Frankenstein: SEVENTH MILLENNIUM A.D.
A BATTLESTAR GALACTICA/FRANKENSTEIN X-OVER 
By Paul Robison 
March 1, 2005

Based on Battlestar Galactica, 1978 Universal Television Studios, and the
novel by Mary W. Shelly.
Spoilers: Battlestar Galactica's Gun on Ice Planet Zero, 1978,  and Mary
Shelly's Frankenstein TriStar Pictures and American Zoetrope, 1993  
Both Frankenstein and Battlestar Galactica are used without permission.


THE STORY THUS FAR:

     Adama suspected that the recent Cylon attacks on the Colonial fleet
had been meant to lure them to the "safe passage" they'd just now
reached.  Lt. Starbuck's viper patrol investigated an ice planet within
the system, only to be ambushed by a powerful Cylon pulsar cannon on the
surface of the planet.  Two ships were destroyed, and a third, manned by
the young Cadet Cree, was captured.  Adama realized that a single shot
from the pulsar would destroy his ship, the Battlestar Galactica.  His
decision: send a team down to the surface to destroy the weapon.  Apollo,
Boomer, and the prison barge convicts, Croft, Thane, Wolfe and Leda were
selected for the mission.  Starbuck, feeling guilty over Cree's capture,
secretly programmed the proper credentials into his computer file, and
thus he was also picked.  Boxey, eager to fulfil the wish of his robotic
daggit, Muffit, to see snow, secretly stowed away in the shuttle.  
     Now, this same shuttle carrying the team is en route to the planet,
escorted by two vipers. 
     Unknown to the Cylons and Colonials, however, two small spacecraft,
each carrying some very unusual characters,  have managed to evade the
Cylon sensors and come in for a landing on the ice planet.  This is the
story of what happens when the Galactica team comes into contact with one
of those characters...

*******************************

     To Apollo the dense cloud of the planet below them looked spectral. 
Gray and smooth-surfaced, it seemed to conceal eerie mysteries.  Its
appearance only increased his natural caution.  Looking over his
shoulder, he crisply gave orders to Boomer:
     "Get a navigational fix before we penetrate the cloud cover.  We
don't know what to expect on the surface.  It could be pitch black, as it
was when you and Starbuck went after Cree.  No telling what the ground
surface is like.  Snow, powder, pack ice, perhaps more di-ethene clouds
than----"
     Starbuck, in the copilot seat, interrupted:
     "Cylons low on the starboard quarter!"
     Apollo ordered a quick scan.  There was a Cylon patrol formation
just in back of another ship which the scanner indicated as unpiloted. 
The ship also lacked most of the familiar features of the normal Cylon
fighter.
     "What is it, do you think?" Apollo asked Boomer.
     But the odd hollow sound of Thane's voice answered: 
     "It's not really a ship at all."
     "Thane!  How'd you get there?"
     "I got tired of being harnessed back in that cabin.  Thought I'd
visit."
     "You know you're not allowed-"
     "This isn't the time to quote your stupid regulations to me,
Captain.  That ship out there, what your inefficient scanner describes as
a ship, is actually a weapon.  A guided device whose nose contains a
solenite warhead, with sufficient power to blow this shuttle to bits. 
Tiny bits disintegrating to nothing.  I would assume that its guidance
system is set on a course for us."
     Thane spoke so calmly, so dispassionately, that Apollo was not sure
whether or not to believe him.  He was describing their deaths, and he
did not seem at all to care about the fact that he would die too.
     "Employ evasion maneuver," Apollo ordered Starbuck, who immediately
reset the shuttle's course.
     "You can't evade that weapon," Thane said.  "It's one of the Cylon's
best technological achievements.  I respect it.  You can't evade it no
matter how sophisticated you evasion procedures are."
     "What do you suggest?"
     "Destroy it before it destroys you."
     Apollo wanted to ask Thane how he proposed to destroy a strange new
weapon, but the man had disappeared as oddly as he materialized.


*********************************

     Killian, alerted by Starbuck to the sudden attack, arced his viper
into a long curve, heading into a line toward the trio of Cylon fighters
that flew just behind the ghost ship with the lethal warhead.  One of the
Cylon ships peeled away from the tight formation and headed for Killian.
     "Starbuck!' Killian shouted into his commline mike.  "Dive for the
cloud cover!"
     "Won't work.  They'll outrun us."
     "Don't worry.  I'll block for you."
     Even as he said that, Kilian pressed his firing button and placed a
dozen quick laser shots that first ripped off the rear section of the
Cylon raider that had suddenly appeared to give chase to the shuttle,
thereby transforming it into a blazing fireball.  In reaction to the loss
of a ship, another Cylon fighter swerved toward Killian's fighter.

*****************************************

     Everybody in the shuttle was hurled backward in their seats as
Starbuck accelerated.  The sound of the engines was, to Apollo, like a
shriek of fright.
     "Starbuck!"  he yelled.  "This isn't a fighter!  You'll overrun the
turbines!"
     "Tell that to the Cylons," Starbuck yelled back.
     The shuttle plunged into the cloud cover.  The only light in the
cockpit came from the scanner which displayed Killian's battle in the
skies above them.  They saw the second Cylon fighter shatter under
Killian's cool and accurate firing.  The last fighter and the warhead
ship had altered course to pursue the shuttle.  Starbuck tried to find
more power in the shuttle's engines, but all that he could discover was a
louder shriek.

************************************ 

     Killian zeroed in on the last fighter but it evaded his fire and
came in under his viper.  His ship rocked as the Cylon's shot him
amidship.  He checked his scanner for damage report.  The lousy Cylon had
destroyed the lowside engine.  Before Killian could pull out of the spin
he was now in, the Cylon fired again and knocked a big chunk out of
Killian's ship.  Employing all the piloting instinct he had at his
command, Killian pulled his viper out of the spin.  Damage report showed
a fuel line had been severed.  The viper would blow up at any moment.
     The Cylon fighter was streaking toward him.  Killian tried to shoot
at it, but his laser did not respond to the touch of the firing button. 
So that was out, too; it had been hit. Veering his ship to the right, he
escaped the next burst of Cylon shots.  But he knew that he could not
evade for much longer.  This time he had, after all, drawn his number.
     Starbuck's voice came over the comline: "I can't get this wreck
going any faster.  There's no way I can maneuver out of that warhead's
way.  There's no-"
     "Shut up, Starbuck," Killian cried.  "That thing's my job."
     Evading the Cylon fighter one more time, Killian aimed his ship at
the warhead-equipped shell.  Engaging the turbos at full thrust of the
remaining engines, he aimed his viper directly at the warhead ship.  He
shouted a curse that had a long standing tradition aboard the Galactica. 
Killian's viper and the warhead ship collided just above the cloud cover
of the ice planet.  The explosion that resulted from the crash spread
across the sky in a massive fireball that rushed toward the remaining
Cylon fighter.  The Cylon ship tried to curve away from it, but before it
could complete the arc, it was sucked into and enveloped by the widening
flame.

***********************************

     The shuttle lurched violently and Starbuck's gloved hand came off
the throttle as if the device had suddenly turned red-hot.
     "What is it?" Apollo screamed.
     "Either we got hit by a stray shot or this speed's too much for the
shuttle.  I don't-"
     "Captain Apollo!" Leda cried from the entranceway to the passenger
compartment.  "Everything's flying around back here.  The wind's
terrific!  Something's split in the side of the ship, I think.  Can't
identify where in all the debris, but----"
     "Try to hold control, Starbuck," Apollo cried.  "I'll check this
out."
     "I'll try, but the ship's maneuvering like a balloon that's come
untied."
     Apollo rushed back to the passenger cabin.  He spotted the dark
split along the ship's side immediately.
     "The skin's ruptured!  Grab your breathing gear!"
     Everyone clamped on their breathers in quick motions----except for
Croft, whose moves were methodical, and Thane, who attached his breather
to his face slowly, looking as if he didn't care whether he wore it or
not.  Starbuck's voice came over the intercom:
     "The ship won't respond.  We're dropping down into a blizzard! 
Visibility zero.  Surface coming up on all instruments.  Counting down! 
Three!  Two!  One!  Zero!  Heads down!"
     A loud rumble went through the ship, sounding like a warning that
the shuttle was about to shatter into a thousand pieces.  Buffeted by the
violent winds, the shuttle went into a spin that made its passengers
grasp at the air, looking for something solid to cling to.  Suddenly,
Starbuck pulled the nose of the ship upward just before it made ground
contact and skidded across the surface.  Whirling snow created a fierce
small blizzard inside the vehicle.  The ship's sudden stop was
thunderously loud, had all the bone-breaking power of a three-G force,
and felt to the shuttle passengers like death.  No one saw the shuttle
crash...except for a tall, hooded, fur-clad figure standing on a rocky
outcropping just a few maxims away.  "Strangers," he muttered.

********************************

     The bridge crew of the Battlestar Galactica fell silent as the
monitoring screens blanked out suddenly.  Adama, alerted by the silence,
looked away from the reports of Cylon pursuit and into Colonel Tigh's
intense eyes.
     "I'm sorry, Commander," Tigh said.  "We've just lost signal from
both ships." 
     Adama, recalling his conversation with Apollo about expendability,
felt cold pain at the pit of his stomach.  
     "Any reception at all?" he asked.
     "The viper channel is dead.  No lights.  Telemetry indicates total
destruct."
     "Who was it?"
     "Killian."
     Adama remembered the mustachioed officer vividly.  His experience
and combat instincts would be missed.
     "And the shuttle?" he asked Tigh.
     Tigh paused before answering: "The emergency channel kicked in.  All
reds.  Telemetry indicates heavy structural damage.  We could reach for
them on high band."
     "No.  Maintain silence."
     "But----"
     "I want to try to reach them as much as you do, Tigh.  But we can't. 
We can't reveal our position."
     If he could have talked to his son now, he would have told him that
expendability or non-expendability had nothing to do with the fact that
Apollo had been programmed out of the mission computer search.  It had
more to do with the fear of having to deal with the exhausted emptiness
of this moment.
   
****************************************

     During the disoriented moment after the crash, Croft saw stars and
fire.  That's dreadfully wrong, he told himself.  It didn't jibe with the
cold in his bones.  He felt like a statue of ice, but a statue to what? 
To his own stupidity at leaving his rotten-smelling, claustrophobic,
painful-but warm, always warm-cell aboard the prison ship?  He'd felt
cold before, even cold as intense as now.  He'd been on mountains whose
violent cold winds nearly blew him away.  Been inside a snow pile from an
avalanche that took him centons to dig out of.  Experienced wet cold that
caused cracks in his clothing, made ropes split unexpectedly, left
corpses whose eyes still expressed a live disbelief in their own
mortality.
     When he came to, all he could see first was snow whipping around the
passenger cabin.  The temperature had dropped so fast he couldn't work
the breather right.  His eyes adjusted and some of the snow subsided. 
Everyone was entangled.  Supplies had tumbled upon them, they'd tumbled
upon each other.  Light.  Apollo had a working lantern in his hand.  The
lamp shone on a gaping rent in the fuselage of the ship.  Outside, a
dense blizzard was howling around them.  Croft didn't want to go out
there.  He wanted to freeze to death in the shuttle, that was his choice.
     Starbuck crawled out of the front end of the ship, a thin trickle of
blood seeping from a wound on his scalp.  
     "Just the kind of landing you dreamed of," he said.  "No
instruments, no engines, no field-"
     Boomer, crawling out behind him and immediately standing up, said:
"Grab a light."
     Starbuck staggered to his feet, grabbed a light and muttered: "You
did a great job, Starbuck, mastering an out-of-control shuttle, keeping
us from crashing head-on.  You're one fine pilot-"
     "When you're through feeling unappreciated here," Apollo
interrupted, "help check the wounded.  We lost half the ship back there."
     "Aye-aye, sir."
     Apollo became tough, taking charge.  Croft wasn't sure how much of
him taking charge he was going to be able to stand.
     Boomer clapped a hand on Starbuck's shoulder and said: "Don't feel
too bad.  Anyone would have lost it all."
     "Don't worry, I-" Starbuck said as he shot an angry glance at his
captain.  He didn't always see eye-to-eye with Apollo.  "I'll be all
right, Boomer."
     Pushing a couple of heavy cartons aside, Croft made his way toward
the rear of the shuttle, where he saw what a real wreck looked like. 
Metal that used to be separated by intervening material was now securely
interlocked.  The material itself was unrecognizably crushed.  Wolfe
leaned over Voight.  Apollo moved toward them.
     "How is he?" he asked Wolfe.
     Wolfe looked for a moment like it was an imposition for him to
answer any question, then he said: "Just a rap on the head.  He'll come
around in half a centon."
     "Apollo," Leda said from the other side of the passenger cabin.  She
was crouched over Vickers.  "I can help them if you can find my case."
     Apollo moved off, his eyes scanning the wreckage.  Croft was about
to join in the search, but he noticed an odd body movement from Wolfe. 
He leaned just slightly toward Voight's body, his hand grabbing at
something which he secreted in his parka, then he swaggered away.  He
decided to check Voight.  The flap of his laser holster was unsnapped,
the weapon was missing.  Wolfe would have the pistol, then.  Maybe not,
but Croft felt it was a darn good guess.  He couldn't take it away from
him.  With Wolfe's volatile temper, he couldn't tell anybody he's got it
either.  If he had it, it would undoubtedly be out and firing at any of
them he happened to get mad at.  Croft decided he'd just have to sit
tight on the information, see what he could do about Wolfe later.
     Apollo helped Leda.  He snatched the medical case from beneath a
pile of debris.
     "What's it look like?" he asked her.
     "Broken arm and a couple of ribs."  Her voice was cool and
businesslike now.  That's what Croft liked about Leda, one of the things
he loved once, perhaps loved still.  No matter what she felt about any of
them, she could still be trusted to do her job well.  "Possible internal
injuries."  She looked around at the rest of them.  "Anyone else hurt?"
     "I am," Thane said softly.
     She moved quickly to Thane's side.
     "What's your problem?" she said, looking into her case.
     Thane grinned maliciously, edging his lean body toward her,
whispering just loudly enough so the rest of the group could hear: "I'm
lonely."
     That's Thane for you, Croft thought.  Even his little jokes come out
with icicles hanging all over them.  Leda, clearly furious with him,
grabbed her case and moved off, saying: "Stay out of my way.  I have work
to do."
     She settled down beside Vickers again.
     "Don't waste your time on him," Thane said.  "We'll have to leave
him behind to die anyway."
     Thane's blatant lack of humanity aroused the ire of Apollo, who
shouted: "We're not leaving anyone behind!"
     Thane looked coldly at Apollo.  Croft was concerned: it was the look
Thane always got just before he pounced.
     "We'll see, Captain.  We'll see."
     Apollo, busy seeing to Voight, didn't hear Thane.  Croft was wishing
he hadn't.  Thane was all coiled up inside.  If that tension ever got
released...
     Boomer, directing his light toward another gash in the side of the
shuttle, reported to Apollo: "It isn't good.  She'll never fly again."
     "Worse," Apollo commented, "she can't sustain life inside.  All of
her systems are purged."
     "Looking on the brighter side," Boomer said, "I think the snow ram's
operable."
     "Let's get her out fast, then so we can move the wounded into her."
     Apollo took a step toward the gash.  Outside, the sound of a far-off
aircraft became louder quickly.  Apollo tried to look out the opening. 
The roar grew to a deafening scream as a Cylon fighter flew over them.
     "He'll be back!" Apollo cried.  "We better get everyone out of the
shuttle.  Boomer, Croft, help me get the snow ram."
     The three of them crawled into the hold containing the snow ram
vehicle.  Apollo climbs into it, and starts throwing switches.  As Croft
climbed into the other side, he was startled out of his wits by a low
growl.  Apollo whirled in his seat and shone the light toward the rear of
the snow ram.  An seven-yahren-old child and a furry robot animal
crouched there, huddled into a corner, obviously on the verge of becoming
one youthful and one furry icicle.
     "Boxey!" Apollo shouted, amazed.  The child, Apollo's son since his
parents were killed during the Final Destruction, crawled forward,
attempted a smile that turned out to be painfully weak.
     "Muffit wanted to see snow," he said.  Muffit sidled to the boy's
side. Muffit was Boxey's brown, furry pet robot, fashioned after a
daggit.  He'd been built by a medical team of bio-engineers under the
direction of Dr. Wilker as a mechanical replica of the little daggit
Boxey lost back on Caprica.  Muffit was covered with brown furry
material, and had a silver mussel, metal joints and yellow glass
eyeballs.  Croft found Muffit to be an astonishing sight: he hadn't seen
a daggit since Sagan knew when.
     Apollo was ready to bawl his son out, but he reacted instead to the
obvious fact that the child was terribly cold and scared.
     "Come here, son," Apollo said softly and affectionately.
     Boxey hugged Apollo and Apollo hugged back.
     "I'm sorry," the child said.
     "It's all right," Apollo said soothingly.  "It's all right."
     Maybe it's all right with you, but what about the rest of us?  Croft
thought.  As if able to read the convict's thoughts, Muffit looked
Croft's way and growled at him.
     Croft didn't like this setup and he didn't like the way it was
going.  Wolfe might have a gun.  Thane was ready to cut throats. 
Leda-who knew what ever went on in Leda's head?  Apollo was trying to
assert command over a bunch to whom command is a threat.  They had no
shuttle to return to the Galactica in.  That Cylon fighter plane could
return at any moment.  The captain's son was a stowaway.  He had to put
up with his mechanical pet growling meanly at him.  There was snow
everywhere and it was colder than a Scorpion slumlord.  They were
expected to climb a mountain that might not even have a rock one could
cling to without sliding off, knock off a weapon that could destroy a
whole fleet or die trying.  Nope, I don't like this setup one bit, and it
looks like it's going to have to be me who makes it function at all.

**********************************    

     Nothing was so bad it couldn't get worse if a little human ingenuity
was applied to the situation.  They could hear the Cylon fighter in the
distance, swooping up to ground level, then accelerating upward.  There
was a phantomlike quality to the sound.  The fighter could locate them at
any time, and all of them were too cold or injured to move out of its way
with any speed.
     Boomer tried to get things hopping: "Okay, everybody out!  Now!"
     Wolfe scrambled for the hole leading outside.  Thane strolled to it. 
Sorting through the smashed containers, Croft managed to liberate a
number of ice axes, some of the molecular-binding pitons, other odds and
ends of climbing equipment.  They wouldn't be enough, perhaps, but they
had to salvage as much as possible.  Near the gaping hold, while still
scrounging for materiel, he stumbled across a large figure huddled in the
dark.  A face, angry, came into the dim light.  Leda.
     "I might have expected you to trample me on your way out," she says.
     "I wasn't on my way out.  I was-never mind.  I didn't see you there
in the dark."
     "You never did."
     She glares at me, but in her eyes is some delight at scoring her
point.  Let her have her little triumph.  Nothing gained by alienating
her any further.  If this operation is successful, maybe they could get
back together, maybe----but then, it did no good to fret over futile
wishes.
     Boomer rushed past them, not seeing Croft or Leda.
     "I'll take Vickers," he says.  "Starbuck!"  Starbuck poked his head
through the entranceway to the forward cabin.  "Give me a hand."
     "I'm trying to remove the communicator," Starbuck protested.  "We're
going to need it."
     "Sorry, you don't have the time.  Captain Apollo thinks they've
spotted us.  That Cylon ship'll be back for another pass quick as a
flash.  Give me a hand with Vickers."
     Starbuck came into the passenger compartment and reached for
Vickers' feet while Boomer cradled the gunner's head and shoulders. 
Croft hustled toward the exit, immediately feeling the harsh sting of
fiercely blowing snow against that part of his face that wasn't covered
by the breather.  In spite of the snow and the darkness, the gray shape
of the Cylon fighter was immediately visible hurtling towards them.
     "Here he comes," shouted Croft.
     The fighter dipped into a strafing run.  The fire from its lasers
hissed and crackled across the ice field.  Croft dove to the ground,
feeling the sharp smack of firm ice against his whole body.  Behind him,
he could hear the other members of the team scrambling out of the
shuttle.  Looking up, he was just in time to watch the forward section of
the shuttle burst into a bright yellow flame.
     As the Cylon fighter slipped upward in a loop designed to end in
another strafing run, a deep rumbled sounded from within the shuttle. 
The snow ram kicked into life.  With a loud roar, the vehicle smashed
through the side of the shuttle, creating still another large hole.  Its
sleek black surface streaked by the glow of flames from the burning
shuttle, the snow ram swerved furiously into defensive artillery
position.  Apollo stuck his head out the snow ram's portside window,
hollered: "Starbuck!  Get up here!"
     "Always in demand," Starbuck yelled as he jumped on the turret of
the vehicle.
     The Cylon ship, not expecting to encounter resistance, appeared
again and initiated its run.  Starbuck extended the long barrel of the
snow-ram gun, and spun it around, taking aim on the enemy ship as it
approached.  The Cylon fighter's guns, with their longer range, scored a
pair of hits on the snow ram.  The cover flew off the vehicle's external
battery.  Starbuck didn't seem to notice.  Holding back until the
properly timed moment, he stared upward, sighting along the narrow barrel
of the gun to the enlarging shadowy form of the advancing ship.  Just as
Croft was about to yell at him to fire, he did.  With an ear-splitting
howl, he unloaded at the swooping Cylon plane.  The shots fly straight to
their mark.  The ship exploded like a meteor cracking apart.  They all
shielded their eyes from the incandescent glare.
     Turning the vehicle around, Apollo aligned it alongside the shuttle,
whose fire had now dimmed.  In the dying light they assembled, at least
those of the team still conscious did.  The snow-ram engine coughed and
shook.  Something was obviously wrong with it.
     Suddenly, Boxey stuck his head out the highside hatchway of the
snow-ram and cried out:  "Great shooting, Starbuck!"
     Apollo was slightly embarrassed, having forgotten to inform Boom and
Starbuck of Boxey's presence.  When they heard Muffit inside start to
bark, they all jumped, startled by the abrupt sound.
     Apollo, cutting off any queries about the presence of Boxey and his
mechanical pet, told everyone to crowd around the snow vehicle.  As they
did, he lit a lamp.  Croft became more aware of the ferocity of the wind
as the fire in the shuttle finally flickered out.
     "Light the other snow lamp," Apollo ordered.  "Keep them shielded."
     Starbuck took care of the other lamp.
     "Crowd as many as possible inside," Apollo said.  "We'll rotate
riding on top.  Haals and Wolfe go first."
     Neither Haals nor Wolfe looked like they appreciated the privilege
of being first.  The wind was increasing in velocity, while the snow as
back to mere blizzard level.  Starbuck handed him his light and everybody
started boarding the snow ram.  When the job was just about done, Croft
became conscious of Thane and Wolfe standing behind him.  He turned and
faced them, after checking that everybody else was still busy with the
loading.
     "What is it?" he said quietly and guardedly as he could across the
roar of the blizzard.
     "You're not going to guide them across to the mountain?" Thane said. 
Somehow his quiet voice managed to carry no matter what noise was raging
around him.
     "We can make it," he said.
     "It's our chance to make a break."
     Exactly what he suspected.  They'd been cooped up for too long.
Their desire for escape had overcome their common sense, and they weren't
going to listen to him for long before attempting to flee from the core
group.
     "A break, eh?  To where?  We're stuck on this ball of ice."
     Thane's obviously been thinking this all out.  His answers are
ready.
     "We can hunt.  Build shelter.  We've been in a lot worse."
     Wolfe moves in closer and whispers in his raspy voice: "Maybe we can
hijack a Cylon transport and make a run for a sun system."
     "Yeah, and maybe we can clip off all the hair on your body, Wolfe,
and get rich selling it as animal pelts."  Wolfe looked like he'd rather
clip Croft.  "We're not going to run anywhere.  We signed on to blow up
that pulsar-type cannon or whatever it is."
     Thane's eyes narrowed, as much a show of emotion as Croft had ever
seen him manage at one time.
     "You sayin' you'd rather crawl up that mountain to get your rank
back?"
     Croft wanted to take that scrawny neck of his in his hands and
squeeze it until life came back into his eyes.
     "It's low-blow time, that right, Thane?"
     "Low blows are for people who can fight back.  They broke you,
Croft.  You used to bite, but now you're toothless.  Okay, you stay and
war their choke chain.  We're cutting loose the first chance we get!"
     Croft remembered when these guys didn't used to be so stupid.  Thane
said they broke him.  He wasn't sure who they broke.  Maybe he was right. 
Maybe he'd lost his sense of loyalty, that feeling of companionship
they'd all experienced before the platinum raid.  But was it disloyal to
rank a selfish desire for escape and personal freedom over their duty to
save the fleet from certain disaster?  It didn't seem so to Croft and he
was about to tell Thane and Wolfe that, but out of the corner of his eye,
he could see Apollo walking up to them, the snow crunching under his
heavy boots.
     "Soon as you're finished loading, we'll go," Apollo said.
     Croft glanced up at Thane and Wolfe.  He was pretty sure both of
them had given up on him.  Maybe he could convince them later.
     "We're through," Croft said to Apollo and walked off next to the
captain, feeling the two pairs of eyes of his former cohorts staring deep
craters into his back.
     Next to the shuttle wreck, Leda was working furiously on the injured
Vickers and Voight.  Haals came out of the shuttle, his arms sliding into
the harnesses of a backpack.
     "How are they?" Apollo said, crouching by Leda.  The look she gave
him reminded Croft of a look she once reserved only for him.  Since she
wanted so badly to escape, the look was probably phony.  Maybe it was
always phony.
     "They'll survive," Leda says, "if we can get them to shelter."
     "Put them inside the ram.  There'll be enough room, with Wolfe and
Haals riding on top."
     Wolfe now hovered over all of them, growling:
     "I'm not freezing, just so-"
     "I said you ride on top," Apollo said standing.  "That's an order."
     "I'm not letting any punk of a----"
     Wolfe stopped suddenly, shooting a dirty look in Croft's direction. 
He tried to convince him with a shrug that he was staying out of it.  He
spun on his heels and strode off.  Croft felt he should warn Apollo, if
he hadn't realized it already, that Wolfe, when in a belligerent mood is
extremely dangerous.  But then he'd have to inform on Wolfe about the
stolen gun, and what good would telling Apollo anything do?  The smug
young captain would just mutter he could take care of it, like he always
did.  Croft hoped he'd someday come up against something he couldn't take
care of.  Soon.
     The two injured men were loaded aboard the snow ram, and Apollo went
for the controls.  Croft climbed into the interior of the vehicle.  The
voices of Wolfe and Haals could be heard as they scrambled into position
up top.
     Get over!"  Wolfe bellowed.
     "It's frozen on that side," Haals complained.
     "That's your problem."
     Let Wolf be Haal's problem, Croft thought.  "I'm getting into the
ram and huddling against somebody for warmth, preferably my beloved Leda.

     Leda, however, had positioned herself between Starbuck and Boomer.  

********************************** 

     The snow ram went some distance in silence.  Even the garrulous
Starbuck was staring off into space without talking.  Once in a while 
Boxey whispered to Muffit, but that was about all the conversation that
anyone could work up.  Everyone was tense.  If everything was this bad so
far, what lay up ahead?----in one way or another, that's what they all
were thinking, whether their goal was the mountain that housed the deadly
Cylon mega-laser that was the mission's objective, or escape, or a warm
place for Muffit, who probably had no sensors for cold weather anyway.
     Suddenly, there was the noise of a scuffle on the roof , then a
thump followed by a loud, sharp crackling noise.  Without even a cough or
sputter, the snow-ram engine conked out, and the vehicle skidded
powerless across a stretch of ice field.
     Apollo exploded out of driver's seat and was outside as soon as the
vehicle came to a stop.  Croft came out right after him, Leda just
behind.
     A short distance behind the snow-ram, Haals was lying in the snow,
his arms outflung.  Wolfe leapt off the top, stumbled, and rolled in the
snow.  Leda ran to Haal's prone body, checking him out.
     "He's in bad shape," she cried back.  "Very bad.  He might die,
looks like."
     "What happened?" Apollo roared at Wolfe.
     "Wolfe took a deep breath before snarling his answer:
     "He was bawling me out.  I told him to get off my back, pushed him a
little.  He tried to fight back.  His feet went out from under him and he
slipped.  His torch made contact with that thing there"----Wolfe pointed
to the coverless external battery-"then there were sparks all over the
place and he fell off the vehicle as it stopped.  Your clumsy warrior
shorted out the power cells, I guess."
     Starbuck, emerging from the snow-ram interior, seemed about to leap
on Wolf.
     "I'll bet he did!"
     Apollo held Starbuck back.
     "Stop it!  We've got enough problems."
     Searching the terrain ahead of him, Croft saw just what he was
afraid to see.  He whirled on Apollo, saying, "We're going to have more
problems if we don't adjust our breathers to full protective power, and
right away.  There's a di-ethene wave building up in this storm."
     "The ram's powerless without these batteries," Apollo says.  "Do we
have time to hide it?"
     Finally, he's learning something, showing enough sense to ask for my
opinion," thought Croft.
     "Do we have a choice?" he said.  "Of course we hide it."
     Croft and Apollo began to dig into the snow to throw up a wall
around the ram to hide it from Cylon eyes.  Starbuck and Boomer helped
Leda carry Haals back to the vehicle.  Wolfe sulks for a moment, then
joined the digging. Even Thane came out of his hiding place aboard the
snow ram to make adjustment checks on the breathing gear.  For a moment,
at least, they were all working together, making like a team.  For
whatever that was worth.
     After the snow wall was constructed, they all huddled together
inside the snow ram for warmth.  For now, there was no other course of
action.  Apollo held Boxey in his arms.  The breather mask the child was
wearing looked too big for him, though Thane rigged a couple of extra
straps to make it fit better.  But it didn't look like it was working so
good.  At least when the brat keels over we'll get an indication of how
long the rest of us'll last, Wolfe callously thought.  Apollo wasn't
exactly comfortable huddled among these grid barge rats.  These were the
type who'd let someone, child or adult, die for their own selfish
advantage.  
     Muffit was huddled against the boy, giving warmth instead of taking
it.  It was lucky.  It didn't even have to wear a breather mask. When
they died, what would the daggit do?  Probably scamper among the bodies.
     "How do you feel, Boxey?" Apollo asked.
     "Just a little cold."
     Apollo pulled his son closer to him.  It wasn't bad seeing a little
human affection, even briefly, when one considered the composition of
this team.  Croft looked over at Leda, who was deep in some private
thoughts of her own.  He remembered seeing her this way, while she was
resting in the saddle of a mountain ridge.  He didn't remember where,
didn't even remember what took place before or after.  He just remembered
her sitting like that and that he remembered how much he loved her at
that moment.  He wanted to reach over and touch her arm, ask her
thoughts, have her nestle close to him----but he knew that one move in
her direction and she'd smash her fist into his face and break his jaw.
     Starbuck crawled over to him and asked, "What are our chances?"
     Croft was surprised.  This must have been only the second invocation
of his expertise from a Galactica officer.  He was sure gaining stature
around here.  Too bad it was probably too late.
     "Depends on how long this storm lasts," he said, "and if the
atmosphere, under the influence of the di-ethene starts descending to the
critical point of the gases composing it.  That's the point when, well,
when you can't really see much distinction on the critical-temperature
curve between the gaseous and liquid phases.  For our purposes, the air
outside turns to liquid.  Some call it deathpoint, though the name's
never made much sense to me, since normally you're pretty dead long
before the critical point.  That satisfy you?"
     "Not much.  But thanks anyway."
     "Anytime."
     He crawled away very slowly.  The cold was beginning to affect his
muscles.  It was affecting all of them that way.  Croft had to force
himself to keep exercising what muscles he could in this cramped sitting
position.
     Waaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!
     Everyone who had been drowsy suddenly snapped into a high state of
alertness at the sound of the chilling cry  they'd just now heard.
     "Daddy?" Boxey whimpered, clearly frightened. 
     "What the Frak was that?" Starbuck cried.
     "I-I don't know," Apollo said.  "There's definitely something out
there, though.  Some kind of animal from the sound of it."
     "That was no animal," Leda said.  "That was a human being, a male. 
I can tell from the voice inflection."
     "And it sounded pretty close by, like, maybe, just outside the ram,"
Wolfe added.
     Muffit suddenly sprang to life away from Boxey's side.  His furry
ears pointed upward.  He'd clearly heard the sound, too.  Apparently, his
internal sensors had located the source of the weird noise.  He began to
bark furiously at the unseen thing in the distance  Boxey told him: Shut
up, daggit. Then he broke for the door, forced it open and bounded out.
     Starbuck went for the door in hot pursuit...
     ...and would soon find himself staring straight into a face of
ungodly horror!
     
****************************

     Muffit crouched on the ground, barking widly, clearly prepared to
attack the dark figure standing before him.  Starbuck approached the
daggit, one hand on his laser pistol.  "Muffit, c'mere boy, c'mere," he
said.  Starbuck fell silent when he saw  the huge dark figure the daggit
had been barking at.
     It was a man...or at least something resembling a man.  He was
bundled up against the cold in thick furs.  There was a hood on his
makeshift coat, but for some reason, he didn't cover his head with it. 
He damn well should have.  The horrible body  was covered with brutal
looking surgical scars.  The face seemed to be a collage of other faces,
somehow sewn together in a gruesomely crude fashion.  There were wrinkles
beneath the eyes, puckers on the cheeks,  laugh lines around the mouth,
and bony protrusions around the forehead that suggested some Borellian
Nomen lay somewhere in the "man's" ancestral makeup. His skin was a
terrible gray in color. The massive hands of the creature were even worse
because they were rippling with harsh ligament scars.  Sinewy veins
marred his wrists.
     He...or it towered over Muffit, waving his arms in a menacing
manner, as if preparing to retaliate if the daggit attacked him.  His
height was an unbelievable 7 metrons tall.
     The creature turned its attention away from the daggit, focusing it
instead on Starbuck, affording the colonial warrior a even better look at
its bizarre face.  If Starbuck could've thrown up then, he would've. 
Gods, thought Starbuck, this man wasn't born...he was manufactured!
     "Get outta here!" Starbuck yelled at the creature.  He drew his
laser pistol and fired repeatedly over its head.  He prepared for the
bizarre being to retaliate.  But...it didn't happen.  The Creature
studied Starbuck for a minute.  Its expression, or whatever passed for
it, was more one of sadness than anger.  Don't hurt me, it seemed to
plead.  Then, it turned and ran away, the daggit hot on its trail. 
Starbuck tried to run after the both of them, but his legs fell victim to
the numbing cold.
     Defeated, he turned back to the snow ram and climbed through the
door.
     "You okay, Starbuck?" Apollo asked.  "I heard your gun go off."
     "Apollo," Starbuck began.  "Leda was right.  There's definitely
somebody out there."
     "A Cylon?" Croft asked.
     "I wish," panted Starbuck.  "He's human.  And I use that term
loosely.  His face...it was horrible!"
     "Never mind that," Apollo admonished.  "Is he armed?"
     "No, but that didn't matter to Muffit.  He's still chasing the
bugger."
     "Frak!" Wolfe yelled.  "They'll both get us killed, the daggit and
that hermit or whatever he is.  They're liable to lead a Cylon patrol
right back to us.  I say we go after them."
     "Negative!" Apollo yelled.  "No one leaves the ram until the storm
is over."
     "Muffit," Boxey whined weakly.  "Muffit!  Somebody go get Muffit!"
     Apollo pulled the child even closer to him, saying, "It's all right,
son.  Muffit isn't like us.  He can survive di-ethene."
     "Well, that's certainly a point in his favor," Croft quipped.
     "Will he be back?" Boxey said.
     "He'll be back."
     "That...man?"
     "Don't worry about him.  He probably saw that we were in trouble and
thought he could help."
     Apollo stared into the storm's frozen void, wondering if maybe Wolfe
had a point.  Was that man somehow working for the Cylons?  Would
he...and Muffit...actually bring a Cylon patrol back with them?
     
*******************************
         
     Yap! Yaaaap!
     Boxey came awake at the noise.  He at first wondered if he'd been
dreaming.
     Thump!  Thump!
     Boxey scooted sideways on the lap of the sleeping Captain Apollo,
wiping away the ice coating from the ram's door's window.  His face was
aglow with joy.
     "Muffit!  You came back!"
     Apollo, now awake, put his arm around the kid and said, "Boxey..."
     The child smiled up at Apollo.
     "Dad!  It's alright!  Muffey's back!"
     Croft woke up too.  "What's going on?"
     Apollo smiled, weakly.  "Muffit's back."
     He and the child looked out the window, trying to see as much as
they could before it iced over again.  
     It was the daggit all right, standing outside the ram's door.  But
Muffit didn't come back alone.  It was a man, but not like the strange
apparition Starbuck frightened away earlier.  He was dressed in a
complete Colonial-style parka.  It didn't really do him any good against
the di-ethene, however, as he lay unconscious in the drifted snow.
     Despite Croft's protestations, Apollo popped the door and ran to
where the unconscious man lay.  Croft followed, apparently wanting to
have a look at the newcomer himself.
     "Dead?" Croft asked.
     Apollo cautiously eased his hand into the darkness of the furred
hood to search the neck for a pulse...and the figure scared the poggies
out of him.  With a convulsive shudder and a gasping intake of  breath,
the hood rose up, revealing a haggard face tortured white with a
combination of frost and di-ethene exposure.  His beard was frozen solid,
his eyes blazed with an intelligence backed by alertness.  Apollo found
himself making eye contact with...whoever he was.  "Okay, fella, let's
get you into the ram before the di-ethene wave hits," the colonial
warrior said.  And all four filed back into the snow ram, Muffit first,
Croft second, Apollo and the stranger last.

*******************************

     Night decended on the ice planet.  A howling wind picked up, pelting
the snow ram with sleet and di-ethene.  The only light was a small snow
light.  It was currently illuminating the faces of all the people inside,
the newcomer included.
     Everyone inside, Apollo especially, was taken aback.  He heard the
stranger's groaning as he came out of a deep sleep.  The others followed
his look.  He was awake and gazing into the faces around him.  
     "Well," said Wolfe mockingly.  "Our corpse just came back to life."
     "Not for long, I'm afraid," the newcomer panted, his voice hoarse
and faltering.  "I'm...dying."
     The man drew his hand out from under one of the folds of his parka
and held it before his face.  His fingers were skeletal and black.
     "Di-ethene exposure, frostbite and gangrene.  A simple diagnosis."
     "You talk like you're some kind of physician," Starbuck said.
     The newcomer managed a faint smile.  "How do you come to be on this
planet?"
     Apollo tried briefly to explain his presence on this planet to the
newcomer.  About the Twelve Colonies of Mankind and how they were all but
wiped out by the Cylon Empire.  All that was left of their nation was one
battlestar and a rag-tag human fleet of survivors.  All was well until
several Viper patrols were wiped out by blasts from a tremendous pulsar
cannon based on this icy world.  A crack team of convicts and Galactica
personnel were organized to seek out this weapon and disable it with
solonite bombs.
     "Oh, I forgot to introduce myself," the warrior apologized.  "I'm
Captain Apollo, Strike Commander, Battlestar Galactica."
     "I've heard about these battlestars and their warrior crews, but I
never thought I actually meet such a person.  Ah, did you say you were a
captain?"
     "Yes, but I don't feel like one now," he said, looking at Boxey and
Muffit.  "I'm plagued with my share of difficulties just at the moment."
     "Obviously," the newcomer said, looking at Wolfe and Leda with
disdain.
     Apollo sighed. "Our vehicle's power has been knocked out.  We're
stuck on this ice planet.  And, to make matters worse, some kind
of...alien being just harassed us."
     The stranger's eyes lit up suddenly.  "Alien being? Humanoid?"
     Apollo was stunned.  "You know about it?"
     The stranger nodded.  "Do I know about it?   I'm responsible for
it!"
     Apollo's eyes narrowed.  "Then I think you owe us an explanation, my
friend.  Like I said, there's a big battlestar leading 220 ships full of
innocent people up there," Apollo pointed to the sky,  indicating outer
space, "and a merciless, robotic enemy down here with a super weapon
pointed right at that fleet.  We've got a limited number of centons in
which to neutralize that weapon.  Whatever you can tell me about that
thing could save the mission."
     "You'd sacrifice your life for your mission's success?  And the
lives of your team as well?
     "We're considered expendable.  Warriors like myself must be willing
to sacrifice their lives so that others may live.  Our victory will live
on...even if our bodies are dead."
     The newcomer reached out with his blackened claw of a hand, pulling
him closer.  Impassioned and intense.  "This fleet, where is it going? 
What is the purpose of its voyage?"
     "We are-," Apollo began, "that is, my father, Commander Adama, is 
going in search of our long lost brothers on the mythical planet Earth."
     "Does he share my madness?"
     Apollo was aghast.  "Madness?"
     "Your Commander Adama and I seem to be kindred.  Men in search of an
important goal, of ambition.  Let me share with  you all that I have lost
in such pursuits.  I pray my story will come to mean for you all that is
capricious and evil in man.
     Apollo was angry now, and terribly frightened.  "Who in Hades are
you?  Where do you come from?"
     "My name is Frankenstein, late of the distant human colony of
Hanover."
     
****************************

     As Frankenstein began to spin his yarn, he felt as though his spirit
were rising above the roof of the stranded snow-ram.  Rising into the
sky, then into orbit.  Drifting further and further away from this
iceball planet that had suddenly become an innocent pawn in a war between
the human refugees from the Twelve Colonies and the murderous Cylon
Empire.  Drifting not only deeper into space, but into the past as well,
the yahrens rolling back, back, back.
     Back...to the Helios System.  Helios: a G2V star.  Young, stable, no
irregularities other than normal flare activity.
     Planet #1:  Gehenna, a scorched and lifeless rockball, largely
uninhabited except for the miners who come there to siphon up the liquid 
metal-filled puddles in their armored mining crawlers.
     Planet #2: Verdant: a lush world, hot and wet with a carbide
atmosphere and several domed human settlements with a total population of
about 8,000,000 people.
     Planet #4: The great gas giant Skye, with 18 moonlets, 20 small
moons, 8 medium moons and four giant moons.
     Planet #5: Axul, a small gas giant with a faint ring system and the
usual accompaniment of moons.
     Planet #6: Coatlique, the planet where clouds of deadly hydrochloric
acid dance across the surface, whipped by high winds.
     Planets #7 & #8: Peter and Paul, the twin gas giants, doomed to
circle each other until the end of time.
     But the most important planet of them all was the fourth planet,
Hanover, the lush planet of seas, mountains and forests.  The planet was
basically primitive, its only contact with the known galaxy being the
spaceships that occasionally landed there when their captains wanted to
engage in trade with the locals.
     Frankenstein's story began in the largest house on the entire
planet, a massive structure of arch-topped windows and towers, surrounded
by three-metron-high spiked walls.  Set into the wall were two massive,
embossed fanmetal gates, topped by short spikes.  This was the luxurious
mansion called by its buritician owner Nerys Manor.
     The ticking of a metronome was coming from the mansion's grand
ballroom.  It was presently occupied by a woman and a small child seated
before a musical instrument.  "Failure has no pride, Frankenstein," the
woman said.  "Please try again"
     Frankenstein, a very serious little boy of  7 yahrens, sat at the
big instrument in his little gentleman's suit and stiff starched collar. 
He smiled up weakly at his instructor and said, "Yes, Ma'am."
     The lad was understandably nervous, this being his first attempt to
play the twicara, a flat, square, musical instrument about the size of a
piano, one of thousands the early space pioneers brought with them when
they came to Hanover from the Twelve Colonies of Mankind.  The twicara
had multiple keypads, each with a different function.  Tones, chords,
choral accompaniment selection from many cultures, musical eras and
musical families.  There were options for loudness, resonance, different
focal points and speed of notes.
     The twicara was as elegant as the ballroom it rested in:  a huge,
magnificent room with vaulted ceilings thirty feet high with
floor-to-ceiling windows.  Exotic tapestries, the labors of the artists
of a thousand planets, hung from the walls.
     The conductor of the lesson was Madam Moritz, head of the
housekeeping staff.  Her daughter Justine, of four yahrens, sat with her
doll in a huge wingback chair, making it dance to the music as she
listened ... but her eyes were on Frankenstein. Understandable, since she
absolutely adored him.
     An enormous door swung open. Frankenstein stopped playing. His
parents entered, ushering in a somber yet beautiful girl,  six yahrens
old, across the vast expanse of floor.  Frankenstein slid off the bench
to face them.
     "Madam  Moritz, would you and your daughter excuse us?" Father
asked.
     Madam Moritz replied,  "Of course, Sire, Siress. Come along,
Justine.  Bring your dolly."
     Madame took Justine's hand. Justine gazed back at Frankenstein and
Elizabeth as her mother whisked her off.
     Mother walked over to the child. "Frankenstein, meet Elizabeth.
She's coming to live with us."
     "She has lost both of her parents to the crimson rot," Father
explained.  " She is an orphan."
     "I urge you to think of her as your own sister," Mother said.  "You
must look after her. And be kind to her."
     Frankenstein stared at Elizabeth.  She returned the gaze evenly,  so
self-possessed and dignified for one so young.

*******************************

     Frankenstein paused, feeling a tear roll down from his left eye. 
Apollo and the rest of the team just looked at him for a moment, saying
nothing.  Outside the snow ram, the wind was becoming louder, rattling
the stalled vehicle occasionally.  "I loved her from the moment that I
first saw her," he said.
     Wolfe was visibly annoyed.  "Well isn't this just great.  It's not
bad enough to have Cylons after us and a di-ethene wave coming, we also
have a ravenous lunatic stalking around out there----and all this fool
can do is talk about his first love!"
     Thane jumped in, his temper rising to the boiling point.  "Someone
tell him to come to the point right now---- before I punch his damn teeth
out!"
     Boomer straightened up and then scooted over to where Frankenstein
was seated.  "Does that go for my teeth as well?" he yelled.
     "And mine?"  Starbuck said, clearly prepared, as Boomer was, to use
physical force to defend their bewildered and sick guest.
     "Stop it!  All of you!"  Apollo thundered.  He turned to Thane. 
"He'll come to the point when he's ready and not before!"  He then turned
to Frankenstein.  "Continue, please."

********************************

     A massive bolt of lightning hammered from the sky, reducing a
centuries-old plaque-bark tree to a smoldering ruin.
     In Nerys Manor's downstairs parlor, Frankenstein gazed at the storm,
his face pressed against a window, astonished at the sight.  Lightning
threw seething shadows of the rain on his face.  His fascination was
broken by the sound of a little girl's weeping and the voice of Mother.
"Frankenstein, Elizabeth is frightened by the storm," she commanded. 
"Please go comfort her."
     The sound of Elizabeth sobbing prompted Frankenstein to race up the
grand staircase from below as the lightning sent wild banister shadows to
litter the wall.  He caromed down the hall toward the room of his adopted
sister, entering it.
     Elizabeth's tiny figure was huddled in the adult-size bed, gazing up
with a tear-streaked face at the huge skylights in the mansion's vaulted
ceiling, dreading the next scary boom and flash.  He approached and
whispered, "Don't cry, Elizabeth."
     "I'm frightened," Elizabeth said.  "Aren't you?"
     Ka-Boom!  A lightning bolt ripped overhead, rattling the panes of
glass.  Frankenstein found it scary, yet exhilarating.  Suddenly, he got
an idea.  "We'll build a fort. So the lightning can't get us."
     He raced about the room, grabbing every pillow he could find and
hurled them to her.  Big decorative pillows from the chaise, bed pillows
from the armoire, they all came flying her way.  She giggled as a big one
knocked her flat.  Frankenstein scampered onto the bed with her.  They
piled the pillows around and above, concealing themselves in a bulging
heap of cushions.
     Inside the pillow-fort, Frankenstein poked his hand up, widening a
space so they could still see.  Lightning glistened in their upturned
eyes.
     "Are you sure it can't hurt us?" Elizabeth asked.
     "Nothing can," Frankenstein assured her.  "Not ever."
     She sought his hand.  Their fingers clasped for comfort and
strength.  Rain drummed steadily against the glass of the skylight.

*********************************

     The stormy night finally gave way to a beautiful day.  The rays of
Helios shone brightly through the windows of  Nerys Manor's grand
ballroom.  Frankenstein and Elizabeth were there now, learning to waltz,
their movements stiff, awkward and childlike.  Madame Moritz was at the
twicara.  Justine sat with her dolly, watching.
     Madame Moritz stopped playing for a moment in order that she could
give instruction to the two children.  "You must lead, Victor. The lady
will always look to you for guidance, so your steps must be sure and
strong."
     "Yes, Madame Moritz," Frankenstein replied.
     Madame Moritz placed her hands back on two of the instrument's
multiple keypads.  "...aaaaaand, one-two-three, one-two-three,
twirl-two-three..."
     Justine became interested in the dance lesson.  "Mama, can I dance
with Frankenstein?"
     "Nonsense, Justine," Madame Moritz replied, her playing continuing
unabated.  "Hush.  And now a sweeping arc about the room!  One-two-three,
twirl-two-three."
     Frankenstein and Elizabeth gamely worked their way across the vast
room, tripping on each other's toes.

**************************************
 
TEN YAHRENS LATER...

     Frankenstein, at 17 yahrens, was intense and handsome, as a lad
should be when approaching manhood.  Elizabeth, now 16 yahrens, was a
blossoming and graceful beauty.
     Some things never changed, though.  Neither wrinkles nor graying
hair could stop Madame Moritz from conducting the dancing lessons,
although it was Justine who provided the music now.
     "...one-two-three, twirl-two-three...Excellent!  You'll be the envy
of all the young ladies and gentlemen!"
     They were certainly the envy of Justine, who gazed at Frankenstein
as he swept Elizabeth around the room in his arms.  Her concentration
slipped for a moment, and she fumbled at one of the keypads.  Her mother
threw her a look of reproval.  "Justine, surely you can maintain better
time than that."
     "Yes, mama."
     Flustered, she put her attention back on the keypads as Frankenstein
and Elizabeth kept dancing, swirling fluidly about the room, their
attention only on each other.
     
**********************************

     Once again, as so often happened on Hanover, a storm raged.  The
rain was drumming the glass of the skylight in the upstairs hallway. 
Suddenly, screaming broke out in the house.  Frankenstein was perched at
the edge of a settee, seething with tension, waiting.  Elizabeth was with
him.  She squeezed his arm, trying to reassure him.
     "She'll be all right," Elizabeth said.
     Another scream ripped down the hallway.  Justine came scurrying up
the stairs, about to enter his parent's master bedroom with a fresh load
of sheets.  Frankenstein lunged to his feet and intercepted her, trying
to push past her, but found the doorway implacably blocked by Madame
Moritz.
     "You can do nothing here.  Wait downstairs," she said.
     He could see his mother in the dim light of the glowglobe, writhing
and screaming on the bed, her belly swollen and distended.  His father, a
doctor as well as a buritician, had his sleeves rolled up, working
feverishly to save her.
     "Mother?" Frankenstein asked, alarm evident in his voice.
     Father became angry.  He didn't need a distraction right now, not
even from his son.  "Frankenstein, do as you're told!"
     Justine glanced at Frankenstein, longing to comfort him.  She
squeezed past him into the room.  The door slammed in his face.  He
turned to Elizabeth, his eyes brimming with terror.
     
***********************************

     Mother fell back on the sweat-soaked sheets, blowing air like a
bellows, trying to give birth, while her screams mingled with the howling
of the wind.  The stump of the long dead plaque-bark tree poked from the
earth in the foreground like a gravestone, lashed by the rain.
     
************************************

     Frankenstein stared out the window at the raging storm.  Elizabeth
appeared at his side.  He didn't look at her.  "As a boy, I stood at this
window and watched the gods destroy our tree."
     Suddenly, his mother's screaming stopped.  Frankenstein and
Elizabeth turned, gazing up the grand staircase.  The sudden silence was
frightening.  The faint cry of a newborn infant drifted down.
     The bedroom door opened, throwing a spill of light into the
corridor.  Frankenstein's father appeared in silhouette, coming down the
stairs toward them.  He paused halfway down, unable to continue.
     "Father?"
     A flash of lightning flooded the room, revealing Frankenstein's
father on the staircase.  His face was haggard, his eyes were hollow. 
Blood was everywhere on his person.  His hands glistened with the crimson
fluid of life, his clothes were spattered with it as well.
     Elizabeth gasped in horror.  "Oh Sagan!  The blood!"
     Father sat down shakily on a step.  Frankenstein and Elizabeth raced
up the stairs and paused before him.  " I did everything I could!" he
cried.
     Frankenstein let out a sob of anguish.  Elizabeth began to cry as
well.  Father gathered the both of them into his arms.
     
***********************************

     A baby carriage stood amidst the leaning, ornate death stones of the
family cemetery of Nerys Manor, a chill breeze billowing its lace.
     There were two funerary rituals in Hanoverian society.  The
buriticians were embalmed, mummified and entombed with all their worldly
possessions; the poor or middle classes were simply buried.  Fortunately,
Mother's social status entitled her to the former.
     A shirtless priest, his lower extremities covered only  by a white
linen loin cloth, a golden skull cap covering his obviously bald head,
stood over Mother's sarcophagus and recited the traditional  burial mass,
urging the dozens of mourners gathered here to remember that death is
simply a temporary interruption of life, a transition to a higher state
of being.
     After the mass ended and the mourners departed,  the priest's
assistants proceeded to seal Mother's tomb, a small pyramidal structure
of stone and mortar, modeled after the great pyramids of Kobol where the
nine lords rested.
     The trees around the tomb were windswept and bare, branches stark
against a steely gray sky. Frankenstein and Elizabeth stood staring at
Mother's final resting place.
     " Father was a doctor and a buritician," Frankenstein said softly. 
"How-how could all his knowledge and skill fail to save her?"
     Elizabeth put a comforting hand on Frankenstein's arm.  "We're only
the humans in this universe.  It's not for us to decide.  All that lives
must someday die.  It's the will of the gods."
     Frankenstein raised a grim look at the capstone of the small
pyramid.  "What kind of gods are they to will this?   Why did the Lords
of Kobol agree with them?"
     "She was a mother to me as well. But ours is the job of the living.
It's up to us now to hold this family together. We've got to think of
Father, to be strong for him.  I can't do that alone."
     "The gods took her from us."
     Elizabeth pointed to the baby carriage.  "They left a beautiful gift
in her place. A baby boy. To cherish and love as our very own. Your
brother."
     Frankenstein glanced at the baby carriage as his hand sought
Elizabeth's hand. "Our brother."
     Their fingers clasped.  Comfort and strength began to flow between
them.
     The baby began crying as the priestly partly, its task completed,
departed.  Its thin voice carried on the wind.

***********************************************

     The next day was gorgeous, the great sun Helios dappling it.  The
tall grass waved on the breeze.  Gossamerwings, considered the most
beautiful winged insects on the whole planet, were skittering about the
air.  William, now 11 centaurs old,  toddled right into their flight
paths.  He didn't get very far though: PLOP!  Down he went, right on his
astrum.  His face scrunched up in surprise and he burst into tears.
     Elizabeth hurried over and scooped him up, cradling and comforting
him. Frankenstein rose from the picnic blanket to join them. Justine, now
William's nanny looked up from her task of laying out the silverware and
food.
     "Poor William! What indignant tears!" she said.
     Elizabeth comforted the baby.  " There, there ... shhh ..".
     Suddenly Frankenstein took the baby and swooped him high in the air. 
The child shrieked and wailed, held aloft.
     Elizabeth was awash in shock.  " Frankenstein, be careful! You'll
make him dizzy!"
     "Why not?  Our planet is a dizzying place."
     She tried to reclaim the baby.  Frankenstein feinted, keeping Willie
out of reach. Elizabeth grew crosser.
     "Give him to me, right now!  He needs to be comforted and held!"
     "He needs to take his frustrations out on the skies!"  Holding the
child's face up to the cobalt-blue sky, Frankenstein said, "  Make the
world hear you, Willie!  Learning to walk isn't easy.  If it were easy,
well, it just wouldn't be worth doing."
     And the baby began to laugh, much to  Elizabeth's  exasperation. 
She glared at both of them. Men!
     

***************************************

     "That's the nature of all progress, William. Don't let your brother
sway you otherwise," Elizabeth said.
     Justine supported her.  "Quite right!"
     Victor cradled Willie as if  shielding his delicate ears. He peered
at Elizabeth with mock-grave suspicion and spoke to the baby sotto-voce,
in deepest confidence, man-to-man:
     "Don't listen, Willie. Progress is a feast to be consumed. Women
would have you believe you must walk before you can run. Or run before
you can dance!"
     Elizabeth laughed.  "Give me that child before you fill his head
with felgercarb!"
     Victor waltzed the baby in circles. Elizabeth stalked them.
     "Mephistopheles take walking, ladies! My brother shall learn to
dance like a true aristocrat!"
     He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her into the waltz-like dance. 
There was no use resisting. She succumbed and they danced with the baby
between them. Justine gasped with laughter.  "Elizabeth, really! He's
quite mad!"
     "Scandalous! What would your dear mother say?"
     Justine thought a beat.  One-two-three, one-two-three, twirl-two
three.
     Laughing, Victor and Elizabeth waltzed little William around in a
sweeping arc. 

****************************************

6 YAHRENS LATER

     The grand ballroom was ablaze with candlelight and spectacle as a
hundred dancers swirled about the floor in a breathtaking waltz to the
music of a full string ensemble.  Frankenstein and Elizabeth danced
magnificently, the room spinning about them in a blur,.  Now 24 yahrens
old, he was in the prime of his manhood.  Elizabeth, 23 yahrens old, had
become a drop-dead beauty who radiated poise and intelligence.  They were
so right for each other, so beautiful together, one could suffer a
heartbreak simply from looking at them.
     Justine, now 21 yahrens, had blossomed into a beauty herself.  She
stood at the sidelines, wearing a lovely gown, wishing someone would ask
her to dance.  William, now 7 yahrens old, scampered to her side.  She
stooped to straighten his collar and smooth back his hair.  Dancing
couples swirled past them. 
     "Auntie Justine, Father said I could have a mushie."
     "Certainly.  But not before dinner."
     The music ended amidst applause.  The men bowed to the ladies, the
ladies curtsied in return.  Frankenstein escorted Elizabeth off the dance
floor.  She fanned herself, all flushed and happy.
     "You dance so beautifully together," Justine observed.
     "And you look so lovely," was Elizabeth's reply.
     They shared a sisterly hug and a radiant smile.  The orchestra
recommenced.  The music was lush.  Justine looked hopefully to
Frankenstein, speaking to him, her tone of voice soft and light.
     "Frankenstein?  Spare me one dance?"
     Elizabeth caught Frankenstein's eye.  "Go on, ask her. Please. I'm
quite out of breath,"
     Frankenstein gallantly offered his arm.  Justine took it, lighting
up as he escorted her onto the dance floor and they began to dance.  She
glowed.  This was a big moment for her.  But they'd hardly begun when...
     ...ting-ting-ting.  Frankenstein's father tapped an ambrosa glass
with a knife.  The dancers stopped then the orchestra fell silent. 
Justine hid her disappointment as servitors passed among the guests with
glasses of ambrosa.
     "My friends, fatherly pride won't allow this occasion to pass
without my raising a toast."
     Shouts of assent filled the air.  Frankenstein was grabbed by his
friends and dragged forward, a glass of ambrosa shoved into his hands.
     "To Frankenstein.  My son, who'd  read every medical book in my
library by age thirteen ... and then re-read them, which seemed excessive
even to me."  At that, the guests roared with laughter.  "Drape yourself
in glory, my boy.  Learn your chosen trade well.  When you return, it
will be as a physician.  On that day, it will give me great pleasure to
call you my colleague."
     "Your colleague, perhaps.  But I can never be your equal."
     "No.  But I'm sure you'll surpass me."  
     The ballroom was awash in applause and roars of approval.  The
drinks were tossed back.  Frankenstein was  jostled with backslaps and
handshakes.

************************************************

     Outside of the mansion, Galan, the great cratered moon of Hanover,
hung high in the starlit sky.  Music and warm light spilled from the
mansion's windows.  A couple eased through one of the double-doors and
came racing across the lawn, giggling and hushing each other.  They took
refuge under a tree, the bright moonlight revealing their faces:
Frankenstein and Elizabeth.  She leaned against a tree trunk to catch her
breath.  
     "Smell the air.  It's splendid."
     "And Galan, shining bright, brighter than I've ever seen in yahrens. 
It's quite a send-off, isn't it?"
     "Father's so proud."
     "And you?"
     "Prouder still. Why, you'll be the handsomest student there."
     "I'll have to do better than that."
     Elizabeth said while searching his eyes, "You will.  What do you
want, Frankenstein?"
     "To bring hope to the hopeless.  To delve into the wonders of the
old medical technology, revive it, and push our knowledge beyond its
primitive level... to eradicate disease and pestilence like our Colonial
ancestors did ... to purge this colony of ignorance and fear ..."
     She couldn't help but laugh at his dead seriousness.
     "I'm not insane."
     She smiled, smoothing  a lock of hair gently off his forehead.
     "Of course not.  Just very earnest and very dear."
     This conversation turned into an extended moment. Unspoken words
flowed like water between them.  Frankenstein leaned forward and kissed
her.  Her eyes widened slightly, as did his.  They shared excitement,
gentle and sexy beyond belief.  They paused, drew back, searching each
other's eyes.  He whispered:  
     "I've loved you all my life."
     "I've known that all my life."
     They kissed again. There was a breath, a shiver.
     "This feels ... incestuous."
     "Ooooh...is that what makes it so delicious?"
     She brushed her lips against his. Gentle as a sigh.
     "Brother and sister still?"
     "No.  I wish to be your husband."
     "And I wish to be your wife."
     "Then come with me to Helium.  Marry me now."
     "I can't.  One of us has to stay here.  Father's not strong and
Willie's just a child.  Who'll look after them while you're away?  Who's
going to run the estate?"
     "I can't think of anyone more suited to the job than you."  
     "Don't worry, then.  I'll be here when you return."
     Another kiss, this one turning lustful and steamy. They melted into
each other, sinking down, bodies pressing and minds aflame.  Those two
were hot for each other.  Just then, they stopped, stunned at the
intensity.  He lay his head upon her breast.  Their fingers clasped.  She
whispered her secret:  
     "My head is spinning. I want to give myself to you."
     He raised his head. She met his gaze evenly. 
     "If we're to be sealed, must we wait?"
     He touched her face.  His fingertips traced downward, gently and
with reverence, brushing the contours of her bosom at the edge of her
bodice.  She shivered, closed her eyes, then lay her hand over his to
guide his touch.
     Frankenstein said, "You make me weak."
     "You're not as weak as I feel now."
     She raised his hand to her mouth, brushing his fingertips with her
lips, wrestling with desire.  Their eyes met.
     "Our decision. Together."
     "Your decision. For us."
     Elizabeth hesitated.  
     "I pledge my soul to you .."
     Frankenstein nodded.  "Very well...until our wedding night.  When
our bodies will join."
     "Frankenstein. I love you."
     "Elizabeth.  My more than sister."
     They kissed again. Gently ...

************************************

     The dawn was misty gray.  Frankenstein was sitting in front of
Mother's tomb observing a moment of silence.  His saddled equine was
tethered nearby.  Softly, he said to Mother: "I'll make death obsolete,
mother.  I promise you this.  You'll be so proud of me."  He rose, then
walked toward his equine.  

**************************************

     The morning of Frankenstein's departure was overcast and chilly.  An
open carriage stood loaded.  The family and the household servitors have
turned out.  Frankenstein stood ready to go.  Father pulled him into a
back-slapping embrace.  "Write to us often," he said.
     Frankenstein moved on to Justine, took her hand.  "We never finished
our dance."  She smiled at him.  "Someday we shall."
     Next was William.  The little boy stood stiffly, tears on his face,
trying to be brave.  Frankenstein kneeled and whispered, "The others will
look to you while I'm gone, Willie. Be strong."
     The boy nods miserably, throwing his arms around Frankenstein's
neck.  Last came Elizabeth.  She and Frankenstein regarded each other,
sharing the secret of last night.  A faint smile played at the corners of
her mouth.  He kissed her cheek.  "Elizabeth."
     He mounted the carriage.  Shrevvy, one of the family servitors, 
snapped the reins and the carriage lurched away, speeding Frankenstein
off to his future.  Frankenstein turned back for a final look at the home
and family he loved so much.  William ran after him until he vanished
from sight.  

**************************************

     High white clouds floated in the blazing blue sky over Helium, the
largest city on Hanover.  Rooftops spread out far and wide.  It was
beautiful.  
     The boarding house of Lady Brach was located in the Marsh Gate
district of Helium.  At this very moment, she was trudging heavily up a
long, steep, narrow flight of stairs with Frankenstein teetering uneasily
behind her. "There are no real rooms left.  All we've got is attic space. 
No one ever wants the attic space," Lady Brach said.
     She led him into an immensely long space running a twisted path the
entire length of the building; various levels and areas were unhindered
by wall separation, massive vaulted beams crisscrossed to form the
understructure of  the roof. Daylight filtered dimly through dozens of
dormer windows and skylights that, unfortunately, were coated with grime.
Nooks and crannies abounded up here.  Frankenstein loved it.  "This will
do nicely," he said.

**************************************

     The great University of Helium School of the Healing Arts, located
on Silver Street was a monolithic structure of brick, a bell tower
dominating the center courtyard.  It was tolling now, even as dead leaves
scurried across the front lawn.  
 
**************************

     Professor Krempe, a squat litte man, paced before the packed
galleries of eager young students in the lecture hall.  Their enthusiasm
impressed him, true, but the lack of disciplinary restraint in that
enthusiasm disgusted him.  Ah, well, he thought, the sooner I set them
straight the better.
     "In science, the letter of fact is the letter of  law," he began his
lecture.  " Our pursuit is as dogmatic as any religious precept. I want
you to think of yourselves as disciples of a  strict and hallowed sect.
Someday you may be priests ... but only if you learn every chapter and
verse of the Book of the Word by heart."  The student gallery erupted in
laughter. "Any questions?"
     Frankenstein's had shot up.  "But surely, Professor, you don't
intend we disregard the more...ancient works?"
     Krempe was puzzled.  "Ancient?"
     "I refer to the ancient manuals which our ancestors imported to this
planet from the Twelve Colonies of Mankind.  The ancient books of surgery
as well as those of immunology, for instance."
     This reference was lost on all but a few.  At the faculty table,
Professor Waldman peered up at Frankenstein, adjusting the spectacles on
his nose.  One of the students leaned out and shot an amused look in
Frankenstein's direction.  Another caught the look and rolled his eyes.
     Frankenstein continued.  "Our ancestors knew how to restore sight to
the blind, to re-attach severed limbs, even.  I could sit here all day
and I wouldn't even begin to describe their miracles."
     "Could I have your name, please?"
     "Frankenstein, sir...from Nerys Manor."
     "From Nerys Manor, eh?  Tell me, Frankenstein from Nerys Manor.  Do
you wish to study medicine?  Or archaeology?"
     Titters swept the room. Krempe remained staunchly unamused.  "Those
of you unfamiliar with Mr. Frankenstein's recommended reading
material...thankfully, that would be the majority of you...are hereby
admonished to avoid it.  Here in Helium, we concern ourselves with
present-day medicine..." he directed his next statement specifically to
Frankenstein, "...not whatever our forebears did or did not do while
crossing the stars in their little metal ships.  Understood?"
     Frankenstein was flushed and humiliated.  Oh how he would've liked
to say more, but his common sense triumphed over his anger and all he
could do at that point was nod in feigned agreement.
     Krempe cleared his throat.  "I am relieved.  Are there any relevant
questions?"  There were none.  "Very well, then.  Class adjourned."

*************************************

     To say that Frankenstein was angry would have been understating the
matter.  He exited the building, wearing his distinctive black greatcoat,
fuming over the exchange with Krempe.  He strode across the lawn, his
eyes, smoldering with rage, were fixed straight ahead.
     A man, one of the students from the lecture hall, raced up behind
him and fell casually in step.  He nodded pleasantly, as if he'd been
there all along.  Frankenstein responded with a curt nod and resumed his
straight-ahead demeanor. They walked in silence, just two men heading in
the same direction.
     The other student snickered loudly to himself.  Frankenstein shot
him a sharp look.  His smirk vanished, to be replace with blank
innocence.  Me?  Snicker?  Frak no!
     The stranger spoke up.  "There's no need to be hostile.  I was
merely clearing my throat."
     Frankenstein said flatly, "You may consider yourself forgiven,
then."
     They continued walking.  The silence between them was as thick as
begaroot soup.
     "You know, you're quite mad."
     Frankenstein stopped, turned.  He said in a low, measured voice. 
"Mind your grammar, sir.  Only daggits get mad."
     The unfamiliar man responded, matching Frankenstein's tone.  "But of
course you're mad.  Mad as a march hare."
     His expression betrayed nothing.  But perhaps there was a trace of
amusement in his eyes.
     "Are you having me on?"
     "Why, yes.  It pays to humor the insane."
     Frankenstein smiled.  The strange student grinned and offered his
hand.  Not wishing to be impolite, Frankenstein took it.
     "Clerval."
     "Frankenstein."
     "I know.  You have a way of making an impression."

*******************************

     They met where all students met at dusk, The Black Lupus, the
favorite tavern of most  Heliumites.  Tonight, it was packed with the
usual students and noise.  Ale and food were served at a frantic pace. 
Clerval and Frankenstein sat a small table, tearing into sausages and
cheese.
     "Do you really think I'm mad?"
     "Come now.  The ancient medical journals of the Twelve Colonies of
Mankind?  Next thing you know, you'll be teaching crawlons to speak."
     Another student Frankenstein recognized from the lecture hall
entered the tavern with his friends.  They paused at Frankenstein's
table.
     "Well, if it isn't the wizard.  Have you found yourself an
apprentice?" he said.
     "I'm afraid I rejected his application.  He's merely a dabbler."
     Clerval added.  "Dilettantes need not apply.  What about you? 
Schiller, isn't it?"
     "Schiller it is.  I'm interested in real medicine.  Treating the
sick."
     "Really?  I personally find sick people rather revolting.  I'm here
to secure my degree with a minimum of fuss and hard work that I might
settle into a life of privilege treating rich old buriticians with gout
and dallying with their daughters."
     Schiller scowled.  "You two disgust me."  And with that, Schiller
and his friends stalked off.

*******************************
 
     Frankenstein, clad in his greatcoat, walked with his new friend
along a twisty cobblestone street under a drizzly sky.
     "You just want to restrict your practice, if you get one, to rich
old ladies and their daughters?"  Frankenstein asked, a hint of dismay in
his voice.
     "Absolutely.  They would pay generously for my services.  Profit. 
Is there no better reason to be in this profession than for glorious
profit?"
     You damn mercenary!  Frankenstein thought.  He didn't vocalize his
thoughts because it would not only be impolite but also make an enemy out
of the first friend he'd made in this city.  "I can think of quite a
few," he said.
     "Do me a favor then," Clerval said, clasping Frankenstein's
shoulder, "...keep them to yourself."
     Frankenstein suddenly burst into laughter.  This modocker would be a
very good friend.
 
*******************************
 
     Waldman, in his usual smock, addressed his students from across the
morgue slab.  He threw a sheet back, revealing a corpse dissected to
reveal the vital organs.  The others crowded for a closer look. 
Frankenstein glanced to Clerval, who leaned back and rolled his eyes in
utter disgust.

*******************************

     In his garret, Frankenstein sat at one of the tall dormer windows,
writing a letter with quill and ink.  It was raining outside. 
Fortunately, the garret was tidied.

*******************************

     In the rye fields around Nerys Manor, workers harvested for microns
around.  Elizabeth and  Scaedu, the foreman,  examined the sheaves that
had been placed on a wagon.  He smiled and nodded.  "It's turning out to
be a good yahren."
     Elizabeth agreed.  "Let's run a tenth of the crop to the tenants. 
They had a hard winter."
     Scaedu was shocked.  "Not even your father would be that generous."
     "Then there's no need to tell him, is there?"
     Scaedu grinned and motioned to his men.  They resumed loading the
sheaves as a stableboy rode up shouting:  "Miss! The mail arrived!
There's an epistle from Master Frankenstein!"

************************************

     As night settled over Nerys Manor, the family gathered around the
fireplace as Elizabeth read Frankenstein's epistle aloud:
     "'...and not a day goes by that I do not cherish your faces in my
mind's eye or ache to see you all again.  Be assured that I am with you
in spirit, and you are never far from my thoughts.  I remain, as always,
your loving and devoted Frankenstein.  P.S...'"
     She paused, reading ahead, silently this time:  "Elizabeth ... I am
holding our vow precious  in my heart."  She glanced up at their
expectant faces.  "What does it say?" Willie asked.
     "It says: 'Give Willie an extra big hug for me.'" Elizabeth lied.
     William was beaming now.  "Read it again?"
     She smiled, rearranging the pages.
     
************************************
 
     The university's main hallway was governed by its usual silence,
until the sound of a furious shout, from Frankenstein, unfortunately,
emanated from a closed classroom door.
     "That's no excuse for being a pompous astrum!"
     Frankenstein stormed out with Krempe at his heels.  Krempe paused in
the doorway, red-faced, bellowing after him, "I'll see you expelled from
this university! I'll go to the dean himself! Take me at my word,
Frankenstein! The dean himself!
     Classroom doors flew open, faces peering out of them, among them
Waldman's.  Frankenstein kept going without looking back.
     
****************************
 
     Frankenstein and Clerval slouched at their regular table at The
Black Lupus that evening.  Frankenstein was writing in his thick,
well-worn leather journal.
     "The entire school heard it," Clerval said.  "It wasn't something
one could easily miss."
     "You're a comfort to me, Clerval."
     "What now?" Clerval asked.  "Writing about it in your journal won't
help."
     Frankenstein calmed down a little bit.  "Oh?  This?  It's just a
letter to my father."
     Clerval fell silent.  Frankenstein closed the journal, then wound it
secure with its leather thong, jamming it deep in the outer pocket of his
greatcoat, brooding.  Just then, the bell above the door jingled.  A gust
of wind swept in from the tavern's main entrance, dissipating as the door
fell shut.  Both men glanced up.  The new arrival was Professor Waldman,
dapper and soft-spoken and impeccably courteous.  He murmured a
pleasantry to the innkeeper and drifted over to Frankenstein's table.
     "Ah, Professor Waldman," Frankenstein greeted his favorite teacher. 
"Do sit down."
     Waldman did so.  "Victor, explain yourself."
     "Krempe has a way of provoking my temper," Frankenstein said,
grateful for the chance to unburden himself.
     "And you have a way of provoking his.  I've been watching you.  You
seem impatient with your studies."
     "To that I will plead guilty. I came here to expand my mind, but
honest inquiry seems strangled at every turn.  All we do is cling to the
old knowledge instead of seeking new knowledge."
     "You disdain accepted wisdom?"
     "Absolutely not.  I embrace it as something to be used or discarded
as we advance the boundaries of what is known."
     Clerval muttered to Waldman, "Now you've got him started."
     Frankenstein said, "These are exciting times, Clerval.  We're
entering an era of amazing breakthroughs.  Look at that man, Jenner,
wasn't it?  He wasn't content to bleed people with heomslitherers, he
pioneered a new frontier of thought!"
     Clerval took notice at the anecdote.  "Yes, and thanks to him,
variolia has been virtually eliminated. I've heard this speech before."
     "But have you truly listened?" Frankenstein queried.  "Never in
history has so much seemed possible.  We're on the verge of answers
undreamt of, but only if we have the courage to ask the questions."
     Waldman finished off his tankard of ambrosa and sighed.  "I
understand your frustration.  I was young once myself.  Walk me home. 
There's something I'd like to show you."

*********************************

     The gaslights came up with a soft hiss.  The first thing
Frankenstein and Clerval noticed was an artist's nook situated adjacent
to big windows where the light would've been best during the day.  Easels
were lined with in-progress work on a variety of subjects, everything
from landscapes to anatomical studies, all of them quite excellent.
     The rest of the place was a laboratory crammed floor-to-rafter with
arcane equipment.  Taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves,
Waldman led Frankenstein and Clerval down rows of tables crammed with
experiments and clutter.
     "Did you know that the scientists on Kobol, our sacred mother
planet, discovered that the human body is a chemical engine run by
electricity?  They said we all contain streams of energy which flow
through us like currents in the ocean, or rivers in the earth."
     They arrived at a table.  Waldman rooted through a tray of
knickknacks, and held up a long, silvery needle.
     "Occasionally, their doctors would treat patients by inserting
needles like these into the flesh at various key points to manipulate
these electric streams."
     He then directed their attention to an ancient tapestry on the wall. 
It depicted the human body from front and side angles.  The puncture
points were clearly marked, in ancient Kobolian hieroglyphics, of course.
     Frankenstein scowled.  "Felgercarb!"
     "Oh, nothing of the sort, my boy," Waldman responded.  "I am a
direct descendant of Sihotep, whom, according to the Book of the Word,
was the personal physician of the Third Lord of Kobol.  Whenever a member
of the Third Lord's household fell ill, his treatments were nothing short
of miraculous.  My father, my grandfather and my great-grandfather, have
kept this practice alive through the generations."
     "It reeks of magic," Clerval said.
     "But magic that works!"  Waldman slid  forth a steel pan and
uncovered it to reveal an enormous dead siryn toad in dissection.  Copper
mounting pins trailed wires to a small panel of switches.  The switches,
in turn, were connected to a series of galvanic batteries.
     Waldman proceeded to throw the switches.  Frankenstein and Clerval
jumped as the siryn toad convulsed with motion.  They watched, stunned,
as Waldman put the siryn toad through its paces: legs kicked, feet
flexed, lungs breathed, the mouth opened and closed and it the notorious
trilling song that was its natural defense mechanism against the
predators of its native forest.  As this song was known to put the
unprepared to sleep, Frankenstein and Clerval covered their ears with
their hands to defend themselves against the noise.
     Waldman shouted over the siryn toad's wailing: "Seems alive, doesn't
it?"
     Not wishing to see the two students fall asleep on him, Waldman shut
the apparatus down, stripped off his gloves, his arm at the array of
wires and batteries.
     "I believe this was called...electricity," Waldman said.
     Frankenstein's face lit up.  "Electricity?  Yes..I've heard of it. 
Electricity: the force which powered our ancestor's machines.  This is
the sort of thing I'm talking about!  We need to harness this power, like
they did!"
     Waldman was dumbfounded.  "Why in Hades should we do that?  Can you
imagine the problems that would cause?  The first Hanoverians, my boy,
came to this planet as refugees from the horrors of technology: all those
weapons, surveillance devices and out of control robots.  Electricity 
would never be cheap because the engineering and production costs would
be so great.  And that's saying nothing of the waste from the generating
plants that could contaminate our world for thousands of yahrens, causing
serious illnesses among our people."
     Frankenstein was wearing his heart on his sleeve now.  "Forgive me,
professor, but where you see dangers, I see a world of endless
possibilities.  Especially if we combine the knowledge we have now with
ancient knowledge.  Our fundamental views would be forever changed!"
     "You speak of possibilities?  I've told you the possibilities!" 
Waldman grew somber.  "I'm sorry, but majority opinion is that the risks
of electricity and technology simply outweigh the rewards.  They have no
proven value.  What you've just seen here is nothing more than a ghoulish
parlor trick, inappropriate for the classroom."  He draped the siryn
toad.  "What I do on my own time is my own business.  And that goes for
you.  You want to expand your mind?  Good luck to you.  You're welcome to
join me here, if that's what you wish.  But, please don't do so at the
expense of your normal studies."
     "I doubt that decision is still mine to make."
     Waldman waved him off.  "I'm afraid you have no choice.  Tonight,
you will draft an apology to Professor Krempe..."
     Frankenstein started to object, but Waldman overrode him with a
stern gesture of silence.
     "...a sincere and heartfelt apology which you will then read aloud
to him before the assembled student body and faculty."
     "Why?"
     "Waldman drew closer.  "Our profession needs talent like yours. 
Would you destroy your career over an issue of pride?  What a waste!"
     Waldman handed him the medicinal needle.  A gift. Frankenstein
studied it, fascinated."
     "Go home, Frankenstein.  Write the letter."

******************************

     Frankenstein felt his dignity drift away as he stood before the
students and faculty, reading his apology.
     " ... and I further wish to extend my sincerest regrets to Professor
Krempe for my display. My behavior toward him was both rash and
inexcusable."
     Up in the gallery, Krempe nodded grudgingly to himself.

********************************

     Exquisite silverware went clinking softly onto the polished wood in
the estate's dining room as Elizabeth said, laughing: "I knew he'd get
himself in trouble."
     The dinner table was being set for guests.  Servitors were to-ing
and fro-ing.  Elizabeth split her attention between supervising and
reading Frankenstein's letter, while Justine busied herself with a flower
arrangement.  Willie got underfoot.  Father just sat.
     Justine said, "It must've been a terrible row."
     "It was.  He was almost expelled for calling one of his professors a
'pompous..." she stopped in mid-sentence, glancing to Willie,
"...'fellow.'
     Father jumped in.  "He always was opinionated."
     Elizabeth read on, laughing.  "He set things right with a proper
apology, and now they've put him in charge of their dissection lab!"
     "What's 'dissection?'" Willie asked.
     "That's where they cut dead things open and peer about inside,"
Father explained.
     "Things?  What sort of things?"
     Father was about to press on with the gory details, but Elizabeth
froze him with a glance. "It's far too ghoulish for young ears."
     The old man threw Willie a look. "We'll talk later."
     Elizabeth concluded.  "The point is, your brother is a brilliant
student who is well on his way to becoming the finest and most
compassionate doctor ever."

**************************
 
     A dissected daggit convulsed through its electronically-induced
paces in Waldman's workshop.  Kicking, twitching, tasting the air with
its long-dead tongue.  Frankenstein was at the switch.  Waldman leaned
close to observe.
     "Should we reconfigure the leads?" Waldman asked.
     "Yes," Frankenstein replied.  "Put gamma and theta directly into the
nervous system?"
     Waldman nodded.  "It's worth a try."

*******************************
 
     With Waldman at his side and Clerval providing the tools as needed,
Victor instructed a freshman class in the internal workings of a
dissected corpse. Professor Krempe observed from a distance.
     "... and the medulla oblongata is the transition between the spinal
cord and the two parts I've already named...cerebrum and cerebellum.  Any
freshmen feeling queasy yet?"  He glanced around, smiling.  "All of you,
from the look of it.  We'll resume your torture tomorrow."
     He waved them dismissed.  They laughed and exited, relieved. 
Waldman squeezed Frankenstein's elbow, a gesture that meant well done. 
Frankenstein stiffened at Krempke's approach.
     "You seem to be adapting well to the approved curriculum," he said.
     "Despite the lack of challenge."
     Krempke reddened, but said nothing.  He gave Waldman a curt nod and
walked off. 

**************************

     Waldman looked at Frankenstein, concerned.  "Frankenstein.  He was
trying to be gracious."
     "I noticed the strain on his face."
     Clerval jumped in.  "Come now, you must take some satisfaction. 
You've risen to the top of your class.  A position of prominence and
regard."
     Frankenstein weighed this, glancing at the both of them, then
smiled.
     "What keeps me going are my friends."
     He threw his arm around Clerval's neck, pulling him into an
affectionate headlock.  Clerval struggled and laughed shouting: "Leave
off!"

**********************************

     Within the guts of Helium's largest jeweler's shop, Frankenstein
gazed with reverence at a gorgeous oval locket that the smiling
salesperson was dangling before him.  He glanced at Clerval for an
opinion.
     "Your Elizabeth must be quite a treasure, Frankenstein..." he was
saying, pointedly to the jeweler, "...to justify these prices."
     The salesperson's smile went frosty all of a sudden.

**********************************

     The next day found the locket lying open against a canvas in
Waldman's workshop, dangling from the easel's frame.  A magnificent
miniature oil portrait of Frankenstein was in progress, no more than
three inches high within its penciled oval.
     Waldman painted with an extraordinarily delicate touch, the
jeweler's glasses riding low on his nose, the magnifying lenses making
his eyes seem unnaturally large.  Frankenstein sat patiently for the
portrait, the worshop suffused with daylight.
     Clerval leaned in over Waldman's shoulder, studying the portrait. 
Waldman stiffened a bit, aware of his presence.  He clearly hated people
looking over his shoulder.
     "Shouldn't the nose be above the mouth?" Clerval asked in a deadpan
voice.
     Waldman heaved a long-suffering sigh.  He abruptly jabbed his brush
at Clerval's nose, daubing it with paint.  Dignity upheld, he resumed his
careful work as Frankenstein laughed.

************************************
 
     The supper at Waldeman's house was a feast fit for a king.  Canapes,
Stuffed Cardaway leaves, Broiled Karada legs and Talavian Chocolate
Mousse for dessert.  Frankenstein, Waldman and Clerval gathered around
the meal's remains, laughing uproariously, enjoying one another's
company.  Fumarellos were lit, ambrosa was flowing, and conversation was
passionate.
     "I'm quite serious," Waldeman said.  " Look at all the charity and
clinic work we do. Up until thirty yahrens ago, the concept of vaccine
was unheard of."
     "Then...one day all disease will be eradicated?" Clerval wondered.
     "Absolutely.  Not by treating symptoms, but by divining nature's
most jealously-guarded secrets."
     Clerval turned serious.  "Do you foresee this happening in our
lifetimes?"
     "No. But someday."
     "Thank goodness.  We'd be out of work."
     There was a howl of outrage and laughter as Frankenstein flung his
napkin into Clerval's face.  "Only you would think of that!" he said.
     Henry's laughter was turning hysterical.  "Well, somebody has to!"
     Frankenstein raised his ambrosa glass.  The others joined in.  A
toast.  "I tell you what we need, my friends. Forget the symptoms and
diseases. What we need is a vaccine for death itself."
     Waldman was laughing now.  "Now that's going too far, Frankenstein. 
Only the gods decide who lives or dies."
     Clerval raised his glass.  "And here's to the gods.  Everything in
moderation, Frankenstein."
     Frankenstein grinned.  "Nothing in moderation, Clerval."

*********************************************
 
     The old warehouse on the outskirts of Helium, which now served as a
community clinic, was a hard and gritty place, a "display case" of the
reality of life on Montessor.  The building was crammed with society's
dregs: the poor, the uneducated, wailing babies, stampeding children.  It
was absolutely jangling with noise and confusion...loud and stifling. 
People from all over the city were getting eye, ear, nose and throat
examinations and being vaccinated.
     The "doctors" in attendance were all Helium students performing
community service, none of whom looked like they were enjoying it. 
Schiller looked particularly harried.
     Frankenstein and Clerval were busy giving out vaccinations.  They
kept glancing over their shoulders at Waldman as he got further embroiled
in a no-win argument with an offworlder, a Borellian Nomen in fact,
terrified about getting his vaccination.
     The bony  ridges around the man's eyes, a typical characteristic of
his race, quivered in rage.  "I don't trust your "vaccination" method,
alien.  Your needle isn't sanitary.  It might protect me from crimson rot
but infect we with something else."
     An ignorant fat woman within the crowed piped up.  "They----they're
poisoning us?  They givin' us crimson rot 'stead a' protectin' us from
it?"
     Ripples of panic spread. Waldman was as tense and clipped as
Frankenstein had ever seen him, valiantly trying to control his temper
amidst the surrounding cacophony and especially around this Nomen, since
they were known for their unbelievable violence against any that sin
against them.
     Waldman decided to appeal to the man's racial pride.  "You Nomen
live to survive, don't you?  If so, then I admonish you to have faith in
me, trust me not to infect you with a deadly disease.  Now please, take
your vaccine.  It is the law."
     The fat woman again: "Vaca-what?"
     Waldman felt his patience going.  "It is pronounced vaccine, from
the Gemonese word vacca, meaning cow..."
     The Nomen's face darkened.  "Maybe you're not understanding me," he
began.  "Firstly, I am not a resident of this planet.  I'm a trader.  I
deal in keevis and trivium and this vaccination  of yours is keeping me
from doing business.  Secondly, I'm a Nomen.  The only law I obey is The
Code-which gives me the right to kill you if you  stick that filthy 
needle into my arm!
     Waldman refused to be intimidated.  "Watch this."  He immersed
needle in a bucket of water to his right, presumably rinsing the blood
off of the point.  Seconds later, he took it out of the water and wiped
it with a rag.  "There.  You see?  All nice and clean.  The worst you
will get now is a minute quantity of crimson rot.  There might be some
side effects in the short term but you'll get a natural immunity to the
disease, which is the point of this whole bloody exercise!"
     Frankenstein and Clerval paused work out of concern for their
mentor.  They drifted closer.  The Nomen was losing control of himself.
     "By the Mega Sun!  My father was right about alien doctors,
especially Colonial doctors!  You're all a bunch of rotten killers!  I
don't care what you say... you will not stick that needle into me!"
     "I most assuredly will!  It prevents disease and, I'm sorry to
inform you, offworlder or not, you are subject to the law and the law
says you must be vaccinated.  Why am I explaining myself?  Somebody
restrain this damn fool!"
     It happened so fast.  There was an innocuous blur of motion as the
Nomen seemed to tap Waldman lightly in the stomach, then he darted away,
slamming past Frankenstein and Clerval.  Frankenstein looked after him
running away, hearing something clatter to the floor.  He glanced down. 
It was a Borellian-style dagger, its blade coated with fresh blood. 
Frankenstein looked to Waldman.  Puzzled.  What in the name of the Lords
of Kobol was going on?
     Waldman turned to them, his face drained of color.  His hand was
pressed to his sternum.  He looked more annoyed than anything else.  He
exhaled slowly.
     Clerval wailed, "Professor?"
     Waldman said softly, "Help me!"
     Blood started pumping through his fingers.  They caught him as he
collapsed, cradling him as he sprawled to the floor.  People pushed and
crowded to see the grisly spectacle.  The more callous among them
actually began to cheer for the fleeing Nomen.

******************************  

     Life went on as usual outside of the warehouse turned clinic.  A
carriage clattered across the cobblestoned street.  A delivery wagon was
carrying a centaur's harvest to market.  Vendors sold their goods. 
Pedestrians crossed the street.
     Suddenly, the doors of the warehouse exploded open, releasing a
frenzy into the street.  Frankenstein and Clerval were carrying their
beloved Waldman by his arms and legs, all the students running alongside,
some of them weeping with panic.  The crowd was at their heels still
trying to catch a glimpse.  Pedestrians scattered.  The students dwindled
up the long winding street, bearing their professor toward the school,
shouting for help.

***********************************************

     The sky over the university worship center was gray,  an appropriate
color for any day on which a funeral is held.  Krempe delivered the
eulogy for the slain Waldman before the open casket.  The worship center
was full, with Frankenstein seated near the back, dazed.  Clerval came up
the aisle and slid in next to him.  Frankenstein didn't even glance over. 
"They caught the Nomen who did it," Clerval whispered.
     Even though he whispered, the disgust was evident in Frankenstein's
voice.  "They make pitiful liars, these Nomen.  A Nomen trader? 
Felgercarb!  They're all warriors.  And they usually don't mingle with
other humans unless they're on a blood hunt."  Frankenstein's face began
to turn white, white with rage.  "Why was he here?  It's obvious.  He was
here to kill someone who'd committed an affront to him.  His people live
by a code of violence, murder, racial bigotry  and destruction.  If it
were up to me, every Nomen male would be castrated so as not to plague
the galaxy with another generation of their wretched race."
     "Don't worry, they'll hang him."
     "Good.  It'll be a pleasure to hear his loathsome neck snap."
     People were glancing back. Clerval laid his hand on Frankenstein's
elbow.
     "Lower your voice.  That's no way for a doctor to be talking."
     "It was wrong, Clerval!  It shouldn't have happened.  The medakka
mong deserves to die."
     Frankenstein was causing ripples of attention throughout the worship
center.  Even Krempe faltered briefly in his eulogy.  Clerval pulled
Frankenstein from the pew , dragged him up the aisle and into the
confession booth where they launched at each other in harsh whispers.
     
************************************
 
     The dialogue that followed once the pair was inside the confession
booth was intense.
     Clerval was outraged.  "You're making a spectacle of yourself!"
     "Why Waldman?  He of all people should have cheated death!"
     "How do you cheat what the gods ordain?"
     "I resent their monopoly."
     "That's blasphemy!"
     "Blasphemy be damned.  Waldman spent his life trying to help
people!"
     "All the more reason for us to continue his work with the sick and
injured of our planet!"
     Frankenstein lowered his voice yet another octave.  "No.  He had
more important work."
     "There are sick people who need our help. Here and now. Not in some
future time. Consider that."
     The conversation finally ended, Clerval exited the booth. 
Frankenstein tried to compose himself, clasping his hands together as if
in prayer...or quiet rage.  He gazed up.  There on the wall hung a
religious icon depicting the Fifth Lord of Kobol.
     "The Fifth Lord of Kobol, known for the poetry he wrote about life
and death.  Why should he or any other god have the final say?"
     Frankenstein drifted closer to the icon.  He studied the figure of
the Fifth Lord before him, in his kingly vestments flanked by the winged
Angel of Life to his left, and the skeletal Angel of Death to his right.

************************************

     The next day.  Waldman's workshop seemed destined to be forever
deserted.  That is, until,  the door sung open and a servitor let himself
in.  He saw the finished locket lying open on a table, picked it up and
studied the beautiful miniature portrait it contained, snapped it shut
when he finished.  He looked up, eyes falling upon one of the prints
hanging on the wall: A cutaway diagram of the human body.  He stared
intensely at it.
     At night, the servitor returned, but not alone.  Frankenstein came
with him.  All the professor's things were in the process of being sorted
and boxed.  But Frankenstein was poring over a massive pile of volumes. 
Some of them, the ancient Colonial medical textbooks he was familiar
with, other were notebooks of Waldman's notes.
     Frankenstein read aloud: " 'To understand the causes of life, we
must first have recourse to death...and examine the process in minutest
detail... '" Just then, he paused, noticing a silver box to his right. 
The box had no detail on it at all: it just seemed to be a utilitarian
container.  But it was shiny, glowing with a sheen unlike anything he'd
ever seen before.  There was a button in the center of the case, where
its two halves met to form the seal.  He pressed it, and the box popped
open.
     The papers contained therein were like Frankenstein's best dream
come true.  They weren't just more medical texts: the box contained
starship schematics, diagrams of weaponry, the very secrets of Colonial
technology.  "This is it!" he said aloud.  "From these papers-and
Waldman's notes-I will learn how to arrest death!"

*****************************

     Another gray day broke over Montessor's surface.  The Nomen who
murdered Waldman stood on the scaffold, his face disciplined and devoid
of any emotion, clearly prepared to accept his fate.  He listened as the
magistrate read the sentence:
     "... his body to be left on public display for a twenty-four centon
period, thereafter to be consigned to an unmarked grave. It is so
ordered."
     The executioner drew the hood over the Nomen's head, cinching the
noose tight.  Yet he remained stoic, none of the blubbering and pleading
that a human would do in a similar situation.
     Frankenstein stood in the crowd.  Watching.  Waiting.  THUMP!  The
body dropped.  CRACK!  The neck snapped.

******************************

     It was dark as Hades that night.  Rain pissed down from the sky,
accompanied by a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder.  The dead
Nomen was still hanging from the scaffold, his body swaying to and fro in
the wind.
     Frankenstein loomed from the storm, rain cascading down to the
ground from the center of his tricornered hat,  hands jammed in the
pocket of his greatcoat.  He pulled out a glittering dagger.  The very
same dagger which took Waldman's life, in fact.  He gazed up at the dead
Nomen, at the rope from which he dangled. 

****************************

     The dead Nomen lay pale and naked on a slab in Frankenstein's loft. 
His beard, long hair and bushy eyebrows were shaved off.  Frankenstein
leaned close, rain still dripping from his clothes, studying the
near-human face closely.  A flash of lightning threw wild littering
shadows through the dormer windows and skylights.  Yet the only thing
Frankenstein had to say was, "...no longer aggressive and dangerous."

****************************

     The dead Nomen, now dissected and wired, jerked bolt upright,
flopping and convulsing, eyes opening and closing, mouth gaping open and
shut.  He fell back limply as Frankenstein shut the power off, making
careful notations in his journal.

***************************
 
     The Nomen's body was soon in an advanced stage of decay, flies
buzzing softly around it.  Frankenstein stood over the corpse, gaunt and
hollow-eyed, exhausted and obsessed.  He was wearing a butcher's apron. 
He stared down at one of the dead Nomen's forearms, watching as maggots
swarmed in the flesh.  He abruptly raised a cleaver and whacked it off at
the elbow.  
 
****************************
 
     Frankenstein gazed intently at the Nomen's forearm, which he'd
placed in a steel pan.  He was performing an intense chemical analysis. 
Dead tissues broke apart in solvents, distilled over a slowly burning
flame.  He smeared a glass slide and placed it under a microscope.

****************************

     Frankenstein was hunched over his notebook, pale and unhealthy,
scribbling notations next to a rendering of the human form.  Clerval was
across from him.
     "You've got to stop this, Frankenstein," he said as  Frankenstein
glanced up.  "Nobody's seen you in centaurs. You haven't attended a
single class."
     "I've been preoccupied."
     "We all know how hard you took Waldman's death.  Even Krempe is
sympathetic.  But it's time to move on.  It is time to concern yourself
with life."
     Frankenstein said with a faint smile: "That is my concern.  I'm
involved in something just now.  I wish to finish it in Waldman's
memory."
     "How much longer?"
     "A few centaurs, perhaps.  I'm gathering the raw materials even
now."

******************************

     The wrought-iron doors of a crypt had been forced open in the Helium
Municipal Necropolis.  Frankenstein stood over a stone sarcophagus with a
pry bar in his hands.  He was nervous, working up his courage. 
"Materials.  That's all they are.  Tissue to be re-used," he said, a
slight stutter in his voice.
     He pried off the stone lid.  It thumped heavily to the floor,
cracking in half.  He opened the sarcophagus, reached in, raised the pale
arm of the deceased to inspect it. 
     
*************************** 

     Another night, another necropolis.  This one located about 50
microns  outside Helium's city limits.  Death stones were everywhere.  A
night flyer hooted off in the distance.  The trees were bare and the
ground was covered with ivy.  Frankenstein was shoulder-deep in one of
the graves, shoveling.  His oil lamp burned low, just barely illuminating
the pitch-black night.
     He hit a coffin, swung open the lid, dust and soil cascading.  He
peered down, holding the oil lamp high.

***************************

     The sights within Frankenstein's loft were not for the faint of
heart.  His shelves were crammed now with formaldehyde jars of feet, and
hands, brains and kidneys, the occasional head staring through the glass
and dead felines.
     He worked into the wee hours of the night.  Hunched over his
specimens, the candle's flame flickering low.  He was constantly
referring back to Waldman's notes then making notations in such ancient
books as "Cloning Technology Almanac: 5532," and "Principles of
Resuscitation, From Ancient Kobol to the Modern Colonies."   

***************************

     Elizabeth and Justine stood with a magnificent backdrop of mountains
against a cloudless blue sky.  Nerys Manor stood in the distance.  A
steady breeze rippled the fields as Elizabeth regarded a stack of mail.
     Elizabeth sighed.  "Nothing.  Still nothing."
     Justine said, "It's been months.  It's not like him."
     "Something's wrong.  I know it.  I've heard rumors of hemmoragia
spreading south from Ozzel."
     Justine nodded.  "So have I."
     "I should go.  I should leave today.
     "Elizabeth, if it's true, the authorities will likely ban travel
into the north central regions.  You'd never get near Helium.  Besides,
they're only rumors."
     Elizabeth nodded.  "And not a word of them to Father.  He's agitated
enough not hearing from Frankenstein."
     "Read him one of the old letters and rephrase it.  We'll say it came
today.  It'll set his mind at ease."
     Elizabeth gave her a hug. They walked toward the mansion
 
***************************

     Frankenstein began to peruse the literature that had previously been
contained in that shiny silver box he'd found in Waldman's workshop.  The
first hundred pages were technical schematics for huge spacegoing vessel
called a "battlestar," which was a combination aircraft carrier,
battleship and mobile base of operation for the Colonial military.  Sleek
fighters called, "vipers" were launched from the pontoon-like structures
on the port and starboard sides of the vessel.  "What in Sagan's name
would they have used a ship like that for?" Frankenstein wondered out
loud.  " Were they at war?  Who were they fighting?"
     He continued his perusal of the text and diagrams.  "Main Bridge,
missile launchers, main sensor array..." he read the headings aloud.  He
was at it for centons, his annoyance growing by leaps and bounds.  Then,
he came to the section called "Life Station," and his enthusiasm
returned.
     He spread the papers on the table to better study them, setting the
rest of the documents in the case aside.  He learned about the
decontamination units that quickly and efficiently destroyed alien
viruses and germs and the bone setters that could repair and fuse broken
bones within minutes- making them stronger than before.  Then, he came to
the section that discussed the "life-pods," a type of bed capable of
lowering the temperature of the body to allow it to use less resources,
oxygen and the like, stabilizing it for further treatment.  As he delved
deeper and deeper into the information, he learned about the finite
lasers and their surgical applications.  His quest for knowledge ended
when he discovered the very tool he needed: an electrically-powered
resuscitation instrument called a "cardio-stimulator."
     Frankenstein rushed to another table and hastily drew up plans for
what he wanted.  He then rushed to a blacksmith shop somewhere in the
heart of the city. 

*********************************** 

     It was murky and dark in there.  Bellows were pumping while showers
of sparks cascaded.  The blacksmith and his assistant were pounding a
metallic sledgehammer litany, beating a huge copper sheet into shape. 
Frankenstein entered.  The blacksmith directed his attention to one of
the completed copper pieces leaning against the wall.  He liked it.

*********************************** 

     Frankenstein ran into a problem when he learned about a special
fluid that Colonial doctors used in maternity cases.  If the pregnancy
endangered the life of the woman, they would often recommend that the
mother and father place their sperm and ova in a tank of bacta fluid, a
nutrient broth capable of assisting in the nourishment and development of
the fetus, and then allow the fetus to grow inside the tank. 
Unfortunately, none of the basic ingredients of the miraculous red fluid
existed on Hanover.  After some more painstaking centaurs of study,
Frankenstein came to the conclusion that the closest  he would come to
bacta on Hanover was a synthesized version of amniotic fluid.

*********************************** 

     The woman lay on the table of the maternity ward at Star of Hope
Charity Hospital in downtown Helium, screaming as she went into labor. 
Her water broke, cascading into a steel bucket.  One of the nurses
snatched it up, then scurried around the corner.  Frankenstein was
waiting in the shadows.  He deposited a large number of cubits into the
nurse's hand.
     Frankenstein promptly returned to his garret and examined the
amniotic fluid.  He boiled it off, then worked feverishly to synthesize
it.

*********************************** 

     Frankenstein poured the final drum of fluid into the big,
human-shaped copper vat that the blacksmith had made especially for him. 
He'd dubbed it "the life-pod," after that amazing Colonial medical unit
that could sustain the life of a critically ill patient.  He dipped his
hand in, examining the fluid's consistency and smell.  
     
*********************************** 

     Frankenstein examined three corpses on the back of a wagon, checking
the nostrils and teeth with gloved hands.  A pair of men lurked in the
shadows, waiting for him to finish his strange task.
     "I'll take that one."
     The corpse was lifted off the wagon.  Frankenstein dropped a large
number of cubits into the man's hands.  "With this hemmoragia come to
town, we'll have plenty more for you," he said. 

*********************************** 

     His arms clad in elbow-length gloves, Frankenstein hacked furiously
away at a corpse with a bone saw.  He had no interest in the scraps, so
he merely tossed them aside.
 
*********************************** 

     Before he could even think of animating a fully constructed body,
Frankenstein knew he had to test neural reactions and he did so by wiring
one of the severed arms.  It reacted well to the electrical stimulus.
     Next came the tissue test.  He scraped off a small shred of flesh
from the arm, dropped it in a solution-filled flask and watched it break
apart.  It didn't look good.  He glanced feverishly at the clock.  He
made a fast decision and scribbled it in his journal.
     Not optimal.  Must use it.  I've no time to seek a replacement.  The
body simply can't wait. 

*********************************** 

     Frankenstein stitched a torso with one of the big, awful curved
needles, yanking up hard to draw the catgut tight.  How he wished he'd
found a way to recreate one of those fabulous surgical  instruments he'd
read about, the finite microlaser.  One could perform an incredibly
delicate operation with a finite microlaser and never leave a scar on the
patient's skin.  


*********************************** 

     Frankenstein pulled on a chain, hoisting the body off the slab via a
block-and-tackled mounted on a ceiling track.  The body rose limply into
the air, spinning slowly, its arms and legs dangling, the long black hair
of its Nomen quarter covering the face.  

*********************************** 

     Even as Frankenestein's story continued, a major crisis was ensuing
in space.  Although the Galactica bridge might have seemed still and
inactive to an outside observer, there was an abundance of human movement
going on.  Crewmember's hands were testing dials and gauges whose
information had remained stable for some time.  Communications officers
kept pressing their earpieces harder against their ears, trying to
discover some encouraging sounds.  Colonel Tigh sat at his post, rippling
the corners of printouts he'd stopped examining centons earlier. 
Athena's eyes searched every horizontal scan line of her monitoring
screen, and kept punching new combinations of the same data into her
computer setup.  Adama's large knobby hands gripped and ungripped the
railing that ran along the starfield walkway.
     Suddenly, one of the bridge officers grumbled a curse and called to
Colonel Tigh.  Tigh rushed tot he woman, Adama close behind him.  She
pointed to her long-range scanner.  Tigh turned to Adama saying: "That
scanner's picked up a Cylon fighter squadron."
     "How many?" Adama asked.
     "Looks like an attack phalanx.  They're beginning to press."
     Adama nodded.
     "Order Blue Squadron to patrol the rear."
     "Aye-aye, sir."  Tigh flipped the nearest communication switch as
activity around him on the bridge multiplied.  "Scramble Blue Squadron!
Patrol rear sectors Sigma through Omega!"
     The claxons roared through the Galactica, and the bridge crew could
almost physically detect the rush of pilots toward launching bays.  On
various screens, pilots could be swinging into action, flight crews
readying the vipers and the reverberations of the fighter ships
themselves.
     The squadron launched and achieved formation long before a visual
contact with the Cylon attack phalanx was made.  Positioned well to the
rear of the fleet itself, the vipers were more than ready for the
not-so-sneak attack of their enemy.
     Aboard the Galactica the bridge crew stood and sat at battle
stations, their active eyes watching information screens and equipment. 
Adama ordered the picture being transmitted from Blue Leader One
transferred to the main screen.  Tensely, they all watched the distant
points grow into bolts and then take form as flat-looking but
multileveled Cylon fighters.  The first blast from a Cylon weapon was
directed at Blue Leader One, and everyone on the bridge flinched and
startled backward when the shot seemed to come right at them.  Then the
skies were filled with laser fire and the sudden bursting flames of
direct hits.  A pair of Cylon fighters broke through the Blue Squadron's
line of defense and headed for the fleet.
     "Protect the freighters!" Adama ordered.
     "Galactica to Blue Leader," transmitted a bridge officer.  "Engage!"
     A Blue Squadron viper peeled away from the squadron and in one long
beautiful sweep fired at both of the attackers and transformed them into
two masses of fire whose flames reached out toward each other, combined,
fell together, and exploded further in a burst of bright light that, for
a brief moment, illuminated the entire wide triangle of ships that was
the present fleet formation.
     "My God!" Athena gasped.
     "Good shooting?" Adama standing behind her, asked.
     "Not only that.  That double kill was accomplished by one of the
cadets."
     "As I said, good shooting."
     Adama walked away from her, his face apparently expressionless, but
Athena recognized a flicker of pleasure in his reaction to the heroism of
a graduate of his makeshift flight academy.
     The Cylon ships, quickly routed by the dizzying maneuvers of the
Blue Squadron vipers, retreated into the distance, became points again. 
A flight officer approached Adama and reported:
     "Blue Squadron returning to base.  Four Cylons destroyed, the rest
are running."
     "They'll be back," Adama commented.  "In packs, like wolves.  What
do your reports show, Tigh?"
     The colonel was scowling at a set of printouts that he gripped
tightly in his hands.  Something clearly disturbed him.
     "We got ships again, but not Cylon personnel.  The Cylons in the
rearguard ships guided the others, as before.  We lost one viper and a
good pilot.  They just lost the vehicles, if vehicles is the proper word.
They're wearing us down with these empty ships.  It's eerie."
     "That may be what they want us to feel.  If they come at us again,
go for the rearguard ships.  Station a few warriors on the slower
freighters with heavy artillery to blast any of the pilotless aircraft
that might get through next time."
     "Aye-aye, sir."
     Meanwhile, on the ice planet, Starbuck was shocked, his mind already
light yahrens ahead of his ears, predicting what the strangers's
narrative was leading up to.  Everyone else in the stranded ram was also
shocked.  Even Boxey seemed just a little bit nervous.  "You see,
Lieutenant Starbuck, what you encountered out there was a man that  I
stitched together with my own hands, a living thing of my own devising." 
 

*********************************** 
 
     Frankenstein reached up with one hand to stop the body spinning.  He
pushed it down the length of the lab, rolling it along its ceiling track
like a side of beef in a meat locker.
     The Creature lay on an improvised bier of crates, surrounded by
shadows and clutter, draped and sprawled.  Breakers bubbled and dripped. 
Intravenous lines seeped and secreted.  A misty chemical haze hung in the
air.  Frankenstein watched his patchwork man, glowering, waiting.

*********************************** 

     "It took nutrients like a baby  receiving mother's milk, blushed
like a young girl with the blood I forced  through its veins, all in
preparation for..." The sound of a child's sobbing interrupted him. 
Frankenstein looked at Boxey.  "Child, what I have I said that upsets you
so?"
     Boxey sank deeper and deeper into tears.  Muffit inched his muzzle
over to the boy's cheek to comfort him.  "You're-You're a-----baggerman!"
he wailed.
     Frankenstein was puzzled.  "Baggerman?  I don't believe I know that
term."
     Leda, who had been silent throughout the first two centons of the
man's story, suddenly burst out in anger.  "I'll tell you what it means!"
she cried.  "'Baggerman' is a slang term we use to describe a ghoul,
grave robber, or body snatcher.  Characters like that figure very
prominently in fables told to correct misbehaving children."
     Apollo nodded.  "I'm sure your intentions were good when you did
what you did, Dr. Frankenstein.  But I'm afraid if my father were here
listening to your story, he'd probably consider you little better than
the space-roving scum who looted Kobol's tombs after that planet had
died."
     "Worse," Starbuck added.  "You've done what no human being has a
right to do-you've artificially created a living being."
     "You'll think differently about me when you hear my personal account
of the experiment's results, Starbuck."

*********************************** 

     A flash of lightning ripped through the skylights of Frankenstein's
garret, bathing the macabre scene within an eerie purple white.  He lit a
candle, and read aloud one of the Colonial medical manuals, this one
discussing cardio-vascular stimulation devices.  "Cardio-stimulators are
devices that are used to apply a strong electrical shock to the heart.
The shock changes ventricular fibrillation to an organized ventricular
rhythm or changes a very rapid and ineffective cardiac rhythm to a
slower, more effective rhythm.  This device helps treat cardiac disorders
which include ventricular fibrillation, ventricular tachycardia, atrial
fibrillation, and atrial flutter."
     Frankenstein stopped reading for a moment, comparing this
information with Professor Waldman's electrical neural stimulation trick. 
"Of course," he said aloud.  "If sufficient voltage were applied to a
stopped heart, it would start beating again.  Not only would there be
movement, but...life itself!"  
 
*********************************** 

     All the research and toil finally caught up with Frankenstein and he
passed out in his chair.  His creation was still taking fluids.  Gray
daylight streamed through the windows.
     It was not an ordinary day in the life of Helium, however.  There
was commotion in the street outside.  People were shouting, equine's
hooves clattered on the cobblestone streets, and, occasionally, someone
would scream or wail.  But Frankenstein didn't stir.  He was dead to the
world.
     Just then, there was a demented pounding at the door.  Frankenstein
roused, taking a moment to remember where he was.  He lurched from the
chair, grabbed a canvas tarp and threw it over his "patchwork man." 

*********************************** 

     Clerval pounded furiously on the door.  Finally, the latch was drawn
and the door swung open a crack.  Frankenstein peered out, gaunt and
furtive.  Clerval was stunned at his d