Battlestar Galactica
THE CHILDREN OF ZOHR
Virtual Season 2, Episode 11                     
by Senmut

CHAPTER ONE

     "I see it," said Starbuck, looking at his scanner. "Right on the
very edge of my range."
     "Yeah," said Apollo. "It's a ship alright, but we're still too far
to get anything more definite."
     "Except for that distress call. Do we check it out?" 
     "That's what we came out here for, but I don't want us wandering
into a Cylon lure," he replied. Or another Iblis lure, either, he added
mentally, but said nothing of that. 
     He and Starbuck had launched from the Galactica for their regularly
scheduled patrol, somewhat late due to a minor mechanical problem with
Starbuck's ship. For the first centar or so, there was nothing to
distinguish this patrol from countless others before it. Stars. Empty
space. Nothing. Stars. Until the signal from ahead. They had detected a
signal coming from directly on the patrol's plotted vector, on a delta
frequency. Very weak and intermittent, the signal had so far defied both
the Viper's computer's limited ability at cryptanalysis as well as
identification. 
     "Hold on, Starbuck, I'm going to try raising the Galactica and see
if I can get their input on this."
     "Are we still within range for that?"
     "Yeah, we caught a lucky break on that, being late, so we might as
well take advantage of it. They should also be able to get our telemetry
scans too." Several centons later, thanks to a certain degree of time
lag, Commander Adama's voice was coming through.   
     "We're getting it, Apollo. No response?"
     "Nothing yet, Commander."
     "Well, since it's less than a single millicenton of arc off your
patrol's plotted course, check it out, fuel permitting." 
     Fuel would permit, but just barely. After what seemed like endless
centars homing on the tenuous signal, but was in reality only two,
Starbuck had at last gotten a strong blip on his scanner, and the signal
was coming in more strongly now. Apollo's scanner confirmed, and they
both ran the checks. Nothing in the Warbook matched the scanner
signature, no language in the Viper's admittedly limited database matched
what they were hearing.
     "...en bakht, kazhe...makhet...akh'dib! Plagkh nesh por...lag..."
     "Apollo?"
     "The Languatron doesn't recognize it, Starbuck. It's a new one.
What's your scanner say?"
     "It's a ship, no question about it. Power signatures are low and
fluctuating, though. Hardly more than a shuttle. No life signs. You?"
     "Same, but we're still pretty far away. Visual range in..." Apollo
checked his instruments. "Visual range in nine centons...mark."
     "Mine confirms." Starbuck linked activated the telemetry link,
sending everything he was scanning back to the Galactica in real-time.
Hopefully, the vastly greater database and computing power aboard the
Battlestar might come up with something their limited Viper systems could
not.
     "She's not responding to standard hails," said Apollo. "And now I'm
picking up elevated radion levels."
     "Damn near lethal," said Starbuck. "Somebody's hurt bad, I'm
betting."
     "Me too," said the Captain. "And I'm picking up debris in our path.
But no chances. We split up, and approach her from either side, Starbuck.
Just in case."
     "Affirmative, Apollo," replied Starbuck, banking away from his CO.
     The contact was now large on both pilot's scanners, and Starbuck
swung out on a long arc, gradually bringing his ship in from exactly 180
degrees from where Apollo was doing the same. His attack scanner was
locked, his lasers hot, just in case this was some sort of Cylon trick.
Keeping his thumb on the firing button, he looked up as the mysterious
contact came into view.
     It was a ship, slightly longer than the Gemini freighter, and about
as wide. But this was no freighter. Heavily built, some sort of tower or
control platform rose from the body of the vessel, slightly aft of the
center. Forward this were two huge gun emplacements, three barrels per
turret, and two similar arrays aft. On the sides of the ship were smaller
emplacements, and what the scanners read as torpedo tubes. Two front, two
aft, two on the beams of the ship, as well as two on the "lower" hull. It
seemed as if almost every possible spot on the ship was bristling with
weapons.
     "Look at that," said Apollo, almost in awe. "Over forty weapon's
arrays on a ship no bigger than the Gemini."
     "Maybe somebody got a good discount on 'em," quipped Starbuck.
Apollo responded with a noise best left unrecorded, and continued
scanning. "Massive armor plating on her hull, Apollo. Look at that belt!"
     "I see it. Lord, it's thick. Probably the only reason she's still in
one piece. Computron doesn't have any analog on the alloy."
     "Uh huh. She looks like she was broadsided by an armada!"  
     Indeed she did. Sections of the hull near the bow looked as if they
had been peeled back like some obscenely huge piece of fruit, then
punched inwards. Deep burn marks and rips in the hull amidships, too
numerous to count, had torn more of her hull open to space. The control
tower or whatever it was dark, many of its ports or windows blown open to
vacuum. Aft, near the huge thrusters, more gashes in the hull bespoke
massive firepower brought to bear on this ship by someone. From the kind
of weapons this ship carried, Apollo could envision whoever it was
getting as good as they gave. One gun turret was blown open, a shredded
wreck, but the others, though battered and scorched, looked intact.
     "Yeah, she's leaking," said Apollo, as they passed under the vessel.
Deep wounds into her belly were venting gases and fluids, some of them
highly radioactive, chunks of wreckage floating along side. There was no
sign of active power, save for a single blinking running light, and the
vessel appeared to be drifting, her thrusters dark. "You picking up any
life signs, Starbuck?"
     "Hard to tell, with all the radion-laden crud she's trailing. "Let
me...Yeah. On wavelon delta delta delta stroke epsilon six. See it?"
     "No, I...got it. Yes. Biosigns, but there's just too much
interference to localize them. Drifting in and out." Apollo passed over
the ship once more, impressed by both its massive construction, and
degree of damage it had sustained. For anything short of a Battlestar or
a BaseShip to take this kind of punishment, and still be in something
resembling one piece...he shook his head, and hailed the alien vessel
once more. As before, there was no response. The signal that had drawn
them here continued, apparently an automatic distress beacon.
     "Apollo?"
     "Hold on, Starbuck. Galactica, are you getting all of this?"
     "We're getting it, Apollo," said Commander Adama, a few moments
later. "No response?"
     "None, Commander. Just what sounds like a looped distress call.
There don't seem to be any functional landing bays on this ship. What
looks like one aft is dark, and seems to have taken a direct hit."
     "But I see several docking ports," added Starbuck. "If there are
survivors aboard, maybe we should help."
     "Neither of you is equipped for boarding, or for elevated radion,"
said Adama. "Return to the Galactica at once. And report to the War Room
as soon as you land."
     "Yes, sir," said both Warriors, then Apollo saw something. Something
floating in space near the wreck, tumbling away from it. He eased on
over, for a closer look. He scanned it until...
     "Galactica, this is Apollo. I'm picking what looks like some kind of
escape pod."
     "A pod?" asked Tigh. "Can you give us some visual, Captain?"
     "Yes. It didn't get very far. It seems to have been struck by debris
ejected from the wreck." He zoomed in on it with his scanner. The pod was
a small, roundish affair, with four small thruster nozzles aft, and two
viewports in front. Its diameter was about the length of a Viper, and
apart from the metal chunks embedded in its side near the small hatch,
seemed intact. "It seems fairly intact, except for the hatch. It's been
ripped open by  debris. I am also picking up signs of biological material
inside, Commander. It's a body."
     "Poor devil," said Starbuck. "Air sucked out into space. Never had a
chance."
     "Commander, request permission to retrieve the pod and bring it
back."
     "Apollo?"
     "We're moving into a new and apparently hostile area of space,
Father. We need data, and we need it fast. I scan significant iron in the
pod's hull, so I can use my landing gear to effect capture. Once back,
the LSO can use the grappler arm to bring it into the bay."
     "Apollo, we've never done that before," said Starbuck. "Except in
training."
     "Well, here's where we put our training to the test. Father?"
     "Granted. I'll tell Salik and Life Station to stand by."
     "Thank-you." Apollo maneuvered alongside the lifeboat, and matched
his Viper's spin to that of the alien craft. Once in sync, he extended
his landing gear, watching his scanner till the soft thump, as well as
the indicator light, told him he'd made contact. Once joined, he flipped
a switch, and his gear magnetized, holding him fast to the pod's hull.
Alongside, eyes watchful for any problem, Starbuck gave his skipper the
thumbs up.
     "Looking good, Apollo. A perfect hook-up."
     "Galactica, alien pod is secure."
     "Acknowledged, Apollo. Return at once."
     "On our way, Commander." Both pilots gave the area a final sweep
with their scanners, then, turning their Vipers around, they headed back
for the Fleet. With a blast of turbos, Starbuck was gone, Apollo
accelerating more slowly so not to lose his impromptu cargo, leaving the
alien vessel once more crying out alone into the darkness.


     "Definitely a warship," said Adama, as the scans from the Vipers
were replayed for him. "I've never seen one like it.'
     "Neither has the Galactica's computer," added Tigh. "We did a search
of our data banks. Even the old classified files. Nothing."
     "Well, I detected life signs," said Starbuck. "Someone inside that
ship besides the guy in the pod survived the initial attack. Maybe we
ought to help."
     "Colonel?" asked Adama, turning to his old wingman.
     "I agree. Captain Apollo is correct, sir. We're moving into a new
and unknown area of space. It could be that ship and any surviving crew
aboard could supply us with data on the region ahead."
     "The Colonel's right, Father," said Apollo. "Whoever hit that ship
obviously has a lot of firepower at their disposal. We need information,
and we need it fast." He looked at his chrono. "At our current speed, the
Fleet will reach the wreck's position in less than two days. We should go
back, and try and board her, while there's still some distance between
us."
     "Very well. Prepare a shuttle, with all the equipment you need, and
be ready to launch in..." He stopped, as the door to the War Room opened.
It was Corporal Lomas." Yes?"
     "Sorry to interrupt, Commander, but I found something you may want
to have a look at. I found some data on that alien ship Captain Apollo's
patrol scanned."
     "You did? Where?"
     "We've succeeded in squeezing some uncorrupted data out of the
computer aboard the slaver vessel captured at Boron-Din." He held up a
data chip, and Adama nodded. Lomas slid it into the terminal, and on
screen was a graphic of the same sort of vessel. "It seems the Ziklagi
slavers have met these folks before."
     "Commander," came Salik's voice over the IC. "I have a preliminary
report for you, sir. On the alien."

CHAPTER TWO

     The corpse in the Galactica's autopsy room was a real mess.
Decompression, the icy cold of space, and whatever injuries the alien had
suffered pre-mortem had all taken a gruesome toll. Even having thawed
hadn't done much for the fellow. The instant Apollo took a sniff, he
wrinkled his nose in disgust as he realized that having it thawed for
examination had only made it worse.
     Dr. Paye, the deputy Chief Medical Officer, had been given primary
responsibility for the examination since he had more background and
training in alien pathology than his superior, Salik, did.  For some
time, he stood hunched over the corpse in fascination, and it made Apollo
marvel at how immune the doctor seemed to be to the repellent appearance
and odor it gave off.
     "Your report, Doctor?" Adama inquired with an air of impatience. He
too was finding the smell intolerable and the sooner he had an excuse for
leaving the room, the better.
     "Well," said Dr. Paye, "as you can see, this was a male Humanoid, of
slightly larger size and build then your average Human. Closer to a
Borellian Nomen in bulk. However, Human he was not. As you can see, his
skin has a pronounced blue pigmentation."
     "An aftereffect of being frozen?" asked Adama.
     "Well, the pigmentation runs deep into the dermal tissue,
Commander," said Paye, again annoying Adama with his tendency to start
almost every sentence with "well". "It was his natural coloring. From his
skeleton, it looks as if he came from a world with a gravity almost the
same as Caprica, but his lung capacity is enormous, denoting a thinner
atmosphere. And," here he held up a vile of azure fluid, "this is a
sample of what remains of his blood."
     "Blue as well," said Apollo.
     "Yes," said Paye. He turned on a screen, showing a magnification of
the alien blood cells. "The analog in his blood to hemoglobin in the
oxygen carrying corpuscles is based on copper, rather than iron, Captain.
His corpuscle count was nearly double what our red cell count would be,
so he was used to less oxygen than we are. The surviving air reserves
from his escape pod's supply confirm that. Only about 17% oxygen,
compared to our 21% His internal arrangement is also different from our
own, as you can see." He pulled back a flap of tissue, exposing the
interior of the body. 
     "What killed him?" asked Adama. 
     "Explosive decompression when debris from his ship pierced the
escape pod's hatch, as well as severe trauma to both the skull and chest
cavity. Numerous fractures. That and with the burns you can see on his
face and chest, the poor fellow never had a serious chance."
     "Commander, if the Ziklagi weapons could do that to his ship," said
Starbuck, "we'd better find out all we can. And fast."
     "Well," began Paye again, "we have identified his species,
Commander. He's from a race called the Zohrloch."
     "How did you find that out, Doctor? We only just learned that from
data recovered from the Ziklagi vessel."
     "He's not our first example, Commander," said Paye, and touched the
IC. "Cassie, you can bring him in." Almost at once, the door to another
inner ward opened, and Cassiopeia entered, escorting an alien. He was
tall, powerfully built, and his skin was an unmistakeable blue.
     "Commander," said the alien, his accent thick and unfamiliar,
"Sargamesh kor Tog, son of Kassa I greet you." He made a fist, and
pounded it on his chest. "Bakh'rha!" 
 

     During the escape from the planet Boron-Din, a few aliens had been
among the liberated slaves. Although all were Humanoid, more or less, a
few were stand-outs. Sargamesh was one of these, having the same
pronounced bluish pigmentation as the dead man from the wreck. Adama had
greeted all the newcomers to their voyage when they had come aboard, but
his myriad duties had kept him from actually getting to know any of them.
That and the language barriers had basically kept them out of his
day-to-day thoughts. Now, at least one of those races was back in.
     Horace, a student of Professor Pliny's, the Fleet's most erudite and
experienced linguist, had worked with the Languatron banks to try and
open communications with their alien guests. A young man with great
drive, he had succeeded to some extent, finding some languages more
amenable to decipherment than others. One, which seemed to have no firm
rules as to verb conjugations, had nearly driven him into a mental ward,
while another had had a syntactical structure so similar to Colonial
Standard as to prove a breeze. 
     Sargamesh's tongue, however, was neither of these. It fell somewhere
in between on the frustration scale, and now that it had risen in
importance, Horace was back on it like a Viper on Cylons. He was
ensconced with Sargamesh and Korl, the only other of his race aboard the
Fleet, working out the full rendering of their speech, ever since getting
the word from Adama.
     Sargamesh's people, the Zohrlochs, were a warrior race, who saw
combat and strife as the most natural part of life. More natural than
sex, breathing, or even eating. Trained almost from birth in the arts of
combat, all Zohrloch males were expected to serve their ruler, the Zohr,
in some capacity. They had, so it was learned, built and ruled a
considerable empire, the Shapa Zohrlochim. Their home planet, called
Eridu, was a harsh, desert world, although where exactly that was, in
relation to the Galactica's current locale was unknown to them. The
navigational database aboard the captured Ziklagi ship had been damaged,
with the loss of more than 80% of its data.
     Although violent both by nature and by upbringing, Sargamesh could
also be polite, indeed almost courtly. While women in his society, with
rare exceptions, occupied a position of near-total subservience, he had
quickly come to understand that among most Colonials, it was different.
The degree of courtesy he showed to Sheba, Siress Tinia, and Cassiopeia
struck Apollo as surprisingly flexible for someone from a society that,
on the surface at least, had appeared so rigid. But for the moment, it
was the potential knowledge in his head for which Adama was most eager.
Once the linguistic interface was worked out to a tolerable level,
Sargamesh and Korl were brought to the War Room for a de-briefing. 
     Both men had been on a small, exploratory scout vessel, traveling
well beyond the boundaries of their known space, seeking information
about piratical raids on the fringes of their empire. These raids, they
had learned, were the work of the Ziklagi, a race as warlike and as
ruthless, it seemed, as their own.
     But, they had never returned home with their information. Over three
sectars ago, by Colonial reckoning, their ship was attacked, and only
Sargamesh and Korl had survived. Transported off their pulverized vessel,
they had awakened in the filthy hold of a slave ship, before being taken
to market on Boron-Din, doomed to dig ore for their new masters. But,
both men had an untamable and rebellious spirit, and after killing a few
of their overseers trying to escape, had ended up in the gladiatorial
arena, where they had encountered Jolly, and eagerly joined in his
rebellion. Not wishing to spend the rest of their days on a backwater
like Boron-Din, they had opted to join the Colonial Fleet, in the hopes
of one day, perhaps, finding their way home. 
     "Yes, it is one of ours," said Sargamesh, as he was shown telemetry
from the Vipers of the wreck ship. "A medium cruiser, of the Yazdir
class, or so it appears, though I cannot see the name of this one. I once
served aboard such a vessel." It seemed to Apollo that there was a note
of regret in his voice at this revelation.
     "N'eshnakh sefrit et!" spat Korl, too fast for the Languatron to
render quickly, as he looked at the images of the blasted ship. Sargamesh
nodded approvingly of his comrade's comment. 
     "What did he say?" asked Adama. Horace showed him the Languatron
readout. "Oh." 
     "How long till we reach ship?" asked Korl, whose full name seemed to
be Korl kor Ubar, son of Korl. This, they were told, meant that he was
Korl, of the House of Ubar, and was the son of a man also named Korl.
     "Almost another full day," said Adama. "We intend to board her, if
possible. Can you assist us?"
     "We can. We go aboard too?" asked Sargamesh. Tigh looked to his CO,
and Adama nodded.


     "She's dead ahead," said Starbuck, at the controls of the shuttle,
Giles as co-pilot. "ETA with the wrecked ship in nine and a half centons,
Apollo."
     "Good. Any response to hails?"
     "Still nothing. Just the automatic message. Cassie?"
     "Medical equipment, and medtech, ready to go."
     "Sargamesh. Korl." Both Zohrlochs turned to Apollo. "Do you
recognize her at all?" Both aliens studied the magnified scans on the
shuttle's dash. After a centon or so, they could see the ship's name.
Korl nodded."
     "It is the Nem'lach. A medium cruiser. I know nothing of the vessel
     "Okay, let's start getting into our suits," said the Captain. Apollo
went to the equipment lockers, and took out one suit, which he handed to
Starbuck, then began getting into another. The alien vessel was already a
speck in the ports when the Zohrlochs began suiting up, which, the
Colonials noticed, they did with a practiced ease despite the unfamiliar
design, or their long, elaborate beards, and Lt. Giles slowed and pulled
them alongside the tumbling ship. With a deft hand, he matched spin and
tumble, and brought the universal docking cowl up against an undamaged
airlock on the ship's port side. After a few tense centons, the lights
went green.
     "We've got a seal," announced Giles. "Docking integrity confirmed."
     "Okay," said Apollo, checking his weapon. "Let's go."
     The airlock hatch was shut tight, its flashing lights indicating
that for it, at least, all was well. Apollo scanned the mechanism for a
few moments, then shook his head.
     "Keypad, and we don't know the code." He looked at the two
Zohrlochs, and indicated the pad. Without hesitation, Korl stepped up,
and began entering code. After what seemed like half a centar, but was
really only about five centons, the panel lit up brightly, and the
latches began to slide loose. The airlock opened, and Starbuck scanned
the interior. It was dark, with only the faint pulse of emergency
lighting visible.
     "Everything seems okay," he said, and Apollo went inside first.
     And promptly fell flat on his astrum, as the shift in direction from
one ship's gravity to another made itself apparent. Seen from outside,
the shuttle was docked level to the alien's long axis. Once out of the
shuttle's gravity however, Apollo found himself walking sideways into
nothing, and... 
     "Fraaaa..."
     "Apollo?" called Starbuck, and his friend disappeared. He moved into
the ship, more cautiously, and shone his lamp around. Apollo was still in
a heap on the floor, looking up at him. "Oh. What are you doing down
there, Apollo?"
     "Contemplating your afterlife, Starbuck," replied the Captain,
slowly, as he picked himself up. Checking out his suit, and tailbone, and
finding both undamaged, he reached out to help the rest inside. Once
done, he scanned the surrounding area once more. "Looks like the gravity
generator for this area is knocked off axis." He looked at Starbuck.
"Next time, tell me about the gravity shift, okay?" smiled Apollo, a
smile worthy of Iblis. "Or better yet, you go first."
     "Well, I..." he stuttered, and Cassie couldn't help a laugh.
     "Uh huh." Giving his offended tailbone one last massage, Apollo drew
his weapon, and they set out. 
     "The air pressure is low," said Cassie, scanning. "Less than ten
percent of the Galactica's. Very little oxygen left in it."
     According to Sargamesh, this part of the ship contained the galley,
ship's stores, and enlisted men's quarters. No apparent signs of damage
could be seen, apart from the near-darkness, and absence of crew. After
moving along the seemingly tilted deck, they came to an open hatch,
through which a dim light was showing. Cautiously, they moved through it,
and found their first signs of serious damage. The bulkhead the hatch was
built into was bent, and several cables and broken conduits from the
ceiling were draped across their path. The air was filled with smoke, and
signs of fire were evident. As they continued, the damage got worse, till
the way ahead was blocked entirely by collapsed bulkheads and buckled
decks. 
     And their first sign of crew. Both Cassiopeia and one of the
Zohrlochs knelt to examine the man, but they were clearly much too late.
The fellow had been burned, and partly crushed by collapsing wreckage.
The blood on his uniform and the deck was dried.
     "Monsters!" spat Sargamesh, as they examined the dead crewman. 
     "What killed him?" asked Apollo.
     "It looks like massive blast trauma," answered Cassie. "He was close
to something when it exploded. That, and from the burns I'd say he was
hit by a hot electrical cable." A metron or so from the corpse lay a torn
cable trunk. The scanner read it as still hot. Cassie stood up. 
     "How do we get to the bridge?" asked Starbuck.
     "We must go back," said Sargamesh, "and turn left at the last
hatch." He led them, stepping over scattered wreckage, to another
hatchway, this one sealed. As before, they tried the pad, but the hatch
refused to budge. "Locked out," said the Zohrloch. "I can't open it this
way."
     "Well," began Starbuck, when the alien drew his weapon, and pointed
it at the hatch.
     "But this way.." He fired, blowing the hatch controls to pieces, and
then again to free the lock. He grabbed the handle, and began to shove.
Together he and Korl slid the hatch open. "Works as well."
     "Ooookay," said Cassie. "That'll work."


     Back on the shuttle, somewhat bored at being left behind, Giles
followed the progress of the boarding party on their suit transponders.
He also monitored the radion levels in the areas they were moving
through. So far, nothing a Human couldn't handle, and the suits took care
of that. 
     He also kept an eye on the shuttle's scanners. Though they were not
of the power of a Viper's, he still had no intention of being caught
flat-footed, if any unfriendlies decided to show up all of a sudden. No
way was what had happened to Jolly back on Boron-Din going to happen to
him, not if he had anything to say about it.


     Through the hatch, the gravity seemed to right itself, giving the
view ahead a more normal feeling. Like the area behind, this one was
badly damaged, with collapsed bulkheads, buckled decks, and wreckage torn
from everywhere blocking their path. There were also more bodies, none as
intact as the first one they had found. After stepping over the rubble,
Sargamesh brought them to another hatch, this one to a lift. It was dead
as well, and with a few curses, he showed them a ladder-well, a short
distance to their right.
     "Giles?" asked Apollo.
     "Captain?"
     "Still got us?"
     "Yes, sir. From the scans, the passage you're at should take you up
several decks."
     "What about atmosphere?"
     "About twenty or so metrons up, there's a sealed hatch in the tube.
Beyond it, she's hulled. Two decks above that, I read air again."
     "Roger. Any life signs?"
     "A few, but they seem weak and scattered."
     "Okay, Giles. Thanks."
     Thanks to their suits, the boarding party passed through the hulled
area with ease. Once the hatch was resealed below them, they had a view
of even more destruction. Decks were peeled up, wreckage hung in shreds
from above, and they had a wonderful vista of the naked stars through a
wide gap ripped in the side of the ship. Outside, through the twisted
metal, they could see wreckage, and more bodies, floating alongside the
vessel. Apollo turned to his left, at a sudden flash of light, but it was
merely torn cables, sparking as their ripped ends bumped against each
other.
     "What the Hades Hole did they use?" said Starbuck, examining the
torn metal. The wound in the ship's side was from the outside in, the
obvious result of some successful enemy salvo. He carefully touched the
jagged edge of one torn plate. The metal had been torn under great force,
like a pulled piece of child's candy. He scanned the edge, as requested
by Dr. Wilker, in the hopes of learning more about the attacker's
weapons. 
     "Plasmatic ripper beams," said Sargamesh, in reply. "A plasma
derived from radioactive material is directed at the target. As you can
see, it is most effective."
     "Then we better get to the bridge, and see if any of her scanner
logs have survived," said Apollo. "We're going to need them."

CHAPTER THREE

     The ladder had been obliterated with the rest of that section, so
Apollo fired a magnetic tether up into the well, where it resumed. One by
one they were all lifted, and resumed their climb. The ladder-well's next
hatch was blown open, but after two more decks were traversed this way,
they found themselves in air once more.
     "Almost no oxygen left," said Cassie, scanning. "Down to about four
percent, here. All the fires."
     "Sargamesh?"
     "Bridge this way, Captain," said the Zohrloch, indicating.


     "Commander, the wrecked ship is now within our scanner range," said
Tigh, as Adama signed off on some routine reports, handing them back to
Petty Officer Wu. "We'll be able to pick up visual telemetry from the
shuttle and boarding party in approximately four more centons, at our
current speed."
     "Good. And the rest of our scanners?"
     "All still clear, sir. Greenbean and Jolly's patrol launched twelve
centons ago," said the Exec, looking at his chrono, "and has reported no
signs of any ships whatsoever. Sheba and Barton's is scheduled to go in
three centons, and then Croad and Dietra's fifteen after that."
     "Good, Colonel." Adama looked at the scanner screen a few moments,
wondering where, in all that vastness, they were. Not just the Cylons; no
doubt they were still looking for the Fleet as a matter of course. But
the others, the Ziklagi slavers, a race as vicious and as cruel as the
Cylons themselves. Where, in all that immensity were they? He had no
doubts at all that they were out there, watching. Waiting. Sooner or
later, they would meet again, he was certain, and when that... "Yes?" he
asked, suddenly aware that Tigh was still there, looking at him.
     "You look tired, sir."
     "I...yes. Yes, I am, Tigh," said Adama, rubbing his eyes and for a
moment feeling as if he had never slept in his entire life.
     "The Council again?"
     "Does it show?" asked Adama, and the two old friends shared a
chuckle. "Yes. Sire Antipas keeps pestering me about the census, and the
food supply status, and whatever else he can dream up to bother me with.
I swear that man never reads a single report submitted to the Council.
That, and the Tribunal for Samuels and Wilmer, with the sentencing coming
up soon, and..." he looked about, dropping his voice, "worrying about the
shapechanger loose aboard, and now this wrecked ship. Yes, I'm tired." He
rubbed his eyes again. "I feel like I could sleep until we reach Earth.
Whenever that ends up being."
     "Would you like to take a sleep period, Adama? I don't mind
covering."
     "I'd best not, Tigh. I need to be here, with this. Besides, I don't
want to abandon you to the tender graces of Antipas, should he show his
face on the bridge, or hand him yet another point to bring up at Council
meetings to use against me." He dropped his voice once more. "I'm sure he
has his spies even on the bridge, Colonel." Tigh stiffened a bit, and
spared a furtive look around.
     "Any idea as to who, sir?"
     "Not yet, but I found this, earlier today, shortly after I logged on
watch." Reaching into his cloak, Adama drew out a small electronic
circuit, no bigger than a coin. "I found this, under my console. It seems
to have been glued, and not very well." Tigh picked it up. The design was
similar to the basic circuits used in military-design intercoms, of which
there were countless all over the Galactica, but tribunal-rigged,
somewhat amateurish, and thanks to Adama, now dead.
     "What do you want me to do?"
     "Get it to Boomer. He's an electronics prodigy, as we know. See if
he can figure out who might have made it, it's range, and so forth." The
Commander dropped his voice even lower. "I don't even want Wilker to know
about it."
     "Wilker?" Tigh thought a moment. "Yes, sir."
     "And ask him to sweep my quarters at his first opportunity."
     "Your quarters?"
     "Uri did it," Adama reminded him.
     "Right away, sir."
     "Commander," said Omega, "visual now coming in from the shuttle."
     "Good. Transfer to my console, please." Adama looked up, and Tigh
headed for the exit. 
     "Transferring, Commander."  


     The hatch to the bridge was jammed part-way open, and blocked by
debris. Carefully, Apollo gripped the edge of the door, and pulled. No
good. Starbuck joined in, and the door began to move, screeching noisily.
     "What a mess," said Starbuck, as they took in the damaged chamber.
The bridge was dimly lit, only a few emergency lights apparently
functioning, and the deck was littered with debris. Like other parts of
the wreck, gravity seemed less than certain. As he flashed his
illuminator about, Starbuck could see metal plates, scorched and burned,
covering what he assumed must have been the bridge windows. Unlike the
bridge of a Colonial vessel, this one was more compact, with what
appeared to be the Captain's seat, on an elevated platform, looking over
all stations, back to the aft bulkhead. In front of it were a number of
stations, presumably those of helm and navigation. Along the bulkheads of
the square room were a number of other stations, which Korl explained
were defense, internal security, scanning, life support, and so on.
Apollo noted, without comment, that the security station took up double
the space of any other.
     "Good Lord," said Apollo, taking it in. Wreckage hung from the
ceiling in tatters, cables, piping, and shredded circuits, making it
difficult to move about. "I don't know how anything here could still
function." He moved over to one console, where, surprisingly, a single
screen still worked. It showed the shuttle, docked and waiting. 
     "Cassie!" called Starbuck, as he nearly tripped over something. It
was a body, pinned under a fallen support. Cassie ran a scanner over the
prostrate form, and shook her head. 
     "Too late, Starbuck. His whole chest looks to have been crushed when
that piece of metal landed on him." She pointed. "I found another two
more over there, too. Dead."
     "Same with this one," said Apollo, indicating yet another crewman.
This one was ripped by flying debris, face and chest savaged by the
conflagration that had smashed his ship, his uniform burned almost off.
From what remained of his elaborate costume, Apollo judged him to have
been the Captain of the vessel.
     "What the..." began Starbuck, turning in shock as something flashed
with a loud popping sound. Over by another console, torn cables were
sparking and a panel was burning anew. "Sargamesh?" He looked about, and
saw the two Zohrlochs bent over something. "Guys?"
     "Trying to access the internal sensors, Starbuck," said one of the
men. Both were turned away, and Starbuck couldn't tell who had spoken.
Grabbing an extinguisher from their equipment pack, Starbuck doused the
small fire. 
     "Starbuck, the Galactica is in visual telemetry range, now," said
Giles. "Galactica, are you getting this?"  
     "Affirmative, Giles." came Adama's voice, scratchy but
recognizeable. "Looks like a mess, Apollo."
     "Yes. Like she was used for gunnery practice. I don't think I've
ever seen a ship this badly hammered before. Not even in our training
simulations at the Academy."
     "Yes!" said one of the Zohrlochs. Sargamesh turned, and motioned the
Colonials over. One console was still functioning fairly well it seemed,
and it's screens were filled with interior views of the vessel. Korl was
pushing a series of buttons, and getting bleeps in return. "Survivors."
     "Are you getting this, Commander?" asked Apollo.
     "Yes. In fact, we're picking up a new transmission from the wrecked
ship, Apollo. She's transmitting her logs to us right now."    
     "Sargamesh?" 
     "You will need information," was his simple reply. He moved from
that panel to another.
     "I find six still alive," said Korl. He indicated a small screen on
the console. "Five are here." He pointed to a small area. "The ship's
armory. Port side, six decks down. Internal scans are out on the
starboard side of the ship. I cannot tell there." 
     "And the sixth?" asked Starbuck.
     "Here," said Cassie, from a far corner of the smashed bridge. She
was struggling with a piece of debris, but Korl was there in a flash, and
lifted the hunk of metal as if it were nothing. He ignored her 'thanks'
and knelt by the injured form. "I don't know how, but this one is still
alive," Cassie told the rest. "Lords, how can someone live with a pulse
this low?"
     "Don't ask me," began Starbuck. "I'm no..." He stopped, as the
lights jumped to almost normal levels, and the smoke slowly began to
clear. He and Apollo looked around, and saw Sargamesh, hands inside an
open panel, turn to look at them.
     "Emergency life support system. Restored to bridge now," he said.
Looking at an indicator for a few moments, he then proceeded to pop his
helmet. Korl followed suit.
     "We're up to almost ten percent oxygen, now," said Cassie. "Radion
is still high, but tolerable for the present." Apollo popped his helmet
as well, then the rest.
     "Hey, you sure that's a good idea, folks?" asked Giles, over their
commlinks.
     "Well, we can breath," said Starbuck. "It stinks like Hades in here,
but at least we can breath."
     "Smells like the mines of Carillon," said Apollo, wrinkling his
nose. But even as he spoke, the air seemed to slowly freshen. At least
some of the air scrubbers worked. "Galactica, we have a survivor here."
     "Not for long, unless I can get him to the Life Station," said
Cassie. "His vitals are slipping. Commander?" As she spoke, the injured
man opened his eyes, trying to focus on her. He also tried to rise,
rasping out something unintelligible. Korl said something to him, and he
sank back down, lapsing once more into unconsciousness. 
     "Transport at once, Cassie. Apollo?"
     "We'll need a few more people, Father, to get the rest of the
survivors out. That armory is deep inside the ship."
     "Understood. I'll alert Major Croft." 
     "Right. Giles?"
     "Right here, Captain."
     "Concentrate your scans onto the starboard side of this wreck. There
may be some more survivors there."
     "You got it, Captain," replied Giles.
     "Starbuck, give me a hand," said Cassie. "Time's a wasting on this
guy."


     Giles' scans had picked up a dozen or so faint life readings
scattered through the rest of the Nem'lach. By the time a team was
assembled, the first group had been contacted, through Sargamesh and
Korl, and informed of the situation. Hurt, wary, and not disposed to
turning their fate over to strangers, they nonetheless evacuated, rather
than open fire with the impressive arms they had about them, once they
knew the score. Only two could walk, so the going was slow. All remaining
survivors aboard the Nem'lach had been located by the time the Galactica
came within visual range of the wrecked ship. Now, with both doctors and
staff trying to make sense of the alien's physiology and figure out their
medical data, it was a race against time for the injured men.

     "What's the prognosis, Doctor?" asked Adama, a few centars later, in
Life Station. All the rescued men were being examined or treated. 
     "They all have radion poisoning, as I expected," said Salik, his
scrubs stained blue. "We're trying to treat it, but our anti-radion drugs
and blood filters don't seem to mesh well with their physiology.
Sargamesh is leading two of my medics to their Life Station, to try and
collect all the drugs they can find. I just hope we can make sense of
their medical data in time to save these men. Their ship's Life Officer
didn't survive it seems, so it's going to be a tough one."
     "I'm amazed anyone survived," Adama commented, looking over at one
man, a leg missing, another one horribly burned yet somehow still
stubbornly clinging to life.
     "Yes, they are remarkably tough, Commander. The amount of radion,
smoke inhalation, burns, and general knocking about they've taken would
have killed most Humans, except maybe a Borellian Nomen. They can
tolerate considerably more fluid loss than your average Human. Probably
comes from living on a desert world."
     "Yes, like the Nomen," nodded Adama. "Any idea how soon before we
can talk to them?"
     "Dr. Wilker's people are still rigging up Languatrons in here, and
at least one of the men still isn't properly stabilized. I'll let you
know."
     "Thank you Doctor."
     "Just doing my job, Commander," replied Salik. 


     "We've tracked her drift," said Tigh, later, on the bridge. "From
her course, she was attacked by the Ziklagi ship about here." He pointed
to a spot on the board.
     "Concentrated scan?" asked Adama.
     "Scattered energy and metallic readings, but too far for anything
coherent. She..."
     Beep
     "Yes?"
     "Chief Twilly here, Commander. We've managed to lock down the bulk
of the radion leakage aboard the alien ship, sir. It was a ruptured
plasma conduit coupling. How does it read from over there?"
     "Radion levels way are down, according to our scanners. Have you
found the computer core, yet?
     "Not yet, sir, but we're still picking our way over a lot of
wreckage. We found a couple of access terminals, but they were fried. We
also did manage to get some air scrubbers working again, so that's a
help."
     "What's your assessment of the ship's condition, Chief?" asked Tigh.
     "Well, there's no denying she's a mess, sir, but so far we've been
able to get a few systems going again, and her main reactor core seems
intact. I think we could salvage her and get her operational again,
Colonel."
     "We could always use another ship, sir," said Tigh, to Adama.
"Especially a warship, considering."
     "I agree." Adama thought a moment. "But time is an unknown factor
here. Colonel, send a Viper patrol back along her course. See if there
might be more survivors in life pods, or perhaps indications of the
attacking Ziklagi vessel or vessels."
     "Yes, sir."
     "And Twilly, good work. Keep on it, and contact us as soon as you
find the main computer core."
     "Yes, sir. Out."
     "He seems to be doing well over there," said Tigh. "At least there
won't be any beautiful alien women on the Nem'lach for him to seduce."
     "Thankfully," Adama chuckled. "But this is still sort of a
punishment detail. Although if he continues to do well..."
     "Yes?"
     "I might forgive him."
     Beep.
     "Commander Adama."
     "Commander? Doctor Paye here. One of the survivors is conscious now,
and wishes to speak with you."
     "On my way, Doctor."     

CHAPTER FOUR

     The trail back to the battle site was easy to follow. Like an
old-fashioned ocean-going vessel vanishing into deep waters, the Nem'lach
had left a debris field in her wake. Metal plating, piping, a door, a
defensive gun, radioactive garbage, a variety of personal belongings, a
boot, and of course a number of bodies or parts thereof. After almost a
centar and a half, the patrol reached what they deemed to have been site
of the battle. 
     "What do ye think?" asked Croad, scanning. As was usual, he was
flying his old pre-Viper fighter from Proteus. Although snickered at by
some of the younger pilots, it had been retrofitted, its avionics
upgraded and kept functional by the Battlestar's mechanics, and was
nearly the match of any Viper. Adama had agreed that no fighter was
superfluous, given their situation, and once brought up to speed on
current technology, Croad, ignoring the teasing of his younger comrades,
was allowed to fly her on patrols. 
     "I think this is it," said Sheba. "All the debris and radion
floating about. And corpses."
     "Aye, I see them too, Lieutenant," said the former Enforcer from
Proteus. "She musta been one Hades of a fight."
     "No question," replied Sheba, banking slightly to evade a large
chunk of wreckage. "And from all this junk floating around, the other
ship must have take a real clobbering too."
     "Aye. I...Lieutenant, two degrees left."
     "I see it," said Sheba, and eased on over. Black against the stars
was a huge shape and she hit her searchlights. "Lords of Kobol!"
     "Aye, she's a biggun'" said Croad, following suit. Together, they
flew over the darkened shape, scanning and recording. As the data took
shape, it became clear that this ship had taken the worst of the fight.
It was ugly, utterly without style or grace, reminding Sheba of a blob of
dental cleaner, messily squeezed out, beaten severely and then let
congeal. Perhaps this reflected the basic psychology of its builders. It
was slightly longer than the Zohrloch ship, or rather had been, for it
was rather messily sliced in two, about a third of the way back from the
bow, the stern section still tumbling lazily away. The space between was
filled with debris and radion.
     "She didn't explode, Lieutenant. Looks like those fellas rammed
her," said Croad. "I'm pickin' up metal debris from the other ship along
the rip, Lieutenant."
     "Same here. And I'm also picking up no signs of survivors, either."
     "Aye, they seem to have finished the buggers off right enough. She's
cold, not much residual heat in there. Except for a few flickers, no
power signatures at all."
     "Okay, lets scan the whole area as thoroughly as we can. We have to
bring back as much information as possible for the Commander, Croad."
     "Right ya are, Lieutenant," replied the other, and set to. They
scanned everything in sight, then Croad's unit began bleeping.
"Lieutenant?"
     "Yes?"
     "I'm pickin' up somethin'. Very weak. It's a distress signal, comin'
from the wreckage."
     "You sure?"
     "Aye. All the radion must be scramblin' it. Otherwise we'd a seen it
sooner." He gave her the wavelon.
     "Not to mention it's probably on batteries, and a frequency we don't
use. Damn, I should have thought of that."
     "Ah, don't be blamin' yerself, Lieutenant. Remember, my old communit
was designed back when the Colonies used a different set of freqs. Yers
wasn't."
     "Still..."
     "Ah, ferget it. But we best be closin' down this transmission. In
fact..." Croad closed in on the source of the signal, an antenna array
clustered on a chunk of undamaged hull. He flipped on his targeting
scanner, got a lock, and fired. The whole assembly blew out into molten
chunks, silencing the signal forever. "There."
     "Good job. I just hope..." She stopped, as the old Enforcer swore.
"What?"
     "Too late. I'm pickin' up a contact. Extreme range. Closing on these
coordinates."
     "Gee, you can actually scan with that old relic?" she teased
half-heartedly, trying to lighten her mood a bit. 
     "Sure I can. Of course, it does take a certain skill..."
     "Oh, you have that, too?" she teased back, but it wasn't working.
She looked down at her scope. "I...got it. Extreme range...looks like a
ship. And she's approaching pretty fast too."
     "Ya think someone's come lookin' fer these folks?"
     "I'll bet the next round of Pyramid on it. Plus drinks. Okay, let's
get out of here."
     "Aye, Lieutenant. If I may, let's not use our turbos till they're
off our scanners."
     "Oh?"
     "They might pick 'em up, and we don't want anyone tracin' us back to
the Fleet."
     "Good idea," said Sheba, as they turned their ships around, and
headed back home. "Where'd you pick that one up?"
     "It used to help me hide among the asteroids near Proteus. No turbo
blast made it harder for 'em to see me comin' or goin'."
     "Not bad. You can tell my next class of trainees about it,"
     "Happy to, Lieutenant."
     "It's Sheba."
     "Aye. Sheba."
      Even without turbos, the wreckage faded quickly astern, and after a
few centons, the approaching blip did also. Then in a blast of flame, the
Warriors were gone.


     "This is Third Officer Kassa, of the Imperial Cruiser Nem'lach,"
said Sargamesh, in Life Center, to Commander Adama. Adama looked down at
the injured alien. Stripped of his uniform, wired up with tubes and
sensors, and swathed in stained bandages, he looked alot like the other
Warriors patched up here after a battle, except for the blue skin.
     "Third Officer, I am Commander Adama of the Battlestar Galactica."
Adama waited a few moments, as the injured man looked him over. It was,
Adama decided, a shrewd gaze, the gaze of someone well used to sizing
people up. 
     "How did I come to be here?" asked the other. Or rather, demanded.
Yes, Adama decided. Definitely someone used to being obeyed, and without
delay. 
     "We found your ship, wrecked and adrift in space, and rescued all
who remained alive," he told Kassa. 
     "How many?"
     "Only sixteen of your crew survived, including yourself," Adama
replied. "How many were aboard your ship initially?"
     "We," answered Kassa, after a moment's hesitation, "carried a crew
of three-hundred and sixty-six men, and twenty-four officers."
     "My God," said Adama, as the loss of life sank in. 
     "What of my ship?"
     "We have taken it in tow, Third Officer," replied Adama. "The damage
to it was extreme, but some of our people are aboard her right now,
examining it."
     "When may I be released from here?" he asked, trying to rise.
     "Not for some time," said Doctor Salik, suddenly there. "You have
serious radion poisoning, also serious burns, dehydration, and
still-knitting fractures in both legs. For the moment, sir, you are going
nowhere."
     "No," said Kassa, barking it out like it was an order. "I insist! I
must be..." beep "I must...be..." He slumped back onto the bed,
unconscious. Adama looked up at Salik, whose finger was still on the
sedative button on the bio-monitor. 
     "Thank-you, Doctor," said Adama.
     "Any time, Commander."
     "Commander," said one of the medtechs, holding out a telecom. "The
bridge for you, sir." 


     The scans from the patrol were both illuminating and alarming.
Apparently, neither the Ziklagi vessel nor her crew had survived the
engagement, which was good. But another one, presumably, was on its way
to the site of the battle, which was bad. Unsure of the range of the
Ziklagi scanners but unwilling to take a chance, Adama ordered the Fleet
to change course. A few degrees to port, hopefully would swing them
around the entire area, and they would be missed altogether.
     Hopefully.
     "She's Ziklagi, no doubt," said Wilker, in the War Room, graphics
everywhere. Her configuration is different from the slave runner we
captured, but the scans show that the metal in her hull is virtually
identical. And while there were no survivors, scans did pick up traces of
biological matter. Analysis shows it was Ziklagi DNA."
     "What about the ship's combat capabilities?" asked Captain Apollo.
"They seem formidable." 
     "They are. Although not much bigger than the Gemini, she packs
nearly half the firepower of a Battlestar or a BaseShip. But, without
active energy signatures, we can only speculate at this point as to her
exact potentialities."
     "Have you reviewed the scanner logs from the Nem'lach?" asked Tigh.
     "We are still trying to fully decrypt them," replied the scientist.
"They seem to be mutli-layered."
     "What about the survivors?" asked Adama.
     "Third Officer Kassa is still unconscious," reported Salik. "His
condition is still critical, Commander, although his recuperative powers
seem to be excellent. And our list of survivors is down by one. We lost
one a few centons ago."
     "I see," said Adama. "And the condition of their ship?"
     "Twilly reports that his team has found the main computer core,
Commander," replied Wilker. "Attempting to access. And life-support has
been restored to about a third of the vessel. Our teams will have an
easier time of it surveying the wreck." 
     "Good work, all of you. Now Doctor, I need to know when Kassa can be
revived to help us. We need data on the Ziklagi, and fast."
     "I will do my best, Commander. May I return to my patients?"
     "By all means."
     "Sir," said Wilker, "there may be a shortcut, here."
     "Oh?"


     As usual, Doctor Wilker's lab was just littered with stuff. Parts,
circuits, diagnostic devices of all sorts, he never seemed to run out of
the things. Once inside, he led Adama, Tigh, and Apollo over to a work
bench, where one man was working on a variety of circuitry, his ears
covered with headphones. It took a couple of taps on the shoulder to get
his attention away from the material before him. He yanked the phones
off, which at once blared a hideous cacophony some might call music, and
he at once rose to salute the Commander, but Adama motioned him to sit.
     "Technician Hummer, sir," said the tech, a young fellow, barely out
of his teens it looked, with swarthy skin, and thick curly hair. He spoke
with an accent Adama did not recognize.
     "Hummer?" asked Adama, not sure he'd heard right.
     "Yes, sir," said the other, with a wan smile. "It's short for my
full name, sir. A bit easier for most people."
     "Which is?" asked the Commander.
     "Ah...Humuhumunukunukuapua'a. Sir." The kid smiled apologetically
around his chewing gum. "You see why I use a nickname, sir."
     "I...Yes, I see," said Adama, wishing now that he'd never asked.
"Anyway, what have you gotten, so far?" 
     "Well here," said Hummer, pointing to a bank of circuit boards,
clipped to a diagnostic setup. "This," he turned a switch, "gives us a
reading on the system."
     "Which?' asked Adama, sensing a technobabble orgy coming on if he
wasn't careful.
     "Their cloaking system, sir. The Ziklagi ship. I've just about got
her pinned down. Volpons, frequency, the works. We may be able to figure
out a way to both fully penetrate and jam the system. Make them visible."
     "That will be helpful,' said Tigh. "Forward what you have to Rigel
on the bridge at once."
     "Done," said Hummer, punching some keys. "Uh, sir." 
     "And the rest?"
     Okay, over here," said the tech, rolling his chair to another bench,
next to one of the again-inert captured Cylons. There also lay piles of
seemingly jumbled circuits and electronic what-not. As with the rest,
Adama could make scant sense of any of it, but the kid seemed at home
among it all. He clipped some leads to another board, flipped a few
switches, and a monitor came to life. Data and images began scrolling by
almost to fast to see, but Hummer was up to the challenge. He stopped the
flow, settling on a single set of data. "This is from the data banks we
got from the Ziklagi slaver craft brought back from Boron-Din. It
corresponds to our Warbook, Commander. A catalogue of vessels and their
specifications. Here." He hit a control, and the image swelled to fill
the screen.
     "It matches the scan the patrol brought back of the wreck," said
Apollo.
     "It does indeed," said Hummer. "In fact, it was an entry for the
very same vessel. The Imperial Ziklagi Cruiser Tszi'oosh. One of their
main-line warships, according to this."
     "Lords, look at that," said Apollo, peering at the data scrolling up
the screen. "Her armament is vicious. It would almost be like taking on
ourselves, Commander." 
     "What about the Nem'lach battle logs?" asked Tigh. "Anything yet?"
     "No, those are turning out to be a tough nut to crack, Colonel. And
I've had my hands full with this stuff. I could use some help."
     "What about Sargamesh?" ventured Apollo. "He used to serve on one of
their ships. He might be able to help decrypt the logs."
     "Hey, great idea!" said Hummer. "Uh, sir."
     "So ordered," said Adama. Seeing that all was well in hand, he
turned to go. Then he stopped, a question in his mind. "Technician?"
     "Commander?"
     "Where were you from?"
     "Aquaria, sir. The O'hana Islands. A small archipelago in the Great
Eastern Sea, near the equator. It's the accent, right?"
     "Ah, yes. And..."
     "My name. Right. Everybody wonders about it."
     "I see. Pretty typical?"
     "Oh no, Commander. Most everyone else had long names."
     "Ah."
     "Yeah. My brother was..."
     Beep
     "Bridge to Commander Adama."
     Saved!


     "Omega?" asked Adama, as soon as he was back.
     "Scanner report, sir." He handed Adama a hardcopy. Using both
Rigel's and Hummer's adjustments to the scanners, they had detected
something. Or rather someone. 
     "No mistake?"
     "None, sir. We've run the scans constantly. It's at extreme range,
but holding its position relative to us."
     "So," said Tigh. "We have a shadow."
     "Yes, sir."

CHAPTER FIVE

     Analysis of the alien ship and wreckage continued at a fevered pace,
and yet another of the injured Zohrlochs died during the night. Twilly
and his team had at last found and with Sargamesh's help powered up the
Nem'lach's mainframe. 
     The ship herself was a wonder, as Shadrach, Twilly, and a number of
Warriors moved through her. Though small in comparison to a Battlestar,
it had been packed with firepower. Within two days, Shadrach had
restarted the main reactor, almost half the ship functioning on it's own
internal power, and bit by bit, her systems were coming back. Adama had
decided that, given the unknowns in this new region of space, firepower
was a desperately needed commodity, and the new ship would be added to
their arsenal.
     As would more charts. Once decrypted, the Zohrloch database gave
them a new and somewhat disturbing view of the way ahead. On the edges of
the galactic arm, the Zohrloch Empire had carved out a succulent slice of
stars, an area about equal to that controlled by the Cylons. At over
13,000 light-yahren distant from their current position however, it was
not on the Fleet's path, but regions scouted by Zohrloch ships
intersected with territory apparently occupied by the Ziklagi race. 
     "They are, it seems, an empire of warriors," said Tigh, in the
Council Chamber. As feared, Sire Antipas had called a meeting, and to
further safeguard his position, Adama had received approval to let Tigh
issue a formal report to the members. "A race not too dissimilar to
ourselves, but with a culture almost religiously devoted to battle and
conquest."
     "And the other?" asked Sire Domra. "The ones who captured some of
our people before?"
     "As you have seen," said Adama, "utterly inhuman. Both in
appearance, and in behavior. They traffic in slaves, kidnapping them from
any and all sources, as you have read in Lieutenant Jolly's report from
Boron-Din, as well as my own. And, we are moving closer to their
territory."
     "Isn't that rather foolhardy, Adama?" asked Domra. Adama spared a
moment's gaze at Antipas. As usual, he was sitting, eyes almost
predatory, watching his fellow Councilors. 
     "We have taken precautions, Sire," answered Adama. "Scanner
modifications are proceeding, as is our study of their ship and
technology. We are not doing nothing."
     "But to knowingly trespass into the territory of a race so
bellicose. It begs disaster, Commander."
     "We have no other choice, Sire," said Adama, trying to keep the sigh
as quiet as possible. "Turning back is impossible, and the known extent
of their space is such that going around it would add an enormous amount
of time to our voyage."
     "How long?" asked Sire Montrose.
     "At least a yahren, at our speed, Sire. Possibly more," answered
Tigh at Adama's nod, indicating the required route on the plotting board
behind Adama's seat. "As you can see, it covers a wide swath of space
ahead, but it is not evenly spread out. Going around could add perhaps
five hundred or more light-yahrens to our trip, before we could return
our current heading." 
     "And if we encounter the ships of this Ziklagi Empire?" asked Siress
Lydia. "Are we going to be able to protect our people from them?" Adama
found himself slightly intrigued that the elegant Siress had injected
herself into the discussion. For more than a yahren, Lydia had been the
most passively silent member of the Council, but ever since a certain
matter of a sectar ago, when she had taken part in a secret hearing that
only she, Adama and Antipas knew the details of (as well as the subject
of that hearing, a woman known only as "Claudia" to the rest of the
Fleet), it seemed as if she had decided to finally take her job as a
Council member seriously.
     "We are making every effort to avoid any contact with them, Siress.
Our course has been shifted slightly, and we are at present passing
through the arm of a thick nebula, which should help obscure their
scanners, in the event any of their ships come within range." The Colonel
looked at Adama as he spoke the last words. The Commander had decided not
to tell the Council of the shadow they had picked up.
     "We cannot hide in nebulae forever, though," added Domra,
brilliantly. "Has any attempt been made to initiate contact with these
people, and let then know we mean no harm to them?"
     Adama stared at Domra as if the man had lost his mind. Letting the
Ziklagi know that they were even in the area was almost as insane as
sending a signal back to the Cylons. Or greeting the Eastern Alliance
Enforcers with open (and empty) arms. Sometimes Adama wondered if Domra's
head was permanently...
     "That would seem to be counterproductive," said Sire Gellar, "will
so large a civilian population. We want at all costs to avoid confronting
a race so bent on enslavement and killing."
     "I agree," said Sire Anton, nodding at his brother councilor.
"Stealth would seem the better course for now."
     "The Commander is correct," said Siress Tinia, one of Adama's few
allies in the political sphere. "We will deal with these aliens when and
if the situation demands it. Until then, we must keep a low profile."
     "I presume some plans have been formulated for contact, if and when
it occurs?" asked Domra, stiffly.
     "We are at yellow alert, Sire. If the Ziklagi wish to talk, I am
more than willing to do so. I am even willing to open relations with
them, at a diplomatic level, if they wish to treat in good faith. But I
have no desire to meet them in a pitched battle, regardless of who has
the most firepower."
     "Exactly," said Antipas, his voice smooth and reasonable, yet
reminding Adama inescapably somehow of a serpent that had bitten him as a
small boy. "Our first concern, as Sire Gellar points out, is to preserve
the lives of our people. It would seem that our fears for the moment are
groundless, Sire Domra."
     "I pray you are correct, Antipas," answered the older Sire. "Last
time nearly resulted in mass starvation."
     "A danger averted due to the Commander's quick thinking, and
decisive action," said Tinia. She turned to Colonel Tigh. "Colonel, how
long before we actually cross this people's frontier?"
     "As near as we can tell, Siress," said Tigh, moving back to the
plotting board, "from the incomplete data we have, we shall cross the
border of their space in approximately twenty-seven centars and six
centons." He pointed to a line across the board. "We are of course
continuing to fly Viper patrols."
     "Excellent," said Sire Montrose, nodding. "Now, Commander, what is
the state of the other aliens? The one's rescued from the wrecked ship?" 
     "Since being rescued, two have died of their injuries, Sire
Montrose. I am waiting for a medical update from Doctor Salik as we
speak."


     Third Officer Kassa was now sitting up in bed, and looking
considerably better. For a man who was blue, anyway. His haughty aire was
for the moment damped down, but still evident. He took a long drink of
water, then leaned back before responding.
     "We were two-hundred and twenty-nine days at maximum hyperdrive
factor out from the Imperial frontier, exploring this region of space,
when we detected an unknown vessel at the extreme limit of our scanners.
We prepared for battle, and moved to investigate."
     "You went to battle stations before identifying her?" asked Adama.
Once more, Kassa looked at him as if he were retarded, but at last
nodded. 
     "Scan Officer Gudea identified it as Ziklagi vessel, and we hailed
it. No sooner had we brought our weapons to full, when they quartered in
and opened fire upon us." 
     "They never replied to hails?"
     "No. Not once. They just fired, so we returned fire. We destroyed
most of their weapons arrays and their auxiliary thrusters, and they
knocked out our forward turret. Then a torpedo blast ruptured our hull,
the rest of the guns were off-line, and we lost most of our power. The
Captain brought us around as best we could maneuver, and we rammed her. I
remember nothing after that."
     "Well, you did it," said Apollo. "The other ship was sliced in half,
and we detected no survivors in the wreckage."
     "Excellent!" said Korl, assisting the Languatrons with the
translating. He spoke words too fast for the machine to follow, and Kassa
actually smiled.
     "What happened afterwards?" asked Kassa.
     "Your ship drifted for some days, until we discovered it," replied
Adama. "We now have her in tow, with a small engineering crew aboard."
     "And my crew?"
     "Down to fourteen survivors, I'm afraid," said Salik. "Two of your
men were far, far too badly injured even for our medicine to save them.
I'm sorry."
     "Sorry?" asked Kassa, face puzzled. "By all the gods, why should you
be sorry, Human?"
     "I am a doctor, sir," replied Salik, voice going crisp, but keeping
his annoyance under control. "It is both my calling and my duty to treat
the injured, and heal the sick."
     "And you fight that war with the weapons of your calling, yes. But
no one is invincible. If one is defeated, then it is part of war's
fortunes. Azgul's teeth, one should never be 'sorry' at the fortunes of
war. Is a disease or an injury 'sorry' when you are victorious?" Salik
shook his head, and looked away. 
     "It would appear we have very different ways of looking at things,
Third Officer Kassa," said Adama, also annoyed at the rudeness of the
man. 
     "Yes, it does, Commander." He slowly rose up, and got to his feet,
contemptuously batting away Cassie's proffered hand. "Might I see my
men?"
     "Of course. This way," said Cassie, ever the professional, teeth
gritted, and led him to the autopsy room. There, the three dead Zohrlochs
were laid out. Their senior officer stood over them a few moments, lost
in his alien thoughts, then he reached down to his belt. He wore only a
patient's gown, his savaged uniform gone. He scowled, looked up at Adama,
then turned to Korl. 
     "Have you a knife?" he asked. "His is gone."
     "All weapons were removed when you were brought in here," said
Salik.
     "Please give me one."
     "Might I ask why?" replied Salik.
     "Commander Adama, I do not wish to seem ingracious, but could you
please instruct your minion not to question everything that I say? I
require a knife. A scalpel, any sharp instrument."
     "Very well," said Adama, and Salik handed the man a short blade. He
took it, sparing Salik an annoyed glance, and asked for the light to be
turned up. It was done, and he looked at Korl, and the two joined hands
over the corpse of one of the dead men. Throwing back their heads, they
began to scream, almost like an animal shriek. Not once, but four times,
once in each direction. That done, first Kassa, then Korl, took the
proffered blade and cut their faces, making long thin wounds below each
eye. The azure blood ran down their cheeks and onto the bodies, as the
two chanted a slow, sonorous dirge. They did the same for the other men.
     Then, it was done, and they headed back for the main area. With his
physician's eye, Salik noted how quickly the wounds had stopped bleeding.
     "What the Hades Hole was that?" asked Apollo, looking at his father.
     "A farewell to the dead," said Korl, the blood still staining  his
cheeks. "The shouts are to let the Guardians of the Four Winds know that
the spirit of a warrior now walks the other world. And the demons to
beware."
     "And, the..." Cassie drew her fingers down her face, her expression
questioning. Apparently Korl was not quite so dismissive of her as the
other. 
     "It is how we mourn. The blood is to nourish the spirit for it's
journey, and it is not seemly for a warrior to weep with the tears of
women." He moved to follow Kassa, but stopped, and with the faintest hint
of a smile, told her: "Perhaps it is fortunate we are not in ancient
times. Then, one also danced naked around the departed's bier, as they
sang the dirge." Then he left them.
     "These guys are just too fracking weird!" muttered Apollo. Adama
scowled at him. Cassie looked at him, then Salik, but said nothing.


     The newcomers, and their battle with the Ziklagi slavers, were by
now the talk of the Fleet. Even aboard the Rising Star, where Apollo had
managed to wangle a dinner date with Sheba in the Astral Lounge, it
seemed to be the main topic of conversation. After first discussing
matters related to their sealing plans, as well as informal talk about
Boxey and his schoolwork, the subject of the newcomers finally came up in
their conversation.
     "So, what do you think, Apollo?" she asked him, as he sipped his
mineral water. "This new potential enemy."
     "I'm hoping we can just get through this region of space, and avoid
any serious conflict. We've lost so many people as it is since fleeing
the Colonies. The Cylons are enemy enough."
     "They seem worse than the Cylons," she replied. "And so utterly...
alien on top of that."
     "Yes. I keep praying we haven't exchanged one set of merciless
enemies for another set of merciless enemies. And these Zohrlochs. My
God."
     "Bad?"
     "Could be." He told her of Kassa's words and actions in Life
Station. Sheba just shook her head. She'd chosen the Warrior's path in
life partly out of an ingrained sense of duty, seeing her people had no
choice with a seemingly infinite foe arrayed against them, but mostly
because of the fascinated awe she'd felt growing up the last surviving
child of a great military family, and listening to her father, Commander
Cain, tell the stories of his exploits. It had inspired her with a desire
to follow his footsteps and be the best at the toughest job that could be
asked of anyone in Colonial society. But in spite of that, her admiration
for her father and her decision to become a Warrior, had never amounted
to a love of war and combat in her mind. Indeed, there were many moments
in her life when the sheer weariness of her duties, and disgust at all
the seemingly endless death, could weigh her down and make her wish she'd
never laid eyes on a weapon, and could just crawl into a fantasy world of
peace and harmony, and be like the women of ancient times that she
remembered from the bedtime stories her mother had read to her when she
was little. Even her father, despite his instinctive ability to thrive in
a combat situation like nowhere else, was capable of feeling that heavy
burden at times. She had seen him so broken and destroyed by guilt after
the horrible death of her mother, Bethany, and the many yahrens of not
being there for her. Even the great Commander Cain, whom some people had
at times accused of loving war with an almost orgiastic obsession, to the
point of needing the war the way people needed food, or an addict needed
drugs, had his limits. 
     Maybe knowing those limits is the real key to our humanity.. Knowing
how to do the tough jobs when you have to, but keeping that one space of
your heart open to wishing you never had to do it again. Lose it, and you
become as cold and unfeeling as a programmed Cylon.
     The parallels with these Zohrlochs were just a bit too close for her
comfort.
     Aren't there any peaceful people in the universe? she wondered.
Anywhere?
     "Well, at least there's one thing we can be thankful for, here," she
said at last.
     "Yes?"
     "Count Iblis isn't behind this." She'd dropped her voice to almost
sepulchral levels. "I'm sure of that."
     "How?"
     "These are creatures of flesh and blood, albeit odd flesh and blood.
If it were..." she looked around, and leaned closer, "if it were Iblis,
he'd somehow be trying to beguile us. He'd turn up in person, offering
something, in exchange for his protection, or his rule, or gift,
so-called."
     "With that malignant smile of his. Yes, you've got a point. This
doesn't smell like Iblis' work." Apollo took another sip. "For which I'm
glad. I don't want him popping up, this close to our sealing. In fact, I
don't ever want him popping up again. Period."
     "Same here. I still have bad dreams about...that ship, Apollo. All
those...those things we saw." She shuddered as grotesque images from the
haunted derelict she and Apollo had encountered flitted through her
memory. Images of twisted, hideous beings, hellish things, many of whom
had once been the all-too Human crew of the lost Battlestar Callisto.
"Eerily real ones."
     "You too?" She nodded. "Well, I'm certainly glad to see that I'm not
alone." He polished off his water, and felt her hand on his. He lowered
his glass, and looked at her.
     "You're never alone, Apollo," she said, eyes brimming with sweetness
and promise. "Not ever."

CHAPTER SIX

     Despite discreet sweeps of both the bridge and his quarters, Boomer
found no more bugging devices. While Adama was pleased at these results,
he was also furious that someone would dare to bug the Fleet Commander on
his own bridge. The more he turned it over in his mind, the more and more
it felt like Antipas' work. Who else after all, but a political foe,
would have a reason to monitor the Commander? The man had serious
ambitions, that much was clear. If only they were clearer to Adama. If
only he had solid proof of his suspicions.
     Suspicions Boomer could do nothing as yet to alleviate. The Viper
pilot had gone over the bugging device as thoroughly as he could. It had
been taken from a portable comm unit lifted from ship's stores he had
discovered; that much the serial number on the circuit board made clear.
It had also been modified, altered both in range and in frequency.
     "Gamma?" asked Adama, meeting him in the old Celestial Dome, far
away from prying eyes and ears. And also a place that the Commander
noticed had fallen into considerable neglect over the last few sectars,
the result of his order to kill normal air-flow to the area after Sheba
had once chosen to go AWOL from the Life Station by retreating to this
place. In a way though, that decision to emphasize its lack of use (and
save on air scrubbers), was paying a dividend now by offering he and
Boomer the perfect place to meet.
     "Yes, sir. A long-obsolete channel, and one we normally never
monitor of course. Someone wanted to be certain the signal would never be
picked up by our commsuite, Commander, or our internal sensors."
     "What kind of range?"
     "Hard to say with these modifications, but I'm thinking not much
beyond, oh...halfway to the Fleet's perimeter. If that. Any more power
running through it and the finals might fry."
     "So, our eavesdropper can't be very far away then." The Commander
was silent for a few moments, considering all this. "Any clues as to who
might have done this?" He pointed at the small circuit. 
     "Almost anyone with a basic knowledge of communications circuits
might be able to do it. Any primary School graduate, really. And normally
one uses needle nose pliers and a magnifier for the delicate work.
But..." he held up a hand as Adama was about to speak, "I did find two
fingerprint fragments on the board."
     "And?"
     "One belonged to a certain Technician Breyer."
     "And?"
     "According to records, he worked at the factory that manufactured
the communits. He retired six yahrens ago, and didn't make it when the
Colonies were destroyed. The other I haven't identified yet, sir."
     "Not in the computer?"
     "I don't know, but I'm going to need to use the computer quite a
bit, and I have to be very careful. I need to do some fiddling, and if
the owner of the other print is aboard the Fleet, I don't want any flags
going up and warning them they've been identified before we can move in,
sir."
     "Boomer, have you ever considered running for the Council?"
     "I'll stick to being shot at by Cylons, Commander," chuckled Boomer.
"My father was a city councilman when I was a kid. I saw all the politics
I ever want to."
     "I can imagine. All right, get back to work. I'll be on the bridge.
You can use the computer access in my quarters. I'll leave it keyed open
for you. You should have all the privacy you need to get the job done."
     "Yes, sir. I don't suspect him of anything, but Corporal Lomas tends
to get a bit chatty, or to hover at times."
     "Understood." He rose, and headed towards the hatch. 
     "Uh, Commander?"
     "Yes?"
     "I didn't know you'd ever been up here before."
     "Not since my first secton aboard, Boomer."
     "Ah. I though Apollo had it locked. Keyed to his thumbprint."
     "I'm the Commander," smiled Adama, and Boomer laughed softly.


     Colonel Tigh watched one of the monitors as the latest recon patrol
landed. He checked the roster; Ensign Cree was returning, having found
nothing, with his student, Cadet Paris. Tigh smiled a bit, recalling the
time Cadet Cree, late of the late Battlestar Columbia, had crashed on
Arcta, forced down by a Cylon patrol, triggering some rather unorthodox
behavior on the part of his instructor, Starbuck. Now an instructor and
decorated Warrior himself, Cree was more than justifying Starbuck's faith
in him.
     "Patrol now aboard, Commander," he told Adama, turning to look at
the Commander. 
     "Excellent, Colonel. Inform the pilots debriefing will commence
immediately."
     "Sir." Tigh turned back to the instruments. "Commander, we will
cross the Ziklagi frontier in one centon. Mark."
     "Defensive stations?"
     "All stations report ready, sir."
     "Omega?"
     "All channels open, Commander. Languatron engaged."
     "Athena?"
     "Except for our shadow, scanners are clear, Commander. Nebular
interference is limiting our systems, but so far no detectable ships
within range."
     "Good. Let's hope it stays that way." 
     Adama watched the scanner, as the frontier edged ever closer.
Nebular material was interacting with the field around the alien vessel,
creating a tenuous, but very real trail. A visible trail. This allowed
Rigel to further refine the scanners as the two traveled together. Then,
the Galactica crossed it, the other ships of the Fleet following her into
this new and potentially hostile territory. He watched, unaware that he
was holding his breath, until the very last ship had crossed the line. 
     They were here.
     "Status of pursuit vessel?" he asked.
     "Holding at twenty-eight thousand, off our starboard quarter,
Commander," replied Athena. "Still matching us for course and speed."
     "Alright, notify me of any change. I'll be with the pi..." Barely
had he begun, when the scanners beeped. "What?"
     "She's changed course, Commander," said Athena. "Now closing on the
Galactica!" 
     Adama watched the scanners, as the alien ship moved out of her
previous vector, to draw closer to the Battlestar. He signaled Red Alert,
and was about to order batteries to open fire, when the Ziklagi ship
slowed, settling into a new position.
     Directly "above" them, barely a thousand metrons away. Adama studied
the tactical plot, and swore softly. From that position, they had a clear
shot at many vital areas. 
     "No indication of fluctuations in her energy signatures, sir,"
reported Rigel. "She doesn't seem about to attack Commander."
     "But preparing, if the order comes," said Tigh, next to his CO. 
     "Sir!" It was Rigel again. "Another contact."
     "Identity?"
     "At extreme range, and apparently cloaked as well, sir, from the
Dopplon drift rate. But it appears to match the first ship, Commander."
     "Moving in for the kill," said Tigh. "I'll wager they intend to
englobe us, then attack, sir."
     "No wagers here, Colonel. I concur completely. Rigel."
     "Commander?"
     "ETA on the second vessel?"
     "At our relative speeds, it will intersect the Fleet in...four point
oh one centars, Commander."
     "Thank you." 


     Following his debriefing of the pilots, Adama paid yet another visit
to Wilker's lab. Technician "Hummer" was still there, looking
bleary-eyed, but still hard at work. He had notes piled high around him,
and about a dozen or so empty java cups, as he continued his tests and
examinations of the salvaged alien circuits. As before, Adama had to
thump him on the shoulder, to get him to remove his headphones. 
     "Well, in theory, yes," said Hummer, rolling his chair across the
room to grab a datapad off another bench. He rolled back and activated
it. "It should be possible to adapt these to our systems, sir. But I'll
some need serious time."
     "How much?"
     "Uhh...sectons, Commander. I mean, Doctor Wilker and I can probably
duplicate this system, but then we have to design and rig a phase-mode
converter, to handle the match up of the different frequencies and
current levels, then run sims galore before we even attempt to tie it in
to our own deflection systems."
     "No other way?"
     "No sir," said Hummer, shaking his head emphatically. "To screen the
Galactica effectively against their scanners would take huge amounts of
power. Assuming the bench tests and everything else work out, the
deflection grid's main emitter diodes are the only ones in the whole
Fleet that could reasonably handle that much power running through them.
And one thing this system eats, sir, is power. Loads of it." He showed
the Commander a pile of computations. Adama explained the current
tactical situation to the tech, and he nodded. He took the datapad,
punched in some more numbers, and plugged it into one terminal. Soon,
weird colored graphics were scrolling up the screen. "Alright, sir. First
sim in progress."
     "Good. Keep me posted, please."
     "I will, sir." He turned back to his work, then swirled around
again. "Sir, could you arrange to have real-time scanner data fed down to
me here? It could help speed things along."
     "I shall, Technician." 
     "Thanks, Commander."


     "And you do not attack?" asked Kassa, that midday centar in Adama's
quarters. He had invited the sufficiently recovered Zohrloch officers to
share a meal with him.
     "Not yet. I do not wish to ignite hostilities if I do not have to,"
replied Adama. "I am responsible for the lives of thousands of civilians
crammed aboard old and in some cases barely serviceable transports. Not
warships. I do not jest when I tell you some of them were literally
rescued from scrapyards. If I can get across this space without fighting,
I will do so. Besides, the fact that we have managed to partially
penetrate their cloaking screen is a tactical advantage I do not wish to
reveal unless I absolutely must."
     "I see," said the Zohrloch officer, if a bit...sadly. "Would that it
were different. Still, the warrior must have the wisdom to know when to
attack, and when to forebare." He took another bite of the meal, a
Pisceran squab in a highly spiced butter and wine sauce. Fortunately,
these aliens did not require some bizarre and shudder-inducing food.
Doctor Paye had determined that, except for some elevated copper and
sulpher requirements, they could get by on Human nutrients and primaries
quite adequately. 
     Of course, cooked food...
     "My compliments," said Kassa. "I have not tasted genuinely
unreprocessed food since before leaving Eridu."
     "Our Agro ships, as well as livestock carriers, have striven to
preserve as wide as possible variety of the food species we knew back
home. We still missed bringing many things when we fled the Colonies."
     "Yes, your war with these Cylons. Dishonorable creatures."
     "How was this war lost?" asked Ubar-Zim kor Scordge, a young petty
officer from the wrecked ship. "Mere machines? Robots?"
     "Cylons, being machines, can be built in limitless quantities, Petty
Officer Ubar-Zim. We cannot. That was our downfall." Adama decided, at
least for now, to forego any mention of the treason of Baltar. 
     "I see. Well, you seem to have done well, bringing your people this
far in order to survive."
     "They are a remarkable people in many ways," supplied Korl. 
     "Now," said Adama, "if I may. What more can you tell me of these
Ziklagi slavers?"
     "How did you meet them?" asked Kassa. Adama told him of the
encounter with the slavers near the planet Boron-Din, after the
near-total loss of the Agro Ship One's power systems, and forced
diversion to the nearest sun in a desperate attempt to save the Fleet
from starvation. Kassa was silent, taking it all in. 
     "They will be seeking you now," said Kassa. "They will not forget
such an affront."
     "We have no desire for any conflict with them," said Adama. "We have
enough enemies already."
     "They will not see it that way, Commander," said Sargamesh, silent
until now. "You exist, therefore you are an enemy."
     "That is insane," said Apollo, next to his father. "We have no
designs on their territory or property."
     "Agreed," said Sargamesh. "But to them, the universe consists of
Ziklag, and everywhere else. And everywhere else exists only to come
under the heel of Ziklag."
     "Sounds like the Cylons all over again," said Apollo.
     "There do seem to be similarities, yes," said Kassa. "But the
Ziklagi need living slaves, to do the work they are too lazy themselves
to do."
     "How did you first come into conflict with them?" asked Adama.
     "It was several of our...uh, what you call yahren ago," said Kassa.
"But Sargamesh knows more." He looked at the other Zohrloch, and Adama
noted it was not the most amicable of gazes.
     "We lost contact with our colony on Edzhip Four, the most distant
world in our space," said Sargamesh. "Due to other concerns, as well as
distance, it was nearly a full yahren before a ship arrived to
investigate. They found the colony to have been obliterated, and hundreds
of colonists slaughtered. Many were missing. A few survivors in hiding
told what had happened. An unidentified vessel had quartered in, and
without warning opened fire on the main settlement, killing nearly a
thousand people in an eyeblink. Our people fought back, but they had the
advantage of surprise. Most of the survivors were herded aboard shuttles,
and taken away. From the bodies of the attackers who were killed in the
ground action, and one survivor left behind that was captured, it was
learned that it was a species unknown to us which was responsible."
Sargamesh stopped, and took another sip of wine. He found he was enjoying
this Virgonian vintage very much. It had come from a cousin of Adama's, a
vintner, who had sent him a couple of cases for a natal day present the
yahren before the Holocaust.
     "What actions were taken?" asked Apollo, ever the military mind.
From the other's tone and smile, he did not imagine that the captured
Ziklagi's interrogation had been at all pleasant.
     "All available data was gathered, including the scanner logs from
the Colony, tactical analyses were made, and a specially equipped scout
vessel was launched, to seek out the invaders. This was the ship Korl and
myself were on, when we at last encountered the enemy, after almost a
yahren of travel in this direction at high speed, several of our centars
ago. We transmitted everything we could possibly learn, before we were
attacked."
     "And lost most of your crew," said Kassa, softly. Adama decided it
was the sort of softness best associated with a blunt knife. These two
had a history, he was sure. Sargamesh looked back, but said nothing.
     Yes, a history. They hate each other.
     "We were attacked by a large ship," said Korl, as if to smooth over
whatever feathers had been ruffled. "A medium cruiser at the very least,
and we inflicted heavy damage to her. Despite all this, they had the
victory, as you have heard." He looked as if the very words tasted bad.
Given his culture, Adama decided, they probably did. "We alone survived,
and ended up on Boron-Din, until your people rescued us, Commander."
     "Our pleasure to release others from slavery," said Adama, trying to
sound as soothing as he could. "Was there anything else you learned
before you were attacked?"
     "We made extensive scans of this region," said Sargamesh, "which we
transmitted in realtime back home. But our scanner logs were either lost
with our ship, or taken by the enemy."
     "They were received," said Kassa, voice as pleasant and as supple as
a corpse. "There is a base, essentially an enormous space station,
approximately nine days travel from where we were attacked. We were
headed for it when we were intercepted."
     "As near as we could determine," said Korl, "it serves both as a
military outpost, and a processing center for their commercial and slave
traffic in this sector. We got close enough to make some basic sensor
sweeps, but that was all. We were detected, and..."
     "I see," said Adama. "Well, my engineers have informed me that there
are still sections of your ship's computer that remain encrypted. It
requires codes that we do not have."
     "I shall be more than glad to supply my personal codes, Commander,"
said Kassa. "However, the Captain's codes died with him. I cannot access
those levels of security."
     "Well, we'll just have to keep trying, then," said Adama. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

     No sooner had Adama returned to the bridge, then Twilly called from
the battered Nem'lach. With Kassa's help, and some mathematical
extrapolation, he reported success in at last penetrating the security
codes protecting the ship's computer data. Everything was now open for
their scrutiny. Adama ordered it at once downloaded to translation and
analysis, then rechecked the scanners.
     Their remora was still there, exactly matching them for course and
speed, maintaining the same distance. The second ship was still
approaching, and would reach IP with them in just under one centar. 
     "Status of the nebula?" he asked Tigh.
     "Beginning to thin, sir. Scan indicates we should clear the nebula
in approximately one and a half centars, present speed."
     "Just after the next ship arrives. They certainly have it timed
well," said the Commander. "No nebular interference to get in the way of
their targeting."
     "Clever. What do you want to do?"
     Adama did not at once answer, silently weighing his options.
Changing course was no good. They could not outrun the enemy, with the
Fleet to think of. Speed up? Hardly. The Ziklagi ships seemed as fast as
any Colonial vessel, and once of them more arrived...
     "Slow the Fleet, Colonel."
     "Sir?"
     "Slow the Fleet. Bring all ships to dead slow. We need time, and I
intend to try and buy us some."
     "Yes, sir," said Tigh, beginning dimly to see his CO's dust at last.
He turned to Omega, and relayed the order. "I'd give a lot to know what
their commander is thinking right now, sir."
     "That's both of us, Tigh. Both of us."


     That particular individual was at that very moment watching his prey
on his ship's main screen. Ever since learning about these strange
newcomers, Command had been screaming for information. Well, now, despite
the blasted obscuring nebula playing havoc with his sensors, they at last
had something, and it was not comforting.
     This ship, whatever it was called and from wherever it hailed, was
unlike anything Over-Colonel Xonarr had ever seen. Plotting back along
its course, he had learned that it came from a region of space completely
unknown to his people. Far, far larger than any ship ever built by any
race known to the Empire, it quite frankly frightened him. Obviously a
ship of war, it outgunned his own vessel by more than two to one, at
least in terms of gunnery. It seemed to be armed with some sort of laser
weaponry, rather than his own standard plasma cannon, but of a power
level that seemed to match anything he had. That, and the fact that it
carried several squadrons of single-kfsh fighter craft, and that its
maneuverability was unknown, made it an open question as to who would
emerge alive from battle. It was firepower personified, and from what
little data they had so far, her commander had no qualms about using that
firepower.
     When the Nooshgah arrived, however, the balance might begin to tip,
if and when the order came to engage this monster. In the meantime, he
would continue to track her, cloaked, gaining such information as he
could about these intruders. As his thoughts wandered, so did his gaze,
to those vessels in the warship's wake. As near as they could tell, they
were for the most part unarmed craft. Transports, barges, cargo vessels,
crammed to the bulkheads with passengers. A few of them sported what
looked to be makeshift weapon's emplacements, mounted wherever a spot
presented itself, but they were manifestly not warships. Their hulls were
thin by comparison, pitted with many weapons hits, and few of them seemed
to have much in the way of defensive shielding, or the power to support
it. All but a few looked to be old. What in the Pit were they doing here?
     Refugees? he wondered. A massive warship, followed by over 200
smaller, nakedly vulnerable rustbuckets? As he turned this over in his
mind, this explanation began to make more and more sense to him.
Survivors, from some far away alien war, fleeing across the cosmos,
seeking refuge. Perfect.
     Yes, perfect. With this many targets, the prize money would be
almost beyond counting. Captured alien craft, captured slaves...Xegex's
left foot, it fairly made one's head spin to contemplate! Money equaled
power, and once both the prestige and the cold hard cash was his, he
could begin to play his own tune in certain circles. Certain people,
certain interests, would have no choice but to at last sit up and take
notice of Xonarr. The Chancellor, Pit, even the Triumvirate would...
     "My Lord," said an underling, and Xonarr turned. He narrowed his
eye.
     "Speak."
     "Intruder fleet is slowing, sir."
     "Slowing?" replied Xonarr slowly, unsure he had heard correctly.
     "Yes, My Lord. Velocity curve down two points, and growing. Dropping
below point five of light."
     "Is something wrong? Is he damaged in some fashion?" asked Xonarr,
moving out of his seat to look at the instruments. He studied the scanner
graphics, clenching and unclenching his middle hand.
     "No indications of damage or any such, My Lord. The alien ships have
just slowed. Speed down by almost ninety percent."
     "Helm!" he shouted, turning. "Are we continuing to match them?"
     "We have compensated for their drop in speed, Lord."
     "Good." Xonarr leaned close, studying the scanners again, then
looked at the image of the massive vessel on his screen. "What is he up
to?" he whispered. "What in the Pit is he doing?"
     "Unknown, My Lord," replied the other.
     "I was not asking you," snapped Xonarr. "Steady as she goes, helm.
Continue scanning. Communications!"
     "My Lord?"
     "Contact Command. Immediately!"
     "My Lord."
     "What?"
     "Receiving a signal, My Lord," said the communications officer.
"From the intruder Fleet."
     "What sort of signal? Is he hailing us? What of our cloak?"
     "Cloaking system still functioning, My Lord. All indicators within
tolerances. No, My Lord. It is a faint, simple radio energy pulse." The
officer put it on the main speakers. True, it was a slow, fairly weak
pulse, repeating regularly, and on a Ziklagi frequency.
     "Can you locate the exact source?" demanded Xonarr. 
     "Attempting, My Lord. But the nebular interference is playing havoc
with the equipment."
     "Continue trying. When the Nooshgah arrives, coordinate with them if
needs be."
     "My Lord."
     "And get me Command!"


     "Commander," said Athena suddenly. "Picking up a transmission from
the intruder vessel."
     "Are they hailing us?"
     "No sir. It is primarily directed out of the nebula, towards unknown
space. Part of the signal is reflecting back off the ionized gases.
That's why we're getting any of it." She hit a few controls, running the
transmission through the main computer. "It's encrypted, Commander.
Attempting to decrypt."
     "Commander!" cried Rigel, from down in "The Pit". Adama left
Athena's post, and moved towards the other woman. She indicated the
screen in front of her. "Another signal, sir."
     "Another signal? What sort?"
     "It's in the Gamma band,' she pointed to her screen, where the
signal was being broken down and analyzed by the equipment. "A
long-discarded channel. And very close, too."
     "How close?" 
     "Within the confines of the Fleet, Commander." She turned up the
volume on her machinery. It was a steady, hissing pulse, repeating
exactly every 2.667 millicentons.
     "Could it be coming from the Ziklagi vessel?" Adama asked her, the
fearful conclusion coming to him. She twiddled the equipment a bit more. 
     "No. I'm triangulating with the Celestra and the Century right now."
Another pause. "No, the signal is originating from a point....Commander,
it's originating from one of our own ships!" 
     "Which one?"
     "Hard to say, sir." Rigel put a graphic up, showing each ship in the
Fleet in formation. "It's definitely in this area, sir," she said,
indicating an area from the Prison Barge, to the Gemini, the Hegal, and
the Rising Star. In all, over a dozen ships. "The nebula is interfering
with our scans, sir. The signal is not of a consistent strength."
     "I see. Rigel, call Lieutenant Boomer to my quarters at once. And
keep on this. Anything new, relay it to my quarters."
     "Yes, sir. Sir, you realize what this signal is of course."
     "Yes I do. It's a homing beacon. See if you can find a way to block
it. Without being obvious."
     "Yes, sir."
     Adama moved to Tigh, and filled him in. Tigh was furious.
     "Someone might just as well have painted a target on our hull."
     "Yes. And I think I know who, Colonel."


     Chief Twilly watched his people with pride, as they went about their
work on the Zohrloch vessel. In just a few days, they had restored more
than 30% of the ship's damaged systems to operational status, sealed
almost all the breaches in her hull, and made most of the ship habitable
again. True, it would take a space dock, a full crew, and probably a full
yahren to return the ship to her original condition, but even so they
hadn't done badly.
     That, and they were learning a lot from an engineering standpoint.
Alien technologies, new and intriguing metal alloys, star charts of huge
swaths of the galaxy never mapped save by ground-based telescopes long
ago. It was all enough to make his head spin, and even to forget, for a
few centars, which woman it was he was going to dally with next.
     "Excellent," he said, as the men with torches finished cutting away
the last bit of the Nem'lach's crumpled bow section. His people had
sealed all the bulkheads forward, and now the useless bow was sliced
away, to be sent to the foundry ship for recycling.
     "Your people are most skilled," said Kassa, watching the operation
from the control room. The Zohrloch vessel, in order to be towed in a
situation like the Fleet's was not on the end of a tether, or held by
some electronic beams. She had been tugged and nudged under the
Battlestar, inboard of the port landing/launch bay. Once a cowling had
been rigged, the ship was held fast with cables and latches, firmly
attached to the Battlestar's underside, and then mated to an airlock.
This configuration was something the huge warships had been designed for,
to take in and effect repairs on their smaller sisters too battle damaged
to make it home on their own. Since fleeing the Colonies, it had only
been used once, to facilitate the scrapping of the wrecked Spica. Now,
those sections were busy again, cocooning the Nem'lach until she was fit
to fly on her own once more.
     "We've had to keep those skills honed, just to keep the Fleet
together," replied Twilly. "What with old dilapidated ships, Cylon
attacks, and every kind of emergency repair you can think of, we can't
afford to let our skills slide."
     "And you have succeeded. Like the warrior who must always practice.
I must say, you also seem remarkably well supplied with resources for a
refugee fleet, Engineer."
     "A few sectons back, we encountered a solar system incredibly rich
in many of the vital minerals we needed. We took the time to gather
everything we could, including a couple of derelict ships to replace ones
we've lost."
     "Fortuitous," said Kassa, watching a shuttle begin to tow the
severed bow section away towards the foundry ship. 
     "What was this system?" asked Sargamesh.
     "Some place called...uh, Ki. It had been advanced once, but had
relapsed into primitive times. Still, it gave us the fuel and materials
we needed to keep the Fleet going. We have to resupply as best we can.
Lords willing, it will be a long time before we run thin again."
     "Lords?" asked Kassa. "Who are these 'Lords' I often hear spoken of?
I thought your governmental system was an elective one."
     "Yes it is, now. 'Lords' refer to our very ancient rulers, whom we
call The Lords of Kobol. Kobol was the planet our ancestors originally
came from, long before the worlds we call the Colonies were settled, or
we ever encountered the Cylons." Twilly gave them a short lesson in
Colonial history, and the Zohrlochs nodded. 
     "And this Earth you seek?" asked Korl.
     "Our traditions tell us that some refugees from Kobol went there as
well, although how this was known, or why a place so far was chosen has
been lost to time. But we have found clues, since fleeing home, that we
are on the right path. We will find Earth, one day. Commander Adama will
get us there."
     "You have great...conviction in these Lords, Engineer," said Kassa.
"And your Commander."
     "They continue to watch over us, guiding us at times when needed.
And they guide him as well. There is no way we could have come this far
otherwise."
     "Moving into new and dangerous territory, you will surely need
guidance," observed Sargamesh.
     "Yes, we've lost too many people as it is," replied Twilly. "Far too
many."
     "Lost," said Kassa, softly. Almost too softly to be heard. "Yes,
lost." He looked at Sargamesh, then turned away. Twilly watched him go,
then looked at Sargamesh. 
     "What is his problem?" he asked.
     "Problem? No problem, Engineer. It is merely that when this crisis
is past, Azgul spare us both, he intends to kill me." And so said, he
left as well, leaving Twilly with his mouth hanging open.

CHAPTER EIGHT

     While Adama sweated and swore over the new revelations, and Tigh
watched over the bridge in his friend's absence, most of the pilots on
furlon were gathered in the Battlestar's triad court. Here, tonight, was
the premiere of the new "women's league", as opposed to the men's teams,
the brainchild of Sheba, in response to a smartastrum remark by Starbuck.
Sheba and Dietra were blue team, with Athena, who'd reached end of watch
on the bridge and barely made it to the locker room in time, and Brie for
red. Like their male counterparts, the ladies played hard, and took no
prisoners. By the end of round one, it was even, two points to each team.
Sheba felt as if she'd crashed (and rolled) her Viper, twice, and one of
the reds looked like a refugee from Life Station, but they would brook no
retreat. 
     "This is your major sport?" asked Kassa, sitting next to Starbuck.
Kassa had just come from Life Station, where he had checked on the
condition of his remaining crewmen. All but two were now solidly on the
road to recovery, with the life of only one still in doubt. The boarding
party had located some of his ship's undamaged medical stores, and the
men were responding. He had treated his pilot hosts to some of his
people's entertainment, a video drama, make that bloodfest, called Korl's
Capture Of The Bloodstone, recounting an ancient war during his world's
Heroic Age, wherein the semi-divine Warlord Korl, son of the god Azgul
and a mortal woman and the one for whom it seemed the present Korl was
named, had defeated his many rivals for power, and seized a religious
talisman, a huge deep-blue gemstone, of awesome mystical powers. The
flick was replete with blood, action, blood, graphic battle scenes,
blood, wenching, blood, feuding gods and demons, blood, and, of course,
blood. Even Starbuck was privately shocked at the degree of violence
portrayed, and was more so when informed both that such was standard fare
for children to watch, and sometimes condemned criminals were used, in
place of any sort of "special effects". In light of this, he decided to
take a rain check on the next drama, somewhat fearsomely titled Sargamesh
The Impaler.
     "One of the few left to us," replied Starbuck, as Athena snatched
the ball from Dietra, and made a feint for the target. "Many of our
others were played in open air, or in gigantic stadia. Cooped up like
this, we make do as best we can." 
     "True. Such confinement would make proper athletics a matter of some
difficulty, Lieutenant."
     "Starbuck, please. Just call me Starbuck." Kassa nodded. "What sort
of sports do they play on your planet?"
     "Well, there is the pesh'kha, a form of...group wrestling is the
best way to describe it. Perhaps if there is an opportunity, I can show
you some of our visual records."
     "I'd like that," said Starbuck, politely, recalling the previous
video, and lighting up a fumerello. He offered one to Kassa, but the
Zohrloch shook his head. Sargamesh, however, on his left, readily
accepted. "What else?" 
     "Bekka, something like your Triad here, although there is only one
hoop, and the players do not use their hands. They must use hips and
shoulders only, to put the ball through the single hoop, and achieve
victory. And, of course, the Games."
     "Games?" asked Starbuck.  
     "Yes. Gladiators set to fight in a variety of ways." 
     "Ah. I've...heard of things like that," replied Starbuck, watching
Jolly squirm slightly. The memories from Boron-Din were still pretty raw
for Jolly, and Starbuck tried to move the conversation into other areas.
He looked at Sargamesh, happily puffing away. "You like that?" he asked
him of the fumerello.
     "Indeed," replied the other. Over his shoulder, Starbuck caught
Jolly mouth thank you. "It is much like the sort we have at home." He
took a long deep drag that impressed even Starbuck. "You grow it in your
Fleet?"
     "I had a few boxes that I bought during my last furlon before the
Holocaust," replied Starbuck. "I only smoke 'em on special occasions
now."
     "And this is special?" asked Kassa.
     "Yes. New friends." He nodded to both Zohrlochs. "Surely a special
occasion." A roar went up from the crowd, and he spared a glance at
Apollo, who'd half-risen, as Athena scored. 
     "GO SIS!!!!!!!!" boomed the Captain, and Starbuck laughed. Kassa
looked from Apollo, down to the arena and the sweating ladies. His
expression was neutral, but Starbuck sensed that something was bothering
him.
     "What sort of sports do women do on your planet?" he asked.
     "None, Lieutenant," replied Kassa. "On Eridu, women keep to their
place. Such displays as this are not permitted."
     "Oh, I see. I guess that's one of the differences between our
cultures. We don't impose such restrictions."
     "Of course. Forgive me if I seem...somewhat parochial. This is
merely a new experience for me. A somewhat jarring one I will confess."
     "I can imagine," replied Starbuck, unsure of what to say next. He
was wondering if inviting them to watch the women's triad with his fellow
pilots might not have been something of a misstep. 
     "I take it women on your planet lead much narrower lives," asked
Apollo of Kassa, finally tearing his eyes away from Sheba's sweaty,
oh-so-supple form for a moment.
     "Yes," replied the other. "Wives, daughters, they are not permitted
this sort of...latitude, save for the Sacred Prostitutes. In fact,
the...permissiveness of your society surprises me, Captain Apollo. For a
people so geared towards war, the liberality with which your women
comport themselves seems counterproductive to achieving victory." He
looked at the Captain, clearly expecting an answer of some sort. 
     "Well," said Apollo, trying to come up with an answer both
informative and diplomatic, "once, in our past, it was different. Women,
by and large, led more restricted lives. Our people had survived a long
voyage across space from our dying mother-world, life on the new Colonial
worlds was not always easy, and famines, wild animals, and pestilence
were a constant danger. Most of our previous technology was...lost, and
protecting those who were the vessels of new life was deemed imperative,
if our species was to survive in hostile new environments, so different
from what we once knew on Kobol."
     "Sensible," said Korl, silent until now.
     "Then, eventually, we rediscovered space travel," said Apollo. "This
broadened our horizons, but our society changed less than one might have
expected. Until we encountered the Cylons." 
     "Your cybernetic enemies," said Korl.
     "Yes. Our economy and social structure was not geared towards such a
massive effort. Their attacks were merciless, and constant, with millions
of deaths in those first few yahrens. After a time, so many men were
engaged in fighting, that women, by necessity, began to fill jobs outside
of their homes. War plants, food production, and in times of extreme
danger, even some military positions, to make sure we had the numbers we
needed to fight an enemy that could reproduce in almost limitless
quantities. As you can imagine, over the centuries of the war, it had a
profound effect on our culture and outlook. No matter what we might want,
nothing could be as it was before."
     "I see," said Kassa, mulling it over.  "From one standpoint it does
make a certain sense, Captain. War often drives one to measures
unthinkable in more quietous times. Nevertheless, the in the face of the
temptation to importunity..." He shrugged, then turned, as the whistle
sounded, and the players came back onto the floor. 
     "Importun...huh?" asked Starbuck.
     "Immoral behavior," said Jolly, grinning as Starbuck squirmed. He
handed Starbuck his bag of puffmaize. 
     The ball was ejected, and Athena, in a blinding move, snatched it
right from Sheba's very fingertips. Then, it was a mˆl‚e of bodies and
balls. "Quite...flexible, that one," said the Zohrloch, pointing at
Athena. 
     "My sister," said Apollo, with obvious pride. His pride went up a
notch, as Athena flung the ball to her teammate, whirled around her
opponent, caught the throw back to her, and scored, racking up another
point.
     "The golden-haired one is skillful as well," noted Sargamesh.
     "My fianc‚," added Apollo, oblivious to his idiot grin, or the
mushies he was spilling. "YEAH, ATHENA!!! GO, SIS!!!"  Sargamesh and Korl
exchanged looks, and a somewhat bemused smile. 
     "I foresee a tranquil home life," said Sargamesh, whispering to
Starbuck. The Lieutenant looked at him, and burst out laughing.    

CHAPTER NINE

     The evening went Red 3, Blue 2. Afterwards, Kassa asked if the
Galactica had a place for more, as he put it, "fit exercise". Starbuck
led them to the ship's Officer's Gymnasion, largely deserted at this
centar, and Kassa suggested something a bit more...exerting than Triad.
Thus it was that Boomer, Athena next to him, found Apollo fending off a
sword blow from the Zohrloch officer.
     Most of Kassa's personal effects had been salvaged from the battered
Nem'lach, and among them was an impressive and varied collection of
bladed weapons. The Battlestar's facilities also sported a few, but they
were generally suited only to fencing. These were the real thing, heavy,
sharp, and deadly in the right hands. Apollo had no real desire to engage
in a tangle of steel, but something in the way Kassa put it was almost
taunting, and he felt his ire rise. 
     The Zohrloch officer had recovered from his wounds with remarkable
speed, given their severity, and scoffed at Apollo's offer to "go easy"
on him. One weapon, a long sword with a wide, barbed tip, swung close,
and Apollo ducked, bringing his own weapon, a long, curved scimitar up,
blocking the other. He got close, grazing Kassa's left arm, drawing a
long thin line of blue down the skin.
     "Very good, Captain," he exclaimed, almost laughing. "You have some
measure of skill."
     "I was Academy Fencing Champion for two yahren running," Apollo
replied, breathing hard. Kassa, to his annoyance, had hardly broken a
sweat, and was breathing almost as if he were sitting still.
     "Excellent. I do enjoy a challenge when I exercise." He attacked
again, lunging for Apollo's midsection, but the Strike Captain was too
nimble, dodging the thrust and blocking the other's blade. But, it was
here that the design of the other's sword showed itself. As his blade
moved down Kassa's it was caught by the barbs, and for an instant, the
two weapons locked. In that moment, Kassa yanked with surprising
strength, surprising for someone so recently out of LifeStation, pulling
up, and tearing the sword from Apollo's grip. It flew off to land
somewhere with a loud clang, and with a raised knee, the Zohrloch
violently rammed Apollo's gut, sending him to the mat. He stood over him,
swinging the vicious looking blade in one hand, and laughing. "It has
been too long," he said, but got no further.
     Apollo struck out with one leg, getting between Kassa's ankles, and
hooking his foot behind the other's heel. It a blur, Kassa went down, and
Apollo rolled out of the way just in time to avoid being impaled by the
ugly blade. He leapt to his feet, bloodlust singing in his ears and
pressing with one boot on Kassa's sword hand, grabbed up the sword as it
fell from his grip, and holding the point to his throat. For a moment, he
was reminded of the primitive he had fought, in the old bunker on Ki.
Bereft of laser, he had been forced to fight, and then behead the fellow,
something that still came to him in his dreams at times.
     That was not going to happen here, he told himself.   
     Kassa looked up at him, eyes unreadable at first, then filled with a
look Apollo knew all to well. Hatred. For the barest of moments, Kassa
was filled with a murderous impulse, and Apollo could see the danger in
this man. Then, much to his shock, the other burst out laughing.
     "Excellent!" he boomed, extending his hand. After a moment's
hesitation, Apollo helped him up. "You won. This I did not expect! I
admire you, Captain Apollo. You know how to fight." 
     "That's why he's a Captain," said Starbuck, fumerello smoldering
between his teeth.
     "What in Hades Hole..." Boomer stammered, taking it all in. Then;
"Uh, Captain. Starbuck. The Commander wants us in the War Room. Now."
     "On the way, Boomer," said Apollo, picking up his lost sword, and
toweling off. He set the blade back on the table, then looked over at
Athena. "Good show tonight, Athena." 
     "Maybe, but they still won."
     "Well, Sheba was Fifth Fleet Women's Triad champion the year before
Molocay. And Dietra..."
     "Clobbered me. Oh well," she sighed, rubbing one tender shoulder.
"Next time."


     "Has the bridge been swept for more bugs, sir?" asked Starbuck, in
the War Room. Adama had explained the situation.
     "Yes, but we can't be totally sure. Boomer has rigged a scrambler
here." He pointed to an odd box-like contraption on the table next to
him. To Starbuck it resembled, on the face of it, nothing so much as a
very weird-looking toaster. "It will block all known frequencies that
might be going out of this room. Rigel has managed to block the homing
signal, but there might be others for all we know. She's continuing to
scan. Now, we may need to launch at a moment's notice, but I don't want
our potential enemies out there to know when, or take advantage of the
time it will take to get our Vipers. So, I'm going to have you spread the
order by word of mouth to all pilots. Vipers are to be manned this very
centon." Adama saw a few fallen expressions, but was implacable. "We have
no choice. There may be more homing signals or bugs we don't know of as
yet. That being the case, we must take precautions."
     "Understood, Commander," said Apollo, rising, somewhat stiffly.
"I'll spread the word."
     "And I," said Sheba. The other squadron leaders all followed suit.
     "How long till we clear the nebula?" asked Bojay. 
     "At our present reduced speed, we won't emerge from it for close to
four more days. At our regular speed, it would be scarcely more than a
centar. The electrical discharges and ionizations in the nebula will
confuse their scanners, according to our analyses. We must make use of
that confusion until the last possible moment."
     "And then what, Commander?" asked Bojay.
     "We're working on something, but it needs time."
     After the briefing was over, and the pilots on their way, Adama got
a report from Croft. It was both good and bad. 
     "We've uncovered four illegal scam operations and one missing child
so far sir, but no sign of the transmitter as yet."
     "Which ships?"
     "We've finished with the Prison Barge, and my team is almost done
with the Gemini. The Hegal is next, sir, then it's on to the Rising
Star."
     "Good, but try and speed things up if you can. I can't tell you how
important this is to our survival, Major."
     "Thank-you, sir. Your confidence won't be misplaced."
     "I've known that since Arcta, Croft," smiled Adama.
     "Sir." 


     As time drug on, Kassa again visited his men in LifeStation. One
still hovered close to death, but the rest were now on the mend. As he
spoke with them, ascertaining their health, he was making his choices. He
turned to Cassiopeia.
     "Well, all but Rating Li'aht are off the critical list now,' she
replied, scanning the charts. "He needs a lot more regen therapy for his
burns, though, as well as another operation on that arm. As soon as
Midshipman Kraj is a little stronger, we can start fitting him for a
prosthetic leg. Midshipmans Tos and Xax still need more anti-radion
therapy, but Doctor Salik says they will recover." She went down the list
with him, inwardly wondering at his new-found courtesy. Oh well, better
late than never. 
     "My thanks, Miss...Cassiopeia. Now, might I have a few moments alone
with my men?"
     "Certainly. If you need anything, or if something happens, just hit
the red button on the panel there."
     "I shall." He watched her go, keeping the curl of contempt off his
lip until she was gone. Then, once the door was sealed, he turned to his
surviving crewmen. "Comrades."
     "Sir, what has happened to us?" asked one, Kraj. "What sort of
people are these?"
     "Have we been captured?" asked another, Xax.
     "All in good time, my friends. No, we are not prisoners. Quite the
opposite, in fact. Azgul has smiled upon us. Now, I have much to say, and
little time before that female comes back. I need volunteers for a
mission."
     "Bakh'rha!" they rumbled, one and all.
     "Excellent. I expected no less. Now, listen closely."


     Wilker's enhancements to the Battlestar's scanners, partly culled
from the captured Ziklagi vessel and partly of his own devising, punched
through the nebula with less trouble then expected. The second Ziklagi
vessel, now well within scanner range, continued to close on the Fleet,
and upon awakening the next morning, Adama learned that Rigel had
detected yet a third alien, heading their way. 
     Technician Hummer had reported that his sims were proceeding; twelve
negative so far, and number thirteen was running. At this rate, Adama
decided, they might achieve success about the time the Cylons gave up
their murderous ways. Still, there were few other options, save a pitched
battle with ships of an enemy about which they still knew very little. 
     He sat back, sighing, and thought of his old friend and comrade,
Cain. A man who loved war, Cain had often operated outside the lines,
even to the point of being accused of being more interested in winning
than in how many lives he was throwing into the fire. Only his
impressive, nay stunning, string of victories (he had bagged nine Cylons
his very first day of combat) had kept him in command, rather than on
some penal colony mining borite for his insubordination. But then, ever
since Molocay, Cain had been alone, with no one else to worry about but
himself and the Pegasus crew. Adama wondered, had fate reversed their
positions, and he had no Fleet to worry about, would he have been as
reckless as Cain? The question often came to him, sometimes in the dark
of the night, ever since he'd decided to take on the lone BaseShip
several sectars back. Going off, leaving the Fleet alone in space, and
screaming in past lightspeed to rip into a BaseShip. Yes, that sure
sounded like Cain.
     It also sounded like a young fellow named Adama he once knew.
     "No use sitting here," he muttered to himself, deciding on a course
of action. If he waited too long, he'd have their whole damned fleet on
top of him. But now...
     "Colonel Tigh?"
     "Sir?"
     "Send a message to all ship Captains. Maximum encryption. They are
to come to a full stop at once, and reverse thrusters exactly five
centons afterwards. Have all helms coordinate with ours."
     "Sir?"
     "Yes. Reverse thrusters, at the same dead slow velocity, back along
the course we've been traveling." He saw Tigh open his mouth. "At once,
Colonel."
     "Sir." Tigh turned to relay the order to Omega, and Adama turned to
look at the plotting board. He felt rather than heard Athena come up next
to him.
     "Father?" she asked quietly.
     "I have a plan, Athena. Wild. Crazy. Something worthy of Cain
perhaps, and which normally I'd dismiss out of hand. But with more of
their ships quartering in-" he gestured to points on the board, "we have
no luxury of time."
     "Right now would be an awfully good time for the Pegasus to show up
again, wouldn't it?"
     "Well, I wouldn't complain too loudly if she did, Athena," he
smiled. 
     "Commander," said Tigh. "All ships report dead stop, sir."
     "Very well. Begin reverse course, along exactly the same bearing
Colonel. Same speed."
     "Yes, sir."
     "And get me the Captains of the Rising Star, and the Century."
     "Right away, sir."
     "Father, are you planning what I think you're planning?"


     "What in the Pit is he planning?" muttered Over-Colonel Xonarr,
aboard the Ziklagi Cruiser Ooloogh. He had been waiting for a reply to
his signal to Command, when the massive alien ship had unexpectedly
slowed to a dead stop, then just as unexpectedly begun reversing course.
No turning, no maneuvering, just...backing up.
     "My Lord?" asked a subordinate.
     "I did not address you, Lieutenant," snarled Xonarr, frustrated both
by his ignorance as well as this lack of action. He wanted to open fire
on the aliens, rip into their hulls, take prisoners, sell captives.
Sitting here made him feel as if he had been relegated to the lofty
position of Nest Guardian. Next thing he knew, they would be asking him
to change gender, or even to...
     "My Lord," said his underling once more.
     "Speak."
     "Scan has picked up something new about the alien war vessel."
Xonarr rose, and went to the scan console. There, the graphic of the
Battlestar was laid out, data scrolling by. "Here."
     "What is it?"
     "Another ship, My Lord. Concealed beneath them."
     "What type of ship?"
     "From our data banks, it appears to be Eridese, My Lord."
     "Erid...Helm, alter position. Make a sweep under the warship."
     "My Lord."
     "Eridese?" Xonarr continued.
     "Yes, My Lord. The telemetry we intercepted from the Tzsi-oosh,
before she went silent." The scan officer hit more buttons. "Here. And
here. They are the same."
     "Why was this not seen before?" demanded Xonarr, voice edged with
danger.
     "Electrical discharges from the nebula have been obscuring our
scans, My Lord. When the enemy reversed course, there was a momentary
clearing of gas, and the ship became clearer on our scopes."
     "I see. That had better turn out to be the answer, Lieutenant. If
you know what's good for you."
     "My Lord."
     "So, they have met up. And they are helping them to effect repairs
it would seem," said Xonarr, looking at the main viewer. Sure enough,
tucked under the Battlestar was the Eridese ship that had been engaged by
the Tzsi-oosh. "Both intruders have made common cause it would appear."
     "Yes, My Lord."
     "Helm, return us to our previous position, relative the intruder
vessel. And Communications, get me Command again!"
     What the Pit is he doing?


     "Excuse me," said Kassa, in a corridor near the Gymnasion, to a
passing crewman, "but do you know where Sargamesh could be found at the
moment?"
     "Uhh, I'm not sure. Last time I saw any of the...I mean your people,
was outside the Officer's Club a few centons ago," answered Corporal
Lomas. He turned, pointing in the general direction.
     "I see. Is he still there, do you know?" asked the Zohrloch,
stiffly. 
     "No, I don't. Look, I have to get to my duty station right now.
Sorry I couldn't help much."
     "Yes, duty. I understand," he muttered at the retreating form.
     "Did I hear you mention one of your people?" asked a voice. Kassa
turned, and saw a tall, striking older woman, a man of somewhat greater
age with her, at the far end of the corridor. After a moment he
recognized them both as members of the Colonial Council from the IFB
scans he had seen in Life Station.
     Politicians! 
     "Yes. Sub-Commander Sargamesh. Have you seen him?"
     "I believe he was there," said the man, looking from the Zohrloch to
the lady next to him. "Wasn't he, Tinia?" He shifted a load of papers
from one hand to the next.
     "Yes, I believe so, Montrose. Yes, he was, Mist...uh, Third Officer
Kassa, isn't it?"
     "Yes. Good. Could you deliver this to him?" He extended a short
metal tube, with one removable end, to her. "It is quite important."
     "Well I..." began Siress Tinia, then she shrugged, tucking it under
one arm, her hands filled with data pads. "We were headed there. I
suppose so. And you? And Sargamesh, will he..."
     "Sargamesh shall know its import. Just give it him, with the word
'kilee'. He will understand. And I shall be here."     


     "What the Hades is he doing?" muttered Rigel, watching the other
ship change positions. She had called to Adama, and he studied the screen
with her. 
     "He's discovered the Zohrloch vessel, it would seem," said Adama.
"Damn. Any change in his weapon's status?"
     "None, sir. Charged, but nothing else."
     "Colonel, status of Rising Star and Century?"
     "Both report ready, sir, although Century's scanners are getting a
lot of interference. Otherwise, awaiting your order."
     "Good, Colonel."
     "Sir," said Omega, "Technician Hummer, from Doctor Wilker's lab for
you."
     "Give it to me here, Omega."
     "Commander."

CHAPTER TEN

     "So. You have come," said Kassa, as Sargamesh rounded the corner,
Korl with him.
     "Did you doubt that I would? I honor the ancient customs, Kassa."
     "Well, that is good," said Kassa, almost in a sneer, and entered the
Gymnasion. The others filed in behind him. "I had begun to have my
doubts. You told no one?"
     "What is there to tell? This does not concern them. Besides, they
are busy preparing for their attack on the Ziklagi I hear. We have a few
thodim to spare." As he spoke, another Zohrloch survivor, Ubar-Zim,
arrived.
     "Good." Kassa moved to the center of the room, and removed his
jacket. He stood, waiting for Sargamesh to follow suit. The other
Zohrloch did so, and then extended his hand. Korl handed him the metal
tube, and Sargamesh slipped the end off, and removed the paper within.
Unrolling it, he read, first silently, then aloud the words written there
by Kassa. He tossed the scroll to the other, and Kassa read it out aloud.
     "I, Kassa kor Metz, son of Trelak kor Metz, of the Clan Ichan, do
hereby accuse Sargamesh kor Tog, son of Kassa, son of Ubal't, of the Clan
Zab, of negligence and culpability in the death of my son, Kazh kor Metz,
son of Kassa, son of Trelak of the Clan Ichan, in the matter of the loss
of the Imperial Scout Vessel Sefrit.#  Further, I demand satisfaction by
his blood, and shall reclaim the honor of our House by the shedding of
his blood, or render up my own life in the attempt. What says the
accused?" 
     "We were attacked from ambush. Our ship crippled beyond saving. I
did my duty, at my station, until the end. Your son..."
     "You were his Captain," replied Kassa. "You are responsible for his
death."
     "Kassa, let us not..." began Sargamesh, but he was interrupted by
the scroll and tube being thrown in his face. 
     "Enough whining, you slimeworm! The gods are witness, I have obeyed
kilee." He pointed to the fallen scroll at Sargamesh's feet. "I say that
you are to blame! You were negligent in your command, and my son's blood
in on your hands! Will you face me?" Kassa was now livid with rage.
     "Should we not rather kill the Ziklagi who slaughtered both our
crews?" Kassa said nothing, but merely glared like a mad beast. "Surely
we would do better to seek their blood." Kassa remained silent and
unmoved. "Very well," sighed Sargamesh. "So be it. I ask that Korl stand
with me as ch'i'ah.* Do you accept?" Kassa nodded. Ubar-Zim would stand
with him.
     "Then let us begin," said Kassa. He draw a short, curved blade from
his tunic, a sta'ditch**, and tossed it to Korl. The latter examined it,
then handed it to Sargamesh. Kassa drew another, identical blade, and
then moved a few metrons to the right. Sargamesh removed his own jacket,
and faced the other. 
     "Now!" cried Ubar-Zim and Korl together. "May Azgul bear witness!"
     Sargamesh feinted, making a lunge for his opponent, but Kassa was
not deceived. He pulled back, then lunged himself, but Sarga