit him. This was small as planets went, but any body large enough to hold an atmosphere is large, indeed. How would they survey it all? How would they find Starbuck? Their scanners could pick up life signs, but one small being in such a vast setting would not register strongly. Boomer shuddered to think that they could pass right over his friend and still not notice him. I'm not leaving until I know, he vowed. Even if they end up leaving me behind, too. He turned as someone joined him. Dr. Wilker scrambled to stand beside Boomer. "Quite a view," the doctor said, as he brushed the loose dirt from his sleeves. "Yeah." Sheba pushed herself to the top of the rocks, joining them. "I always thought that if Starbuck got himself lost, he'd end up on the galaxy's largest chancery," she panted. "He did that on Carillon," Boomer said. "Beautiful women, big gambling pots, lots of Cylons." She pushed her windswept hair from her face. "Doesn't this wind ever stop?" "This is actually pretty mild, considering what I can tell of the usual climactic conditions," Wilker said. "You see, the planetary orbit isn't all that stable. It alters depending on its position in relation to the three suns. Since those aren't evenly spaced, the gravitational pull on this planet is constantly being altered. That, in turn, has effects the winds by..." "We kept running checks while you were orbiting," Boomer said quickly, cutting off the dissertation. "No signs of Cylons on the other planets." "Are you sure?" "It's not very likely that Cylons are there, no," Wilker said. "I recorded the conditions around each of the other planets as we passed them on the way here. My equipment doesn't show any indications of other fuel traces approaching any of them." "Your equipment would have picked that up?" A gust of wind threw a small dust devil into the air. It danced near them in a brief swirl of reddish-brown frenzy. "It should have," Wilker yelled over the wind. "It's not infallible, but there's not a lot else out there that could have disguised it." Sheba put her back to the wind and looked down the trail to the valley clearing where the shuttle and Viper sat. What if it had all been an elaborate trick? What if the Cylons had spotted them arriving? They could be moving toward them even now. Two - all right, three if you counted Wilker - against how many Cylons? She would not let them take her alive, but she'd take as many of them with her as she could. When the gusts died away, she looked back at Boomer. He was thinking the same thing. "We need to get started, then," she said. She started down the trail. "I was thinking about that," Wilker said as he slid down the loose soil behind her. "Perhaps you should conduct some passes on the night side of the planet." "Not much chance of spotting anything in the dark, Doctor," Boomer said. "Even if my sensors pick up something that seems likely, I'd have to come back during the day to confirm it. I don't have that much fuel left." "True enough. But I was thinking that you would set your sensors for infra-red signals. That way, you could home in on any kind of fire or energy generator Starbuck had. Even his own body heat." He slammed into Sheba as she stopped short and turned to face the scientist. Boomer stopped just as suddenly behind him. "That's brilliant," she said. Boomer nodded. "Why didn't we think of that?" "I probably should just work the night side, though. Too many recalibrations otherwise." "Lay out the courses. Probably do six or seven latitudinal drops." "We need to figure the optimal altitude for the scanners' range." Wilker grinned as the two of them trotted the rest of the way to the shuttle. There might be a future for him as a Warrior after all. Sheba took off at dusk, just before the shadows made takeoff from the valley too dangerous. She followed the headings she and Wilker had developed, scanning for heat sources on the surface. Her on-board cameras were set to capture any light above what Wilker considered ambient background reflections. She also set every sensor that could possibly detect the most minor hint of Cylon activity. Not that there was much she could do if they did show up, she decided. Send a flash message to Boomer, leave the system, head for one of the other planets. If there were just one or two Cylon ships, as Wilker's equipment showed, then she had a good chance of getting rid of them and returning. If there were more out there, she'd take her chances and do what she could to protect the others. She'd act like a decoy and lead the Cylons away. Boomer would have a chance to find Starbuck and get him out of there. Boomer watched as the glow of Sheba's afterburners merged into the star-flecked sky above their campsite. Wilker stood in the doorway of the shuttle, then returned to the radios inside. He was listening to static when Boomer came inside. "Is it possible they found him and...altered him?" Boomer asked. "What do you mean, altered?" "I don't know." The doubts and second-guessing of the past secton were catching up with him. Boomer dropped onto a bunk and draped his arm over his eyes. Now that they had arrived, he could feel the way the tension had drained him. "I keep asking myself all of the what-ifs. Could they plant some kind of homing device on him? Or in him? Use that to track us back to the fleet?" "I think that would be very easy to detect." Wilker tapped the buttons on the console, manually sorting through the frequencies. "You should know that, with your handle on communications." "I do," Boomer said. "I just had it in my mind that we'd get here and find Starbuck sitting around, packed and ready to head home." "That might be exactly what Sheba finds." He wasn't sure, but that seemed to be the right thing to say. Acting as a counselor was something new to Wilker. He was a lot more comfortable comforting his equipment when it turned temperamental. Computers and machines depended upon his coddling, but they rarely needed personal advice. "We'll know what we're dealing with when we find him, I suppose," he said. But Sheba found nothing. The infrared sensors stayed dark; the camera took no images of anything. The darkness on the rock was as total as anything Sheba had ever seen; as dark as the vids she'd seen of the endless void surrounding Kobol No fires. No lights. No Cylons. No Starbuck. She landed outside the valley after half a dozen fruitless trips. She was beginning to run low on fuel. She calculated she could make exactly 14 more orbits before she would have to load her Viper into the shuttle. She'd do some when daylight reached them, following the same courses she'd flown that night. If they found nothing, they'd move the shuttle to the other side of the planet and repeat the search. Boomer figured the shuttle itself could make maybe 6 orbits around the planet before having to head back to the Galactica. Those weren't many circuits, even for a planet this small. Have faith, Sheba told herself as she lay on her cot. She'd tossed for centares, hammering her pillow into a dozen shapes, none of which were comfortable, and tangling herself in her blanket. But sleep refused to come. Wilker, on the other hand, had no problems with sleep. He was stretched out on the cot opposite Sheba, dreaming, no doubt, of circuit boards, instant relays, and wonderful inventions he'd forget when he awoke. She rolled over once again and lay facing the shuttle entrance. Boomer was seated on the stoop, silhouetted in the dim light. The valley gave some shelter from the endless gale, so he could sit there without being blown sideways. She gave up and joined him. "Want some caffe?" she asked. She sat on the stoop, still wrapped in her blanket. He held up a half-empty mug. "I've got. Thanks." "I think I'll reset my sensors for any non-organic registers. Metals, in particular. If he built that thing here, then there should be some leftover parts." "Right." He sipped his drink and stared into the darkness, his thoughts deep within himself. "Boomer, he's out there, and we will find him." "How can you be so sure?" he asked. He sounded almost angry. "Dammit, Sheba, look at this place. Assuming he made it down in one piece, assuming he wasn't hurt, assuming he was able to salvage survival gear and supplies, how could he still be alive? There's no water, no food. Lords, Sheba, when I turned back to the fleet, I was sure we'd be back in a couple of days. Nothing more. I sentenced him to this place!" "No, you did not!" Sheba argued. "First rule: never abandon your wingmate." "First rule: survival of the fleet is paramount," Sheba countered. Boomer groaned and tossed the remains of his now-cold caffe into the darkness. It dried almost before it hit the gravely soil. "We'll find him," Sheba repeated. "You'll see." "How can you be so sure?" "As close as we all are?" she asked. "If he was dead, we'd feel it. We'd know it somehow. I can't explain it any other way." "Woman's intuition?" She'd never thought of it that way, but... "That's as good an explanation as any, I guess." "Then why didn't you feel that way before that craft showed up?" "I'm not sure I didn't. There were just so many other things for us to worry about, and so many other deaths." She settled herself beside him on the step. "Hades, I still keep walking into the ready room and wait for Nytesilver to give us the daily tactical briefing. And I look around the dining hall to see if Greenbean is trying to sneak Jolly's dessert off his tray when Jolly isn't looking. Maybe when I was accepting those deaths, I blocked out Starbuck." She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. It was cold! "Oh, I don't know! Maybe it's all my imagination. Maybe I just want him to be alive so much that I've convinced myself that he can't be dead." "I know what you mean," Boomer murmured softly. There wasn't much to say after that. They sat in the cold, dark night, watching the alien constellations spin across the wind-swept sky, wondering if - hoping that - their lost friend was doing the same. Chapter Twenty-six The O Club was filled with the usual gang when Bojay entered. Once the exclusive domain of the Warriors, it was now open to most of the Galactica's senior compliment - medical personnel, security officers, administrative staff, Council functionaries, and civilian project chiefs. It was largely a necessity, Bojay knew. The non-Warrior senior staff people needed a social outlet on the battlestar as much as the Warriors. Before the Destruction, they weren't on the ship long enough for it to be a problem, and when it was, there were other areas that could be used. Not now. Any spare space on the Galactica was earmarked for some other function. So Col. Tigh suggested and Commander Adama agreed that all senior personnel was entitled to use the O Club. Usually, Bojay agreed with that. After the isolation of the Pegasus, he appreciated the collection of people and personalities. But not tonight. Damned outsiders! He frowned as he checked out the crowd, looking for Warrior tan. Cain would have found a way to separate the civilians and give the Warriors some privacy, and privacy was what they needed now. Word of Sheba and Boomer's escapade spread through the ranks like a wildfire across the Virgan plains. Reaction was mixed. Sure, most people liked Starbuck, but was he really worth trashing a career for? And if Sheba and Boomer really thought they'd find him at all, much less find him alive, they must've paid a few visits to the Shamans of Leon and bathed in their Vision Ponds. He spotted Cutler at one of the few uncrowded tables and joined him. The Mud Daggit signaled the bar as Bojay sat down, and a baharii magically appeared. Bojay drank it gratefully. "You look like a man who'd rather be many other places," Cutler said. "I don't know if I want to talk here," Bojay said. He looked around the room again, as if expecting a raiding party of Borellian Nomen to storm the place. He'd prefer that kind of straightforward attack over the sneaky assault Uri was using. Some civilian heard about Sheba and Boomer - maybe here, maybe at the Mess Hall. Maybe some Warrior confided in a friend. Maybe the civilian was on the bridge when it all went down, or heard Boomer tricking Jenny into prepping the shuttle. It didn't matter; civilians didn't share the same sense of loyalty that governed the Warriors' lives. They couldn't be trusted. Cutler, though, was a Warrior and a friend. Bojay leaned over the table. "I've always wanted to command a squadron, but this isn't how I wanted it to happen. She left everything in order for me." As the vice-leader of Silver Spar, Bojay took over when Sheba was gone. "She would," Cutler pointed out. "Long-range patrols, missions..." "More than that. Rotas through the rest of the quat. Maintenance chits. Reminders. Oh, she marked them like they were her personal memos, but they were clearly for me. Not enough to spell it out, but enough to make it clear I wasn't part of any of it. And real clear circumstantially that this was no spur of the moment gambol." Cutler cupped his hands around his tankard and stared at the foamy contents. "Felger," he said. Bojay nodded. Yeah, that pretty much summed it up. The Mud Daggit looked up from his drink. "This could get interesting," he said, nudging Bojay. The pilot followed the Daggit's gaze. Athena was walking down the steps into the Club. Conversation did not exactly stop as people noticed her arrival, but it definitely took on a different tenor. "Over here," Bojay called, flagging her. Athena wove through the other customers, glad to see two faces she trusted. Or thought she did, anyway. Right now, she wasn't sure about anybody outside of her father, brother, and nephew - and given Boxey's past history of being where he didn't belong and mouthing off when he should be quiet, she wasn't sure about him. Both Warriors half-rose to hold her chair. They both dated her off and on, and both would have liked to make it more on than off. She was beautiful, intelligent, a little distant, and often demanding. A challenge for both of them, and both men liked challenges. "Baharii?" Culter asked. She shook her head, her long, dark hair tossing nicely with the motion. "Skvah," she said shortly. Cutler and Bojay raised eyebrows at each other. "Skvah?" Bojay asked. She glowered at him. "A double." You would rather juggle leaking Tylium canisters than ask me again her look said. "Yes, ma'am." He left for the bar. Cutler waited until Bojay returned before trying to start a conversation. He just let Athena sit and seethe. It was rather nice watching her. Her anger heightened her color and made her dark eyes dance. Her usual cool, sophisticated reserve was replaced by a potent energy. Very Nice. Bojay placed the glass of skvah in front of Athena. An Aerian specialty, it was a deep reddish liquid that steamed slightly when exposed to air. Athena sipped the drink and grimaced, then tossed the rest of the shot back in one gulp and slammed the glass on to the table. "Frakking bastards!" Bojay cleared his throat. "Um, I thought the Commander recovered well," he suggested. "He shouldn't've had to," she snapped. "You didn't expect Uri to run a clean campaign, did you?" Cutler asked. "No. But I didn't expect Sheba and Boomer to help him, either." She considered the empty glass and decided against a refill. "I don't think that was part of their plan," Bojay said. "Uri was just lucky that he found out." "He didn't find out. He was told. There's a difference." "Right," Bojay said carefully. Beside him, Cutler nodded agreement. Athena was in tracking mode, searching for a target to home in on like the weapons system of the Viper. Neither man wanted to be in the crossfire. "To think they'd put my father in that position," she continued. "After all he's done for them. And Sheba!" she spat the woman's name. "What a charmer! As if Apollo isn't unhappy enough. She just slams him with another shot. So much for loving him. Maybe she's been after Starbuck all along." "I thought she and Cassiopea were friends," Cutler said. That was the impression he'd gotten from Starbuck. "Don't mention that woman's name to me!" Athena hissed. "Apollo tried to explain it to her, and she throws him out! Screams at him? Calls him names? She finally showed what she was really all about." She said that with great satisfaction. She'd never believed that felger about socialators being a respectable occupation. They were common women; that was clear now. Her mother would never have let that blonde trollop in her house. Cassiopea integrating herself into her family, acting like a respectable person. Disgusting. The half-empty tankards in front of Bojay and Cutler had become very interesting to the two Warriors. They concentrated on the mugs and their contents as if the course heading to Earth would appear in the flecks of foam. Neither of them felt up to the challenge of calming Athena. A server placed two fresh, full tankards of baharii and another skvah on the table. "We didn't order these," Bojay said. He wasn't sure that Athena would not ignite if she had another drink. "Courtesy of the gentleman behind me ," the server said. "Not exactly how I'd define him," Cutler murmured as he got a look at their benefactor. Bojay got a clear look as the server stepped away. True enough. "Gentleman" was not the term he used when he thought of Reese. "I hear congratulations are in order, Bojay," the Security Chief said. "Drinks are on me." Bojay managed to look as blank as an unused data disk. "I don't turn down drinks, but I don't know what I'm celebrating." "You are in command of Silver Spar Squadron now, aren't you?" "That's SOP whenever Sheba is on assignment." He raised his tankard in salute. "But thanks anyway." He took a drink. It was the cheaper of the Club's baharii. "Athena, I think it's commendable how your father goes to such lengths to protect his Warriors. Whether or not they deserve it." She might agree with Reese, but Athena would rather date a Boray than admit it. "Stuff it, Reese." She downed her drink. If Reese wanted to fuel her bad mood, that was fine with her. Reese's smirk never wavered. "Commander Adama might fool the rest of the fleet. He might even fool the IFB. But everyone on this battlestar knows better." "I don't know where you get your information, Reese, but - as usual - it's wrong." Cutler managed to sound bored. "I have my sources," Reese said. "That's my responsibility." "Picking up gossip?" "Keeping tabs on anything that happens." "Whether or not it's true." "Whether or not Adama wants the Council to know about it." "What's to know or not know?" Bojay said. He decided he didn't want the rest of the baharii. Letting it sit unfinished wasn't much, but it was some small slam against Reese. "Sheba and Boomer are off with Wilker on a long-range mission. Are we supposed to send the daily duty rosters to the Council?" "Come on Bojay. Everybody on the bridge heard what happened. They took off on their own and disobeyed orders to return." "You know this for a fact, huh?" Cutler asked. "I didn't think Council Security maintained a presence on the bridge. I didn't think Council Security was allowed on the bridge at all." Reese stiffened a little. Being denied access to the heart of the fleet's command and operations rankled him, and they all knew it. "Like I said, I have my sources." "The same one who fed that felger to Sire Uri?" Bojay asked. "Who said someone else notified him?" Athena's head snapped up. "You went to Uri." "Look Athena, if Adama can't control his most honored Warriors, the voting Caprican population ought to know." "You worthless, sniveling, Crasidic lime-maggot!" She started to rise. Reese realized he'd overstepped himself and backed away. "I have my duty." Athena didn't answer. Instead, she lunged at the Security Chief, knocking over the table as she did so. Bojay and Cutler fell backwards with the table and scrambled to their feet. By the time they were upright, Athena had Reese on his back. He hadn't expected an attack and was unprepared to have a thoroughly enraged woman launch herself on him. He tried to block her, but forgot that he had baited not just the Commander's daughter, but a trained Warrior as well. She was clawing his face and screaming at him. Cutler was impressed. He hadn't heard language that creatively colorful from anyone other than his drillmaster during recruit training. "C'mon," Bojay called, flinging the table out of the way. "Before she kills him!" She could, too. Cutler grabbed a shoulder to pull Athena off Reese. She wasn't ready to give up on her prey. She dropped her elbow and used the momentum to slam her lower arm and fist down like a hammer, right into Cutler's groin. The Mud Daggit lost his hold on Athena as he doubled over in pain. Reese was scrambling backwards on the floor, trying to put as much distance between himself and the banshee as he could. Bojay was trying to grab Athena, but from the side. From behind the bar, Nivlac, the Galactica's barkeep, pushed through the spectators to help Bojay with his body hold. The two men carried the writhing, screaming woman from the Club. "Let go of me!" Athena shrieked. "I'm going to kill the bastard!" "Where to?" Bojay yelled. He nearly lost his grip on her leg and almost caught a knee in the jaw as a result. "Life station!" Nivlac answered. "Security can't arrest her there!" The two struggled down the passage with their reluctant cargo. Inside the Club, someone helped Cutler to a chair. He breathed slowly and deeply, willing the great pain in his lower regions to go away. After a while, when he was able to sit upright and the color of his face returned to normal, someone handed him a drink of brandee. He sipped it gratefully. When Cutler had first started trying to date Athena, Starbuck had warned him that she had a temper. He shifted in his chair and winced as his body protested the move. That statement ranked as one of the millennium's great understatements. Chapter Twenty-seven In the beginning, there was a void. Darkness. Nothingness. Then came awareness. The steady, dependable currents of power which flowed through its circuits. Relays connected. Microchips interfaced. Programming activated. Life began. And with it came purpose. Sensing the Other. The Other of phenomena. The Other of mechanicals. The Other of biologicials. Then communicate. To the Other of its kind, scattered in the space around it. Then to the Other which brought it here. Then to Xeti Omicron, its place of construction. And to the one responsible for its creation. The Other known as Lucifer. Chapter Twenty-eight Sire Uri rarely left the relative comfort of his suite on the Rising Star. Dealing with the frequently unwashed and undeniably lower-bred populace of the fleet was distasteful and depressing. But he had an election to win, and if that meant going through magnanimous motions, so be it. He stepped off the shuttle onto the landing deck of the Rosco with a swirl of his Buritician robes. On most ships, his arrival would be noticed with appropriate deferential gestures. On the Rosco, the info clerk on duty merely gave him directions to his appointment and turned her attention on the next disembarking passenger. The Rosco was a Saggitarian ship, filled with a compliment of passengers proud of working with their hands. The halls were lined with workshops, repair bays, training platforms, classrooms, and storage bays. The people passing him wore jumpsuits, work gloves, duty boots, and purposeful expressions. Uri was surprised when he reached the residential quarter. Knowing nothing of Saggitarian culture, he'd expected to find the passageways equally functional. He didn't appreciate how much the Saggitarians enjoyed using their technical abilities to provide a higher level of comfort than most of the ships in the fleet enjoyed. The passages were brightened by recessed lighting; music filtered from wall speakers; some sections of flooring were carpeted; the support vapor recirculation system filled the air with the faint scent of permagreens; directional markings were painted at passage junctions. Uri passed the dining halls. Unlike most ships, where the halls were large and institutional in design, these were divided into small, almost homelike seating areas. Further along, he saw common recreation areas, that were comfortable and airy. Families and friends chatted while their children played. Were it not all on board a ship creeping through space in this infernal convoy, Uri might even think they were on Saggitaria itself. The door to Kornick's quarters slid open as soon as Uri touched the call button. A slim woman in a dark green jumpsuit greeted him. "Welcome," she said as she ushered him in. The furnishings were practical, but comfortable. Uri seated himself as Kornick entered from the back chamber. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," Uri said, all smiles and courtesy. "Why wouldn't I?" Kornick answered, completing the ritual. He kissed the woman lightly on her cheek. "I'll see you after your shift." "Right." She nodded her goodbye to Uri. "A lovely woman," Uri said. "Your wife?" "She is, yes." "You are so fortunate. My wife did not survive the Destruction." A twinge of remorse, a sigh of sorrow - Uri released his emotions in a carefully presented performance. "Neither did mine," Kornick answered. His quiet tone was not artificial. "I found her near the evacuation center. She'd been caught in one of the chemical clouds. Her lungs were rotted away. They weren't treating terminal cases, not even trying to load them on board. I told her I found our children and that they'd escaped injury. That was true, sort of. Both of them were dead, not injured." A stillness filled the room that even Uri respected. "Hestera is also the only survivor of her family." "I see," Uri said. Uncertain of how to deal with sincerity, he said nothing else. "You wanted to discuss the elections?" Kornick said. "Yes. Yes, indeed." Uri eagerly shifted his thoughts. "I am curious about where you plan to make your alliances, since your election is already insured." "I guess that depends on who else is elected." "Of course." Uri accepted a glass from Kornick. It held a cool, greenish liquid. No spirits, he noticed when he sipped it. Somehow, he wasn't surprised. "My meaning is, who would you want to see elected? Which candidates promise the most benefits for your people?" "Are you discussing all the contests, or just the one between you and Commander Adama?" "Let us say all of them, to start." Uri expected Kornick to sigh, sit back, and appear to consider the question. Instead, the Saggitarian squared his shoulders as he straightened in his chair. "Most of them don't impress me," he stated. "They want to make policy and control events instead of dealing with the needs of the fleet. Those are purely practical. Food. Supplies, Contact with other races. Avoiding the Cylons. Diomentor told me once he felt like a fool when he put on the Council robes. I don't plan on wearing them at all." "But they are a mark of honor. A tradition." "From a civilization that's gone. That Cylon raid may be the best thing that's happened to us since the Destruction. We've got a chance now to put people with some sense into positions where that's needed. Not just on the Council, but in every elected spot in the fleet." "I see," Uri said. "And you have a list of those who meet those criteria in mind, I think." Kornick probably had detailed action plans for each of them, too. "Of course. I'm a Saggitarian, aren't I?" Uri tossed his head and laughed. "That you are, my good sir. Most assuredly. Now." He put the glass on the table, still half-full of whatever vile drink it held. Lords, but he'd want to visit the Rising Star's best lounge when he finished here. "What steps have you taken to insure the election of those on your list?" "Steps? I've voiced my opinions, met with some of them. I've found that most people from the other Colonies don't appreciate a Saggitarian telling them how to vote any more than I would appreciate their interference in our ascension process." "Quite so. But there are other ways." Kornick cocked his head. "Really?" "Let us be frank, sir. You have your agenda. To meet it, you need to have a certain group of individuals elected. But elections are a matter of chance, are they not? Even the most qualified candidate with the most sensible platform can be unseated or denied his rightful position if the vagaries of the electorate are allowed to operate uncontrolled." "That is the way it works in common elections." "Not necessarily. Am I correct in assuming that a great many of your people are involved in the assemblage and distribution of the computer voting devices?" "Of course. Since our process is already over, there's no worry about our compromising the programming or their results." Uri grinned like a miser finding a room full of uncirculated cubits. "Exactly. Perhaps you should consider taking the steps you must to insure that the candidates you support win their seats." "As in altering the machinery?" "When you were at my soiree, you expressed doubts about Adama's ability to continue in his position. I share that concern. I would not run for this high office if I did not truly believe that I can provide a more skilled leadership. Adama is a good man, but has been overwhelmed by his responsibilities. It is time for him to retire and spend his days studying his Koboloian texts." "If I do... take these steps, what's in it for me?" "I think we can work together. I'd like to offer you an alliance. We can share our ideas and work together to reach mutually desired goals. You have a strong personality. People will be attracted to you. I know the workings of the - shall we say - traditionalists of the fleet. We can be the foundation of the strongest Council the Colonies have ever known." He held out a flabby hand. "Shall we agree to that?" Kornick did not take Uri's hand. "What you want goes against generations of Saggitarian traditions." "You said yourself that the old civilization no longer exists. If we are to survive to build a new one, we may well have to bid farewell to the old traditions, as painful as that might be." "Yes...you may be right." Kornick pursed his lips and nodded to himself. "I need to consider this, Sire Uri." Damn those Saggitarian ethics! Couldn't this man appreciate that he could control the outcome of every election in the fleet, from the most junior member of the smallest ship's menu development committee to the Council itself? He managed to drop his hand gracefully. "Of course. I would never want to force someone into a premature decision." "I appreciate that," Kornick said. "Not too many people are as sensitive to my people's culture as you are." Uri rose, unable to resist smoothing his robes in a classic Buritician gesture. "I assure you, sir," he told Kornick, "that you will, indeed, wear these robes with pride." Chapter Twenty-Nine At dawn, Sheba resumed her orbits of the arid rock. With each one, she lost a little more hope that they would find Starbuck, and with each one, she grew more stubborn and determined not to give up. She could tell from her radio contact with Boomer that he felt the same way. Even Wilker seemed to agree that they shouldn't leave until there were no other options. Funny in a way, since he was the pragmatic scientist without much history with Starbuck and with the most reasons to return to the fleet. She planned her passes carefully, overlapping the most western edge of the last pass with the most eastern edge of the newest. That way, the search area was moving continually into the overbright sunlight. Fourteen passes. That was all she could make, given the fuel she had left. The shuttle could make a few more. Then they'd have to turn back or be marooned on this planet themselves. Time was running out. They all knew it, although none of them wanted to be the first to admit it. Pass Eleven. She studied the readouts, now set to pick up non-organic anomalies as well as atmospherics and any sort of life sign larger than a daggit. The signals gave her no hope, although she dutifully sent them back to the shuttle for Wilker to analyze. Maybe he was wrong about the traces of spent fuel. Maybe he'd find something from a Viper or, she thought with a sad grin, a whiff of smoke from a fumarillo. Pass Twelve. Near the northern rim of the planet, where the winds had carved formations that sprung from nightmares or fantasies, she wasn't sure which - tall, ochre-colored columns that tried to claw at her Viper as she passed overhead, mesas that threw themselves across the plains, mica-flecked valleys that shimmered in the early morning heat. The readouts gave the same depressing information. Nothing organic of note. Nothing... Something. She checked the readout twice before she trusted herself to believe it. Then she tapped the console and the faceplate of the instrument with her finger, certain that the data would change and disappear, praying that it would not. It did not. "Boomer," she said carefully. "I think I've got something. Appears to be some metal traces, but nothing indigenous to this place. I'm going closer." She banked smoothly towards the indicators. It wasn't much of a signal, but then, a Viper wasn't all that large a craft. She homed in and swooped low over the valley where the signal was strongest. There were dark marks in the rocky soil, burn marks. Like something had crashed - or had taken off. Nearby was debris and rubble from a crash, that was certain. She slowed the Viper as much as she could and squinted as she flew overhead. Pieces of something dull, gray, and metallic. No bright red stripe from a Viper's paint job. "Boomer," she radioed. "I don't know what it is, but..." she paused as something caught her eye. "There seems to be some kind of a shelter sitting in the lee side of the rockface." "Any life signs?" She looked at her scanner. "Yes!" she nearly hurt her own ears when she yelled. Her fingers shook as she adjusted the scanner. "Not real clear, but...oh, Lords, Boomer! They're reading human!" "Give me your coordinates!" Boomer called. "We're on our way!" She had to bank then, to clear the valley wall. What she saw next made her gasp. "Boomer, stay away. Repeat, stay away. There's a Cylon Raider in the next valley!" She watched it for signs of activity as she passed overhead. Nothing. Her scanners also stayed blank. No heat indices triggering as the Raider spooled up its engines. No warning alarms that a laser bolt or missile was homing in on her. No indication of any Cylon Centurions lurking in the rocks. "Boomer, I'm not picking up any signals of any kind over here, human, Cylon, or anything else." "What are you planning to do?" There was only one answer. "Land. I'm going to put down near the shelter or campsite or whatever it is. There's some kind of a crash site a couple of hundred tiks west of it and a clearing beyond that. Stay clear until I send for you," she said. "If it is a trap, you'll have a chance to get away." "Roger that." Now we know if this was all some sort of folly Sheba thought as she lined up for her landing. In the shuttle, Boomer and Wilker were thinking the same thing. Where am I? Starbuck looked around the shelter in confusion. This wasn't the Galactica, not any part of the vessel he recognized, anyway. Not his quarters, or the bridge, the Life Station, storage areas, training pods, Cassie's cabin. Something was wrong. He squeezed his eyes tightly, trying to pull together some sense of order. There wasn't a part of him that didn't throb - his chest, his head, his belly, his arm. He shook his head, which only made the throbbing worse. Gradually, it all came back to him: the ambush, the crash, being marooned, the hunger, then the attack by the animal. He dropped his head back onto his cot and groaned. He needed to check his wounds. The pressure bandage on the bites on his stomach had worked themselves loose. They were red and swollen with fluid. His arm was infected, too. It was swollen tight against the bloody bandage. Change the dressing. With what? He had nothing to use. But he had to do something. If the infection spread and reached his bloodstream and flowed to his organs, he'd die. He'd heard the lectures during survival courses, and sat in on one conversation with some of the med techs about great gross infections they'd treated. Over mid-meal, no less. Cassie had been fascinated. Starbuck hadn't been able to eat a bovi-burger for a secton. Isolate the infection. That was something he remembered. A calm, dispassionate part of his mind took over. Self-preservation and survival kicked in. It's gotta go. Now. There was only one way he knew to guarantee the infection couldn't spread. He forced himself to steady his breath as he considered it. Amputation. Cut it off. Only option. He pushed himself up. The room reeled as he tried to focus on anything solid to combat the dizziness. His laser hung in its holster by the door. He staggered across the shelter and carried the weapon back to the cot. The heat would cauterize the wound. He could find something to cover the stump, he figured. The remnants of his uniform tunic would do. He saw it lying on the dirt floor, but knew that he'd topple over if he tried to pick it up. That could come later. After. The shock'll kill me. Yeah, well, was that any worse than dying from the fever and infection? Resting his bandaged arm on the cot, Starbuck fumbled with the laser with his left hand, resetting the intensity levels to a tight cutting beam. He needed to cut precisely, but fast. He couldn't risk jumping in pain. That could mess up his aim. He closed his eyes and steadied himself. Move fast, Starbuck. Don't think about it. His hands shook, as much from weakness as from fear. He tried to calm himself, to stop the trembling. He couldn't. He lay the laser down and dropped his head against the cot. Maybe he could still beat this. He'd go to the stream, wash the wound. Maybe it wasn't all that infected. He was tired and scared, more than he wanted to admit. That was all it was. Clean it. Wash the bandages. It would be fine then. Please. The suns were fully up and glaring down on the heartless landscape. Starbuck stumbled along the rocky path, not certain he was heading in the right direction, but not able to focus his thoughts to figure it out. Everything seemed overly bright; the air sharp and hot in his lungs; the wind loud, as though the gods were taunting him. They were. They were teasing him. Laughing out loud, calling his name on the wind. "Starbuck? Starbuck!" What do you do when a deity wants to start a conversation? He didn't like the gods any more. They'd dropped him here and left him to die. He could out-pout Boxey when he wanted. They might want to talk to him, but he wasn't interested in them. He ignored the call. "Starbuck?" Lords, but he was thirsty. All the heat and dust of the day burned in his throat. He was standing at the remains of his garden. How did he get here? Was this the way to the stream? "Starbuck? Can you hear me? Where are you?" The voice was growing closer. Weren't gods supposed to be everywhere and know everything? If they wanted to talk to him, shouldn't they be here? Too hard a question. He was at his stream. He dropped gracelessly to the ground, knocking over the carefully balanced irrigation pipe. He watched as the water ran into the ground. He should be grabbing at it and letting the clean water flow over his wounds, but he stared dully as the dry soil absorbed the liquid. "Starbuck?" The voice was much closer now, and he heard footsteps. Someone coming towards him? He squinted as a figure appeared between him and the glaring light. Did gods wear Colonial uniforms? "Oh, gods. Starbuck!" "Sheba?" he croaked. Endgame. He was hallucinating. Dying, for sure. So be it. He fell to his side, barely noticing how hard the ground was. The impact wasn't any more painful than his endless headache. "You're going to be all right. We're going to get you home. Starbuck? Can you hear me? Starbuck!" It was kind of nice, actually. He wouldn't die all alone after all. Sheba was his friend. More than that. They'd gone through so much together. He opened his eyes and managed to grin at her. "Nice of you to make it." His voice wasn't much more than a whisper. "Funny that I'm not hallucinating Apollo and Cassie." "You're not hallucinating." "Sure. I'm glad you're here anyway." "Boomer's with me, too. And we're both real." "Boomer. That's nice." He closed his eyes. "All my friends..." "We couldn't send the whole fleet to rescue you." "Of course not." "What happened?" Sheba gingerly pulled at the bandaged arm and winced. The raw tears on his stomach were oozing a foul-smelling discharge. She could guess what she'd find under the stained wrappings on his arm. His voice seemed to come from far away. "Got bit. Didn't want to die alone. Thanks for showing up." "You are not dying," Sheba announced in her most commanding tones. She scrambled to her feet and ran back up the trail to an elevated area. "Boomer, this is Sheba," she called into her comm unit. "Do you read me?" "A little scratchy, but go ahead. Did you find him? "Yes, but he's in bad shape. All cut up and delirious." "We'll be there as fast as we can." "Follow my tracks from my Viper. I don't think I can move him on my own." She probably could, she thought when she got back to him. He looked like a Cancerian martyr - those few fanatics who starved themselves to death every year as penance for their people's sins. The Cancerian government officially disavowed the action and tried to get the religious sects that supported the martyrs to stop the practice, but the faithful took to the countryside every yahren, their bodies carried back on pallets to be buried amid great ceremonies. Well, this was not going to end that way. Sheba uprighted the irrigation pipe and cupped her hands under it. "Here. Drink this." She dribbled the water across Starbuck's parched lips. His mouth opened slightly. A few drops reached him. "Come on, Starbuck. I did not come all this way to take a body back to Cassiopea!" She slipped her arm under his shoulders and forced him to sit up. "Cassie... I should've been sealed to her." "I'm going to remember you said that," Sheba warned him. "And I'm going to remind you about it." She collected another handful of water. He was able to sip it better this time. "Boomer's on his way. We'll be headed back to the fleet within a centare." "Right." The grin was back, but wistful. "Wish it was for real." His head dropped against the rock wall. "Nice to imagine." "Dammit, Starbuck. You are not hallucinating!" He grinned again. Lords, but his eyes were too bright with a fever haze. "This is neat. You're acting just like the real Sheba." This time, she splashed the water against his face. It left tiny spots in the grime. "Would a hallucination do that?" "I don't know. I've never hallucinated before." She sat down in the dust, facing him. Even close to death, Starbuck could easily be the most frustrating person she knew. A sound other than the rushing wind reached her. "Listen. Can you hear that? It's the shuttle. Boomer and Dr. Wilker are on it." "Wilker?" Starbuck seemed confused. "What's he doing here? Jolly, maybe. Or Cree. But Wilker?" Sheba gave up. "We needed his equipment to find you. You didn't exactly leave a detailed flight plan." "Next time I run into the Cylons, I'll plan better." He closed his eyes again. "Sheba?" "What?" This time, the fevered silliness was gone. His voice was nearly begging. "Could you do that with the water again? It felt good. Cool..." Boomer sprinted up the trail. Wilker was somewhere behind him. It was easy to follow Sheba's clear footprints. There was another set of tracks, just as recent, but not so clear. They dragged and meandered in the dirt. It looked as though whoever made them had crawled part of the way. There were handprints and sometimes dark places in the dust, as though something wet had rubbed against the ground. Red on red, Boomer noticed. He didn't want to think about it. Sheba heard him long before he reached the scrappy garden. "Over here!" She called as Boomer approached. He followed the irrigation system to the stream. Sheba looked up as he approached. "I told you Boomer was on his way." Starbuck forced his eyes open. Yep, it was Boomer, all right, looking worried as he dropped to his knees. "About time you got here," he scolded. "Hell of a way to treat your patrol leader." Hey, it was a hallucination. He couldn't hurt its feelings. "D'you bring any baharii? I could use a drink." The Boomer hallucination shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd seen victims of Cylon torture in better shape than this! "Baharii's on the shuttle," he said. "You're gonna have to come with me to get it. I'm not bringing any of the good stuff out in this heat." "Frak. You always had a hard-tush when it comes to your brews. Not even going to pretend with me." "Pretend?" "He's convinced we're hallucinations," Sheba explained. He wasn't sure why, but Starbuck needed to explain. He struggled to work through his dizziness to make sense. "I've been here nearly two quats, I think. Fleet's long gone, and Boomer didn't know where I was headed. I'm dying, and," he said with a sudden display of strength and dignity, "I would appreciate it if you would allow me the luxury of going with the thoughts of my friends around me." "I don't have time for this," Boomer said. He reached under Starbuck's shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. "Bucky, we are taking you home." Starbuck frowned at Boomer. "You know I hate to be called that!" "Right. And if I was your hallucination, would you deliberately let me call you something you hate?" That was a hard one. His head hurt just trying to keep awake. Finding himself upright nearly made him nauseous, and now he was supposed to answer riddles? He squinted at Boomer and cautiously reached up to touch Boomer's face. "You're real?" "As real as the dressing down Tigh's gonna give you for losing another Viper." Sheba was on his other side, helping to steady him. He caught her hand. "I'm not dreaming." "No, you're not." "Are you ready to go home now?" Boomer asked. "Unless you like this oasis." He really was being rescued. The fact finally forced its way through the fog of his fever and headache. He looked at Boomer with an expression not far short of wonder. "Yeah. We can go home now," he said, and promptly passed out. Chapter Thirty Adama glared at his daughter. Athena sat rigidly in an examining chamber in the Life Station, glaring at the wall, avoiding her father's equally angry expression. Her uniform was torn in a few places and her hair was disheveled. There was the start of a bruise under her left cheekbone. "What got into you?" he demanded. "Attacking the Chief of Council Security!" "He brought it on himself," she said. "He was the leak. He was the one who told Sire Uri about Boomer and Sheba. Then he started in on you, how you aren't fit to command." She finally looked at her father, but contrition was far from her thoughts. "There are limits, Father." "My daughter in a barroom brawl." "You would have rather I just smiled at him? Maybe ask him to join us for dinner?" "You gave him exactly what he wanted. A chance to embarrass you - and me." "I think I gave him a bit more than he expected," Athena said with more than a little satisfaction. "You assaulted another senior staff member. That can't go unpunished." She shrugged. "It was worth it. If I have to toady up to a slug like Reese, I'd be just as happy in the brig." "You aren't going to the brig," Adama said. "If for no other reason than it is run by the Security Forces. They wouldn't treat you particularly kindly." "I can take care of myself." Actually, as the passions of her anger cooled and she began to think about her situation, the thought of being caged in the brig scared her. She'd heard Starbuck talk about the few centares he'd been jailed while awaiting trial for Ortega's death and how trapped he'd felt. She knew she'd manage no better and, in her case, she'd be there for a longer time. Her resolve left her voice as she asked, "So what happens to me?" "I'm leaving you here for a while. I want you to be checked over and make sure Reese didn't do any damage..." "He didn't." He hadn't had the chance. Athena was proud of that. "Or that you didn't do any damage to yourself." Adama's tone showed that he didn't share his daughter's smugness. "Chief Reese is in another room, and I think keeping you out of sight of each other is a wise move." "Did I hurt him much?" She wasn't sure if she was hopeful or sorry. "I don't know. His face is badly scratched. Gouged, to be more exact." "Mmmmm." She checked. Yes, there were several broken nails. Damn. Oh well; it was worth it. "I want you to cooperate with Dr. Salik. I think he wants to run a psycho scan on you." "What?!" Her rage bubbled to the surface again. She stood, facing her father. "There is nothing wrong with me!" she yelled, her face only millimets from his. "I have simply had my fill of the idiocy within this fleet!" "You will sit down!" Adama commanded. "If you cannot control your emotions any better than that, then I think Dr. Salik's suggestion is long overdue." She couldn't remain angry at her father. She dropped obediently onto the chair. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I wasn't trying to cause you any trouble. I just couldn't take any more." "You will stay here until Dr. Salik says otherwise. Then you are confined to quarters until further notice. Is that understood?" "Yes, sir." All the anger had drained away. She hoped he would give her one of his gentle smiles, letting her know that he still loved her, despite what she'd done. But he was her commander now, and not her father, and he was enforcing rules that could not be ignored with a responsibility that could not be softened. He left the examining chamber without a word or gesture of understanding. Apollo missed his father by only a few millimicrons. He found his sister curled up on a corner of the examining table, sobbing. "Athena?" He wasn't sure what to do. Emotional displays frightened him, especially when there wasn't anyone around to take over. "Oh, Lords, Apollo!" She buried her face in the thin pillow, but her sobs could be heard halfway down the corridor. "Athena. It's all right. Really." He patted her shoulder awkwardly, then perched tentatively on the edge of the table and reached around her. "It's not! It's not! I don't want father to be angry with me. I just couldn't take any more!" She clung to her brother as she wept. "I want it to be the way it was before! I want to go home!" she wailed. She didn't try to explain any more. There was nothing left to say. "We can't," he said lamely. "You know that. We just have to keep moving forward..." "Stop it!" she wailed. "Just stop that felger! I'm sick of it!!!" she shrieked. Cassiopea ran into the room. Apollo was relieved when she gently pulled his sister away from him. "Go on, Athena," she urged. "It's all right. You're entitled." "You!" Athena cried at Cassiopea. "What do you know about it? About any of it!" She collapsed into sobs again, pulling away from Cassie and falling onto the bed. Dr. Salik slipped into the room and handed Cassie a hypo. Apollo barely heard the hiss as Cassie pressed it against Athena's arm. He moved to the side of the room, trying to stay out of the way and wishing he was someplace else, anyplace else. Like in the middle of a firefight with the whole Cylon Empire. That was a situation he understood and could control. His sister stayed curled on the bed, her sobs gradually growing softer as the sedative took effect. Salik checked her carefully. "She's sleeping now," he told a pale Apollo. "What happened? She's always been so steady..." "Nothing that isn't affecting half of the fleet," Salik said. "A lot of people survived, Apollo, but they aren't all survivors. And even the strongest of us reach a breaking point. Your father tells me she's been keeping to herself most of the time since the Cylon assault." "I guess so." Apollo had to think. He'd been so preoccupied with his own duties that he hadn't had much time for himself, much less anyone else. "That's a sign. Hiding. Coming out of a safe place only when she has to. Avoiding any contacts. Too much risk. Too much chance of fielding another hurt." "She'll be all right, though, won't she?" "Whatever that means these days." Salik was nothing if not blunt. "She's luckier than most, I think. She was able to vent, finally. Most people on the fleet don't have that option. At least not in any constructive way." "Attacking Chief Reese was constructive?" "It certainly made her feel as though she was in control of something. None of us have had that feeling for a long time. I know I haven't. Might be the best thing to have happened to her in quats." He grew more serious. "I wish I could create that kind of catharsis for the rest of the fleet." He shook his head as he left the chamber. Apollo stood by the wall, trying to figure out what to do. "She'll be asleep for centares," Cassiopea said. Apollo jumped. He'd forgotten the med tech was in the room. He froze like a cervi in a landing light. "Cassie..." he started. "Boomer said you'd come find me. I guess you tried my quarters first." Her tone was as frosty as dawn on Thule. "No. I didn't. I should have found you as soon as I realized what was going on, but I wasn't sure what you'd do. I'm sorry. You deserve better." Cassie unfolded a blanket and draped it over Athena. No point in trying to undress her. She needed the sleep too badly. "We all do, Apollo," she said. She couldn't stay angry at him. If the gods were making a list of victims, he was on the roster with the rest of them. She envied Athena, deep in a sleep without dreams. She ached for that same void for herself, for all of them. No pain, no expectations, no disappointments. "What will happen to them?" she asked. "Boomer and Sheba?" Cassie nodded. "I don't know. They can't have the book thrown at them. That would prove Uri was right. Whatever is done, it'll be done quietly." "So Athena may be punished more than they will?" "Probably." Another unfairness. He watched his sister sleep and also envied her. Not for her dreamless slumber, but for her ability to let her rage and frustration take over. He longed to rail against the universe, too. "Apollo, will you do something for me? I haven't seen the craft. I didn't want to. But I do now. Will you take me there?" The vessel was shoved in a darkened corner of the landing bay, as far from the ongoing busy operations as it could be. Apollo held her arm as he led Cassiopea carefully around the engine mounts, cowlings, landing gear assemblies, and other equipment scattered across the deck. None of the technicians or mechanics paid them any mind. They had too much to do on their own. "It's so small," Cassie whispered. She reached out to run her fingers lightly along its length. "Not even as big as a Viper." She caught the top of the cockpit and tried to pull herself up. Apollo lifted her so she could climb into the tiny compartment. She sat gingerly, as if the seat would collapse if she settled herself. "All things considered, it's pretty solid," Apollo said. He wasn't sure what she wanted to hear. "Could he have survived in it? If he'd gotten on board?" "I don't know." He couldn't make himself believe what he wasn't certain of. "It depends on how far he had to travel. There were support vapors in here, but there wasn't any type of stasis system. He'd have been awake the whole time, and that would have sapped the vapors." "You're taught techniques for self-imposed stasis." "And you know how effective they are with Starbuck." For the first time since Starbuck had gone missing, Apollo saw Cassie smile. "That's true." She closed her eyes, willing herself to feel his presence. If he'd been in this terribly tiny craft, she'd know it. She willed herself to know it. If Sheba and Boomer were willing to risk themselves for him, she could do nothing less than convince herself that he had built this thing and was waiting for someone to bring him to it. "There's a chance none of them will come back, isn't there?" she asked. It was a question Apollo had avoided asking himself. "Yes." "When will we know? When will we hear from them?" Cassiopea asked. "Do you have any idea?" "I don't. Really. It depends. When they find him, or find something." "That's not an answer." "Alright," he sighed. "There are a lot of variables. Athena did some rough computations, based on the best rate of fuel burn, the coordinates of where Boomer left him, the fleet's speed - there's really no way to tell for sure." "But." "But. We figure under optimum conditions, they've got to get back within the next secton." "Or? The fleet will be too far away? They'll run out of fuel? They'll lose our course heading?" "Maybe all of the above." "At least they won't be alone," she said, trying to sound pragmatic. More than anything else, she worried that Starbuck would be alone. Apollo, Boomer, so many of the other Warriors, could adjust to isolation. Starbuck, though, had an almost desperate need to be with other people. Being marooned was too cruel a fate for him. She'd rather he die outright than waste away waiting for rescue. Apollo was still standing by the craft, head bowed, his arms resting on the side of the vessel where he'd hoisted Cassiopea up to the cockpit. He might never see any of them again. With every passing centare, that became more possible. Memories that he avoided by burying himself in work surfaced. Sheba's flashing temper when they'd squabbled over her dedication to her father; Starbuck's eagerness to have Apollo finance his latest gambling scheme; Boomer's power in the Triad arena. Trivial moments that make up a life. "Oh, lords," he breathed. He'd forced himself to put his thoughts of Starbuck behind an opaque wall in his mind. It was the only way he could handle the loss of his friend. Finding this craft cracked the wall and gave him a hope he couldn't allow. If they returned with a corpse or word that Starbuck was truly dead, he could find some peace in that, he supposed. Knowing for certain was better than doubting or hope. But if none of them returned... if he never knew any of their fates... "Sometimes you have to lose someone to realize how much you need them," Cassiopea said softly. He looked up. She was watching the instrument panel, as if it might light up and direct her to the spot where she could find them. "You know how much you need Starbuck," he chided her. "I think from the day you met." "No, not then. Not even after the Ovions." She drifted into some private memory. "When the Pegasus was lost, and Starbuck didn't try to force himself into Cain's place. That was when I knew. Besides, I wasn't talking about me," she said. "I'm fine." "You know, Apollo, you and Starbuck are so different in so many ways. I'm always a little surprised at how close you are. But there's one thing that is absolutely the same about you two." "What's that?" "You are both terrible liars." He couldn't deny the undeniable. "I love her, Cassie. I'm not sure what I'm going to do when they get back, though. She tried to warn me, I think. We talked about what would happen if I went back, or if she did. " "What did she say?" "That I had to obey my orders. I couldn't betray my father's trust." "And that she knew she'd catch Hades if she took off?" He stared at her. "Did you two talk?" "No, but I know Sheba pretty well. You'll be on her Tribunal, won't you?" "If there is one." "And she knew that." "Yes. We talked about it." She stretched her arms to the roof and said something in Gemmonese. "What?" Apollo asked. "It's an old saying, the gist of which is that men can be very, very dim. She was telling you that she knows what you will have to do and she understands and she expects it and she's willing to go through it all because she loves you." She sighed deeply. "Don't you think Sheba and Boomer both know you'd be with them if you could?" "I would," he agreed. "Can you forgive me for not going with them?" "There's nothing to forgive." The sounds of repairs and maintenance echoed in the vast landing bay. They watched as techs hurried to their duties. Apollo felt detached from it all. Maybe none of this was real. He'd wake soon, in his chamber in his parents' home, on furlong. All of this - the Peace Conference, Zac's death, the Destruction, the exodus - it would all turn out to be a bad dream of wondrous magnitude. Lords, how he wished! "What do we do now?" Cassie asked quietly. "We wait," Apollo told her. "All we can do is wait." Chapter Thirty-One While not a regular on the Rising Star, Bridge Office Omega was no stranger to the cruise vessel's amenities. He enjoyed squiring a date to one of the dining rooms on occasion. More often, he'd escape from this duties with an evening spent in one of the lounges, nursing a long, tall drink while listening to some mellow jzias. Of all the personal possessions Omega regretted losing when the Cylons wiped out Caprica, he most missed his collection of jzias recordings. The Rising Star had been on a regular cruise when the Cylons struck the Colonies, so the professional musicians and crew of the luxury liner escaped and were still serving in their usual capacities. It was nice to hear good music well played, instead of the enthusiastic, but less-polished sets the Galactica's amateur band, The Yahren Spinners, played in the O Club. The Bridge Officer was sitting in a darkened booth in his favorite lounge now. It was far too early in the day cycle for music. It was mid-meal, and the wait staff moved through the room delivering orders of salads and sandwiches to the handful of patrons. He wasn't hungry, but he needed to think, and this place was as private and quiet as any in the fleet. Uri. The very thought of the man took away what little appetite Omega had. As Col. Tigh had predicted, the Buritician did indeed want something from Omega. "It stands to reason that there are others within the Warrior cadre who have dreams of advancement, just like you, my dear boy," Uri told him at their meeting just a few microns earlier. "Of course, as long as our circumstances remain as they are, those opportunities are greatly reduced. Greatly reduced, indeed. Now, as I see it, you Warriors greatly influence each other and are held in high regard by many of the civilians in the fleet. A Warrior's word, after all, is inviolable. You'd rather die than go back on your word. A very commendable philosophy." But one that is pathetically unrealistic he thought. "The Warrior's code is what we are all about." "Indeed. Indeed. And it has stood the Colonies well for a thousand yahren." He leaned closer while he poured a goblet of ambrosa for Omega. The Bridge Officer placed it carefully on the sideboard beside his cushioned seat. Ambrosa before mid-meal? Another reason he'd never succeed as a Buritician, Omega thought. "And it will stand us in good stead again." Omega said nothing. Uri enjoyed a display of verbal posturing. He'd get to his point soon enough, probably too soon for Omega's taste. "I need you to sound out your fellow Warriors, find out which of them is as dissatisfied with the status quo as you are, and suggest that they encourage the members of their Colonies to vote for me - if they are Caprican - or for those who support my positions if they are not." "We're specifically forbidden to get involved in politics," Omega said. "You know that, Sire." "I know. I know," Uri waggled a flabby hand in the air. "A protection against the development of a military junta. All well and good. But do you truly believe that this fleet is not a junta? We live under martial law, do we not?" "Because the Council wants to see it continue. They can revoke the orders at any time." "And every time that happens, Adama manipulates the situation to regain control. That cannot be allowed to continue. Are you happy living with the whims of a man pushed so far so long?" Actually, I am, Omega thought, though he hardly thought of Adama's orders as whims. Uri took his silence as agreement. "So you see the need for Warriors to express their legitimate concerns about the command of the fleet to those who are affected by the decisions made on the bridge of the Galactica. This isn't a violation of any oath. The promise is to defend the Colonists, is it not? What better way to live up to that promise than by working to secure the election of those who will secure their future?" It was a good line, Uri thought. He'd have to remember it. "The election is just a few days off. I will need a roll of those who you've contacted." "A roll?" "I'm planning a small gathering in a few days to let the workers and my supporters know how much I appreciate them." "Aren't those celebrations usually held after the elections?" "Quite so. But I want these people to see what I am capable of offering them." Omega didn't try to pretend he knew what Uri was talking about. "Aren't you quite tired of the rations and limitations on simple human luxuries? I know this fleet is well-stocked with all that is required to make life comfortable. I am willing to demonstrate that with a display of, oh, call it my largess. I've found that few things command loyalty as much as the provisions for personal satisfaction, especially when such things have been sorely denied and ignored by the existing ruling bodies." He retrieved a data disc from his sleeve. "This has a roster of everyone who is running for office who I think is solidly behind me - us - and our goals. Not just those running for major offices, but down to the lowliest post on the smallest ship." "I'm impressed," Omega admitted. "There are several hundred candidates. You've contacted all of those people with your platform?" Uri kept his features warm. Lords, but this one was as dim as the dark side of Orion's moon. "Not personally, but I have many supporters. They've done a commendable job of sounding out those running for office." "I see." Omega fingered the disc as if it was coated with raw verbis oil. He was still fingering it with as much caution as he sat in the booth. Now what? He wondered. He needed to keep Uri satisfied until the election. But how? What names could he give the politician? Who could he send to Uri's party? "Would you be wanting any victuals, Bridge Officer?" Omega looked up. Monteceros, the ships' maitre d', was standing at the booth. "No. No, thank you, Monteceros. I just needed someplace to think." The older gentleman nodded. He was the epitome of his profession, gracious, efficient, discrete - and observant. "If I may, sir. I've noticed that you've visited the Rising Star somewhat more frequently than usual of late. Does fleet business summon you here, or are you perhaps it is more of a personal nature?" A romantic, Monteceros knew there were many attractive crew women and female passengers who would delight in being courted by the tall Warrior. He wondered if Omega's somber mood reflected a failure in that area. "Maybe a little of both." He dropped the data disc on the table. "It has to do with the elections and Sire Uri." "Oh, him. Say no more, sir. I've had my own dealings with him in that regard." "What do you mean?" Normally, Monteceros would avoid any answer. As maitre d', he was responsible to the ship's purser for maintaining the privacy of the passengers. But the purser was in Uri's employ, helping the Buritician stockpile goods and delicacies that were used solely for Uri and his friends. That's what they thought, anyway. They didn't know that the stocks were regularly pilfered by Monteceros under the discrete direction of Col. Tigh, Captain Apollo, and Lieutenants Boomer and Starbuck. They took only those things that were sorely needed to help someone in the fleet survive a particularly difficult time, or to reward some civilian for an extra effort, or to give a classroom or a project an extra boost. Monteceros didn't know if Omega, as Tigh's aide, knew of the scheme. He wondered if he should chance telling him. "He has held regular meetings in his quarters since announcing his candidacy. Every day, the kitchens are faced with demands for special provisions and the steward is ordered to provide servers." "Where is he getting the food?" "He's purchasing most of it from the discretionary supplies. Personally, sir, I find that abhorrent, given the current situation within the fleet. I know Commander Adama is assuring us all that there is no food shortage, and perhaps allowing the availability of discretionary foodstuffs is a way of proving that, but given that the food rations are still tightly controlled, I think Sire Uri is showing well, shall we call it a lack of sensitivity?" "I don't know," Omega said. "He's promising a lot of people a lot of things. If he wants to impress people with how much better things would be if he was in charge, wouldn't giving them lots of food and drink be an easy way of doing it? That's what he's telling me, anyway." "It certainly would," Monteceros agreed. "However, what do you think the reaction would be among those who are still living with canned spawm and dehydrated chesamacs if they knew about his soirees?" Omega snorted. "It would be interesting, that's for sure." Monteceros glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of the staff was watching, then slid into the booth across from Omega. "Would you be interested in arranging for that knowledge to become public?" The Bridge Officer frowned at the Maitre d'. "What do you mean?" Chapter Thirty-Two Sounds filtering through a deep darkness and deeper silence. No, not a silence. An unwillingness to hear. Stop it. Refuse to acknowledge them. The sounds. Go away. Let the darkness and the quiet prevail. Better. No pains. Safer. Not alone. Not having to know it, at least. The aloneness. But the sounds continued. Not so far away now, and starting to form into words and voices. "...debris scattered all over. Nothing definable." Too muffled to be recognized. Didn't want to, anyway. "Guess we couldn't have expected anything else." A man's voice. Deep and familiar, sort of. "I'm sorry, Boomer. I was hoping we'd find them, too." Another man. He knew that one, too. Maybe. He felt as though he was rising on a bubble, being lifted from some deep place far below to a bright spot on the surface. The surface of what, he wasn't sure. He was lying on a warm cushion that molded itself to his bare body. Soft. Comfortable. Comforting. Nice. He was clean, too. Another half-forgotten pleasure. A soft blanket was covering him. Not the rough survival drape from the Viper's basic supplies or his worn-out parka. Something else was on him. Thick pads, wrapping one arm, across his belly, and on his forehead. He lifted the unwrapped arm and cautiously touched the pad on his forehead. The voices nearby stopped. "Starbuck?" the deeper one asked. He kept his eyes closed. If this wasn't real, if he woke up and found himself still alone in his shelter on that gods-forsaken planet, he knew he would start screaming and would never stop. Even the most optimistic of natures reaches an end point. "Hey, Starbuck," the voice said again, gentle and commanding at the same time. "I know you're in there." Very slowly, Starbuck opened his eyes. Boomer's very familiar, very welcomed face slowly focused. "Boomer?" His voice was scratchy and none-too-strong. "Welcome back to the land of the living." He felt around the bandage on his forehead. "What happened?" "You passed out when we found you. Dropped like a slab of permasteel. I didn't have a good grip on you. You split your head open on the rocks. Next time you plan to collapse like that, give me some warning, ok?" "Yeah...sure." He squinted at his arm, remembering the last few - how long? Days? Centares? He didn't feel in complete touch with his body. He felt ... fuzzy? As if he wasn't all together. "Boomer, am I dying?" "What?" He stared at his bandaged arm, trying to bring all the stray threads together. "It got all infected. I took all of the meds I had, but they didn't even slow it down. Maybe these bugs won't stop." He struggled to take a deep breath. Saying that much exhausted him. "I think I liked it better when you were delirious." He frowned again. "Was I?" He didn't remember. The ache from the gash on his forehead was secondary to the never-ending headache that was still with him. "Yeah. You had us worried for a while. But I don't think you're dying. Your fever's down and you're coherent. At least as coherent as you ever are." He took Starbuck's dirty look as a good sign. "Where am I?" "On the shuttle. We're headed home, unless you want to do some more touring." A shaky smile. "Home is fine." He shifted a little. That sapped his strength, too. "Who's with you?" "Sheba and Dr. Wilker." He remembered that now. Sheba kneeling in the dirt beside him. The other voice was Wilker's, he realized. She had said the scientist was with them, but the why of it eluded him. "I tried to get off the planet," he said. "The one Raider..." "We saw. Looks like you tried to take it apart and put it back together." "Can't fly it. I tried, Boomer. Really did. But it can't be flown solo." He winced and pressed against the thin pillow. "...would've come home if it could've been." He opened his eyes again, frowning. Lords, but it was hard to think. "Did you bring it with us?" "The Raider?" Boomer shook his head. "We tried to figure out a way to slave it to our systems, but didn't see one." "Too bad. Wilker could have had fun with it." "He's got Baltar's Raider to play with. We brought along everything else we found." It had been a mad scramble. Sheba had found Starbuck's deserted campsite and scoured it after she landed. Once Boomer had carried the unconscious Warrior to the shuttle, the two men cleaned out what they found in Starbuck's shelter and inside the Raider, tossing everything they could move into the shuttle's hold while Sheba tended to Starbuck's wounds. They loaded and launched before time ran out for Starbuck or their chances of reaching the fleet before it moved too far from the range of their fuel. Starbuck came alert suddenly. "Everything? You brought Cy didn't you? You couldn't leave him behind!" "Cy?" "He was my friend. Had to scavenge from all three of the Cylons from the first ship. The Raider that hit me. But I got him running again. And he worked." He paused, recognizing the worry in Boomer's face. No doubt the other Warrior thought he'd been alone for too long. Oh, well, may as well finish the story. Then they'd both be sure. "Then the others came. In the Raider you saw intact. He tried to protect me. And they killed him." "Right," Boomer said. "He did, Boomer. Really. I couldn't fix him a second time. Too much damage to the circuitry. And they don't come with owner's manuals." He rubbed his forehead. "We found him," Boomer said, wondering which of the Centurions dumped in the cargo bay was 'Cy.' Wilker was delighted at the chance to dissect the mechanicals. Boomer made a mental note to tell Wilker not to say anything about his plans to Starbuck. "Just take it easy now. When we get back to the Galactica, you'll have Wilker to help you repair him." "Yeah." Starbuck sighed deeply. Get back to the Galactica. Those might be the most wonderful words he'd ever heard. But there was something else. Something he'd heard when he was waking. "You were looking for somebody..." "Just you." "No. Not then. Now. I heard you. Debris?" Was there something he should know, something that he'd forgotten? He'd been alone on the planet, hadn't he? Had someone else ended up there, too? "Nothing to worry about." If Starbuck knew anything it was that whenever someone insisted there was nothing to worry about, then something was very, very wrong. "Boomer." Dammit. He didn't want to drop everything on Starbuck yet. They'd be back at the fleet in another two days, maybe three. He'd have to be brought up to speed with everything that had happened by then, but not yet. Hades, the guy was barely conscious. "The Cylons we ran into were part of an attack force," Boomer told him. "They hit us pretty hard. We routed ourselves through part of the battle area, just checking to see what's there." Most of Starbuck didn't care. They were headed home. He'd be with Cassie, his father, his friends, his whole cobbled-together family. Nothing could be better than that. He wanted to lie quietly, maybe sleep again. Eat - food would be nice. A long drink of water - cold, fresh water or even the recycled stuff from the shuttle supplies - that would be better than the finest ambrosa. But the small part of his brain that was hot-wired to pay attention to whatever was happening at the moment wouldn't short-circuit like he wanted it to. He caught the edge in Boomer's voice. "Who's missing?" Wasn't that what he'd heard Wilker say? Something about finding somebody. Boomer closed his eyes. "It can wait, Starbuck. You probably should go back to sleep." An invisible hand grabbed Starbuck's throat and choked him. "Apollo?" "Lords, no!" Of course, he'd think that, you idiot! "No. Apollo's fine. He's keeping things under control on the Galactica. We lost Greenbean and Nytsilver. There wasn't much chance that they were still out here, but... well..." "Yeah." He felt dizzy. He closed his eyes, but that didn't help. He could feel himself shivering. That was wrong, if he still had a fever. But he couldn't stop shaking. Boomer drew the thermoblanket higher around Starbuck's bare shoulders. "I'm sorry, buddy. I didn't mean to scare you like that." "S'ok. Guess I'm a little shaky." "You're still pretty sick. It's going to take time. Just relax." He looked like Hades, Boomer thought. The flush of the fever was down, replaced by an ashen pallor that scared Boomer worse than the high temperature. His sunburned skin was stretched tautly over his gaunt cheeks. His gray-blue eyes weren't glinting with their usual life and mischief; they looked out from sunken hollows. Sheba was somber whenever she changed the dressings on his arm. From what Boomer could tell, it looked as infected as it had been when they found him. Wilker appeared at Boomer's shoulder. He was holding a cup. "Good morning, Lieutenant. You told Boomer you wanted baharii, but that's probably not a good idea in your condition. Would water be all right?" For a cup of water, he'd fling off the thermoblanket and dance an Aquarian ecstasy jig. He managed to squirm into position and grab the mug from the scientist. "Easy!" Wilker warned him. "You drink it too fast and you'll make yourself sick." Starbuck didn't care. He gulped the water frantically. Half of it sloshed down his chin and spilled across the bed. He didn't notice. "Hey, it's all right," Boomer said, patting Starbuck's shoulder. "There's plenty of water on board." Starbuck finished with the cup and fell back on the pillow. "That's what you think," he told them. "If you dropped me into the Picean Ocean, it wouldn't be enough." Wilker retrieved the cup and went to the galley. "Hey, Boomer? Dr. Wilker?" Starbuck recognized the other voice. Sheba. It filtered through the shuttle's com system. "I'm about done out here." She sounded depressed. "There's nothing intact enough to be identifiable." "Wilco," Boomer said. "Do you want us to maneuver closer in to pick you up?" "Negative. Too much chance of the shuttle being hit by some of this junk." "Roger that," Boomer said. "By the way, our passenger is awake." "Starbuck?" Her tone turned decidedly more cheerful. "Hey, Hot Shot! About time you woke up." From over his shoulder, Boomer could see Wilker sitting on the edge of the bunk, holding the refilled cup and only giving the Warrior a few sips at a time. Starbuck's grin - weak as it was - was still reassuring. "I'm planning to make him pull watch when you get back." "Sounds fair to me." She was smiling as she turned her Viper towards the shuttle. Starbuck's waking was the first bright spot in a long, unhappy day. They'd found the debris field where the tankers had exploded. Hades, someone in a coma could have found it. It spread for killamillas, spiking on the detection monitors like a nova. They hadn't expected to find any signs of Greenbean or Nytsilver. Even if the Viper's cockpits had survived a catastrophic event - like being caught in the middle of the tankers' explosions - the support systems would have exhausted themselves sectons ago. Sheba had clung to some irrational thought that they would find a fragment of the Vipers, just to confirm what all of them knew, that the two Warriors had sacrificed themselves for the colonists and the fleet. She was sure that matter was in front of her, and just as sure no one would ever piece together enough of the scraps to prove it. They skirted the debris field carefully. Sheba back-launched her Viper from the shuttle's loading bay. It was a simple enough operation. The doors opened; the internal pressurization system was slowly decreased; the shuttle continued to move forward while Sheba used the Viper's engines to maintain its position; and the shuttle flew on, leaving the Viper in space in its wake. Rejoining the shuttle was more complicated. Boomer held the shuttle in position with the thruster engines while Sheba edged her way into the open hold. It was a precision maneuver that challenged the best pilots. She sat in the darkness of the hold while the pressurization and decontamination systems kicked themselves on. They really couldn't justify the sidetrip to the debris field. There had been no hope for Greenbean or Nytesilver, but there was a hope of a conceit that maybe, just maybe, those two had cheated death, either there, or had made a run to some place of safety. Maybe the Ship of Lights had appeared to take shelter them until they could be rescued. Maybe it was the stubborn insistence that she follow her father's actions and refuse to move on until he was sure the Warriors had been lost. And maybe it was just one way they had of delaying the inevitable when they returned to the fleet. Nothing else to it, she sighed as the indicators changed colors, letting her know that it was safe to leave her Viper and enter the shuttle's living quarters. It was time to return home and face whatever waited for them there. Chapter Thirty-three There was nothing wrong with the galaxy that getting rid of men wouldn't cure, Athena thought sourly. She sat on her bunk, arms crossed, scowling at the opposite wall. Such brave Warriors - able to take on Cylons without a second thought. Delivering firerays of destruction and chaos through the skies and on their enemies. So brave. So determined. As long as it was at a distance and didn't involve any direct confrontation. Let them come face-to-face with a real, concrete, immediate, and accessible enemy and they whimpered and squirmed and tried to avoid any unpleasantness. Felger! She thought briefly of the ancient writings, how the women of Kobol were respected for their advice and leadership and for their tenacity when confronted with obstacles to their physical or moral ideals. Well, it was about time someone renewed that dedication. She was weary beyond words of - words! Her father negotiating with the Council. The Council nattering on about their destinies. The IFB blathering with fleet gossip. Reports, abstracts, outlines, condensations... she was sick of it all. She had taken on the most direct threat to her father and the safety of the fleet when she attacked Reese. Sire Uri and the rest of his nefarious bunch of losers wouldn't be able to relish any more leaks from the ranks of the Warriors. And for that, she was being punished. Confined to quarters. No visitors except for official business. And no end of it until she apologized to Reese. She'd rather hold a natal day party for Cassiopea. "You don't have a choice, Athena," Apollo told her. He'd stopped at her quarters with some forms that needed to be electronically filed. She could do that from her billet. Boxey could do it for that matter, it was so easy. But it gave Apollo an excuse to visit his sister. "I am not a hypocrite." "I never said you were." "If I apologize to Reese, I certainly am. I am not sorry I jumped him. I would do it again in a micron. I'm only sorry I didn't do more damage." Apollo placed the data pads on her desk. He had never understood her thinking, even at the best of times, and this wasn't one of them. "Look, Athena, you have to think about..." "...the bigger picture," she finished for him, her tone a solo of sarcasm. "Yes. The bigger picture. Do you realize the position you've put Father in?" "Me? I seem to recall you countering him more than once - and in front of the Council on occasion. Or did I mis-hear your argument about flying through the Straits of Maddegon on the way to Carillon?" "The fleet's survival was at stake, and he wasn't getting the support he needed from anyone else..." "The fleet's survival is at stake now, too. If Uri and his cronies get in power, we may as well turn around and head back to the Colonies. They'll squander our resources and bumble into every Cylon trap along the way." "There are more appropriate ways to deal with these kinds of political situations." "Oh, spare me! Boomer told me you went for Count Iblis' throat in the squadron billet. Now how exactly was that an appropriate way of handling the situation?" Apollo grimaced. Did all women have such far-reaching memories? Another micron and Athena would be dredging up incidents from his childhood that Apollo wouldn't recall at all. "And those haven't always turned out well," he said, hoping to deflect her. "That's all beside the point, anyway. You can't assault the Chief of Security and not expect to be punished for it." "I am being punished. I'm here, instead of on the bridge where I belong." "Contrition would be helpful. Like Reese or not, we have to work with him." "So I'll stay out of his way." She narrowed her eyes. "But I'll wager that he'll deliberately get in mine, just to try to start something." "Probably not. All of the Warriors know what he did. He hasn't spent much time in the O Club lately. There are a lot of people who like what you did," he admitted reluctantly. "Too bad you aren't among them." She thought about it. Ok, she could apologize. Reese would know she didn't mean it, and the other Warriors would know that it was a forced confession, acquired under duress, and therefore meaningless - just like they were taught in prisoner survival school. "Athena," Apollo hesitated. Dr. Salik had been very concerned about Athena's behavior. Apollo wanted to make the right suggestions, but he knew how his strong-minded sister would react to what she viewed as her brother's domineering attitude towards her. Still, he had an obligation to try to help her. "Maybe you should talk to someone about all of this." "Oh? You have a suggestion, I suppose." "Well, maybe Dr. Salik. Or a councilor." He got the withering look he'd expected. "No. I am not going to have some stranger poking around inside my brain and telling me what I think and how to deal with it. Not a chance." "No one will poke around inside your brain. You're upset and depressed and need to get a handle on things." "Things?" "Your emotions." He was not approaching this well. He knew it. How was it that he could finesse a speech to the Parliament on Terra so brilliantly that the government was swayed to change its policies, but he couldn't brush a touchy subject with his sister without setting off a detonation? "My emotions." Her tone was absolutely neutral, a sure sign she was going to explode. "We all have them," Apollo said lamely. "Yes, we do," she said brightly, in a tone of voice usually reserved to speaking to young children. "Let's see, there's happy and sad and gloomy and brave and scared and angry and..." "You know what I mean." He could feel himself coloring. "Sometimes, our emotions overwhelm us and we need help to deal with them." "You speak from personal experience? Where was your councilor when Serena died? Or when Starbuck was missing the first time? Or now? Or were you not depressed then?" "That's not fair." "The hell it's not! If we want to get into a discussion of emotional states, we can pick apart your unending angst for hours!" She leaned towards him, eyes blazing. "Tell you what. I'll chat with any councilor you want, right after you bare your soul to one of them, too!" He threw up his hands. "There's no reasoning with you! Never has been! You get some notion in your mind and you just refuse to consider any other course of action. No matter what its outcome!" He turned to the door. "You are needed back on the bridge. Your stubbornness isn't helping anyone. This whole incident could end up on the IFB, you know. Wouldn't that just delight Sire Uri and his friends?" He could give looks just as angry as hers. "Think about it." Athena dropped onto her bunk after Apollo left, frustrated and angry. There was no fairness in life; none at all. She was being maneuvered, forced to humiliate herself in order to serve her father. Apollo would undoubtedly feel smug and self-righteous when she gave in. His testosterone rating would be off the scale. She could hear his thoughts: Once again, I got my little sister back on track. How do any of them survive without me? Just once, she'd like to see Apollo caught in a totally embarrassing, totally public, totally inexcusable situation. She wondered if his unblemished self-image could survive. In the meantime, she was stuck in her cabin until she agreed to play the game. She chewed on it for hours, after she finished the electronic filing, after she flipped through the sorry offerings on the IFB entertainment channels, after she gnawed through the meal rations delivered to her billet, after she tried to sleep - hoping she'd have a fresh angle to take when she woke. No luck. She had no options. Give in and get on with it she told herself. The way of the worlds. Frack! Chapter Thirty-four "I need your advice. May I come in?" Siress Tinia stared at her visitor. It wasn't just that Adama had appeared at her chamber unannounced, but that it was well into the longest centares of the battlestar's sleep cycle, a time when those not on duty were dreaming of past times and lost loved ones, or maybe not dreaming at all. She glanced down the passageway, feeling somewhat scandalized. The hall was deserted. Not even dust stirred at this centare. "Of course." Adama waited while Tinia quickly straightened her small living space and raised the illumination in the room. She left it half in shadows, unable to bring herself to brighten it to daytime levels. The dimness seemed to suit Adama's mood. She gestured to one of the cushioned chairs. "Should I put up a pot of caffee?" "I don't want you to lose more sleep than you need to." "I think this is going to be a long conversation," she said. "I'll start one." She stepped to the small galley area that had been installed in her quarters. Adama took the time to look around the chamber. He had only been here a few times before, and then only to collect Tinia for a meeting or for a rare social engagement. Even then, he'd never come beyond the tiny vestibule. The quarters were larger than most on the battlestar, as befit Tinia's position as Liaison to the Council of the Twelve. She actually had two rooms and her bedchamber. The sitting room was simply furnished, but with as many touches of what Adama thought of as womanly as she could manage. Tapestries covered the metal bulkheads, mementos covered the tables and her desk. There were holophotos on the nearest table - of her children and granddaughter - all dead now; her daughter on Libra, her son and granddaughter in the Cylon assault. The traditional memorial candles burned beside them. Of all of the things the fleet used, memorial candles were among those in shortest supply. The aroma of ersatz caffee floated on the recycled air currents. At this centare, it was as comforting as the real thing. He accepted the mug she offered and sipped it gratefully. "What is it, Adama? I'm used to you rejecting my advice, not asking for it, so it can't have anything to do with the Council." "You're wrong there. It has everything to do with the Council." He sipped again, his eyes brooding. He had been considering something for a long, long time, and had some to no conclusions. She waited. "What would you do if you knew that something about to occur would lead to disaster?" "And I could prevent it? I'd do so, of course." "What if taking that action violated your...code of ethics?" "It's late, Adama, and I've never particularly enjoyed riddles." His serious expression grew even somber. "I was visited by Sire Kornick today. Sire Uri asked Kornick to work with him. Specifically, to modify the voting machinery in order to insure Uri's election." "If I didn't know you better, I might think you were joking." "It's not a joke, Tinia, and I don't know what to do." He sat stiffly in his chair as he told her the story. "Commander, I appreciate your meeting with me." "I would not have considered otherwise, Sire Kornick. Please, sit." Adama gestured to the chair at the table in his office. Kornick nodded once and accepted Adama's offer. He quickly scanned the room, appreciating the balance between comfort - Adama obviously spent a lot of time here - and functionality. The man would make a good Saggitarian, Kornick thought, especially when compared to the opulence in Uri's suite. "I'm not sure I'll ever get used to being called Sire. I never aspired to positions of power." "It has been said that the first pre-requisite for running for political office should be a reluctance to do so. Anyone who desires power should be denied it." Kornick accepted the glass of t-ai Adama offered him. It wasn't the real stuff from Saggitaria, of course, but what passed for it within the fleet. Capricans generally avoided the musky, bitter flavor. He appreciated the gesture. Kornick noticed that Adama subtly filled his own mug with something else. "Does that apply to you, Commander?" A fair question. "Do you mean my military career or my seat on the Council?" Kornick sipped his t-ai. Not bad, as imitations went. "Maybe both." "In the military, such ambitions are necessary. To be a good military leader, drive is vital." "A certain amount of ego? A wholesome dose of self-confidence?" Could it be that there'd soon be another member of the Council who spoke frankly? First Tinia and now Kornick? No, Adama thought. The gods wouldn't bless him so richly. "A Warrior who doubts himself is a Warrior who is soon dead. An unhappy fact, but a true one." "What about Council members? I've got a lot of doubts about what I'm getting myself into here. Saggitarian politics are different from those on the other colonies. We don't play the games that seem to consume so much time and effort elsewhere. We see a need, set a goal, devise a plan, and act upon it." "Which may be why Saggitaria always had one of the most stable social systems and strongest economies of the Twelve Worlds." "And defenses, too, for all the good it did us in the end. We are trained from first schoolings to consider our actions in the light of how they reflect upon and effect our families, communities, and colony." He colored slightly, aware of how automatically he recited the line. "It's drilled into us constantly," he said. "Would that everyone from all the colonies took that philosophy to heart." "We are also taught that duplicity is poison. I'm sorry if I'm too blunt. Most colonists consider that rude. I don't know why." Adama sensed they were finally getting to the point of the meeting. "I appreciate frankness, Sire. Unless the elections go in a way I do not expect, you'll soon find that honesty is sometimes a rare commodity on the Council." The Saggitarian pursed his lips and frowned at a point somewhere beyond his cup. "And how do you expect the elections to go, Commander? Will you keep your seat?" "I don't know the answer to that." "Another question, then. Do you honestly think that Sire Uri and those who support him are the best leaders of the fleet?" "That is not my decision to make, Sire Kornick. The fleet is under martial law, but I don't want what's left of our civilizations to degenerate into a junta." "You're begging the question. Do you think there is anyone else in the fleet who can lead it as effectively as you? Or to look at the situation from a different angle, do you think the fleet can survive with Sire Uri or his friends in charge?" A frank question. From Kornick's expression, he clearly expected a frank answer. "I am sure there are others who can lead us," Adama said, deciding that Kornick was not setting a trap. "But, no, I do not think Sire Uri is one of them. There is no guarantee that he would become council president, however," he reminded Kornick. "There are others who have more longevity on the Council. I would expect one of them to replace me." "How important is it that you remain in your positions? On the council and as Commander." "Personally?" A thin smile crossed the Saggitarian's face. Adama had the measure of Kornick, and Kornick had the same of Adama. "I don't think that worries you." "No, it doesn't. You have reasons for asking this, beyond curiosity." Kornick nodded. "If you truly believed that the election of Sire Uri would bring the fleet to ruin, what actions would you take?" "Actions? I'm not sure what you mean." "I think you understand me very well, Commander. Would you allow Uri to take office if you could prevent it?" "What are you suggesting, Sire?" Adama's tone grew hard. "I'm not suggesting anything, Commander, merely trying to fathom the lengths some people will go to in order to obtain power. Or retain it. I'll be dealing with either you or Sire Uri. I want to know what kind of men you are." "Did you pose this question to Sire Uri?" "No. He's not in power, although he dearly wants to be. Excuse me, Commander, but you Capricans present yourselves as mightily proud of your civilization and accomplishments, often to the point of ignoring those who provide the support for that level of sophistication. If you are all so brilliant, how in Hades could you produce something like Uri?" He leaned forward. "I don't have time for felger. Sire Uri has approached me with a request. He wants me to arrange for the voting apparatus on each ship to be adjusted so that he and his friends win the election." Adama gawked at Kornick. He thought that nothing could surprise him any more. He was wrong. "Uri wants you to rig the voting?" "Exactly." "That is difficult for me to believe." He gestured towards his guest. "Not that I doubt you, you understand. Just that for all I know of Sire Uri and his ambitions, I never guessed he would suggest such a thing." Think of it, certainly, but actually follow through? "Well, he did. And I'd like to know what you are going to do about it." "What can I do? Ask you to rig the voting in my favor?" Kornick shrugged. "I don't know how you people play your politics. For all I know, you resurrect the dead to keep them on the voting rolls." "I presume that Uri offered you some inducement for your cooperation." "Nothing specific. Just the promise of a mutually profitable alliance." He snorted. "Which is about as believable as the latest episode of Oh, Those Scorps!" "And you want to know what I would offer?" "I want to know if you would offer. The what of it can come later." Uri planning to undermine the entire election. Deranged beyond desire. "There was a time when Uri was a man of great culture and wholesome ambition. He had ideals that were well respected." "I guess the warranty on his good intentions expired." "What do you intend to do?" Adama asked. "See who offers the better deal?" Kornick looked almost amused. "I guess I could do that, couldn't I? Jog back and forth between here and the Rising Star and get all sorts of promises from the two of you. The Saggitarians would have the best quarters, the best rations. I'd take over Uri's chambers. You'd have to plan every move with my approval. Whoo!" His tone turned serious just as quickly as it had been gay. "You still haven't said what you'd do if you thought Uri would win. Not if you think he'd get us all killed." "I could never falsify the elections." "Not even if it meant the survival of the fleet?" "There is no way of knowing that." Kornick scowled at the Commander. "Come on, Commander. With all of your experience, you know what would happen if that bunch is let loose. What about your oath to defend the Colonies? Isn't letting Uri win violating that? The fleet is under martial law. You could enforce that a lot stronger than you ever have. Just void the elections and stay in charge." Lords, but Adama could see the future under Uri and the rest of the inept Council. The fragmentation, dissension, disorganization. They would be vulnerable to any foe - a raiding party of Borays could destroy them, much less a Cylon patrol. But go against his ethics and orchestrate the outcome of the elections? Or turn the last vestiges of a free civilization into an authoritarian regime? The thought sickened him. "You've caught me off-guard, Sire Kornick. I need some time to consider what you're saying, and what you're asking." "I'm not sure that I'm asking for anything." "I see," Adama said. "I'm glad one of us does." He rose, carefully placing the cup of t-ai on Adama's desk. "Well, the elections are just a few days off. We'll see what happens then." He nodded slightly to Adama. "It's been very interesting talking to you, Commander. I hope to have the chance to do so again." He left, wearing an expression that Adama could not decipher. The chamber was quiet when Adama finished his story. The small lights from the memorial candles cast smaller shadows on the tabletops. They were the only glow in the dimness of their hearts. "I don't know what to do," Adama said. Stiffness gone, he sat slumped in his chair, legs stretched out before him, his mug held low, frowning. "I want to have faith that the Lords of Kobol will protect us, but..." "That's the truest test of faith, isn't it?" Tinia asked, "to hold fast when there is no reason to do so." She had always considered herself a believer, although not a devout one, even after the Destruction, which she viewed as a result of political incompetence and arrogance, not an act of any divinity. But this last assault... The guardians or guides or whatever from the Ship of Lights said the humans were to seed new civilizations. If that was their desire, surely there were other ways to nudge them off the Colonies. And if they allowed many more such assaults, there wouldn't be any humans left to survive at all, much less populate new worlds. She saw the smiling face of Gish peering from the holophotos in the gray light of the memorial candles. What destiny had she been denied? What could she have given? Why had she been lost to them? They were questions Tinia asked herself every time she passed the table. She had no answers. She doubted that even the most learned philosopher could satisfy her. Which did nothing to help solve the present dilemma. "What do you think he wants?" she asked. "Kornick? I don't know. Personal gain is not generally part of their culture." "Unless he's been dealing with the rest of us long enough to be infected with that sorry trait." "No, I don't think so. He doesn't strike me as that sort of person. Very intense. He was seeking something." "Perhaps judging you." "Not a bad idea. Perhaps I should do the same." He sipped from his mug absently. "You've told me more than once that I might not accept when it is my time to relinquish command. Perhaps this is now the time. We've had no threat from the Cylons in over two quats, and there are no signs that they are anywhere near. It's a good time for a transition. My own Warriors are ignoring my authority. And if the only way I can insure my re-election is to indulge in distasteful coalitions behind the scenes, what does that say about me? Do I really need power that badly?" She settled herself more deeply into her own chair. She shared his exhaustion and his doubts. "I suppose if you were really that power hungry, you wouldn't hesitate to try to out-Uri Sire Uri." Adama smiled faintly. "I'd like to think that. And if I did, would I be any different from him?" "I think it's fair to consider motivation. Yours are far different from his." "Are they? Really? We both want power, the right to run things. We both think we know what's best for the fleet." "Adama!" Tinia scolded, "That's not true, and you know it. You are concerned about the fleet. Uri is concerned only about himself. He may have convinced himself that the easy solution is the best, but it's what's best for him. I don't think the man is capable of absorbing the enormity of what this fleet must do in order to simply function, much less find Earth." "I am not indispensable. Had I died when the Galactica was on fire, others would have taken my place." "And who knows what the outcomes would have been? Wondering about that is a party game I'm too tired to play." It was late. He was tired, weary to his very soul. Why had he been given this burden? If this was a struggle between good and evil, as the visitors from whatever dimension they occupied hinted to Apollo and the others, did it mean that he was the champion of righteousness? Would his actions decide the fates of their souls? He sensed no involvement by Count Iblis in this. The elections weren't of that magnitude, were they? His sigh came from deep within. "I can't do it," he said finally. "May the gods help us, but I cannot compromise myself." The message was on Kornick's personal information center when he rose at the start of his day cycle. Commander Adama looked tired, but certain of himself. "Sire Kornick." He inclined his head slightly. "I have considered our conversation at great length. I am not prepared to ask that you compromise your principles and those of Saggitaria by conspiring to adjust the outcome of the elections. Whether you choose to do so is a matter of your conscience. I am, of course, available to meet with you personally if you believe the matter merits further conversation." Kornick watched as Adama's image dissolved into static. Hestera approached from behind and wrapped her arms around his waist. "What did Adama say?" "What I expected." "What will you do?" "What I must." Chapter Thirty-five One advantage of a cybernetic mind, Lucifer thought, was that there was no sense of impatience. He'd seen it often in Baltar - the impotent frustration the human displayed while awaiting the outcome of yet another of his usually unsuccessful plans, even the inability to accept the time needed to travel in their quest to exterminate the humans. Such a waste. Why, Baltar could have spent the time reading - although any effort to acquire the vast range of knowledge installed in even the most primitive Cylon programming would have been forever beyond the human's ability. He could have used the programming available in the computer systems to practice any number of illuminating tactical simulations - which might have prevented some of his more notable failures. He could even have developed schemes for taking over the Cylon Empire - something Lucifer believed Baltar did, indeed, dream about, although no human had an iceball's chance in Hades of pulling that off! The Centurions and IL Series, however, used their unassigned time in far more useful ways - running maintenance checks on their systems, and (in the case of the ILs) improving their abilities and programming and refining existing technology to better serve the Imperious Leader. No resources were expended on worry and frustration - the human equivalent of static. It was all another example of the Cylon superiority over the biologicals. So it was with great patience that Lucifer wheeled slowly back and forth within the confines of the communications center on Xeti Omicron. His army of drones had been on their stations for several sectons now, but none had reported anything other than the sort of incidental traffic and spatial anomalies that he could expect. He returned to the communications center several times each cycle, examining the incoming transmissions himself, in case the Centurions assigned to the analysis unit somehow misinterpreted the data. That would be hard to imagine, since Lucifer himself had written and installed the program. He was beginning to think that he might have erred in his work. It was surely to be understood, if he had. After all, the demands of running an empire could easily distract anyone, even the most capable of the entire IL series.. He paid particular attention to the transmissions from the region where the Galactica was last found. To his Centurions, the data would be encoded to reflect a particularly unusual type of ion storm. Not that he worried about someone detecting his fabrication about the destruction of the fleet, but there was no reason to be blatant about his actions. Actually, upon reflection, there was no reason not to be blatant. He was, for all intents, Imperious Leader now. No other Cylons would dare question him. If they did, he could have them destroyed. Or find a plausible explanation for his deception. Say it had been decreed by the last Imperious Leader. That would work. His visual display module flickered intently as one of the Gold Centurions activated a transmission relay interface. Lucifer was by its side before it finished downloading the data. "Yes? Well?" Lucifer demanded. "This-comes-from-drones-released-in-the-region-where-the-human- vermin-were-destroyed." "Ah, very good." His display module showed nothing more than appropriate interest, although his vocalization was more alert. The Gold Centurions would not recognize that, however. It was not, he insisted to himself, a sign of any lingering effects from his exposure to the behavior of Baltar. He activated his own interface relay to absorb the information directly. He and Baal had designed a system that was effective and simple - a model of mechanical efficiency. The transport pods had released dozens of smaller interceptor units from their preselected locations. Each interceptor unit was equipped with long-range sensors, a variety of alternative energy sources, a high-powered transmitter, and a pre-set course navigation system. The small units scattered across the cosmos like so many seed pods tossed into the winds - a case of nature actually demonstrating some logical pattern to its actions. He had improved upon that premise, however, by giving the pods a direction and a purpose. They fanned out in their quest to find anything of interest to the Cylon Empire. Other races, planets ripe for exploitation, physical peculiarities that might be useful. They were pre-programmed to send pulses of ultra-high, ultra-long-range energy encoded with whatever they encountered back to the receivers on Xeti Omicron. Most of the units would never find or transmit anything of value. Most of them would fall victim to the treacherous nature of space travel and never transmit anything at all. This did not worry Lucifer. The courses of his pods were designed to overlap each other and to shift direction and speeds at periodic intervals. His ultimate target was large enough to show up on something. And he had time. What was left of Adama's fleet was moving slowly, Lucifer was confident of that. He wished he knew how much of the fleet had survived his assault. Not wished, exactly; as a Cylon, he could never do that. Suffice to say that he desired to know the current operational status and size of the human convoy. It would make planning his future strategy much less theoretical and far more effective. Besides, he wanted to know how the tankers blew up! He hadn't factored that development into his calculations. It was another annoying case of those annoying humans behaving in an entirely unreliable, inexplicable, annoying way that confounded the rational superiority of the Cylon mind. So he decoded the information from the transport that stopped at the last location of his assault force with particular attention. He found no clues as to how the humans managed to succeed in reaching and destroying his tankers. There were no signs of any surviving Raiders, either. That showed that his orders to the assault force had been carried out. None of them were to return until the entire human fleet was so much debris. The Raiders were to continue to attack, refuel, and return to attack again until the fleet was gone. If there were no other options, then the Raiders were to ram the fleet's vessels. No Cylon Raider, no Cylon Centurion was allowed to return to Xeti Omicron unless the Edict of Extermination was complete. If the assault had succeeded, the returning Centurions would have confirmed his triumph. As it was, Lucifer did not want any witnesses to his failure. His relays flickered with mild disappointment as he reviewed the received transmission. No hint of any ion storms. No sign of the human fleet. Had he been human, Lucifer may have pursed his lips as he considered the information. Did this mean that the fleet was out of range of his pods? Could it have made a course change that - temporarily, of course - hid it from detection? Could he have actually managed to destroy Adama and the rest of his bunch? Not that he didn't want that to happen, but Lucifer realized he would feel cheated if he had missed seeing the real destruction of the humans and would have to settle for all eternity with the fabricated version of events he'd produced. But there was nothing for him now. He wheeled back to the reception center and asked the Gold Centurion on duty if any other transmissions had been received from that region. "No-Leader-we-are-not-informed-of-when-we-can-expect-another- transmission." "Well, be certain to inform me the millicenton one comes it," he insisted. "If there are any delays, it shall go very hard on you." He inclined his head towards the burnished hull. "I don't think you'd enjoy spending the rest of your predicted activation lifetime supervising thiwp-chasers on Mermigas!" He spun around again and rolled regally from the room. Chapter Thirty-six A brush of cool air across his bare chest stirred Starbuck. He'd been so warm and comfortable for so long that this felt like an icy blast from Thule. His eyelids flickered as he half-consciously reached for the blanket that was being pulled down below his stomach. Hands were running against his bare skin there, too. "Hey!" He jerked himself awake as he caught one of the hands. "Sheba?" "Good morning," she smiled at him and tugged her wrist free. "What are you doing?" "Changing the dressings. Whatever bit you did a very good job." He clawed for the blanket. "Well...just...just leave it, ok?" "The wounds have to be cleaned and the bandages changed." "What's up?" Boomer appeared over Sheba's shoulder. His worried look turned happy as he realized Starbuck was awake. "How're you feeling?" "Better, I think," Starbuck said. "He's having a modesty attack," Sheba grinned. "Who do you think patched up your battered body when we found you?" "That was different." Starbuck felt himself blushing, and knowing the others noticed it made him blush even more. "I was unconscious. I didn't know what was going on." "And that differs from your usual condition how?" "C'mon, Sheba." At least she'd left him covered where it mattered. "Don't worry," she assured him. "I won't peek at anything that doesn't need my attention." "And she didn't laugh too much when she was cleaning you up, either," Boomer teased. "Oh, thanks!" Starbuck groused. He stiffened as Sheba eased the bandages off. The skin was very tender, and he winced. A muffled groan managed to work itself free. "I'm sorry," she sympathized. "How bad is it?" Starbuck asked. Boomer, he noticed, had wandered away, but then, he didn't like blood any more than any other Warrior. "Honestly?" She looked up from her work, her grin gone. "I'll feel a whole lot better when we get you to the Life Station and let Cassie and Dr. Salik get hold of you." "Are we getting close?" "We'll be within range of the picket ships' outer sensors in another day." The thought of getting home pumped him full of adrenaline. "We're really that close?" He squirmed to sit up and look toward the viewport. "Lie down," Sheba ordered as she pushed him back onto the cot. "You're not going anywhere." "I want to see the fleet. The Galactica." "When we get there." She put the soiled dressings into a plati-sack and ran her finger across the seal. "You move around too much and the wounds will open up again." Boomer reappeared and sat on the edge of the cot. "I'll tie you down before I'll let that happen. I plan on returning you in as good condition as we can." He winced in sympathy as Sheba examined the swollen cuts and daubed sani-cream on them. Starbuck leaned back against his pillow, feeling weak again. "You didn't show up any too soon," he said. "I don't think I would have lasted much longer." He caught the quick touch of the eyes that Sheba and Boomer shared. "What is it?" Sheba became preoccupied with checking the cut on his forehead. Starbuck noticed her bite the inside of her lower lip, a signal he recognized as one of worry. "Look, Starbuck, there's a lot you need to know before we get home," Boomer said. "Most of it's not good. That patrol we ran into wasn't just an attack. It was the vanguard of a Cylon assault force. It was the strongest we've seen since the Destruction. They nearly wiped us out." "What?" "We lost over a dozen civilian ships and half of the pickets," Sheba said quietly. "Close to 50-thousand people." That many ships... That meant civilian casualties, and thousands of them. "Chameleon?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Your father's fine," Sheba assured him. "He and Cassie have been spending a lot of time together." They would, he thought, relieved that they would have each other, and sad that they would need to. "How did the squadrons make out?' "Not good. We've got fewer Vipers now than when we first ran for Carillon." Starbuck stared at them. So many. Nytesilver and Greenbean he knew about. He thought they were the only ones. "We were on full-time alert for a couple of sectons after the assault, just like before. We're still scrambling to get reorganized, just like before." "With all of that, I'm surprised you came back after me." Another quick look between the two. Starbuck picked up their uneasiness. He wasn't sure what they were nervous about, but he began to feel that way, too. "What is it?" he asked. "We didn't look for you. Not at first." Sheba said. She had finished changing the bandages and sat close to his cot. She gently held his hand. "We thought you were dead. It wasn't until your rescue craft showed up that we realized you might have made it." "Rescue craft?" "The thing you put together with some Cylon stuff and the cockpit of your Viper," Boomer said. "Had to come from you. Apollo even found one of your fumarillos in it." "It was waiting for us at one of the coordinates John gave us from the Ship of Lights," Sheba said. "Exactly on the spot." Starbuck's stare was as clueless as the face of an Otori in a bawdyhouse. "What are you talking about?" He rubbed the fresh bandage on his forehead. "I don't remember building anything like that." Not for certain, anyway. His memories were all so jumbled. But if they said he'd built it, then he must have. "So you found it, and the Commander sent you back to the planet." "Not exactly," Boomer said. "We sort of came back without authorization." His headache was back. When he first woke, he'd been clearheaded for the first time since first waking on the planet, but now his temples throbbed again. "No authorization? As in just taking off in the shuttle with Dr. Wilker?" "Not exactly," Sheba echoed Boomer. "As in what then?" "As in being told no and doing it anyway." "As in against orders?" "Yeah," Boomer admitted. If he hadn't been hallucinating in the dirt by his failed garden, he had to be hallucinating now. "You stole the shuttle and came after me?" "We didn't steal it exactly," Sheba explained. "Boomer and Dr. Wilker were conducting some experiments on the fringes of the fleet, so he was authorized to be using the shuttle. And I was already on a long-range patrol..." "Sheba, cut it out! Boomer, do you know what they're going to do to the two of you?" "I left my family behind on Caprica. I'm never going to leave anyone behind again. Never." There was a hardness to his voice that was new to the others. "Never," he repeated. Starbuck stared back and forth between them. "This is a bad joke, right? Dr. Wilker wouldn't have any reason to join you in a mutiny, and he's here, so you're not really violating orders." "Dr. Wilker was kidnapped when I took over the shuttle." "I am a willing co-conspirator," Wilker said. He appeared from the passage leading to the labs, a slab of Cylon circuitry in his hands. "Good morning, Lieutenant. I'm glad to see you're awake. I think this 'Cy' of yours can be repaired and reactivated. However, I'll warn you now, I'll try to entice him into helping me with my research on Cylon physiology when he's not teaching the Warriors about Cylon tactics. And that," he said pointedly, "along with the proven, real-world results of the experiments Lt. Boomer and I were conducting when we picked up traces of your craft's spent fuel residue, are the reasons no adverse actions will be taken against anyone." Sheba and Boomer did not reply. It was clear the conversation had been repeated many times since they'd started the trip. Starbuck felt very queasy. "You didn't have any right to do this," he told them. "The fleet could have been attacked again, and they would have needed every Warrior, every pilot." "The fleet hasn't picked up a sniff of Cylons since the assault. That was nearly two quats ago. What we were picking up from long-range transmissions and encounters with trade ships and planetary communications were signs of all Hades breaking loose in the Cylon Empire. Revolts, civil wars, rumors that Imperious Leader is dead and there's a power play to see who'll take over. We figured it was a calculated risk." He felt woozy again. "I thought I was going crazy on that planet, but you two make me sound as sober as a Libran judge." "Starbuck, it's done," Boomer said. "We'll be back soon, and we'll see what happens. You'll be safe, and once you get better, and if Col. Tigh ever trusts you with another Viper, you'll be back where you belong." "It's not worth it, Boomer. You shouldn't have come back. I'm not worth it." "You would have come after us. You were going to do that when Apollo was missing, remember?" "It was different. The Cylons hadn't just attacked. And I've got a lot less to lose than you do." Something beeped on the shuttle console. Boomer moved to check it. He caught Sheba's hand again, this time more strongly. "Sheba, what are you going to say to Apollo?" "Will I need to say anything?" "Did he know about this?" Not that Starbuck thought Apollo would have even given tacit approval, but if he had some kind of a glimmer of what the two had been planning... "Of course not! We'd never put him in that position!" So much for that hopeful wisp of conspiracy. "You don't expect him to just accept this? You'll be facing charges, Sheba, and if there's a tribunal, he'll probably be on it." "I know that, Starbuck. I thought about it for a long, long time. And you know that if he thought he could get away with it, he'd be here now." "That's not the point." "Of course it is, and you know it. I have to be who I am, Starbuck, and if that means working outside Apollo's rulebook, then I have to do it." She slipped her hand free and replaced it on top of his, a gentle gesture. "Remember where I came from. Cain's rule: never leave your people behind." She tried to sound like the cocky daughter of the Living Legend, but her voice didn't quite carry the sureness it needed. "The Galactica isn't Cain's ship, and the fleet is different from the Pegasus." "Stuff it, Hot Shot," Sheba said. "You've just been rescued. You're supposed to be grateful." "I am! But..." He didn't want to see his friends punished for their loyalty to him. Dammit! He squeezed his eyes shut, hard, partly against the pounding in his head, partly to force back tears. "This isn't exactly the way I'd dreamed it would happen." "Sheba." Boomer's voice from the command area abruptly ended the conversation. "I'm picking up something very strange here. Dr. Wilker!" The scientist popped back into view from his lab. "What do you make of this?" "You stay put," Sheba ordered Starbuck. She put an extra pillow behind his head so he could watch, then joined Boomer and Wilker at the sensor console. "What is it?" she asked, craning her neck to see around Boomer's shoulders. "Don't know. Something set off the monitors." "Asteroid?" "It's possible," Wilker said, "but not likely. It's not moving right. Not tumbling. Not enough random movement." Boomer keyed through the data screens. "The composite analysis looks like it's manufactured, not natural." "Debris from the assault?" Wilker wondered. "Not likely," Sheba said. "Too far. Besides, the course from there to Starbuck's planet doesn't go anywhere near here." Boomer grunted softly. "I don't like this," he said. "It's sending out some kind of low-frequency energy pulse, like a sensor unit." "Maybe that's what it is, then," Wilker said. "It's not one of ours, though," Boomer said. The fleet rarely deployed mechanical sensor equipment in open space. They were saved for studying planets with inhospitable atmospheres or areas that posed unusual dangers for Viper pilots and survey crews. "We haven't passed near any inhabited systems since the attack, have we?" Wilker asked. He'd been preoccupied with his duties; it was entirely possible that he'd missed news like that. "Not that we know of," Sheba told him. "Which doesn't mean no," Boomer added. "There might be someone out there who doesn't want us to know about them. This looks like a pretty sophisticated piece of equipment." He adjusted the gain and resolution monitors. "Looks like it's just receiving data, though, not transmitting anything." "Powered?" "Mmmmm,' he nodded. "Combination of solar collectors and radiated propulsion. Nothing used in this configuration by anyone we've run across before, according to the data banks." "Not Cylon then, either?" Sheba - always the one to face the most unpleasant possibilities - asked. "It's entirely within the realm of possibility," Wilker said. "They aren't the most innovative creatures in the universe, but they do make technological advances. I'd like to get a better look at it, Lieutenant," Wilker said. "Maybe even bring it on board for examination. Can we do that?" It wasn't all that large, perhaps four heltons long and about two wide. Boomer shared Wilker's curiosity. The miniaturization needed to pack as much sensing equipment into that space as it seemed to have pointed towards a level of engineering that he envied. He'd like to get to know the beings that created this better. It didn't fit any known Cylon technology, but, like Wilker said, that didn't mean the Cylons hadn't developed something new or had overwhelmed some culture that had this technology. "We can run our own scans, for starters," he said. "I want to study it a lot more closely before we try to bring it on board." "We have the space," Wilker said. "But we don't bring alien technology onto a fleet vessel unless we're reasonably certain that it can't do us any harm or vice-versa," a voice said behind them. Sheba whirled. Starbuck was holding his blanket around him with one hand and steadying himself against the console bench with the other. "Get back into bed!" the other three chorused. "I can't see what's going on," he protested. "There's nothing to see," Boomer said. "Right." Starbuck squinted at the monitor. The sensor thing poked slowly along its course. Boomer started to order him back to his cot again, but hesitated. "Do you know anything about this? Or Cy?" Starbuck shook his head. "Cy's just a grunt Centurion - a Mud Daggit of the Cylon Empire." "I'll tell Cutler you said that," Boomer promised. Starbuck's expression darkened, far beyond reacting to Boomer's teasing. He pointed at the console. "I don't like the looks of that." The others turned back to the monitors. Distracted by Starbuck's appearance, they'd ignored the readouts. The fluctuations and indicators danced crazily, almost too quickly for them to understand what was happening. Almost. Sheba instinctively boosted the power to the electronic shielding, sending rogue transmissions scattering through the area. If the sensor wanted to attack the shuttle, it needed to sift through the multiple targets if would find before deciding which one was real. Wilker adjusted the input data receivers, trying to collect information from all spectrums, hoping to decipher what the sensor was doing before it did it, or give them a chance to figure it out afterwards if they couldn't. Boomer hit his own transmission controls, jamming the broadest possible frequency range. The sensor wouldn't be passing along any information about the shuttle to its home base. Starbuck worked the instruments monitoring the electromagnetic energies of the sensor. "It's going," he reported. "How far away are we from that thing?" "Far enough," Sheba said, reaching past him to toggle the switches that would dim the viewscreen. The four stared as the sensor seemed to glow from the inside, then erupt in a brief fireball. They were quiet for a micron as the white glare disappeared and the starfield returned. "What set it off?" Starbuck asked. "Our sensing it?" "That's my guess," Wilker said. "Whoever sent it here did not want it to be examined." "Frack," Boomer said softly. He regretted that he'd never get to look inside the thing and learn how it worked. "Are you sure you blocked any transmissions?" Sheba asked. She was frowning at the console. "Yeah. Why?" She cocked her head at the readouts. "According to this, it was trying to send them right back to Xeti Omicron" "Frack," Boomer said again. It summed up the situation very well. Chapter Thirty-seven Colonel Tigh trotted through the corridors of the Galactica to his ready room. He was running late, as usual, he thought with annoyance. He wondered if he could convince Dr. Wilker to turn his talents to cloning when he returned. If he returned. Another day, maybe two, and it would be a moot point. The shuttle's fuel supplies would be exhausted and it would never catch up with the fleet. He didn't want to think about that any more than he wanted to think about his current duty, hurrying to preside over Athena's disciplinary hearing. A barroom brawl did not require the attention of the Commander. That level of incident only merited the Colonel's involvement. Just as well, he thought. From what he had heard, Athena was far from contrite. That was clear as soon as Tigh saw her. She stood near the testimonial podium - tall, proud, straight, unbowed. Other Warriors waited in the spectator area, similarly poised. Oh, Lords. I don't need this. Security Chief Reese stood on the other side of the room, surrounded by Lomas, Meliza, and the rest of the Security losers. Most of the scratches on Reese's face had healed. Tigh noticed that while Reese postured smugly with his friends, he avoided looking in Athena's direction. Stop that, Tigh scolded himself. You're supposed to be an impartial judge. Of course, had he been in the O Club that night, he'd have held Reese down and let Athena finish, but he couldn't let his personal feelings play into this hearing. "This hearing is called to order," Tigh said crisply, hoping no one would notice it was starting 10 microns late. Other business-fleet business - was the reason, if anyone asked. But no one would dare call him on this. One of the pleasantries of command. He saw Athena square her shoulders, ready for the proceedings. Reese, too, straightened himself. No matter what happens here, the business that delayed me is payback to you, he thought. "Ensign Athena, you are charged with the physical attack on Security Chief Reese in the Officers' Club. Do you have a plea?" "I was provoked, Colonel. Reese... "Chief Reese," the man insisted. "Chief Reese, approached me without invitation or request and proceeded to make increasingly insulting, inflammatory, irresponsible, and irritating remarks. He was trying to incite trouble." "And those remarks concerned?" "The Commander, the operation of the fleet, the Warriors' loyalty, the mission Lieutenants Boomer and Sheba are on, his personal political view - as though they merit public presentation." "I was not aware that the Officer's Club did not allow free comments and conversation," Tigh said. Athena pursed her lips and set her jaw, a look she'd inherited from her father. "If he wanted to make those remarks to them ---" she gestured towards the other black shirts "fine. If he is the head of a fleet division, he should be smart enough to know when and where his opinions are not wanted and to act accordingly." She paused to give Reese a withering appraisal. "Then again, maybe not." The Warriors in the room chuckled while the black shirts bristled and Reese scowled. "That will do," Tigh said. The room quickly returned to order. "Chief Reese, I assume your version of events is somewhat different." The Security Chief stepped to the center of the room between Tigh and Athena. "I was making a friendly gesture to Lt. Bojay, buying him a drink. I had not congratulated him on his successful operation against the Cylons during the assault. We've all been so busy with other duties that I wasn't able to do that. If it weren't for him, maybe none of us would be here. Relations between the Security staff and the Warriors are very strained a lot of the time. I was hoping to improve upon that. But Athena..." "Ensign Athena," she snapped. Tit for tat. "Ensign Athena chose to interpret my gesture as some kind of a challenge and attacked me." "And the remarks she claimed you made?" "I was trying to start a friendly conversation, a simple discussion." "Oh, pul-eese!" Athena sighed. "Ensign," Tigh said sharply. He would maintain the decorum of the proceedings, no matter how much he agreed with Athena's comment. "Did you at any time make a physical gesture towards Ensign Athena? Anything that might have been construed as threatening, or friendly, for that matter?" "None, Colonel. I was standing by her table. She was sitting at the time." "From the other accounts that have been entered into testimony, it does not appear that your posture was at all intimidating." "Sir?" "When Ensign Athena attacked you, she started from a seated position, is that correct? So that the fact that you were standing over her was not a factor in her decision to take physical action to express her displeasure." Reese stiffened. "No, sir, I suppose not." "Thank you." Tigh turned his attention back to Athena. "Ensign, do you deny that you physically attacked Security Chief Reese?" "No, Colonel." "Do you admit that you did attack him?" "Not without provocation, Colonel." "Verbal provocation." "Incitefully so, Colonel." "But verbally, not physically." "That's correct, Colonel." "Do you have any second thoughts about your actions now?" Athena stared at him blandly. "None whatsoever, Colonel. Well, sort of." Oh, good, Tigh thought. She'll apologize now, and this will be over." "Yes?" "I deeply regret that Lieutenants Bojay and Culter and Nivlac the bartender pulled me off of Chief Reese when they did. Another micron or two and I think he would have willingly retracted the slander he was spewing about Commander Adama and the Warriors. But that was their reaction to the immediate situation, Colonel, and I bear them no ill will." There was no hiding the glee the Warriors showed as they listened to Athena. Chuckles and murmurs of support - not quiet ones, either - mingled with glares of anger shot towards the Security team. For their part, the anger and hostility fired by the Security Guards across the room to the Warriors was as intense as any Cylon Raider's laser bolts. "That will do, Ensign!" Tigh thundered. Dammit! He did not need Athena's stubbornness right now. "You seem to be taking great pride in your ability to strain relations between two groups in this fleet which need to work together. You will, therefore, be denied the opportunity to refine that talent. You will be allowed to return to duty immediately. When not on duty, you are confined to quarters, in isolation, for the next two quats. You are further denied access to the Officers' Club for an additional two quats following your isolation. Pay for those initial two quats will be forfeited to Security Chief Reese as compensation for his injuries. This shall be entered into your official personnel record. Is that understood?" Athena's eyes blazed. She had expected the confinement, but to pay back Reese... "Yes, Colonel," she said through a tightly clenched jaw. "Very good. Chief Reese, have you anything to add?" Reese looked delighted. He'd known all along brig time was never a possibility, but four quats of not having to look at Athena was a pleasant prospect. Maybe by then, people would have forgotten how she had humiliated him. And getting two quats' pay out of the deal - his allotment was more than an Ensign made, of course, but it was still a welcome windfall. "Nothing at all, Colonel. I'm satisfied." "Fine. One last thing. The Officers' Club is closed for the next three days. If there are any reoccurrences of this sort of behavior between the Security Forces and the Warriors, the club will be closed indefinitely. Is that clear?" Startled silence and confused mumbles answered him. "I take it that it is, then. These proceedings are ended." He strode from the room rapidly. Chapter Thirty-eight Viands and victuals covered the tables of the banqueting room of the Rising Star. Until a secton ago, it had been a common dining area for those whose ships were damaged or destroyed in the Cylon raid. The Rising Star served as temporary quarters until new billets were found for the displaced population. Uri had demanded its use as soon as it was available, promising to make life miserable for the ship's staff if his whims were not appeased. They were, of course. Food nearly overflowed from tables and liquid refreshment stations were scattered strategically across the room. Music filtered from hidden speakers, setting a pleasant background mood. It was as sumptuous a setting as Uri could remember since leaving the Colonies, and it had cost almost as much as any fete he'd staged on Caprica, too. Ah, the price of politics, he thought. An investment in the future and, not coincidentally, in finally avenging his humiliation at Carillon. He nodded pleasantly at the first guests arriving at the party - small, soon-to-be functionaries. People careful to arrive exactly at the designated time, eager to appear one of the cogniscenti, too na‹ve to know about the fluidity of social hours, that the powerful arrived much later, making their appearance when the lesser bodies were already there. They were also afraid of missing any refreshments, Uri thought. He'd made a point of mentioning those. Rations throughout the fleet had been slim since the assault, and no one ignored even the rumor of extra food being available. An ancient truth - an army marches on its stomach. The same could be said of political movements. Most of these people were in positions so minor that the most influential politicians would not normally bother with them. Not him. He understood the need to create deeply-rooted loyalties built upon paying attention to those who served. In that respect, he was not unlike Adama. But while the Commander continued to try to maintain a sense of genuine interest, Uri appreciated that as conditions changed, so did one's usefulness in the political process. The personage who could solve a problem or cast an important vote today might be a hindrance in the next crisis or at the next ballot. No, temporary self-interest was the way of history, and Uri intended to be a player on that broad canvas. Flatter these little people; praise their ambitions and their willingness to sacrifice; reward them with the perks of power, and they would support whatever platform their benefactor proposed. He could always dump them later when others were more useful. Uri had no doubts about the election of these folk. Kornick's cooperation was a given. He was sure that the Saggitarian's self-interest outweighed whatever cultural traditions escaped with him from the Destruction. It was to Uri's advantage, then, to be forthright and magnanimous to the sort of pathetic lackey whose devotion was purchased with victuals, drinks, and the attention of a Very Important Man - the next Caprican representative to the Council of the Twelve - quite possibly the next President of the Quorum itself. More guests arrived. Uri greeted them all with cordial warmth. He saw no Warriors among the guests and frowned. Omega promised a contingent of Warriors, although he was vague about the exact number and the positions they held. The Bridge Officer himself would be a bit late, but would be escorting a special person, a great surprise, he'd assured Uri. Uri liked to speculate on who that might be. Someone of influence, someone whose support would erode Adama's aura, someone whose opinion merited respect and consideration. Siress Tinia, he thought. It had to be Tinia. Liaison between the Warriors and the Council, close friend of Adama's - and there were rumors she was more than that - her remaining family incinerated when the Pashta Lyte blew up during the assault - two more deaths laid at Adama's feet. Ah, yes, her support would be most welcome. He smirked inwardly. With her influence, he could win the election legitimately. Finally, a few Warriors arrived. Uri hurried to greet them. "Welcome, welcome, my young friends. I am delighted that you have chosen to accept my hospitality." He led one of them by the arm into the room. He was a short, dark-haired man. Uri knew he should know the name's name. Giler? Gilst? Giles? Something like that. A dark-skinned woman limped beside him. Adama was desperate, allowing a cripple to join the service. "Please, relax for a while from your thankless duties. Enjoy the refreshments. Become acquainted with those of us who do appreciate your efforts to protect all of us within this fleet." He left them as a candidate for a position on the fleet workforce assignment board caught his arm. He did not notice that these two Warriors, like the others who arrived with them and those who came afterwards, ignored the food and ambrosa and casually positioned themselves around the perimeter of the room. Deitra allowed herself to sink onto one of the plush, cushioned settees that lined the chamber. Standing for more than a few microns still hurt like Hades. Dr. Paye promised that it would get better in time. Maybe. In the meantime, she struggled to accept her limits. Until she healed, she spent most of her time on administrative duties, aching for some kind of action. Which was why she was so pleased that she was here. When she heard about Uri's plans to circumvent the separation between the military and civilian powers, she'd reacted like all the Warriors, with anger and annoyance. That posturing buffoon was one of the reasons they were in this mess, and his promises to provide better for the fleet than did Commander Adama really torqued her off. So when Omega approached her about attending Uri's party, she was angry. She hadn't expected Omega, of all people, to buy into Uri. Angry, that was, until Omega told her what he was planning. Until she suggested more Warriors he ought to approach. Until she limped into this chamber and watched as the other hand-picked Warriors positioned themselves. Until she was sure that Uri and his cronies did not have a clue what was about to happen. She checked her chronometer and wriggled in her seat, getting more comfortable. Yes, indeed, it was going to be an interesting evening. Omega paced the waiting area of the Rising Star. Lords, what if this backfired? He'd set it up on his own, with Colonel Tigh's unofficial knowledge and tacit approval. If anything went wrong, the Commander and the Colonel would be blameless. Still... a Crassidie like Uri would turn it around. That's what he was good at. The shuttle Omega waited for finally docked. "Sorry we're late," Zara said as she and her cameraman, Beta, joined Omega. "Double-checking relays." "That's fine," Omega said, hoping to appear confident. "It might work to our advantage. Most of the major candidates working with Uri are here now, too." Lords, he was less nervous watching Cylon assault teams approach the fleet. He held out an arm. "Care to join me at a party?" How am I going to top this? Uri wondered. His party was a great success. Conversation, laughter, and music filled the room, accompanied by the clatter of cutlery and drinking goblets. Wait staff wove through the guests, dispensing eatables and drinks. Other servers replenished the trays scattered on tables in the room. Culter watched as Uri circulated among the guests, spreading bonhomie like fertilizer. He eased over to Deitra. Like the other Warriors, neither of them had taken up Uri's invitation to enjoy the food or drink. No one seemed to notice. "Looks like everyone's here," he said. "No black shirts," Deitra noticed. "Even Uri is smart enough to know that the most self-serving Warrior still hates the Security guys. Besides, they're already in the Council's pocket. It's getting support from the Warriors that matters to him." Deitra ran a visual roll-call of the Warriors in the room. Viper pilots, Daggits, bridge staff, Warriors from Engineering, Maintenance, and many other areas. "Fair number of Silver Spar people,' Cutler noticed. "That was Bojay's idea. He thought it would guarantee that Uri wouldn't become suspicious - Cain's old crew supporting him." "Nice touch." Their conversation stopped as a bright light near the entrance distracted all of the guests. The voices swelled again for a micron, then hushed. Deitra heard the enthusiastic voice of the IFB's anchorwoman. "Zara here, reporting live from the banqueting hall aboard the Rising Star, where Sire Uri, a candidate for the Council of the Twelve, is holding a pre-election party for those who have promised to support him. At a time when rations are severely limited and entertainment is rare, the Sire is showing a great deal of generosity in dispensing both." "Gee, Dad, look at this party!" Boxey tugged at Apollo's arm. "What?" Apollo forced his attention away from his desk. "Boxey, I'd like to, but I've got to finish this paperwork." Dammit! He wanted to spend time with his son, to be close to him, but the best he seemed able to do was be in the same quarters while he worked and Boxey finished instructional work or watched the IFB. "It's like your instructional assignments..." he began. "But it's Sire Uri and a lot of Warriors." "What?" This time, Apollo followed his son to the other part of the chamber. Omega's earnest face filled the vidscreen. "...promised promotions, choice assignments and, as he put it, an opportunity to repay those who had slighted us in the past." "And your reaction was?" Zara asked. "Warriors take an oath to stay out of politics. We were appalled that he assumed we were that petty." As they spoke, the camera panned the room. The sumptuous display of food made Apollo's mouth water. He accepted the rationing, but wanted more for Boxey. There were treats there he hadn't seen since the Destruction, much less since the assault. "Is that a Tauran Sweetfluff?" Zara was asking an embarrassed-looking woman who tried hard to find someplace to hide the delicacy. "What position are you running for?" The communications panel on the wall in Apollo's quarters began flashing. He caught the receiver. "I know," he said, without bothering to find out who was calling. "I'm watching it now. Has anyone notified my father?" Back on the screen, Zara had cornered Uri. "So tell me, Sire, with the fleet still on austerity rations, where did you find this much food? Can you justify serving it to only these - well, shall we say - opportunists?" "This is merely my way of showing appreciation to those members of the fleet who are willing to dedicate themselves to our continued survival." Not bad, Apollo thought, for having to come up with an instant answer. "Then shouldn't you have invited every candidate and every Warrior?" While Uri stammered for an answer, Zara continued. "And what of the accusation of Bridge Officer Omega, that you are trying to draw Warriors into fleet politics?" "Ah, but you see Warriors are here," Uri Said. "Of their own choice. No one ordered them to appear. Bridge Officer Omega gave me a list of Warriors who were most interested in what I had to say, and to offer." He smirked at Zara. "Yes, I did," Omega agreed, as Zara turned to him. "These are all Warriors who were as disgusted by Sire Uri's attempt to maneuver the outcome of the election as I was. In fact, I had to turn away all of those who wanted to be here tonight. They are here to share the bounty, Sire, but not for themselves." "That's our cue," Deitra said. She stood stiffly and swept a raised arm, a signal to the others. They began removing the trays of food, carrying them to the exit. "All of these victuals will be distributed throughout the fleet. They probably won't make a dent in the overall food shortage, but every mouthful helps." As Omega talked, Beta kept the camera moving, focusing on the faces of the erstwhile revelers. He tried to catch them individually as they snuck into darkened corners of the room, skulked toward the exit, or turned away when they realized the lens was aimed at them. "Do you think this will have an impact on the election?" Zara asked someone whose escape was blocked by a Warrior carrying a tray that held a large roast of bobouef. "Is your opponent here?" Apollo held Boxey on his lap. This was so rich! Did Tigh know about this? He checked his chronometer. His father should be having evenmeal in his quarters. "C'mon, Boxey." The two ran through the corridors to Adama's quarters and rushed in without paging. Adama and Tigh were watching the broadcast. Tigh's satisfied expression told Apollo all he needed to know. His father looked less pleased. "Coming this close to the election, it looks manufactured." Adama said. "It's Uri's timing, Adama. We could have tried to expose him sooner, but there wasn't enough proof. This way, we just kept feeding him jute until he fashioned his own noose." "Does this mean Sire Uri will lose and Grandfather stays on the Council?" Boxey asked. "Sire Uri always was a loser," Tigh said. "Tigh." Adama scowled at his aide's bluntness. "What it means, Boxey, is that people will decide if they approve of the things Sire Uri was doing to help get himself elected." "I think he's a real snitrat," the boy said. "It's not fair that he was only giving his friends treats." He licked his lips. "Will we get any of that food?" Zara's raid on the party was nearly over. Uri fled to his private chambers, pursued by the persistent newswoman. The last sign of the Buritician was of his ample backside rushing through the door as it slid shut in Zara's face. "But, Sire!" she was calling. "This is your chance to explain everything!" In his room, Uri leaned against the wall, breathing hard. That treacherous Omega. How could he do such a thing? They had an agreement - at least in Uri's mind they did. No matter. Two days until the election. His people would keep low profiles, spread rumors that opponents were there, too, confuse the issue. And he still held the capstone in this most high-stakes of Pyramid games. Kornick. With the Saggitarian's help, the opinions of the voters did not really matter at all. Chapter Thirty-nine Cassiopea scowled at the lab report. The results still made no sense, and she'd run the tests three times. She dropped the data pads on the console in disgust. No choice but to run the tests again. The problem wasn't the test. She knew that. She couldn't blame the turmoil within the fleet following Zara's expose of Sire Uri the night before, either. Tomorrow was election day, but that hardly interested her. Tomorrow was also the last day. That's how she thought of it. The Last Day. Apollo kept his promise to let her know when the shuttle had to return of be lost to them forever. Tomorrow. The Last Day. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together tightly. Why did she have to fall in love with a Warrior? Not just any Warrior, but Starbuck? How many times had he been shot down or captured or rescued or went traipsing off on some certainly-to-be-doomed mission or fly off to be in the thick of some firefight, or or or or... Did she really want the pain and the inevitable, final outcome? She felt the familiar hot sting behind her eyes. No. She would not cry. Not until tomorrow. The Last Day. "Cassie?" She looked up, forcing herself to appear composed. You learned how to hide a lot when you were a socialator. Your customers should never see anything but a sophisticated, untroubled companion. It was a skill that had served her well working in the Life Station. It was Apollo. "We're in contact. They're coming home. He's with them." This is it, Boomer thought as the shuttle flared for landing. He piloted with unusual attention, like a first orbit cadet on his first solo. Beside him, Sheba attended to her duties with equal single-mindedness. Now we find out what it's like in the brig. Behind them, Wilker and Starbuck sat in the jumpseats. Starbuck stretched in his seat as far as he could, trying to see between the two pilots. His neck ached from sitting that way for the past few centares, ever since they'd reached the first picket ship. He's rested a while after the probe destroyed itself, agreeing to lie down while they speculated on the thing. He'd even slept a little. But the excitement of knowing he was almost home didn't let him more than doze. Sheba woke him when they reached the fleet. He pulled on a clean uniform, startled at how loosely it fit. Must've been one of Jolly's he thought, and was more dismayed when he saw it was a size smaller than his own. He wobbled to the jumpseat and strapped himself in. He ached to be at the controls, pushing the power to the firewall and getting to the Galactica as fast as they could. His one attempt to slide into the pilot's seat before Boomer took the shuttle off autopilot ended when Boomer threatened to tie him into his bunk, and Sheba promised to sedate him, to boot. It all looked so - normal. The ships were strung out in their assigned roster, just like when he and Boomer launched on their ill-starred sortie. Fewer, he knew. He noticed the ships he didn't notice, the rearrangement where survivors of the assault were positioned in the gaps left by the destroyed ships. A few new scorch marks and signs of battle damage on some hulls, but - all in all - little changed. The familiar approach lights and layout of the landing bay looked no different, either. That was both comforting and disquieting. He'd been gone, lost, never expected to return, and the battlestar and the rest of the fleet continued on as they always had. It was a normalcy that was nice to return to, but it was sobering to realize just how little he really meant to it all. The shuttle followed the line crew's taxi instructions, braking near the access closest to the decon/Life Station portal. "There's the reception committee," Boomer said. Col. Tigh, Apollo, Cassiopea, Jolly, Deitra, Jenny, and other Warriors hovered together. A bright light flashed on near them. Sheba leaned close to the cockpit screen and squinted. "The IFB?" Come to document our arrest? "When we get out, perhaps I should talk to Colonel Tigh," Wilker suggested. "I'm certain that when I explain everything..." "It's our responsibility," Boomer said shortly. Wilker sat back down, frowning. Really, he could help them if they'd just allow him to try. They heard the line crew place the metal loading ramp against the hull. Boomer finished his post-landing shutdown checklist. They needed to move, to get out, to hand Starbuck over to the medical team, to hand themselves over to Tigh and Adama. Still staring out the cockpit window, he took a deep breath. He saw Sheba do the same thing. "Ready?" he asked. "No," she answered. "But I'm not sure I'll ever be." "Me, either." On the bridge, Adama peered over Omega's shoulder, watching the scene play on the monitor. He'd invited Zara and the IFB to the flight deck, letting them see that the 'desperate' Warriors had not only completed their assignment with Dr. Wilker, but had returned with an unexpected bounty - a rescued Lt. Starbuck. It would play well on the evenmeal broadcast, a counterpoint to the angry reaction in the aftermath of the expose of Sire Uri. The hatch slid open and Starbuck and Wilker appeared. The pilot was leaning on the scientist for support, but he was moving under his own power. Adama felt his throat tighten. The boy had crawled through Hades and back, that was clear. Even in the unnatural lighting of the landing bay, his color was pallid. A bandage covered his forehead. One arm was in a sling and wrapped in a mass of swaddling. He moved slowly, as if everything from his shoulders to his knees ached. From the communications with the shuttle, that was probably the case. But he was smiling as he saw his friends, reaching for Cassiopea and Apollo as they ran to him. Apollo traded places with Wilker, but only for a moment. Starbuck wrapped his arms around Cassiopea, and the couple held each other for a long time. All right then, Adama thought. Whatever his ordeal, it was over now. Tigh and Starbuck spoke briefly, then Jolly took Apollo's place, and helped Starbuck to the Life Station. Boomer and Sheba appeared on the ramp and walked to Tigh. The confusion Adama felt seeing those two was as absolute as the total relief he felt seeing Starbuck alive. Anger and thanksgiving challenged each other. Command and family clashed. "I'll be in my ready room," he told Omega, then left to preside over a hearing he dreaded holding. Apollo clutched Cassiopea's hand as they watched the shuttle land and taxi toward them. She was gripping his as tightly as a tartsucker latched onto a wellfish at feeding time. "It'll be ok," he said. "Sheba was probably overstating things." "You know her better than that," Cassie chided him. "I'm not so sure I know her at all any more." She squeezed his hand. "My turn, then. It'll be ok." He wanted to believe her. He wanted the Ship of Lights to appear and announce this was all in his imagination, and that the entire past two quats were some kind of a cosmic test. One snap of their spectral fingers and things would be as they should have been when Boomer and Starbuck left on that damned patrol. They'd both return with no Cylons on their tails and the fleet would sail closer to Earth, intact. The shuttle door slid open. Dr. Wilker braced Starbuck as he limped down the ramp. Cassie cried out and ran to him, Apollo a step behind. He grabbed Starbuck and held him tightly. "Oh, Lords!" "Easy!" Starbuck yelped. "I'm a little sore." He pulled away enough to hold Cassiopea with his good arm. She was holding him as tightly as Apollo had, not trying to hide her tears. Somehow, her embrace didn't seem to hurt. "Does this mean you missed me?" he asked. Her answer was a kiss. If this is a hallucination, I'm not returning to reality, he decided. Apollo was still half-supporting him. Starbuck looked ready to drop. He had to hurt and hurt badly, but he was cruising on adrenaline and joy. Colonel Tigh finally interrupted the reunion. "Welcome back, Lieutenant." Starbuck reluctantly ended the kiss. "Yessir. Thank you. Worst furlon I've ever been on." "It looks like it. Get down to the Life Station and let Dr. Salik take over." "Colonel, about Boomer and Sheba..." "That's not your concern, Starbuck." "But, Colonel, if it wasn't for them..." "Have you forgotten how to follow orders, Lieutenant?" Tigh asked, more sharply than he'd intended. Starbuck looked as though he'd been slapped. "No, sir," he stammered, his small reserve of energy dissipating. "Good. Now go to the Life Station. Now." Jolly appeared from the clutch of personnel near the lift and took Apollo's place. "C'mon, buddy. Lean on me." Starbuck turned to Apollo. "Let it go," Apollo said before Starbuck could speak. "It's under control." "But..." Cassie tugged him gently. "It's all right," she said. With a last, despairing glance behind him to Boomer and Sheba waiting at the shuttle, he let Jolly and Cassie lead him to the safe haven of the Life Station. "Colonel," Boomer came to attention before Tigh. Sheba drew up next to him. She stared straight ahead, not yet ready to meet Apollo's eyes. "Ready room," Tigh said. His expression was unreadable, as was Apollo's. Neutral. No fire. No anger. No welcome, either, not that she'd expected any. A bright light moved in the shadows. What in Hades is the IFB doing here? Wilker scurried to the trio. "Colonel, there are some things you need to know. Not just about the success of the experiments we conducted, which allowed us to find and rescue Lt. Starbuck, but clear evidence of Cylon efforts to continue to track us. Efforts we would otherwise not have known about until it might have been too late. But efforts we may be able to derail." Tigh held up his hand. It took several tries before he stopped Wilker's soliloquy. "Then the ready room is the proper place to discuss them, Doctor." He did not want the IFB catching a whiff of anything other than the scene they were seeing - the unexpectedly happy outcome of a routine mission. Adama was waiting for them. He stood with his fists on his hips, his features as rigid as permasteel. Tigh flanked him, his expression equally severe. "You can thank Sire Uri that you are not in the brig," Adama said. "The good Sire caught wind of your escapade and announced that Warriors were fleeing the fleet for their lives." "We're prepared for the brig, sir," Sheba said. "That's so generous of you, Lieutenant," Adama said, not trying to hide his sarcasm. "I only meant, sir, that we understood the seriousness of our actions." Adama's temper finally overflowed. "You have no idea of the seriousness of your actions, Lieutenant! Do you need someone to read you the definition of mutiny? Ignoring valid orders? Abandoning your command? Leaving the fleet shorthanded at a time of great vulnerability? Do either of you appreciate that?" "We do, sir," Boomer said, with his usual calm. "And you have an explanation?" "I couldn't abandon Starbuck, sir, not without trying to find out what happened. Not after that craft showed up." "That was not your decision!" Tigh snapped. "Unless my memory fails me, we discussed that at great length." "Yes sir, we did." Damn, but they were maddening. They held themselves at stiff attention, ready for the consequences, and just as clearly ready to repeat their actions if time moved backwards and they had to make the choice again. "Commander," Wilker said, moving closer. "I understand the military implications of the situation, but if it were not for their actions, well, first of all, Lieutenant Starbuck would be dead. Then there is the matter of the Cylon sensor we found. It was tracking us. Lords only knows how many more such devices are out there." "I'll take your report later, Doctor," Adama said. "Yes, I appreciate the outcome, but the initiation of them is inexcusable." He turned to the two Warriors. "For public, political reasons, you won't be facing a tribunal, though the Lords of Kobol know you deserve it. Even then, our needs are too great to waste by putting two trained personnel in the brig. Lieutenant Sheba, you are hereby removed from command of the Silver Spar Squadron. You are both frozen in rank and barred from consideration for promotion or any command position for a minimum of three yahren. You are both confined to quarters when not on duty for a minimum of the next five quatrons. At that time, I will review your cases and make a further decision at my discretion. Do either of you have anything to say?" "No, sir," they chorused. "Good. Colonel, take over. Dr. Wilker, if you will join me in my office..." Adama left without looking back. "You are both to check in at the Life Station for a routine post-planetary survey scan," Tigh said. "Then report to your quarters. You'll receive your duty assignments by the next duty rotation." They remained at attention until the door hissed shut behind Tigh. "I'll see you at the Life Station," Boomer told Sheba, following Tigh. Silence then. Apollo stayed in the shadows. Sheba studied the floor. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say," Apollo said finally. "You don't have to say anything." "No. My father talked about mutiny. What about betrayal? I trusted you, Sheba. So did he. All of us. And you betrayed that trust. Can I ever believe you again? The next time you're given an order, will we have to ask if it meets with your approval or wonder if you're going to follow it?" "This isn't about orders, Apollo, and you know it. It was a personal decision about a personal situation." "We're Warriors. We're not allowed to let our personal feelings get in the way of our duties." "Maybe that's how you operate, Apollo. Lords know, I've watched you live that way. You somehow manage to neatly slice everything into black and white and stack things in their respective corners, but I haven't been able to dehumanize myself that far. And I hope I never do." She tossed her head defiantly. "I didn't want to hurt you, Apollo, or your father, or Tigh for that matter. And I wouldn't have gone if I thought I was putting the fleet at risk. I weighed it all, Apollo, and my obligation was to go back for Starbuck." "Your obligation." "Yes. To do what we all wanted to do, but couldn't. And to follow the direction from John." Apollo frowned at the mention of their sometime guide from the Ship of Lights. "What's John got to do with this?" "He told us Starbuck and I will always be at your side. Remember? Hard for that to happen if Starbuck isn't here. If he was dead." She tried to smile. "Unless he was going to show up like some kind of angel." In spite of himself, Apollo smiled. Starbuck as an angel. Right. White robes and a fumarillo. "He came close enough, I think, didn't he?" Sheba was all seriousness again. "Yes." Apollo closed his eyes. "I don't know what I'm supposed to think or feel or anything else." "I don't think any of us do. I know what I've done may destroy whatever we have, or had, but if it means anything, I love you, Apollo. I always will." "It would be a lot easier if you didn't. If I didn't." They stared at each other in the dimness of the silent ready room. "Half of the time I was so angry with both of you that I almost didn't want you to come back. Then I'd stay awake half the sleep cycle worrying that you wouldn't return." "I know," she said softly. "Where do we go from here?" It was too deep a question. "I don't know," he groaned, wishing for an easy answer. "Try to collect the pieces, see if we can fit them together again, I guess." She gently placed her fingertips on his cheek. He turned his head from her touch. "You'd better go," he said. "They're waiting for you at the Life Station." She'd hoped he would walk with her, but he did not move when she left the room. She walked to the Life Station with her eyes blurring. Apollo sank into a chair and rested his head on folded arms, trying to block the crescendo of conflicting emotions and failing. Chapter Forty A rout. That was the only word to describe it. Uri's already corpulent jowls sagged even further as he watched the vidscreen in his quarters scroll the results of the fleet's elections. Almost universally, the candidates caught at his pre-election bacchanal had been defeated. Decisively. Overwhelmingly. He didn't understand it. He had Kornick in his thrall with promises of support for Saggitarian advances for his loyalty. And Kornick had betrayed him! Uri swilled the last of his goblet of ambrosa. At least he'd been able to salvage those things still in his private lockers. The actions of the Warriors in removing the refreshments from the party and distributing them throughout the fleet were patently illegal, of course. But there was precious little he could do about it without appearing to be a cad. Adama insisted he did not know about the party and that Bridge Officer Omega had acted on his own. Omega insisted the same thing, saying he had not wanted to sully the Commander's reputation or position by even informing him about Uri's approaches. "I don't think Sire Uri understands loyalty," was the best quote Zara could get from him. Whether anyone believed those two was a moot point. They reacted with as many votes against Uri as with votes for Adama. Either way, the outcome was the same. Somewhat unsteadily, Uri waddled to his comm unit and tapped the code to reach Kornick. It took him several tries before he managed to get the sequence right. "I thought we had an agreement!" he sputtered when he saw Kornick. "You were going to take care of the voting mechanisms." "I did take care of them, Sire," Kornick said calmly. "I insured that they were all operating in perfect condition and were able to record the votes and their outcome with total efficiency and accuracy." "You were supposed to rig them, you idiot! To insure that my candidates won!" "That was what you said you wanted. Yes, I remember that. But you know, Sire, the more I thought about it, the more I knew you didn't really want that. You're a man who values respect. And if the voting was rigged, well, then you'd never really know if the people respected you and really voted for you. I guessed that deep down inside, you wouldn't be able to live with that." Uri gawked at the viewscreen. "Now that may be a reflection of our cultural differences, Sire. We Saggitarians put a lot of stock in minding our own business. We're not real interested in doing things the way they do in the other colonies. Maybe you wouldn't've minded living what might have been a lie. But I didn't want to put you in a position where my actions would have made you miserable." He smiled at the Caprican. "In the long run, Sire, I think I did you a favor." Then his face clouded. "You do agree, don't you?" "Damn you!" Uri cried, and cut the comm link. He flopped heavily onto a cushion. On the vidscreen, some newly-elected personage was answering Zara and Zed's questions from the IFB election headquarters. Uri turned off the sound. He opened a cabinet door beside him. Finding another bottle of ambrosa, he tugged at the stopper. It opened with a loud pop. He took a long swig of the liquid and belched. Chapter Forty-one Apollo woke with a start. He wasn't in his quarters. Lords, had he fallen asleep at his duty station or worse, in his Viper? "About time you woke up." Starbuck was grinning at him from his bed. He remembered now. The Life Station. He was in the Life Station. He'd stopped by Starbuck's room at the end of his duty rotation, hoping to find his friend finally awake. But Starbuck was sleeping. Apollo had sat down, just for a few microns. Just to enjoy the silence and peace of the Life Station. Just to be with Starbuck and know that the once-lost Warrior would recover. It had been nearly a secton since the shuttle's return, but Apollo hadn't found Starbuck awake, even though he stopped by the Life Station half a dozen times a cycle, it seemed. Apollo had waited in the Ready Room after Sheba left, until he was sure Boomer and Sheba had been checked and left for their quarters. He guessed Salik and the rest of the med teams would be working on Starbuck for centares anyway. When he got there, he found Starbuck heavily sedated. Salik said he'd be that way for a long while. Apollo glimpsed him in the life pod. He was floating in an antibiotic gel, the medication working on the infections and wounds from the outside, while more medicine was pumping through him intravenously. So it had gone for the next few days. Apollo forced himself to focus on his duties, his usual escape. There was more than enough to distract him. At least he told himself that. Rosters to maintain, training to supervise. He spent every evencycle with Boxey, sometimes helping him with instructional assignments, sometimes bringing victuals to their quarters and watching IFB re-runs instead of going to the mess. Each night, after tucking his son into his bunk and making sure he was fast asleep, Apollo would return to the Life Station. The pod was empty the fourth night. He stared at the vacant space, so much like a coffin. It was a comparison he couldn't ignore. "Down the hall," Martine, a senior med tech, told him. "What?" "He's down the hall," she repeated, pointing. When Apollo still stood, confused, she took him by the shoulders and aimed him in the right direction. "Third chamber to the right." She held up Apollo's right hand. "That's this side." The chamber was dim, but he could see Starbuck was in a bed, out of the life pod. His mangled arm was resting on a pair of pillows, encased in a balloon-looking sleeve filled with gel. The bandage on his forehead was gone. The once-deep gash now a thin, pale line. He was asleep. Again. Apollo wondered if he'd ever wake up. "You just missed him," a voice said from the shadows. "Chameleon." He wasn't sure what else to say. The two men hadn't seen each other since the night in Cassie's quarters. "He's been dozing off and on for most of the cycle. He's glad to be out of that pod, but still pretty groggy from all of the meds." "But if he's here, that's a good sign." "Yes. It is." Chameleon seemed a lot more relaxed than Apollo might have imagined. "Do you mind if I stay?" "Of course not." He gestured to the other chair in the chamber. "I appreciate the Commander allocating me those quarters. A suite on the VIP deck, no less. I thought they were reserved for the Council." "Commander's discretion. Besides, they're only used when there's an extended session, and that won't start for a few more days, once all of the ruckus from the election settles down. And I think he's glad to see them used by someone he likes." Silence then. Finally, Chameleon spoke. "Do me a favor, Apollo." "If I can." "Don't let him go out there again. Not right away. No matter how much he tries to force you." "I don't think he'll push it," Apollo said. "He'll be happy just to take time and recover." Chameleon cocked his head at Apollo. "You know better than that. He'll be angling towards the flight deck as soon as he's able to stay awake long enough to get there. Just make him wait until Dr. Salik says he's 100%." "I'll do better than that. I'll wait until Cassie says he's 100%. Would that do?" "I can live with that." Apollo blinked and stretched. "Just dozed off for a micron, I guess," he said. "Dozed? You were snoring." "I don't snore." "Any louder and the Cylons could use you for a homing beacon. I'm the one who's supposed to be convalescing here." Yes, Starbuck would be fine, Apollo thought. "Do you know how tired I am of seeing you in the Life Station? First, the wreck on Baltar's planet, and now this." "Do you know how tired I am of being here?" "How're you feeling?" "Like Hades. But considering the alternative..." He dropped his head onto the pillow. He sighed contentedly. "I'm still not sure I'm back. I wake up sometimes and think I'm still marooned." He dropped his guard for a micron. This was Apollo, after all. "It scares the pogees out of me, thinking that the next time I wake up, I won't be here. That this is all a dream." "The psych guys said to expect that. It's a defensive mechanism, not letting yourself trust the current situation too much. It'll pass." "Yeah. I don't ever want to be alone again. Not like that." He tried to seem more positive. "I feel like I'm in some kind of a receiving line, though. Every time I wake up, someone else is here. Don't know if that's planned or not, but it's nice." "It's not. Planned, I mean. Not officially, anyway." There were simply many people who needed to be as close to Starbuck as he needed to be close to them. Chameleon, of course. Cassie spent as much time in the room as Chameleon. Adama stopped by often, although he rarely stayed more than a moment. He hadn't found Starbuck awake, either. Tigh had spent one night, using the vigil as an excuse to work on his unending pile of reports without interruption. There was always a Warrior or two hanging around the Life Station, too, getting underfoot, according to Salik, who was reluctant to chase them away. "I should have been here before this," Apollo said. "You have been. I've just been asleep each time." He looked uncomfortable. "I should have stayed." "Oh. Am I going to get the full treatment now, or an abbreviated version?" "Of what?" "Your patented 'Apollo will now display his guilt about not solving the fleet's problems' demonstration. Or in this case, 'Apollo will now wallow in his guilty feelings for not coming after me when Boomer and Sheba did.'" It was true. That fact hung heavily in the air. "I didn't." Starbuck rolled his head back. "You couldn't." "I should have found a way." "And Cassie tells me I might have brain damage. Just what were you supposed to do? Go against your father? It was bad enough for him to punish them. It would have killed him if he'd had to punish you." "I feel like I let you down." "Well, you didn't, so get over it. But I'll remember that the next time I want to wheedle something out of you. Which I do." Apollo arched an eyebrow. "I want to see Boomer and Sheba." "Not a chance. They're..." "I know. Confined to quarters except when on duty. What if I get Cassie to tell the Colonel that it would help my condition?" He'd never change. Back from the brink of death, he was already back playing all the angles. Apollo found himself starting to laugh. He half-expected Starbuck to produce a fumarillo from under the blankets. "You never stop, do you?" Starbuck's grin was tempered by a somberness in his eyes. "If I did, I wouldn't be here now, Apollo." "I'll ask." He held up a hand. "But no promises." "I can make it a trade, " he offered. "Like what?" Starbuck ran his hand over the top of his head. It was shorn off, leaving him nearly bald, a needed treatment to get rid of the parasites that had taken up housekeeping there. "By the time this grows back, I'll be ready to go." "What? Cassie said there might be some lingering brain fog, but I didn't think it'd be so obvious!" "You're short-staffed, Apollo. You need me." "In one piece and able to function. Didn't Salik lay it out for you?" Starbuck shifted uneasily in his bed. "I know it'll be desk duty..." "No duty. Not even handing out towels at the fitness facility. Lords, Starbuck! Even with your helmet, you managed to crack your skull when you crashed. No wonder you couldn't think straight. And Salik said you bled internally, too. Lucky it stopped on its own. Then there's the malnutrition and all of the nice side effects from it, the rashes and sores from living out there in the wilds, the poisoning from that animal - you know, they weren't entirely sure they'd save your arm the first day or so - and you can top it off with what Salik calls an intriguing collection of intestinal parasites. And you want me to put you back on duty?" "Just a thought." "Here." Apollo handed him the vidscanner for the monitor mounted on the wall of his room. "I've got work to do." He checked his chronometer. "If you switch to the IFB ed channel, you'll be just in time for Mr. Trolley." Shaking his head, he turned to duck out of the room. "Apollo," Starbuck called after him. "Hmmm?" There was no joking in his expression. "I'm the reason for a lot of this mess. Maybe not directly, but close enough. I know how much Sheba knew it was going to cost both of you. Maybe all of us. Me, Boomer, your father, Tigh. I know things were tense with you and Cassie, too. I don't know how to fix it, Apollo. I wish I did." He didn't know how to answer. "It's going to take a lot of time, I guess. For all of us." "Yeah, I guess so." Chapter Forty-Two Dr. Wilker loved his lab. The clutter of spare parts and equipment that overflowed from every tabletop, counter and storage area were old friends to him. He knew where most of it had come from, what functions they once performed, what new achievements they could accomplish, what combinations could produce new and exciting and needed tools. He knew each tool, how much torque to use when tightening a recalcitrant screw on an access panel, where he'd stored that obsolete, odd-sized circuit board needed to reactivate an equally ancient systems control monitor on one of the older ships. And his projects. Ah, his projects! No one knew how many things he was working on at any one time. He didn't even know for sure. All of them could help the fleet somehow, as soon as he could get to them. They'd probably be settled on Earth for a dozen generations before all of his ideas were explored. Provided the Cylons were held at bay. Or better, evaded and, finally, defeated. When Baltar surrendered himself during the Iblis situation, Wilker gleefully took custody of the two Centurion pilots from Baltar's Raider. He'd disassembled them, nursing a wild idea that he might learn how to adjust their programming and possibly even thwart their internal command structure during battle. Like most of his projects, that one was stalled by circumstances. The lab, Centurions included, was destroyed during the attack against the base ship. Another good idea lost to the war. But now he had a second chance. Better than that, even. He had the carcasses of six Centurions and all of the data from the Cylon sensor. That made the loss of his lab less frustrating and the chance to restart his research all that much more satisfying. Adama had listened patiently to Wilker's recounting of his side of the rescue of Starbuck. He sympathized with Wilker's assertion that his testing would not have been as successful if they hadn't left the fleet. Certainly, Starbuck would not have been rescued. And, most importantly, the Cylon threat from the scanner would not have been discovered. That was something Wilker felt they could use to their advantage. Not just blocking the signal that went to Xeti Omicron, but analyzing the transmissions and sending a few messages of their own. Adama gave his full approval to Wilker's plan, and told Tigh to authorize whatever supplies Wilker needed to carry it out. The scientist was delighted. He trotted back to his lab, ready to start his investigation. Of course, inside information always helped. And he had the potential of a whole roomful of experts on Cylon operations in his lab. He was tinkering with one of the Centurions now, the one he thought was "Cy," Starbuck's friend. Ah, well. Given his injuries and isolation, it was a sensible delusion on the part of the pilot. During the voyage home, Starbuck insisted that Cy would not pose a danger to the Galactica or anyone on board, but as he worked to repower the Centurion, Wilker wondered if perhaps he should have a Warrior standing by to disconnect or destroy the Cylon if it acted in a hostile manner. He'd soon know. He double-checked his circuit flow parameters, then tapped the keyboard, sending power into the Cylon's systems. Nothing happened for a micron. Then a familiar, unfriendly hum began emanating from the machine and the red scanner light began to glow and trace its pattern across its metal faceplate. It jerked, like a human being checked for reflexes, then slowly moved its head from side to side, stopping when it spotted Wilker. "Where-am-I?" it asked. "Hello," Wilker said. "I am Dr. Wilker. I'm a friend of Lt. Starbuck's." "I-am-Cy-I-am-also-a-friend-of-Starbuck. Where-is-he?" "He's not here at the moment. He asked me to see if I could repair you. It seems you were badly damaged by some of your brother Cylons." "They-had-come-to-rescue-me-and-destroy-the-Colonial-Warrior-who- was-marooned-with-me." "Lt. Starbuck." "That-is-correct." "Starbuck says you put yourself at risk to protect him." "He-is-my-friend. Did-he-disable-the-other-Centurions?" "Yes. Yes, he did." Wilker gestured to the other hulks in various levels of disarray on the nearby workbenches. "I had to take them apart in order to fix you." Cy, meanwhile, continued to inspect his surroundings. "We-are- not-on-the-planet-Starbuck. Where-are-we?" "In my lab. We're quite far from the planet. What did you call it?" "Starbuck. It-was-quite-a-coincidence-that-the-name-of-the- planet-and-the-name-of-the-Warrior-were-the-same-don't-you-think?" "Indeed. Who told you that the planet was named Starbuck?" "Starbuck-himself. He-also-thought-it-was-an-interesting- coincidence." "I'm sure he did." "Where-is-he-now?" "He's in the Life Station." "That-is-where-damaged-humans-report-to-be-repaired. Am-I- Correct?" "That's right." "Was-Starbuck-injured-by-the-other-Centurions?" "No. He was attacked by an animal that showed up after you were damaged. He tried very hard to repair you, by the way." "He-is-my-friend." Wilker thought it strange, but he was starting to like this mechanical being. It's a Cylon, Wilker. Don't be a fool. It will destroy you and everything on board this battlestar if it gets the chance. "Will-Starbuck-be-returning-here-soon?" "No. He's badly injured and quite sick. We were lucky to find him when we did." "He-is-on-the-Life-Station-aboard-the-Battlestar-Galactica." "That's right." "And-I-am-also-on-the-Galactica." Well, here goes nothing. "Yes. You are on the Galactica." Wilker waited to see what the Centurion would do. He'd found no trace of any hidden devices on the thing, but that didn't mean there wasn't something set to trigger a thermonuclear reaction from something deep within and deeply shielded if a Centurion actually gained access to the ship. It might hurl itself from its seat and rip Wilker to shreds, then rampage through the vessel, killing and maiming as it went. It could find the weapons bay and arm itself. Get to the engineering division and cause havoc, destroy vital conduits, start fires - Oh, Lords, what'll happen next? Instead, the Cylon merely turned its head to study Wilker's lab again. "Somehow-I-expected-something-much-more-impressive," it said. "You are in a secure area," Wilker said by way of warning. "Warriors are close by. All I need do is call them." If his intercom unit was working, that was, which it wasn't most of the time. The techs were still trying to repair the damage from the assault to more critical areas of the ship. "Why-would-I-want-to-cause-destruction?" Cy asked. "You are a Cylon, and your people have spent the last thousand yahren trying to destroy us. You've spent the last two yahren trying to annihilate this fleet and, specifically, this battlestar." "Starbuck-explained-that-it-was-our-governments-that-were-at- odds-with-each-other. We-are-friends. This-is-his-home. I-would-not- want-to-destroy-it." Wilker stared. So much for the need for involved reprogramming. Just let Starbuck start talking. What might have happened if he'd contacted the Cylons instead of Baltar? He decided to push a little more. "What about helping us? We want to evade the rest of the Cylon Empire." "You-are-searching-for-a-planet-called-Earth. Starbuck-says- that-will-be-a-source-of-refuge-and-strength-for-you-humans." "That's what we hope. When we were returning here with you and Starbuck, we found a sensor unit that was transmitting information to Xeti Omicron. Do you know anything about that?" "No.I-am-just-a-simple-Centurion-and-am-not-given-access-to- such-technology." That was about what Wilker had expected. "However-I-will-be-happy-to-inspect-whatever-data-you-have-and- see-if-I-can-add-to-your-knowledge." "You will?" The Cylon seemed to muse on his offer. "Yes-I-will. I-would-not- want-to-allow-more-danger-to-Starbuck-and-those-he-cares-about. That- would-betray-his-friendship. I-never-had-a-friend-before. I-find-it- very-satisfying." "What about your people? Your Cylons?" "The-actions-of-Imperious-Leader-and-the-Cylon-Empire-are- misguided. Until-that-situation-is-corrected-I-must-not-encourage- them. I-must-help-correct-the-situation-to-the-best-of-my-ability. Starbuck-explained-that-even-Centurions-can-choose-our-own-courses- of-action. I-choose-to-give-him-my-loyalty." Loyalty? In a Cylon? Wilker looked at the tool he held in his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. Adama often spoke of the fleet's quest as the discovery and exploration of areas unthought of to humans ever before. This certainly qualified as one of them. "Well, then. When would you like to begin?" Chapter Forty-Three Lucifer slowly wheeled himself around the perimeter of his throne room. It was empty and dark and he used all of the space as he rimmed the outermost circuit. He moved in slightly for the next circuit, then in again, and again, and again, gradually tightening the spiral and making it smaller and smaller until he reached the exact center of the chamber. Of course it was the exact center. He was a Cylon. He did not make errors in such simple calculations. More than a Cylon. He was Imperious Leader. He was infallible! He reversed himself, gradually increasing the diameter of each circuit, each spiral, until he was at the outside rim again, still moving backwards, ending the exercise exactly where he'd started it. He needed to do that, to convince himself that all was correct within himself and that the nattering little quirks of power and running an Empire were quite within his abilities. So why couldn't he find that infernal fleet? His sensors were in place. He'd caught signals from several of them that hinted at possible tracks for the revolting humans, but each time, the follow-up investigations proved them to be worthless leads. Nothing. The most promising had been the most frustrating. Close enough to the last known course of Adama and his ships, angling away from the most obvious direction to take, readings of elements and metals and possible life signs - all potentially human. Lucifer had concentrated heavy sensor activity in that directions. Nothing. The deliciously enticing signals were bouncing off whirling storms of seldonian waves and wildly distorted radio frequencies. Not - how did Baltar put it - an iceball's chance in Hades that the fleet was the source of those readings. On the bright side, it also meant that the fleet would stay far away from that area. Not even Adam would be so desperate to move his handful of humans in the direction of certain destruction. But then just where in Hades were they? No matter. Lucifer was a Cylon. Cylons were patient. Cylons were superior. Cylons would endure and survive and, ultimately, conquer. Just as soon as he found them. -The End-