Gun on Desert Planet Equis
A Battlestar Galactica/Star Trek/Lost in Space/Egyptian
Mythology/Fireball XL-5/Ark II/Blade Runner Crossover Fanfic by Paul
Robison
Prequel to: The Cylon's Curse, A Visitor From Hades, Space Murderer and
Greetings from Space Family Robinson

Special Guest Stars:
Steve Zodiac (Zodiac): Fireball XL-5
Venus: Fireball XL-5
Charlie Evans (Cadet Charlex): Star Trek, "Charlie X" (Season 1)
Ra (First Centurion): Egyptian Mythology
Rick Deckard (Deckard): Blade Runner
Rachel: Blade Runner
Jonah: Ark II
Ark II (The Colonial Scarab): Ark II
Samuel: Ark II
Sesmar: Lost in Space, "The Dream Monster" (Season 2)
The Cyclops Monster: Lost in Space, "There Were Giants in the Earth"
(Season1)
The Inland Sea: Lost in Space, "The Hungry Sea," (Season 1)
The Lost City (Moletown): Lost in Space, "There Were Giants in the Earth"
(Season 1)
Priplanus (Desert Planet Equis): Lost in Space, "No Place To Hide"
(Unaired Pilot)

Fireball XL-5 (c) 1963, Gerry and Sylvia Anderson Productions
Star Trek (c) 1966, Paramount Productions & Gene Roddenberry's estate
Lost in Space (c) 1965, 20th Century Fox & Space Productions
Ark II (c) 1977, Filmation Productions
Blade Runner (c) 1982, The Blade Runner Partnership & Sir Run Run Shaw
Battlestar Galactica (c) 1978, Universal Studios & Glen A. Larson
Productions        
Spoiler:
Battlestar Galactica #2: The Cylon Death Machine, by Glen A. Larson &
Robert Thurston, (c) 1978, Berkely Books, N.Y., N.Y.  


From The Adama Journals

Zodiac.
     Who is he?  Where did he come from?  Am I really a part of his
memories, or just a substitute for authority figures in general?  Even
when he described the incident wherein our paths met and I pretended to
remember it because he needed for me to remember it and I needed him for
the mission, I could not recall a single aspect of the brief adventure.
     Later, when I had some time, I went to my quarters and requested
from Galactica's computer a printout of my journals covering that time
period, the time when he claimed I'd supervised the capture of his gang
and the ship containing their booty while they were fleeing the raid on
the Cylon radium mines.  Studying the pages, the only reference I could
find to the incident, or an episode which could have been the incident,
was this:

     Routine was interrupted today by an apparent pirate ship that
stumbled into our sector, seemingly the result of miscalculation in our
course.  Ship tried to escape, but when they had our pursuers in their
sights, their commander refused to fire on us, and ship and crew were
easily netted.  Tigh says their holds were quite rich in plundered cargo. 
I told him to take care of the matter fairly and to send the prisoners to
the proper officiators.

     Could that commander have been Zodiac, could that cargo have been
the radium?  Why didn't I record the name of a man who allowed himself
and his gang to be captured rather than firing on his own kind?  Would
the fact that the cargo had been Cylon radium be worth noting?
     The note seems to indicate I didn't see even these particular
brigands, yet Zodiac insists we had a face-to-face confrontation.  I
should recall such a meeting vividly. After all, wouldn't I have been
impressed that the leader of a pirate group had once been a full-fledged
garrison commander, and wouldn't I have recorded my bewilderment that
such a vital and intelligent man had tainted his value in a petty crime? 
The escapades of such a daring renegade commander deserve more than just
a passing mention in my journal, I think.
     There's nothing in the surrounding entries to indicate that I was
busy with some more important matters that might've prevented my entering
a full report of the incident.  Further, the journal note that remains is
so routinely worded, so militarily matter-of-fact, that I can't believe
that I wouldn't have let at least a hint of Zodiac's personality or the
uniqueness of his exploit enter my journal.  What could have been going
in my head at the time that caused me to miss the essential point of the
episode?  I can only believe that internal evidence suggests that this
entry is about a different group of criminals and that Zodiac has me
confused with someone else, some other commander who performed his normal
duty.
     Still, if it was Zodiac and his gang, I'm sorry that I do not
remember him or the details of his capture that have been so large an
obsession for him during his confinement aboard the prison grid barge. 
To Zodiac, that episode seems to have been the major event of his life. 
It's too bad that, while he dwelt on his hopes for revenge so fiercely,
our confrontation was only a forgettable moment for me, an entry in my
journal that calls forth no pictures of the event it describes.

**********

Chapter One: The Trap Must Work

     This time the trap must work.
     The Imperious Leader of the Cylon Empire had commanded that the trap
must snare the human's fleet completely.  The humans should not be able
to execute one of their sneaky last-micron escapes.  There could be no
overlooked malfunction in the trap's mechanisms.  For too long now, the
Cylon forces had chased after Adama's assemblage of incompatible ships (a
captured prisoner had referred to them as "a ragtag fleet," a pointless
term, as there was no identical word for it in Cylonese).
     His executive officers, weary of battling the human pest, had
acceded readily to the Leader's plan to force the human ships, especially
the Galactica, into the range of the awesomely efficient pulsar cannon on
the desert planet Equis.
     Imperious Leader was particularly pleased that the final destructive
assault should originate on Equis because the exiled first centurion, Ra,
commanded the garrison there.  It was only proper that the outspoken Ra
should deliver the final deathblow. It would teach him obedience and help
to regain his lost status simultaneously.
     The Leader recalled vividly the day he'd been obligated to send Ra,
once one of his most valued officers, into exile.
     "I recommend that we abandon our pursuit of the humans," Ra had
suggested in the middle of a briefing.  The executive officers closest to
Ra had immediately moved away from him, knowing that the oddly ambitious
first centurion had finally overstepped the proper bounds.
     "Abandon pursuit?" the Leader had said.  Terlane took the question
as an invitation to pursue the subject.  The Leader knew he was drawing
Terlane into inevitable errors of Cylon decorum, and he was sorry to have
to do so.  But what could an Imperious Leader do when a Cylon acted out
of racial character?
     "Analysis of present situation suggests," Ra had said, the arrogance
in his voice quite above his station, "that we allow the humans to
continue their foolish quest toward the far reaches of known space.  As
long as they do not contaminate any of our own dominions, they do not
pose a threat significant enough for the continued waste of Cylon time
and personnel.  We have, after all, achieved our goal.  Except for that
small band of fleeing survivors and the remaining enslaved humans on some
outworlds we control, the human race has been exterminated.  The war is
over.  The victory is ours."
     "What?  You dare question my decision?" Imperious Leader had said
explosively, hoping that Ra would interpret this as a final chance to
back down from his unsuitable position.
     "I dare nothing, Leader," Ra had replied. "Your wisdom and judgment
are vitally needed back on our home worlds.  You would even be cheered
for abandoning the---"
     "Silence, First Centurion Ra!  I remind you that I and I alone
reserve the right of omniscient judgment.  As along as a free human is
left alive, the chance that they could return in large numbers at a later
time is a threat that cannot, and will not, be abided. Humans are more
prolific breeders than Cylons, even though their lifespan is shorter.  Do
you not remember how their resourcefulness made the war against them last
too long, longer than it should have?  Even now the human insects are
winning battles and skirmishes against us.  Remember how a small squadron
of human vipers wrecked our attacking wall of fighters at the battle of
Carillon's Lot?  I cannot rest until we have achieved the goal of human
extermination.  A period of exile, First Centurion Ra, should help you to
realize the importance of my objectives-----and, hopefully, lessen your
unfortunate impulses toward ambition."
     As Ra had slunk off the command deck, Imperious Leader had almost
felt sorry for the punished centurion.  However, he had known for some
time that Ra would draw such punishment eventually.  Ra's excessive
displays of ambition had to be countered.  He clearly hoped to be the
next Imperious Leader, and he did not lack qualifications for the
position, if only he would stop exhibiting his ambition for it so openly.
     Ambition was rarely observed among Cylons.  Imperious Leader had not
had any inkling of what the word meant until he had been awarded
third-brain and absolute power over the Cylon Alliance.
     Ra, however, had always been something of a rebel Cylon.  As a
fighter pilot, while still at first-brain status, he had been more
aggressive than his peers   so suicidally aggressive that it seemed
surprising that he had survived to second-brain and then executive
officer status.  Normally, Cylons at Ra's level knew how to maintain a
showing of absolute obedience whether they felt it or not.  Imperious
Leader hoped that the exile would force some sense into him, since he so
obviously did have the potential to become the next Imperious Leader,
plus abilities that would make him exceptional at the job.
     Now it seemed that Ra's exile would work out to the Cylons'
advantage.  He was the best possible officer to have on the desert planet
Equis.  An officer with Ra's abilities was, after all, required at the
mainspring of the trap.
     As usual, Imperious Leader enjoyed working out the details of his
plan.  Details were comforting.  If his head, now covered by a massive
communications helmet, could have been seen by the intricate network of
officers arrayed around his pedestal, they would've observed a glowing
aura shining from each eye.  The few humans who had ever seen the alien
leader had felt both awe and revulsion toward him, partially because of
his uneven and out-of-balance body (which, in its bulk, resembled a pile
of jagged and lumpy stones), and partially because of the large-pored
aspect of its swampy-gray skin.  As his ability to mimic human thinking
processes increased, he discovered just how repulsive he looked through
their eyes.  Their perceptions of him as an ugly beast made him hate the
human pest even more.  Especially since, to him, a human was the most
ugly sight imaginable in a universe that contained a diversity of
ugliness.
     As he awaited the first reports of the beginning of his present
strategy, a sneak attack on the fringe of the ragtag fleet, the Leader
reviewed his overall plan.  He could find no flaws, but there were gaps. 
It was necessary that he acquire the kind of information that would
prevent such gaps from becoming another one of the humans' fortunate
escape routes.  Another session with the simulator might provide him with
data about human behavior that could lead to key insights about their
seemingly illogical patterns of motivation and action.  He had already
learned several odd lessons about them from conferring with various
simulacra.  He ordered an executive officer to have the simulator
transmitted to the command chamber.  It was there before him, on his
pedestal, exactly at the end of his request.
     Nodding toward the telepathy-template at the center of the simulator
console, he requested mentally the simulation of Commander Adama, head of
the human fleet.  As usual, Adama proved too difficult a task for the
simulator.  The edges of his simulacrum were fuzzy.  Not enough was known
about the commander to justify taking up space in the simulator data
banks, and so it could not provide a successful duplicate.  Whatever the
Leader asked of it, the indistinct form of Adama supplied insufficient
data.  Frequently, it was not able to answer at all and just stared at
the Leader indifferently.  No insights or revealing associations of
thought could be gleaned From The Adama simulacrum.  Brusquely, the
Leader dismissed it, called instead for Adama's son, Captain Apollo.  The
resolution of the Apollo simulacrum was sharper.  Humans regarded the
young man as handsome.  Knowing that made the Apollo simulacrum more
repellent to Imperious Leader.  Fortunately, he could disengage synapses
within his third-brain to cut off physiological reactions to the
simulation.  He asked "Apollo" a few questions, but could discover little
more than he had learned from the simulacrum of Commander Adama. 
Apparently, the simulator's information concerning the son was nearly as
skimpy as that concerning the father.
     Imperious Leader called for a scan of information that might suggest
names about which the simulator had accumulated more data.  Since most of
the Cylons' information about humans was extracted from prisoners, the
simulator often contained better information about key officers in lower
positions of command, those who had more direct dealings with Colonial
warriors.  On the scanner's list, he recognized the name of Starbuck, a
heroic sort of human (or at least they thought so), mention of whom
seemed to occur often in Cylon interrogations.  He ordered the template
to provide a simulation of this Lieutenant Starbuck.
     Suddenly seated in front of Imperious Leader was a human with eyes
so bright and searching they reminded him of the rays of light that
emanated from Cylon centurion helmets.  "Starbuck" immediately broke into
a broad smile.  Humans seemed to derive some odd sort of pleasure out of
smiling.  The Leader was glad he had cut off physiological reaction to
the sight of humans, or else he might not have been able to endure the
sight of this smiling bright-eyed human.
     "Hi, chum," said the Starbuck simulacrum.  The greeting surprised
Imperious Leader, since simulacra---programmed, after all, from simulator
data banks---rarely initiated conversation.
     "I am addressing Lieutenant Starbuck of the battlestar Galactica, am
I not?"
     "Sit on it and rotate, I.L.  You know I'm no more Starbuck than
you're a blooming lily of the valley.  I'm a reproduction and I'd
strangle you if my hands had any substance."
     The Leader glanced briefly toward the simulator template; unsure if
the device was functioning properly.  It was highly unorthodox for it to
program such independence into a simulacrum---unless of course, that
independence was so much a part of the man's character that it could not
be removed from the mental, emotional, and physiological profile that had
been extracted by the simulator.  It was possible, Imperious Leader
thought, that this Starbuck might be extremely useful, even if only as a
study of independent thought in the human species.  Much could be learned
from the brashness and insulting demeanor of this young officer
replication.  Connections might be established that could fill just those
gaps in Imperious Leader's strategy.
     "How many ships remain in your fleet, Lieutenant?"
     "Starbuck" laughed.
     "As many as the specks of dirt between your toes, I.L."
     "Cylons have no toes."
     "Starbuck" seemed genuinely impressed.
     "Then maybe we don't have any ships," he/it said.
     "Come now, Lieutenant, we know that there are still many ships in
your---"
     "Then you'd better inspect the dirt between your toes more closely,
I.L."
     "But I told you Cylons----"
     Imperious Leader stopped talking.  Not only did the Starbuck
simulacrum initiate conversation, it also interrupted.  This
interrogation was going to be difficult, and perhaps extremely
unpleasant.

**********

     Commander Adama was utterly exhausted.  Even if he had not been
grieving for half a yahren, his hair would be snow white anyway; just
from the sheer hardness his newfound position forced him to endure.  And
it was not the burden of command alone that made him feel his age. 
Although he was not a young man -- 130 yahrens were considered advanced
age, even by Caprican measures ---he was still able to mobilize reserve
energies, if necessary that would have made the youngest warriors under
his command unfit to catch up with him.  Not that he would have any other
choice, really.  The burden of command that, as commander of the last
battlestar, he was forced to wear, was a light one compared to his other
responsibility: to guide through the most dangerous sectors of space a
rag-tag fleet that was never meant for deep space missions.  This would
have been hard enough, even without the never-lessening threat that the
Cylon Empire represented.  For the Cylons were implacable.  Their leaders
decided the termination of mankind, and the Cylon centurions tried
unweariedly to execute the decision of their leaders.  In fact, they
never really got tired.  They were like insects, incapable of independent
thought, programmed for the extinction of mankind, and either they
carried out their program or died trying.  That was all they were capable
of.  And exactly this narrow-mindedness made them the most dangerous
enemy mankind had ever faced.  
     Were they not Cylons, Adama might have admired their persistence; he
might have considered them worthy adversaries.  But he could not force
himself to have any feelings for a society for which free will was a
completely absurd idea---not even negative ones.  Aliens---that was
probably the most accurate description for them.  They were the most
disturbingly alien race Adama had met in his whole life.  Humans couldn't
even try to understand them.  What little they knew of the Cylon race was
frightening enough.  What they didn't know was probably even more
horrible.  Cylon society had much in common with insectoid societies. 
The bottom level was (at least as far as humans knew) that of the common
centurion.  A Cylon Centurion, though born by natural means, was little
less than a machine.  In fact, they looked a lot like primitive droids in
their clumsy armor, and nobody really knew where the armor ended and the
Cylon warrior began.
     Cylons were cybernetic organisms: life forms that were part of the
armor they wore.  Due to the sophisticated weapon technology, every Cylon
warrior was a small part of an incredibly huge communications net.  Like
chess pieces, being pushed here and there by their leaders on an
oversized board.  But the size of their organization was also a
disadvantage.  So much information was added to the system in every
micron that the leaders had to select and only pay attention to the most
important events.  And though the Cylon leaders had more than one brain
(the highest-ranking ones, actually, had three), that supported them in
this, luckily for Adama---and for mankind in general---they were not
purely super machines.  They could---and did----make mistakes.
     The Cylons had difficulties with independent actions.  The fact that
they were so dependant on their leaders was an advantage for humans,
because they had nothing akin to human inventiveness.  They worked with
stiff efficiency in battle while human pilots improvised and followed
their instincts.  In a one-to-one situation they had no chance against a
human warrior.  The only problem was that the Cylons never fought in
one-to-one situations.  Their raiders usually flew in groups of three,
and their centurions worked in a battle like a complicated circuit where
every link was in constant connection with all  the others.  And exactly
that made their roundabout-attacks so dangerous.  Human pilots, even such
excellent ones as Boomer or Apollo, needed yahrens to learn the reactions
of their wingmates and to form a well-oiled unit.  Cylons did that by
design.
     Adama could almost understand why they considered mankind such a
threat.  The Cylon idea of order and perfection was based on a society
where the individual was to serve the common welfare in every possible
thing, even the smallest one.  A long time ago, human religious leaders,
too, followed this theory, but finally human thinking had outgrown it. 
Even though one might have doubted it, considering the reactions of some
Kobolian fundamentalists.  Not so the Cylons----they did grow, after all,
therefore they could not change, either.  They developed this theory to
its utmost.  Every unit was nothing but a little cog-wheel in the
incredible Cylon machine.  And thusly, they managed to create the perfect
order----but for a price no human being would be ready to pay.  And that
was why the Cylon leaders decided that mankind had to be terminated,
Adama realized.  The destruction of the Colonies was not enough for them. 
Mankind had to be eradicated.  Not a single human being was allowed to
survive, because they endangered the perfect order of the universe---at
least as the Cylons understood order.  Adama often asked himself why is
it that the Cylons feared mankind so much when their order truly was as
strong and unshakable as they assumed.  He sometimes thought he knew the
answer...and he liked it not.  His only mission now was to survive. 
Survive at any price.  He could not afford giving up hope.  He had to
appear strong, so that his troops could trust him, and so that he himself
could cling to his hope.  But at the moment, it wasn't easy to look
optimistic.  The chances weren't promising....
     The alarm warning of the Cylon attack shook him out of his pensive
mood.  "What's our situation?" he asked his daughter, Athena, who was
listening to the garbled series of messages coming over the battlestar's
commlines.
     "Nothing too frightening," she responded.  "A bunch of Cylon
fighters broke through a flaw in the camouflage force field.  We might as
well drop the force field for all the good it's doing us, save the
energy.  The Cylons seem to detect us often enough."
     "I'm beginning to think that they know where they are at all times."
     "You're probably right about that."
     Athena's agreement only added to Adama's suspicions.  She had
command-level abilities and, in fact, had turned down important posts in
order to remain aboard Galactica.  He had always found her opinions
valuable, even when they disagreed with his own instincts.
     "How bad is it?" he asked her.
     "Reports sound positive, sir. One of our ships did take a hit,
though.  The foundry ship Shiva.  Some highside damage, nothing serious,
nothing they can't handle."
     "Cylon casualties?"
     "Not specified.  Boomer's message was, quote 'we annihilated a
majority of the red-eyed wankers before they turned tale,' unquote.
     "Luck was with us again, I see."
     "Starbuck says he's donating a large bequest of luck to be spread
over the entire fighting crew."
     Adama should have laughed, but didn't.  "I don't like what's
happening here," he said quietly.  
     Athena looked over at him, worried.  "Why not?  It's good luck."
     "We've had too much good luck, I'm afraid.  We've stayed ahead of
the Cylons for a long time. Some of that's skill, some of it's luck."
     "It's perfectly normal to worry about luck turning sour, you know."
     "That's not what's bothering me, Athena.  Luck's just an instinctive
control of our natural human resources.  What's bothering me is that our
luck seems a bit too pat, too calculated."
     "I don't understand."
     "Sometimes I get the definite feeling that the Cylons have some
strings attached to us and are just pulling at them like puppetmasters. 
As if their sneak attacks are not meant to succeed, as if they're just
proddings to force us into certain course patterns, as if----"
     "Mmmm, that's pretty fanciful.  If I didn't know you better, I might
say paranoid.  And if I didn't know...."
     She lapsed into a concerned silence, pretended to check gauges she
had just checked a moment ago.
     "Out with it," Adama said.  "What were you going to say?"
     She took a deep breath before answering.
     "I reviewed a report on the last Cylon ambush, the one where our
guys wiped out nearly the whole contingent of their fighters.  Tigh
underlined a part of it for me, putting a question mark in the margin. 
Our scanners seemed to indicate---I emphasize seemed---that there had
been no life form of any kind within a couple of the destroyed ships.  Of
course the scans were random, and they might even be incorrect,
especially since collected under battle conditions in which not all Cylon
ships were scanned efficiently.  Still..."
     "Still it's an interesting batch of data, and that's why Tigh wanted
us to take note of it."
     "Precisely."
     "What do you think it means, Athena?"
     "That the fighters were remote controlled, operated by a distance by
Cylons inside the ships that got away."
     "You may have a point there."
     "Fits your puppetmaster theory rather neatly, don't you think?"
     "As I said, you may have a point there."
     Athena laughed.
     "I detect a touch of mockery in your laughing, young lady."
     "It's just that, even if your boots had wings on them, you'd resist
jumping to conclusions, Father."
     "You're not supposed to call me Father during duty centons."
     "Will you send me to the brig for insubordinate affection?"
     "A couple of sectans there might do you a world of good."
     "You've convinced me.  Commander."

**********

     Every time Starbuck settled his neck back into the neckbrace and
watched Jenny, his flight-crew leader, close the canopy around him, he
wished the same wish.  If only he could have a fumarello right now...
     Hundreds of times he'd asked Boomer, who was an expert on the
botanical aspects of tobaccon products, to develop a fumarellos that
wouldn't smush down against the front of the canopy or fill the small
enclosed area with dense smoke and could additionally be fitted through
breathing and communication gear.  Boomer had laughed heartily and said
that while he thought it was possible to confine the smoke to a
proper-sized burning cylinder, and even possible to find a way to adapt
it to the breathing gear, he doubted whether Core Command would approve
such a revolutionary device.  Core Commands were always aeons behind in
accepting the really innovative combat notions, Boomer had commented
dryly.
     "Lieutenant Starbuck? Sir?"
     The high voice, distorted perhaps by the static in the transmission,
sounded adolescent and a bit whiny."
     "Yes, Cadet Charlex?"
     Starbuck saw the seventeen-yahren-old cadet's face in his mind. 
Childlike eyes, eager mouth, mousy blonde hair---did he imagine it or did
Charlex have freckles on both cheeks?  Yes, he had some.  
     Starbuck remembered him from the first batch of recruits that had
come aboard the Galactica from the Antares, a transport about a tenth the
size of the Rising Star.  All he had on him back then was the
hand-me-down clothing he wore and all the rest of his possessions that he
was carrying in a dufflebag.  
     The officers of the Antares who'd brought him aboard the Galactica
spoke highly of Charlex's intelligence, eagerness to learn, intuitive
grasp of military matters and his sweetness of character; but it struck
Starbuck that they were almost elbowing each other aside to praise him
and that they were in an unprecedented hurry to get back to their own
cramped ship, without even so much as begging a bottle of ambrosa.
     Charlex's curiosity had certainly been obvious from those first few
moments, though he showed some trepidation---which was not surprising,
considering that he'd lost his entire family during the Final
Destruction.  Corporal Rand had been assigned to take all the new
recruits to their quarters.  It was at that point that Charlex stunned
her and caused all the other recruits to burst out in laughter by asking
Starbuck honestly:
     "Is that a girl?"
     Starbuck recalled when, during unarmed defense training, Charlex
proved to be horrendously clumsy, but perhaps no more so than any other
green recruit. Yet Boomer, who'd been clad like he and Charlex in workout
clothes, was able to instruct him with a seemingly inhuman patience.
     "That's better.  Slap the mat when you go down, Charlex.  It absorbs
the shock.  Now, again."
     Boomer dropped of his own initiative to the mat, slapped it, and
rolled gracefully up onto his feet.  "Like that."
     "I'll never learn," Charlex said.
     "Sure ya will, buddy," Starbuck said.  "Go ahead."
     Charlex had managed an awkward drop.  He forgot to slap until the
last minute, so that quite a thud accompanied the slap.
     "Well, that's an improvement," Starbuck said.  "Like everything
else, it takes practice.  Once more."
     This time was better.  Starbuck said, "That's it.  Okay, Boom-boom,
show him the ole' shoulder roll."
     Boomer hit the mat, and was at once on his feet again, cleanly and
easily.
     "I don't want to do that," Charlex said.
     "It's part of the course," Starbuck said.  "It's not hard.  Look." 
He did a roll himself.  "Try it."
     "No.  You're supposed to be training me to be a warrior, not showing
me how to roll around on the floor."
     "You gotta learn to take falls without hurting yourself before we
can do that.  Boomer, maybe we'd better demonstrate.  A couple of easy
throws."
     "You got it, Bucko," Boomer said.  The two warriors grappled, and
Boomer, who was in much better shape than the lieutenant, let Starbuck
throw him.  Then, as Starbuck got to his feet, Boomer flipped him like a
cubit.  Starbuck rolled and bounced, grateful for the exercise.
     "See what I mean?" Starbuck said.
     "I guess so," Charlex said.  "It doesn't look hard."
     He moved in and grappled with Starbuck, trying for the hold he had
seen Boomer use.  He was strong, but he had no leverage.  Starbuck took a
counter-hold and threw him.  It was not a hard throw, but Charlex again
forgot to slap the mat.  He jumped to his feet flaming mad, glaring at
Starbuck.
     "That won't do," Boomer said, grinning.  "You need a lot more falls,
Charlex."
     Charlex whirled toward him.  In a low, intense voice, he said:
"Don't laugh at me."
     "Cool off, Charlex," Boomer said, chuckling openly now.  "Half the
trick is in not losing your temper."
     But that was then, this was now.  Charlex did eventually learn not
to lose his temper.  And now here he was, in Launch Bay Alpha, about to
be shot into space.
     "Lieutenant sir," said the innocent-sounding Charlex, "what you said
at the briefing---about exercising all caution and holding your fire---"
     "Yeah, yeah, kid.  What is it, did I use too many two-syllable words
or something?"
     "No, not that.  I understood.  It's just that we were taught there
were times when aggressive initiative was---"
     "Take that and shove it, Cadet.  That's classroom rhetoric and it's
all just so much felgercarb when you're in the cockpit of a Colonial
viper, get it?"
     "Yes sir, but---"
     Starbuck sighed.  It seemed Charlex hadn't lost his eagerness to
spout ill-digested textbook lessons.  Another problem with him: beneath
the warrior trappings he was still an adolescent boy, a human, but
totally inexperienced with other human beings.  Short tempered because he
wanted so much and it couldn't come fast enough for him.  That was
probably why he wanted to become a full Colonial warrior so badly;
because he wanted to be one of the human race, to be loved, to be useful. 
Essentially, he was a child, a child in a man's body trying to be a whole
man.  Unfortunately, this all added up to an individual too immature to
even consider death and pain as a possible consequence of his chosen line
of work.
     "Look, Cadet Charlex.  When you've been on a few combat missions,
you'll know all there is to know about aggressive initiative, okay? 
Until then, just obey Starbuck's Golden Rule."
     "Golden Rule?"
     "Keep your trap shut when somebody wants something from you, plan on
how you're gonna get 'em later, and never volunteer even when the mission
looks like the boondoggle of all time."
     "That doesn't sound very--"
     "What did I say about keeping your trap shut?"
     "Yes, sir.  Lieutenant."
     A soft chuckle on the line.  Starbuck's wingmate, Boomer.
     "I think the young warrior's learned a lesson," Boomer said.
     "What's that?" Starbuck asked.
     "Now he knows what it's like to be starbucked."
     Starbuck smiled.  In flight-squadron slang, to be starbucked meant
to be maneuvered into a losing situation, whether in a gambling game, a
battle, or an argument.
     A blue light began beeping on the viper's control panel---the
command bridge's warning that all ships were ready for launch.  The deep
mellow voice of Colonel Tigh, the commander's aide, came over the
comm-line.
     "Deepspace advance probe.  Blue Squadron up."  Starbuck tensed his
body, knowing he was to launch first.
     "Launch one!"
     Starbuck was slammed back against the cockpit seat and neckbrace as
his viper began its long accelerating thrust out of the launch tubes of
battlestar Galactica.  On the line, Tigh's voice bellowed:
     "Launch two!"
     That would be Boomer's ship being catapaulted out the second tube. 
Starbuck steadied his viper as it cleared the launch tube and zoomed in a
wide arc above the massive command ship.  Out of the corner of his eye he
saw Boomer executing the same maneuver with his fighter, and then
hovering beside Starbuck's viper.
     "Flight Academy unit, stand by," ordered Tigh.  "Cadet Charlex,
Cadet Ramart, and Cadet Ellis.  Prepare to launch."
     Each of the cadets' ships was launched in its turn and the five
fighters of the advance probe formed a star formation in front of the
Galactica.  Starbuck tapped a signal button on his control panel to alert
the other fliers to engage their turbos for forward thrust.  Their pilots
accelerated all five fighters, even the three makeshift vipers fresh from
the foundries, evenly.  Behind them the command battlestar appeared to
fade abruptly and become a distant point.
     Starbuck felt cold shudders as he surveyed the apparently empty
space around him.  Even the flickering far-off stars gave him no
confidence that there was really anything out there.  Oh, there's
something out there, all right, he thought.  If there's nothing else,
there're Cylons out there.  Out there somewhere.  Behind us, ahead of us. 
Even above and below us.  He laughed softly, thinking how Boomer was
always saying, in off-duty bull sessions, that there were no such
concepts as above and below, in front and behind, when you were alone in
space.  Each tilt of your ship, the smallest alteration of your flight
angle, each failure of your instruments to record correctly---all of
these changes shifted your reality as well.  Boomer was fond of phrases
like "altering reality," In a way, Starbuck's long-standing friend
friendship with the courageous, intelligent and skillful Boomer kept
shifting his own reality in positive ways.  Boomer steadied him whenever
the angles of his own life tilted, rescued him when he got himself into
really deep trouble.
     Starbuck checked the scanner  panel which now displayed, in
electronic silhouettes, the flight formation.  One of the ships had edged
out of formation and appeared ready to veer off on its own.  
     "Lighten up, Boom-boom," he said.  "The man next to you is about to
fly up your tailpipe."
     There was a short pause before Boomer, evidently checking which
pilot was out of line, spoke:
     "Cadet Charlex, is that you?"
     "Yes, sir," came the agonizingly adolescent voice of Charlex.
     "You come any closer, kid, your front end's gonna melt off."
     Charlex's viper edged back slightly.  But just slightly.  Imagining
the mousy-blonde haired kid screwing up his unlined brow in childish
puzzlement, Starbuck was surprised to find himself simultaneously amused
and annoyed by the foolish daring of the young cadet.
     "But....our instructor told us to keep tight," Charlex announced
with authority.  Damn....the kid's practically a walking blackboard,
Starbuck thought.
     "Your instructors are back on the Galactica, probably playing
double-jack each one with a glass of ambrosa at his elbow," Boomer said. 
"You, my fine young cadet, are on a deepspace probe.  There are risks
that you don't get past by stopping your mock-flight vehicle and raising
your hand to ask the instructor a question!"
     "Our instructors never let us raise---"
     "I'm not gonna say it again, Cadet!  This kind of flight is
different from anything you experienced in the beginning simulators.  To
infinity...and beyond!  It's not like failing a simulation.  Overheat and
you evaporate.  Pffft!  So...get off my tail, okay?"
     Charlex swallowed hard and answered:
     "Getting off your tail now, sir."
     Starbuck studied the scanner, watching Charlex draw his ship back
and take his proper place in the star formation.  The kid would have to
be watched or he'd be converted to space junk the first time something
went wrong.  No matter what the mission, there was always a
complication----if not a ship so hastily built it couldn't withstand the
stress of battle, then it was a pilot young enough to be flying model
ships in his hand across a playroom.  Starbuck sighed.  To some people,
the present difficulties of the Galactica's fighting squadrons might be
shrugged off as "fortunes of war."  He had too many problems seeing war
in such terribly materialistic terminology.  If there was any financially
oriented figure of speech that applied, it was that war----at least the
kind of battles Starbuck and his kind had to fight---was the gaming pot
with each side anteing and raising until one displayed the winning hand. 
Or, as so often happened with Lieutenant Starbuck, the victorious player
managed to avoid having his bluff discovered.
 
**********

     Adama followed his aide, Colonel Tigh, a short, dark-skinned, and,
despite his relatively young age, silver-haired man, to the translucent
star map that covered the whole back wall of the command bridge and
watched silently while he choreographed the new flight-path line for the
fleet.  The nimble, dark fingers of the Colonel had almost a life of
their own as they sought out the best way through the seemingly chaotic
lines of the star map.  The silver family signet-ring on the little
finger of his left hand awakened memories in the old commander; memories
that he thought (or hoped) long forgotten.  That ring was the only thing
that remained of Tigh's family; from the old mansion where his people had
lived for nine generations.
     Though almost a generation apart in age, long ago, during the
Thousand Yahren War that ended so abruptly with the false peace offer of
the Cylons and their treacherous attack that resulted in the destruction
of the Colonies, Adama and Tigh had been a team---and a famous one, due
to their recklessness and skills.  Tigh had been hardly more than a child
when he first got into the cockpit of a Viper, which was the very reason
why they made him Adama's wingmate---in truth, though, he was the more
sober and careful one of the both of them, keeping his impulsive wingmate
from taking unnecessary risks more than once.
     It was a shame that Tigh never achieved the command chair of a
Battlestar that he would so richly deserve.  When Adama, having calmed
down considerably, took over the supreme command of the fleet, he often
suggested Tigh for such a position.  Unfortunately, as considerate and
careful as Tigh was in battle situations, as impulsively as he spoke his
mind in the wrong places, so his own command had been denied him every
time.  Time and again Adama warned him to carefully measure his words,
but the impulsive Colonel had little patience with the quirks of politics
and he told it, too, every time, and he did it with a flowery "eloquence"
regardless of the given situation.  On the bridge of the Galactica, Adama
greatly valued Tigh's almost brutal honesty---in fact, he depended on it. 
Still, Tigh had deserved his own command, and now that the he had the
whole fleet under martial law, Adama would gladly give him that
chance---if only there were other   battlestars left to command.
     "We have the new flight path, sir," Tigh reported.  "We can give the
changes into the navigation computer and transmit them to the other
ships."
     Adama's eyes followed Tigh's hand; he studied the new route and the
changing of the vectors.  "I don't like it," he said quietly.  Tigh
looked surprised
     "But that's the only logical route, Commander!  Look how it brings
us farther away from..."
     "I don't like it, nevertheless.  When something looks so easy and
convenient, it needs to be examined very closely.  For our own safety."
     The corner of Tigh's mouth curved into an ironic smile.  "I thought
you'd be ecstatic.  "We destroyed sixteen Cylon ships during that last
attack."
     "And how many of them had a crew?"
     Tigh hesitated before answering.  "We only scanned six of them.  In
none of those could we find any Cylons.  But you know as well as I do,
Commander, that the scanners aren't always reliable during a battle. 
They can't be fully reliable..."
     "Still, it's not an unjustified assumption that the Cylons might
send fully automated raiders against us."  It was not a question.
     "Well, as an assumption..."
     "They may want to have us destroy those machines.  To lure us into
false safety without sacrificing their centurions."             Tigh
nodded.  "The thought occurred to me, I admit.  On the other hand...their
task force fell back until," he pointed at the star map; "that point. 
That is a considerable distance.  Big enough to hope that they've lost
our trail."
     Adama gave a cursory glance at the network of shining points in the
sector Tigh had pointed out.  "I disagree.  I think they're still just
behind us, barely out of range of our sensors.  Just like their base
stars."  He turned away from the star map.  "Whatever we do, one thing is
sure; we can't turn back."
     "And when exactly have we ever turned back and fought?"
     Adama heard the frustration in the voice of his aide.  Often had
Tigh voiced his wish to cease fleeing and turn back and blast the whole
Cylon war machine out of the skies.  Not that Adama would blame him for
that, especially since in his heart of hearts he had the same wish.  On
the other hand...
     "Perhaps if I illustrate what I mean," Adama said, taking a small
cylindrical tube out of his pocket and setting its laser-directed light
for a thin line, he directed the ray toward the map, first raising it
toward the top of the starfield.  "Above us is the planet En Quartus,
listed in the warbook as a Cylon outpost.  We cannot move in that
direction."  He lowered the light, sent its beam toward the lower portion
of the map.  "Below us, the Coribona asteroid belt.  Millions of
fragments from the world the Cylons destroyed.  We could never cross it
with these big clumsy ships.  And through all that rubbish Apollo and
Boomer couldn't burn a path as they did through the minefield at
Carillon's Lot."
     "Our route is clear, then?" Tigh shrugged.  "Straight forward. 
Where the patrols reported a safe transit."
     "That would be too easy," Adama murmured absently.
     "Commander?"
     Adama raised his voice.  "That last defeat of the Cylon raiders,
their unexpected withdrawal...."        "Unexpected?  The Galactica beat
them!"
     "Yes....it looked that way, didn't it?"
     A glimmer of understanding came into Tigh's dark eloquent eyes. 
"And the truth?" he asked, challenging his commander to share his
thoughts with him as always.  
     "It might be purely instinct from my side."  Adama answered slowly,
"which, of course, is sometimes more than simple facts.  But I believe
we're being slowly, carefully maneuvered...herded toward that....that
safe passage ahead."
     Athena, having stepped up to her father during the conversation,
unexpectedly joined it, though it was not her way to intrude into the
counsels of her commanding officers---not even if one of them was her own
father.  "Why would they do that?"  She glanced at the star map, as if
she could see beyond its curved lines and blinking lights that endless
black nothing with its few stars that was the reality represented by the
symbols on the map. "What might be out there?" she whispered.
     "I don't know, Athena.  Maybe a dead end," the Commander said. 
"Maybe something a lot more dangerous than all the Cylons' basestars put
together.  But I don't like it."  He turned back to Tigh.  "I think we
should send out more scouting patrols."
     The Colonel didn't answer immediately, which surprised Adama.  "What
is it, Tigh?  You disagree?" 
     "Commander, we've pressed our pilots too hard lately.  They're on
the brink of exhaustion."
     "We all are.  But there's something else that worries you, isn't
there? Well---out with it."
     "Sir, when you asked...I'm worried by the fact that we have to put
more and more half-trained cadets into the Vipers.  Too many.  And that's
dangerous."     
     Adama thought of the cadets he'd seen a few days ago, and that
positively radiated exhaustion---both that of body and spirit.  These
young men and women were not prepared by the Caprican Military Academy
for all the trials and tribulations they might have to face during their
career; they were not given solid basics in theory or detailed, thorough
survival training.  Need dictated that they would be thrown into the
middle of battle as soon as they were able to know their way around the
cockpit of a Viper.  And more often that simply was not enough.
     The Commander wished he could instruct his aide to call back all
Vipers, to call back everyone from out there, back to the relative safety
of the Galactica.  Only that was impossible, of course.  Like it or not,
he had to risk the lives of those youngsters in order to save everyone
else.
     "Of course, it's dangerous.  But what other choice do we have, when
the Cylons are still following us....and who knows what lies before us?"
     Tigh nodded reluctantly, and his suddenly saddened eyes told clearly
how much he disliked the Commander's decision, even if he understood its
necessity.
     "Colonel," Adama said gently, "it's no use.  We must increase our
patrols, even if that means that we have to send out the cadets."
     Slender, dark-haired Athena, wearing the blue uniform of the bridge
officers, touched his arm.  "Father...?"
     Adama gave her a disapproving look.  He never tolerated liberties on
the bridge, not even from his daughter who was closer to him than anybody
else---not the least because she became more and more like her late
mother with every passing day.  Athena took the hint and drew her shapely
body to attention.  "Commander, as you are certainly aware of the fact, I
have been properly trained as a Viper pilot.  I respectfully ask to be
detailed to the fighting squadrons."
     Both men smiled.  This was not the first time that Athena tried to
escape bridge duty, but her request had always been denied.  Like this
time.
     "Athena," her father answered, "you know I can't do that.  You're
needed here, on the bridge."
     "Yes, sir," she said, not the least disguising her anger and
disappointment.
     Tigh could understand her disappointment very well, for he, too,
wanted to get into a cockpit and go out with his squadrons.  More than
once had he asked Adama to allow him to return to the fighting troops,
since he was still not too old to bear the strain of the starts, and his
vast experience would be a great help for the young pilots.  But Adama
denied his request as well, every time, saying that he was more needed on
the bridge.
     On the bridge...there were times when he positively hated the
bridge.  Bridge duty meant that he had to stand in front of the screens
and watched how the young pilots that he had come to love and respect
during training for their heroism and selfless sacrifices, were killed
one by one.  The longer their flight lasted, the less he could endure to
be kept away from the fighting, condemned to simply watch...and he knew
Athena felt the same way.
     Tigh turned to a bridge officer and ordered that the duty roster be
flashed onto the main screen, in order to see who was till available for
scouting patrols.  Starbuck's voice over the main commline interrupted
Tigh's command:
     "Blue Leader to Base. We're coming up on a small planet dead ahead. 
Can you give us a quick scan?"
     Tigh nodded toward the scanner section leader, who immediately fed
the lieutenant's request into the ship's computer system.
     "Base to Blue Leader.  Scanner readout coming up."  He turned to
Adama, concern in his eyes.  "Commander?"  
     "What is it?"
     "An object in Sector Oz."
     The officer switched the readout onto Adama's screen.  Grids flashed
and words appeared in the screen's corner.  The shape of the planet
reported by Starbuck came into resolution.  Adama ordered a deeper
probe-scan.  A slightly more detailed resolution revealed an
eerie-looking blue-gray planet.
     "Starbuck," Adama said into his commline mike.
     "Yo, sir."
     "Do you observe a sun or any other astronomical geologic phenomenon
around the planet?"
     "Well, there's a sun circling the planet in a pole-to-pole orbit,
but it's not a natural one, sir.  It looks like a ball of burning gasses
held together by an electronic force field."
     Adama turned away from the console.
     "What is it, sir?" Athena asked.  "Who would cast a uninhabited
planet adrift in space with only an artificial sun for heat and light? 
It doesn't----"
     "Perhaps it does, Athena, perhaps it does.  We need more data."
     "I don't understand."
     "We have a small planet here, not much more than an asteroid,
floating through space by itself, no neighboring planets detectable
anywhere.  Its artificial sun might be the handiwork of an advanced
civilization long since dead and forgotten. Or maybe....something else."
     "Sir," Tigh said, "are you thinking what I think you are?  One of
the Cylon asteroids?"
     "Exactly, Tigh."
     "Cylon asteroid," Athena exclaimed.  "I don't get it.  An asteroid's
a geological----"
     "That's correct.  I forgot that Cylon asteroids were before your
time.  There was a time, early in the thousand yahren war, when the
Cylons discovered a way to power asteroids across space, sometimes at
phenomenal speeds, for combat purposes.  They became a sort of
geologically formed fighter craft.  We were never able to discover how
they did it, as we've been unable to discern a lot about Cylon
technology."
     "And this could be one of their---what would you call it----war
weapons?" Athena asked.  "This minor planet?"
     "Well, it's a bit large, but perhaps.  This might be one of their
abandoned units.  Or maybe not abandoned."
     Adama's voice had become ominous.
     "We need more data.  Probably it's just what it looks like: a
drifting asteroid."  Adama turned to a bridge officer.  "What's the
report on it showing now?"
     "Structure: Granite composition.  Light metals table C-four. 
Crystalline elements table M-one."     
     "Surface?" said Tigh.
     "Sandy and mountainous with a few inland seas.  Basically ravaged
and torn by a bitter and blustery climate. Very hot conditions marked by
periodic bercesgadium storms."
     "Bercesgadium?" Athena said.  "Never heard of it."
     "The word's a corrupted form of a much longer word," Tigh said. 
"One too long to memorize.  It's a gas.  A Cylon-manufactured gas." 
     "If I remember correctly," Adama said, "bercesgadium is a
red-colored substance formed as a waste product from the style of laser
weapon the Cylons've evolved.  Their weaponry pumps out bercesgadium,
usually into the ground, sometimes into the air.  It's not radioactive
but it's extremely toxic, especially if it escapes to a planet's surface
in the form of clouds or mist.  In the proper density, it can be fatal to
us----one of the few instances I know where the discharged elements from
a weapon can be just as dangerous as the firepower of the weapon itself."
     Athena touched her forehead and was surprised when her palm came
back dripping wet.
     "That's making me break out in a hot sweat."
     Adama smiled.
     "Hot is the word for it, all right, at least on this particular
planet.  What's your view, Tigh?"
     Tigh glanced briefly at father and daughter then at the watching
bridge crew, before speaking tersely: 
     "Environment: Hostile!"
     
**********         

     When Starbuck finally got a good look at the dusty planet, he felt
his hands get hot and sweaty.  He wondered if he was reacting to the
planet's angry appearance or whether the hellish heat that no doubt
reigned supreme on its surface sent out actual penetrating waves of
warmth, perhaps to warn off intruders.  He flicked on his commline to the
Galactica and said:
     "Nice place.  Didn't I see it listed in the R&R guide?  You want us
to orbit the equator or is there a 'cool zone' for---"
     "Keep out of its gravitational pull," ordered Tigh in a solemn
voice.  Tigh didn't like flippancy in transmissions to base, but had long
ago given up ordering Lieutenant Starbuck to maintain the proper gravity
while communicating."
     "Will do," Starbuck said.  He cut off the Galactica line and
switched over to direct-comm among the vipers in the formation.  "Okay,
guys," he said, "all youngsters move up ahead and lock in a holding
pattern while Boomer and I get a closer scan of the surface."
     "Uh...uh... Lieutenant Starbuck, sir."
     The annoying squeak of Cadet Charlex again.
     "What is it this time, Cadet?"
     "Can I go along with you----please?  I made a first in Scanning
Procedure finals.  I need the experience--"
     "This is no time for practice, Charlex.  I'll give you a pop quiz
later.  Meantime, obey your orders.  Your instructor did tell you guys
about obeying orders, didn't he?"
     "Yes sir!  Lieutenant, sir!"
     "All right, then.  You guys, peel off.  Cadet Ellis, you're in
command."
     Starbuck could picture Charlex choking at that last order.  The
na‹ve young cadet felt like he was wearing his insides out, going around
bent over all the time.  Probably thought that Starbuck wanted to shove
him over to the next man willing to put up with him.  Nobody else in the
fleet had the courage or stamina of a Colonial warrior.  Charlex didn't
want to be anything else.  That was normal.  But Charlex obviously hadn't
learned that there were a million things in the universe he could do;
there were also about a hundred million that he couldn't do.  There's no
fun in learning to face that, but he had to do it---if he didn't want to
catch a laser beam in the throat.  There weren't many other alternatives
for eager new cadets these days.
     The vipers broke formation.  The three cadet ships moved ahead as
ordered, although Starbuck thought he could detect a shade of
recalcitrance in the way Cadet Charlex executed the maneuver.
     "Let's do it, Boomer!"
      The ships of the two experienced lieutenants arched away from the
cadet ships and edged cautiously toward the asteroid.  On the commline,
Starbuck heard Cadet Ellis:
     "Ramart....Charlex...Keep visual contact.  Hold formation, Charlex."
     Ellis' voice was deeper, more mature than Charlex's, but there was
still a cadetlike tentativeness in the sound of it.  
     On Starbuck's control panel, the Galactica commline light flashed
on.  He flipped the communication switch.
     "Galactica reading," he said.
     Adama came on the line.
     "Starbuck," he said, "the planet below you has an atmosphere.  Some
bercesgadium content, but otherwise breathable, although the heat can
ascend to unbreathable levels.  I don't want you or any of your squadron
to get too close.  The bercesgadium indicates the possible presence of
Cylons or other alien habitation.  Be careful.  Take a look and return."
     "About the bercesgadium.  It's in cloud form?"
     "Sometimes."
     "Dense."
     "Sometimes."
     "Well then, don't worry, Commander.  We won't go anywhere near that
planet.  Right, Boomer?"
     "Do you have time to put that in writing?"
     "Boomer, sometimes---"
     Starbuck was interrupted by a sudden blinding flash of light that
seemed to come from the other side of the asteroid----where the cadet
ships were!
     "Ellis!" he cried into the direct-comm.  "What in Sagan's name was
that?"
     "Damned if I know, sir," Ellis replied.  "Biggest light show I've
ever seen.  I'm going to check it out."
     "No, wait for us," Starbuck said, but he could see on control-panel
scanner that Ellis had already peeled away from the other two cadet
vehicles and was heading toward the point where the light had flashed.
     "C'mon, Boomer," he said, "let's hop to it.  That kid'll---"
     "Gotcha, Bucko."
     Both flight-command vipers curved into gradual loops and flew toward
the cadet ships.  As the cadet fighters came into view, Ellis speeding
far ahead of Charlex and Ramart, a brilliant sphere of blue light
suddenly emerged from the planet's cloud cover.  Throbbing and fiery, it
soared skyward, almost with a gliding ease.  It headed toward Ellis'
fighter. Too late Ellis started to brake the ship and change his flight
angle.  The blue light-sphere intersected Ellis' foundry-manufactured
viper that now looked like a speck of dust dimly illuminated in the
brightness of the gigantic arrow of light.  Ellis' fightercraft was
seared jaggedly down the middle before it erupted into a shapeless
melting mass, and then exploded.  The explosion's flames seemed dim by
comparison with the brilliance of the force that had destroyed it.
     The light-sphere sailed off into space, as if launched on a steady
even course, leaving no trace behind of the disintegrated craft.
     The words now coming over direct-comm from the remaining two cadet
ships were jumbled, inchoate, and hysterical.  Both pilots had changed
their courses to fly toward the area where, moments ago, Cadet Ellis'
ship had been.
     "Charlex! Ramart!" Starbuck souted.  "Back off!  We're coming!"
     "What happened?" Boomer said as he brought his viper up alongside
Starbuck's.
     "He got picked off!" cried Charlex.  "It's some kind of energy beam. 
Got Ellis, wiped him out, came at him like a photon---only bigger, much
bigger!"
     Remembering Adama's cautionary words, Starbuck said:
     "What do you think, Boomer?  Some kind of....catapult?  With, say, a
photon-based payload?"
      "Couldn't be.  We're too far outta range.  Never saw one that could
pick off a target that accurately from the ground.  I never saw that good
a tracking device, especially not for that distance and situation."
     "Okay."
     Starbuck flipped the communication switch to the Galactica and
shouted:
     "Blue Leader to Base!  We're under attack!  Ready the landing deck. 
We've lost a ship and we're coming in!"
     As he began to set his viper for the return course, Starbuck checked
the whereabouts of Ramart and Charlex.  They were both heading toward the
dusty asteroid.
     "Charlex!  Ramart!  Set for return course.  Now!"
     But both pilots, unheeding, headed their craft straight for a fast
moving cloudbank in the planet's upper atmosphere.
     
***********

Chapter Two: Cadet down!
     
     Silently, Apollo watched Boxey put Muffit through intricate
maneuvers.  The furry daggit-droid was a manufactured replica of the
animal the boy had lost during the raid on Caprica.  Actually, as Boxey
had pointed out often enough, the droid did not replicate the original
very accurately.  The original Muffit, Boxey said, had been shaggy-haired
and mostly gray.  The reproduction's fur was thick and brown, and its
body was larger, larger, in fact than any daggit Apollo had ever owned. 
Nor did its visible patches of hi-tech gears add to the illusion. 
However, the lab that had manufactured the prototype had included the
essential traits for any daggit model; affection and loyalty.  In the
time since Boxey had tentatively accepted the droid from the laboratory,
he had come to love it as much as, if not more than, the daggit he'd
lost.
     Now, as the boy commanded the droid to sprawl on the cabin floor and
do a sort of clumsy pushup, Apollo kept his eye on the youngster, amazed
at how much the boy seemed to have grown in just the past few days.  The
difficulty of raising a growing and energetic child made Apollo wonder
again whether he should've adopted Boxey.  Homeless, and, since the
Battle of Kobol, motherless, the boy needed somebody.  But perhaps a
flight commander was not the most suitable father.  With the Galactica
constantly under Cylon pursuit and unknown threats ahead, there was
always the risk that Boxey could become a full orphan, and Apollo didn't
know whether the boy could recover from still another loss among the many
losses he'd already sustained.  Thinking of the boy's tragedies led
Apollo to remember the losses in his own family.  His brother Zac dying,
left behind by Apollo in a damaged ship to die under Cylon fire while
Adama watched helplessly on the Galactica's bridge monitors.  Later, both
father and son had traveled to the devastated surface of Caprica to find
that Ila, Adama's wife, his mother, had disappeared without a trace.
     "Dad?"
     Apollo almost didn't react to Boxey's question.  He was still
unaccustomed to being called Dad by the boy.
     "Yes, what is it Boxey?"
     "You, well, you sorta went away from me there for a minute."
     "Oh?  Sorry 'bout that, Boxey.  Just thinking.  One of my bad
habits, I'm afraid.  You need something?"
     "Nope.  Just wanted to make sure you're still here."
     Apollo smiled at the boy, but couldn't refrain from feeling sad. 
Even Boxey was aware of the risks.  He didn't want Apollo to go away even
when he was physically present.  But there were more battles to come,
more missions.  I have to go away, Boxey, he thought, and there's no way
I can sugar coat that for you, kid.
     The boy returned his attention to Muffit.
     "Darn you, daggit!  I said twenty figure-eights.  Now stop
shirking!"
     Apollo was amused by the authoritative tone in the boy's voice as he
barked commands at the droid.  The boy was always saying how he planned
to be a colonial warrior, a fighter pilot like his dad, and it had become
part of his play.  Well, he certainly looked to be warrior material,
although only six yahrens old.  He'd already shown an unusual bravery
many times in the----
     The blaring of the alert claxons shattered Apollo's train of
thought.  As he leaped toward the door, saying a quick good-bye to Boxey,
he heard Adama's voice echoing from many speakers:
     "General quarters!  General quarters!  This is not a drill!"
     Hurrying onto the bridge, Apollo was quickly briefed by one of the
officers.  He rushed to his father's side.  
     "Fighter control reporting," he said.  "All squadrons standing by."
     Adama nodded, clapped a hand on his son's shoulder.
     "Starbuck's probe ran into something," he told Apollo. "He's lost a
ship."  He turned to Tigh, asked: "Situation?"
     Tigh leaned in toward the telecom screen, flipped a switch.
     "Starbuck," he said. "Report in."
     Sounding out of breath, Starbuck's voice came on the line.  On the
little screen, his face looked worried even in the telecom's unsure
resolution.
     "It came from the asteroid, somewhere in the northeastern quadrant. 
A high-energy sphere of coherent light.  Massive, very intense, blinding
as a sun...we think it's some sort of photon-based weaponry, torpedoes,
if you will---but they must have a gigantic launcher.  Tigh, it's----"
     "Starbuck," Boomer's voice cut in, "we've lost contact with Charlex. 
Visual and scanner."
     "Stand by, Colonel.  We're missing another ship."
     "And Ramart now!"  Boomer yelled.  "I've got no contact with Ramart
either!"
     "Sorry, Galactica.  Gotta break transmission," Starbuck cried. 
"Back with you in a flash."
     As Starbuck's voice faded, Apollo turned to Adama.  
     "Father," he said, "let me take my squadron out after them, to
protect them from----"
     "No, not yet," Adama said softly.  "Not till we know more.  But put
your squadron on alert, Captain Apollo!"
     Apollo rushed off the bridge, grabbing a flight jacket held out by
an aide just before he leaped through the hatchway to the corridor.

**********

     Starbuck frantically racked through all communications channels,
trying to find a sound-trace of the missing cadets.  "Charlex!  Come in! 
Ramart!"  Where are you?"
     "I got 'em!" Boomer shouted.  "They're just inside critical
gravitational pull."
     Boomer flashed Starbuck the coordinates identifying the location of
the two ships.  The static on the commline faded and the cadets'
hysterical voices replaced the firelike crackle.
     "Charlex! Ramart!"  Starbuck cried.  "Get your astrums back here! 
You can't go down there!"
     Charlex's response was strident.  "I saw where it came from!  I
don't like it!  I'm going to make it go away!"
     "Turn back!" Starbuck said.  "Don't enter the atmosphere.  I repeat,
for both of you, don't----"
     "Ellis was my roommate!" Ramart gasped, tears in his voice.  "The
bastards killed him!"
     "That's an order!  Both of you turn back!"
     Starbuck's control panel scanner showed the two cadet ships not
veering a milli-metron from course.
     "Target locked," Ramart said, his voice cooler now.
     "Right behind you," Charlex said.
     Starbuck set his viper downward, toward the asteroid's upper
atmosphere.
     "Boomer,' he said, "we can't let them go down alone!"
     "Maybe we can't, but we have to!  Starbuck, pull out!"
     "No way!  You know me better than that, Boomer.  Now either join me
or return to the command ship."
     A pause before Boomer answered:
     "I never know whether you really mean that option.  I'm just behind
you, Bucko."
     The two vipers zoomed toward the cloud cover.  Boomer's level voice
came over the commline:
     "They're below the ionosphere, and they're going too fast for us to
get a visual on them."
     "Record their short-range telemetry.  Maybe we can get a fix."
     Involuntarily, Starbuck sucked in his breath as his ship descended
into the atmosphere.

**********

     First Centurion Ra, Warrior of the Gladiator Class, sat regally in
his command chair and gruffly barked orders to his first-brained
subalterns.  Some kind of intruder had been discovered in the skies of
Equis.  A photon torpedo from the launcher atop Mount Asenath had struck
and destroyed a ship.  Subsequent activity of other ships had been
detected.
     Ra felt uncharacteristically nervous.  Cylons rarely felt agitation
of any sort.  But then, Ra was not your characteristic Cylon.  When he
had been a first-brain fighter pilot, he had had occasional glimmerings
that there was something odd about him.  And he fast perceived that his
"oddness" had little to do with his spectacular abilities to maneuver a
Cylon fighter and destroy hundreds of Colonial spacecraft.  No, the
qualities he felt had more to do with the way he could perceive the
universe, the way he could make simple mental connections that seemed
impossible for other first-brain Cylons.  In some combat instances he had
been able to execute strategies that he knew was the equal of anything a
second brain officer might've done.  When he'd tried to express these
strange feelings to other warriors, they had been unable to comprehend. 
A number of times his conversations were reported to superiors, and he
had been called in for discipline.  Thus he had learned to conceal his
awareness of his own select rank among his peers.  His inner isolation
had also brought him feelings of loneliness, another emotion not usually
felt by Cylons.
     After the ceremony in which had been awarded his second brain, his
perception of himself increased more than twofold.  He had been right,
there was for him the potential for a special destiny.  He knew
immediately that he was one of the few second-brain Cylons whose
intricate body mechanisms wouldn't reject the implantation of a third
brain at a later evolved stage of his life.  Most Cylons could not
survive one more brain implantation, and therefore only few were ever
scanned as eligible to be raised to Imperious Leader status.  Of those
few, many were simply not suited for overall command level because they
were not qualified in other physical, mental, or emotional aspects.  Ra
discovered later that his own eligibility was endangered because of his
tendency toward forthright commentary, a pronounced arrogance in his
manner, and a need to bully other officers into agreement with him.  The
present Imperious Leader had cautioned him several times about these
traits, saying that if he did achieve third-brain satus, he would
comprehend at once the reasons why such traits could, from an overall
objective view, be regarded as deficiencies.
     Nevertheless, Imperious Leader had admitted, Ra's assertive
tendencies might just be overlooked, since, in certain situations, they
resolved themselves into ingenious positive actions.  Ra tried to obey
Imperious Leader's admonitions, as any good Cylon must.  His ambition
increased, soared higher than any hopes ever displayed by his fellow
executive officers, which were just barely able to express ideas of
ambition, who perhaps were not in fact ambitious.  That knowledge made
him feel lonelier than he'd ever felt in the days when he had had only a
single brain.
     Despite his own cautiousness, Ra encountered situations in which his
negative traits came to the fore, and he cursed himself for his loss of
control.  He did not want to fall off the thin line he was treading,
since it led directly to the monstrously high pedestal on which the
Imperious Leader throne rested, and Ra needed desperately to continue
along that line.  His last outburst had nearly finished him and had
resulted in the disciplinary assignment to this stony, distant,
appropriately lonely outpost.  Although there was considerable honor in
being assigned command of the most massive weapon ever devised for the
Cylon arsenal, Ra nevertheless felt the indignity of the discipline
deeply.  He vowed to perform actions here so heroic that Imperious Leader
would have to call him back to the command base star.  There he would
prove himself worthy of the throne until the time came when he would
actually ascend to it.
     The time when a new Imperious Leader would be chosen seemed
frustratingly a long time away, but Ra would have to endure it.  Anyway,
it might not be so long.  If the present Imperious Leader continued his
obsessive quest to destroy all fleeing humans, to exterminate the grubby
little race in fact, there were all sorts of openings, all sorts of
possibilities that the Leader would tumble from his throne ahead of his
time or even be destroyed by one of those cunning little human vermin. 
It was doubtful, but an ambitious being tended to contemplate lines
toward the future with un-Cylon-like eagerness.
     Now, perhaps, his chance had come.  As soon as the message that the
escaping human fleet was being herded toward his sector arrived,
informing him that it might be necessary to engage the immense firepower
of the photon torpedoes, Ra had put his garrison on alert.  Destroying
the remnants of the human race just might be the thing to put Ra into the
strategic position he had hoped for.  It would draw Imperious Leader's
approval and definitely put Ra in the forefront of all Cylon executive
officers.  It would---
     A technician interrupted the first centurion's reverie.
     "Two fightercraft.  Colonial.  Entering defense perimeter."
     Rising, Ra examined the hexagonal screens for himself.  Good.  This
confirmed the previous reports of anomalies and verified that the
destroyed ship had also been colonial in origin.  The two ships now
onscreen were now skimming above the pinnacles and canyons of planet
Equis, seemingly flying with purpose toward an objective.  The foolish
filthy little creatures!  They were planning a physical attack on Mount
Asenath and the photon torpedo launcher.  Ra might've laughed out loud if
such laughter were not regarded with suspicion among Cylons.
     "I want one of them taken alive," he said to his subalterns.

**********

     Starbuck's ship cleared the ionosphere, with Boomer following a
moment later.  The darkness ahead of them suggested they were on the
"night" side of the planetoid.  The only discernable lights were a fairly
bright spherical glow in the foothills of a dimly outline mountain the
ascended into the sky, and the contrails from the ships of the two cadets
far ahead of them.
     "Got 'em, Boomer."
     As they closed in on the slower vipers of the two cadets, Starbuck
punched up a general terrain scan. He was immediately impressed with the
mountain.  Although the great Daluraea Range on Caprica had contained
mountains more awesome than this one, here on this small asteroid, rising
up from a relative flatland, it was an awe-inspiring sight.  Its ragged
outlines and jagged peaks suggested a challenge even to an experienced
mountaineer.
     And the vipers of the two cadets were heading right for it!
     Frak!  That's all I need right now, Starbuck thought, to crash-land
on a mountain like that chasing two brainless kiddie-pilots.  I never
planned on getting any mountaineering time into my files and records.
     He punched up a closer scan of the mountain.  As the screen
displayed the summit, some ungeological formations were indicated.  The
information at the bottom of the scanner screen made Starbuck inhale
sharply.
     "What've you got, Bucko?" Boomer said.
     "On the top of that mountain, it's a gun emplacement.  Huge.  It's
like it's carved out of the rock.  The weapon itself's in a, what appears
to be a urternitium bastion.  And, Boomer, if my figures are correct,
it's every bit as massive as we suspected.  And, look, it's moving now. 
As big as it is, it ain't stationary----it's as maneuverable as....as a
telescope in an observatory.  I mean, the scale shows it as enormous,
maybe the largest photon-torpedo launcher anywhere, Boomer.  It's bigger
than----oh my God!"
     The vipers of Charlex and Ramart were now slipping upward, zeroing
in on the weapon itself.  At the same time, the barrel of the cannon
swung slowly around, pointed in their direction, yet just above them. 
Starbuck bellowed a curse as Ramart's ship eased into the weapon's lower
range.  Suddenly, an uncanny, luminiscently bright sphere of light
erupted from the cannon's barrel, lighting up the night side sky and
causing thousands of glittering rays to form a mazelike network across
the immediate sandy surface of the planet.  It enveloped Ramart's viper,
which seemed to remain in a shadow outline for a brief moment, and then
disintegrated into a blazing fireball.  The photon torpedo passed to the
left of Starbuck's and Boomer's ships, continuing to illuminate the
surface of the planet in a daylike brightness, and then entered the
mostly clear sky, briefly lighting it in a blue-streaked but quite
peaceful-looking aspect.
     "Ramart!" Starbuck screamed, even though he knew the cadet was dead.
     "It's too late, Starbuck," Boomer said.  "The kid's just bought it. 
I've lost Charlex's signal too."
     "It's there.  I saw him.  But it's being jammed. They know we're
here too, Boomer.  Stay low, that supergun can't reach us down here."
     "Right, Bucko!"
     Starbuck's scanner showed a trio of what were clearly Cylon fighters
rising from an area beyond the superweapon.  From the first shots they
fired, at a target near the left side of the mountain, Starbuck knew
immediately where Charlex was.

**********

     Ra ordered the launch of three fighters to make the remaining enemy
pilot crash-land.  The command pilot of the lead Cylon fighter carefully
sent a warning shot against the viper's bow.  In the hot and hazy
atmosphere, the streaks of laser fire had the look of flaming arrows.
     "Colonial warrior," the Cylon flight commander said, "you will
release control of your ship to us."
     The human's answer was to open fire.  Ra ordered his flight
commander:
     "Force him down!"
     "By your command."
     And the three Cylon ships converged upon their enemy.

**********

     Starbuck and Boomer watched helplessly as the Cylon ships forced
Charlex down.  Charlex's convulsive weeping came through an interruption
in the jamming crackle of static:
     "No!  Don't let them take me!  Boomer----Starbuck!"
     "Hang on, kid.  We're coming," Starbuck replied, even though he
suspected the poor cadet couldn't hear him.  
     "You're outta your mind," Boomer said.
     "Shut up, Boomer.  He might not be much now, but he's gonna be a
full warrior someday.  We owe----"
     "Forget it, Starbuck," Boomer pleaded.  "It's too late now to do
anything for Charlex.  By the time we get there, he's either dead or
taken by those Cylon wankers."
     "But---"
     "Ain't no buts about it.  We've got to get back and warn the
Galactica.  This weapon's like nothing in any of our warbooks.  They've
gotta know!"
     "I've lost two men.  I'm not going to lose Charlex."
     "The problem is, buddy, you go up against that weapon all by your
lonesome----and we lose you! That's why we gotta get back to the
Galactica.  One life against thousands!  Starbuck...."
     For a moment, the furious blonde lieutenant was tempted to throw
Boomer's cautions to the cosmic winds.  But, knowing that his wingmate
was right, he muttered another stygian curse and, following Boomer, swung
his viper around.

**********

     Seeing that the human enemy had been effectively trapped and
captured, Ra returned to his command chair.  One of the monitoring
centurions announced:
     "Two more fightercraft approaching, flying low."
     "Annihilate them as they come into range," Ra said.
     The monitoring personnel kept close watch on the two new ships, and
then saw them swing around and slip over the near horizon.
     "Enemy fightercraft retreating," the technician said.
     "It would be to our advantage to use them to locate their command
ship."
     "That will be impossible.  They have already managed to elude our
instrumentation."
     Ra nodded.  The red streak of light moving back and forth across his
helmet slowed, almost stopped.
     "Bring the captive to me," he ordered.

**********

     Imperious Leader turned to the simulation of Starbuck, which now
seemed to lounge insultingly in its chair, an ugly stick the human called
a fumarello clenched between its teeth.
     "I regret to inform you, Lieutenant," Imperious Leader said, "that
your compatriots, apparently suspecting nothing, seem to have fallen
blithely into my trap."
     The Starbuck simulacrum took the fumarello out of its mouth, flicked
ashes from it as if the fumarellos had real substance, and said:
     "Think you got 'em in your slimy little claws, eh?"
     "Oh, not just yet.  But we expect to have them at our mercy any
centon now."
     "Then you ain't trapped 'em, bug-eyes."
     "Bug eyes?  You are not programmed for racial slurs, Lieutenant. 
Especially any directed at me."
     "Sorry.  Oversight, I guess.  Sometimes even we holograms can't help
expressing the obvious."
      Imperious Leader's hands gripped the sides of his throne more
tightly, trying not to show anger at this unusually autonomous
simulacrum.
     "I would like to speak to you about your commander," he said.
     "You mean....old Ironhull Adama?"
     "I do not understand.  Hull made out of iron?  I have never
understood that he wore metallic battlesuits, as we Cylons do. 
Intelligence reports do not suggest that."
     The Starbuck hologram's irritating smile broadened.
     "Ironhull is a figure of speech.  Don't you Cylons have figures of
speech?"
     "We employ such things in our lyric poetry, but not ordinarily in
our normal speech."
     "You guys write poetry?"
     The Starbuck seemed amazed.  Imperious Leader was overwhelmed by how
sharply outlined this simulation was, as if one could reach out and
actually touch it.  He almost wished to make the test, but knew his hand
would go right through Starbuck's incorporeal form.
     "We have a faction of our society who uses figures of speech in the
poetry they chant, but it is never written down.  Cylon law forbids that. 
But much of it is, I understand, preserved orally."
     "But Cylons do have a written language?"
     "Of course."
     "Then why don't you let the poets write their work down?"
     "It is our custom, and has been since times more ancient than when
your puny race first stood erect.  Poets do no write down their poetry. 
It would be----unseemly."
     "Why unseemly?"
     "Because poets are not....not among the most desirable elements of
our society.  They are misfits, criminals, some even terrorists.  We have
found that assigning them to small poetry enclaves defuses their
dangerous criminal traits that threaten our magnificently ordered
society."
     "You said defuses."
     "I believe I did, yes."
     "You know what you just did, I.L?  You used a metaphor.  Figure of
speech.  Better watch yourself or they'll dethrone you."
     "I should order your beheading for what you have just said."
     The Starbuck laughed heartily.
     "Try it.  I'd like to watch the blade slip through my neck.  It'd be
like a viper sliding through the clouds.  Pardon the figure of speech."
     Imperious Leader reviewed the annoying conversation, found his way
back to the point of the discussion.  
     "I believe we were talking about Ironhull. Your commander."
     "Yep.  Ironhull just means he's tough and not always penetrable to
ordinary human eyes like mine.  Around the crew, sometimes we call him
Ironhull.  Especially when we don't understand what's going on in his
head.  Is that any clearer?"
     "It is clear enough.  Commander Adama----is he likely to detect the
outline of our plan?  Will he know that our pursuit is a way of directing
him toward a destination that we have chosen?"
     "I think he might."
     "Why do you say that?"
     "You guys are hardly the subtlest creatures in the universe.  You
manage to be insidious, I'll give you that, and there are areas of alien
psychology in your makeup that keep throwing us for loops.  But you are
not especially subtle when it comes to warfare.  You like the big moves,
you like to display the heavy weapons, you prefer to destroy by
outmaneuvering your enemy, depending on numbers instead of intricate
strategy, you prefer direct attack to sleek aerial maneuvers----all of
these things have often given us the edge in battles."
     "In some battles, yes.  But you should remember that, overall, we
are the victors.  Our methods have brought us the near-destruction of
your military might, have brought us the annihilation of your twelve
words, and have given us the domination of the universe."
     The Starbuck stopped smiling and nodded gravely.
     "Yeah, you got something there.  By sneak attacks, torture and a
total lack of mercy, you've nearly won it.  But not quite all of it
bug-eyes.  We're still there, and we're on the run now.  But someday, we
may turn and face you, and then you'll...you'll..."
     "Why do you hesitate?"
     "Your data banks here cannot provide me the words that would
effectively allow me to speak the disgust I feel for you."
     The Starbuck sounded almost mechanical.  The edges of the simulacrum
seemed to blur.
     "I believe, Lieutenant, that your day to turn and face us will never
come.  Your commander is headed on a course that will result in the final
annihilation of your race.  When it comes into range of our weaponry,
Equis---"
     "We've beaten you before.  We'll do it again."
     "I hardly think so, Lieutenant.  This trap is what your people would
call 'foolproof.'"
     The hologram's eyes seemed to narrow as he said:
     "With any luck, I.L., perhaps you can catch yourself a couple of
fools."
     Pressing a button on the side of his throne, Imperious Leader made
the Starbuck simulacrum disappear.  Its vague outline seemed to remain
for a moment even after the image had abruptly vanished.

**********

From The Adama Journals

     I never knew Lieutenant Starbuck during his cadet days.  However,
stories----myths and legends of the Academy---have come back to me. 
Would that I could only verify their truth!
     I heard that, on off-duty centons, he would often unlock the
war-game room (with "borrowed" keys, naturally) and turn the area into a
vast amusement arcade, conducting lotteries on how many hits could be
scored within specified amounts of time by a mock-flight vehicle shooting
at images of Cylon ships, hiring the best hand-to-hand fighters to hold
matches under simulated combat conditions (with a certain amount of
gentlemanly wagering under Starbuck's supervision), and using the numbers
of randomly selected spot quiz questions of a testing computer for some
sort of roulette-styled game.  Even though he conducted the arcade with a
clientele of about one-third of the students attending, nobody on the
faculty could ever nab him.  Not that they didn't try, of course.  But
each time they tried to catch him in the act, they entered a war-game
room that was silent and deserted.
     Rumor had it that, another time, a cheating ring developed among
many of the cadets who were under such intense pressure to succeed that
purloining tests or sending in better students as substitutes to take the
exams began to seem like the easiest way out of their plight.  They
figured that Starbuck, with his reputationfor engaging anyone around him
in a con, would go along with their plan and help them.
     "Sure," he said, I imagine with that irritatingly sly smile on his
face.  "What do you need, chums?  What's coming up?  Hmmm---Let's
see---Military Astronautics 1033, am I right?  What, you say your exam's
tomorrow?  Okay, you guys meet me in the Cylon throne room just before
the test, I'll have copies of the answers ready for you there.  No
problem.  See ya 'round, kiddies."
     ("Cylon throne room" was student slang for the communal bathrooms at
the Academy.)
     The next day the cadets in the cheating ring showed up in the
"throne room" and, sure enough, Starbuck was there, a twinkle in his eye
and a set of answer papers in his hands.  He told the cadets that this
first instance of the answer service would be free of charge, they could
discuss terms when the students had evaluated the worth of the service.
     I may never know how the cadets got the answers into the testing
sites.  Perhaps they memorized them, or sneaked them into the place in
some ingenious cadet fashion.  Anyway, the tests were fed to each
individual testing cubicle by the exam-transmission system.  The tests
had been kept under lock and key, and guarded since the previous morning
when instructors made them up.  The examiner who told me this anecdote
said there was no way any intruder could've gotten near the exams or
discovered the answers.  At least the staff thought so.
     The cadets from the cheating ring eagerly set to work, marking
answers with their electronic pencils at a rate that no monitor had ever
before seen from a cadet class.  It looked like many of the students
would finish the test way ahead of time, something of a phenomenon with
the monstrously difficult Academy tests.  A feeling of great confidence
swept among the cadets who'd received the answers from Starbuck.
     Then they turned to the last page of the test booklet.  At the
bottom of the page was scribbled a note which was unmistakably in
Starbuck's handwriting.  This note appeared only in the test booklets of
the cadets who were part of the cheating ring, another maneuver which led
the examiner to tell me he believed the story might b apocryphal. 
Anyway, the note read:

     All of the answers, which I supplied you in the throne room, are
incorrect.  If you filled in each and every one of them, you just scored
a zero on this exam.  However, since we're all well versed in
intermediate military strategy---a fancy way of saying we're graceful
under pressure or good our reason and instinct to keep out of
trouble---those of you who deserve to pass, who deserve to succeed beyond
cadethood, have this option: there is sufficient time for you to rush
back through this exam, change your answers, read the questions properly
and choose the correct answer, and---If you're blessed with my kind of
luck---successfully achieve a passing grade on this exam.  But before you
do that, first erase this not.  May the blessings of the Lords of Kobol
be with you.  S."

     The examiner who related this story swore up and down that it
couldn't possibly be true.
     I have observed Starbuck closely, ever since he came aboard the
Galactica as a green but crafty young ensign.  I have watched him
"Starbuck" everybody in sight, including myself.
     Bottom line: I believe the story.

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


Chapter Three: Weapon of Mass Destruction
      
     If the tension on the command bridge had been flammable, one spark
could've destroyed the entire Galactica.  Athena, in an instinctive
affectionate move, edged closer to her father, just out of range of his
peripheral vision, simply to be there in case he needed her for anything.
     Starbuck's hand had nervously fumbled with his flight helmet as he
and Boomer delivered their report to the commander.  Their words, though
properly formal and military in phrasing, came out in bursts of raw fury. 
At one point, Tigh put a calming hand on Starbuck's arm to steady him. 
Apollo could not stand still and he paced a small area of the bridge,
sliding one hand along a railing as he walked.  At the end of Starbuck
and Boomer's report, Adama broke the shocked silence by saying to Athena:
     "Play back the tape of what Starbuck picked up from Charlex's
scanner."
     Everyone on the bridge cringed visibly when the pictures of Ramart's
viper being blown up were shown.  Then, as Charlex faced his ship toward
the summit of the mountain and the awesome photon supercannon was
revealed, everyone inhaled sharply or swallowed hard or simply gaped in
wonder.
     "Good Lord!" Adama cried.  "Athena, freeze on that weapon."
     Quickly Athena stopped the tape and reversed it a few frames then
adjusted the resolution of the picture.  Knowing her father would want
figures about the weapon, she worked out the calculations immediately.
     "Sir, I have a fix on the scale.  The ramparts are fourteen metrons
high.  Ammunition appears to be photon-based. Destructive power nearly
infinite within two hectares."
     "We're just out of its range now," Tigh whispered, examining
Athena's data.  "It can't zero in on us accurately, although they could
still hit us with a random shot."
     "Just one," Adama said softly, "maybe two of those photon bolts
could destroy the Galactica!"
     Apollo hit the railing beside him with a hard ham-fisted slap that
rattled it on its moorings.
     "It's fantastic!" he said.  "Yes, the Cylons are a highly advanced,
mechanized culture, but their technology can't have reached those
proportions.  Their weaponry tends to be less----"
     Starbuck angrily interrupted him:
     "Frankly, Apollo, I don't give a flyin' shit who built it.  It's
there, and it took two of my pilots!"
     Apollo and Starbuck glared at one another, each spoiling for a fight
in their frustration over the deaths of Ellis, Ramart, and probably
Charlex.  Breaking the line of sight between them, Adama stepped in front
of Starbuck and calmly said:
     "Combat losses are my responsibility.  You took the only course of
action you could be returning to the Galactica with these scans."
     "Tell that to Cadet Charlex!" he shouted furiously.  Then, catching
the disapproving glare in his commander's eyes, he added: "Sir."
     Adama, his eyes saddened, nodded.  Athena knew her father could
always sympathize with insubordination that originated from anger over
combat deaths.  He turned to Colonel Tigh and said:
     "That's it then---this is why the Cylons squeezed us into this
course."
     Apollo, leaning on the railing, said:
     "How long until their pursuit force catches up with us?"
     "Depends on where their base ships are," Adama said.  "We've got too
much firepower for their attack squadrons.  They'll hang back; make their
occasional sneak attacks.  But you can wager it won't be long until they
bring up base ships."
     The officers of the bridge fell silent, until Starbuck finally spoke
up:
     "Commander, Blue Squadron can take out that supercannon."
     That's our Starbuck, Athena thought.  Although he advises all cadets
never to volunteer, he's always the first to step forward when the
Galactica is threatened.
     "To send in a squadron of fighters would be tantamount to a mass
suicide," Adama said.  "You've seen what that weapon can do."
     "Still," Tigh said, pointing at the star map to the last known
location of the Cylon pursuit force, "we cannot turn back."
     "No," Adama said.
     "Then....what's left?" said Boomer.
     Adama turned to Athena and ordered:
     "Put up the geologic scan of the asteroid's surface."
     "Yes, sir."
     Adama examined the subsequent picture for a long moment, and ten
pointed toward it, saying:
     "The only solution is to land a small, highly specialized task force
down on the surface, probe their defenses for weakness and, most
importantly, destroy that weapon."
     Tigh, studying the geologic scan, said:
     "Assuming, of course, that there is a weakness.  If we find there's
not.... "
     Adama nodded, raised his eyebrows querulously.
     "The risks will be high, as they always are," he said.
     "But...but that's suicide," Starbuck muttered.
     Adama glanced at Starbuck, no anger for the young man's
outspokenness visible in his eyes.
     "Unfortunately, I can see no alternative," Adama said.  "I am open
to other suggestions, though."
     All anyone on the bridge could offer were a few coughs and a couple
of murmurs.
     "Program a search for qualified personnel," Adama said to a
communications officer.  "Anyone experienced in desert-planet survival. 
Experts in mountaineering.  Specialists in heavy demolitions.  Once the
readout is assimilated, we will convene in the Briefing Room.  Until
then, everyone not on duty right now return to your cabins and get in as
much sack-time as you can.  Once the mission is initiated, there might
not be a time for any of us to rest."
     Athena exchanged a worried glance with Apollo, each of them sending
to the other the message that the one person who should rest, their
father, would be the only one to disobey that particular general order.

**********

     Light....red light....moving slowly from side to side against an icy
metallic background...blurs....hot...so bitterly hot....dark
clouds...thunder roaring....lightning flashing....wind blowing.....the
red light coming closer....Ramart's scream as the photon torpedo hit his
ship....all the pieces of his ship.....how many
pieces....uncountable....could they be put back together like in a
puzzle....Ramart dead.  Ellis dead, no that can't be.....the red light up
against my eyes, trying to draw me into it....red light, Cylons, the
stupid red light on their helmets....heat...red light....heat
everywhere...so hot...no more...cool air...
     They're not very nice...they don't like me.....I can
tell...No....don't let them take me away!
     Charlex came awake suddenly.  The red light interfering with his
dream was on the helmet of a Cylon staring down at his prone body. 
Everything came back to him in a rush of memory.  The balls of light, the
destruction of his friends' ships, his own viper being forced down, the
clouds overhead, turning dark and ominous, coming together for a massive
cloudburst.  The lightning flashing as he climbed out of his ship and
faced the four Cylons who surrounded him, their quartet of moving red
lights alarmingly eerie in the stormy gloom.  One centurion had ordered
him disarmed, and two others had performed the deed before Charlex's
arms, seemingly paralyzed with fright, had been able to resist.  What was
it the centurion in command had said before the others dragged him away
and he had lost consciousness?  "Take him to Ra," the alien had said.  He
had definitely wanted Charlex to understand, for he had spoken it in the
language of the humans and not of Cylons.
     The Cylon now examining him was different from the ones that had
captured him.  There were more wide black strips across the metallic
portions of his uniform.  The black lines indicated rank in a Cylon
officer, Charlex had been instructed back at the academy.  Then this one
was a leader of the Cylons on this sandy, stony world.  A much-decorated
Cylon of the Gladiator Class, if his instructors had been correct in
their interpretations of alien heraldry.  What was a Cylon of the
Gladiator Class doing on a distant, barren ball of stone like this one? 
And where was the fleet?  And did they know Charlex came from the fleet? 
Maybe not.  A cadet's uniform differed from a warrior's, and there was no
Galactica insignia on it.
     Quickly Charlex reviewed in his mind the lessons he'd been taught
about proper behavior in the event of capture by the enemy.  Never give
more than your name, rank, and classification numbers.  Never succumb to
the transparent attempt of an enemy to engage you in casual conversation. 
Always remember that you are a colonial fighting man and every kind of
dealing you have with the enemy must be regarded as combat.  Never speak
at all unless there is no other choice.
     Charlex remembered his instructor pausing at this point in the
lecture.  "However," he had said, "in the event of torture, the fleet
does not require your compliance with any of these proscriptions.  We
would prefer you to withhold information, but you won't be condemned if
torture extracts it from you."  Another cadet raised his hand and asked
if perhaps torture might be better than succumbing to torture.  The
instructor had replied, "It might, but choices like that cannot be
dictated.  The fleet recommends survival over suicide."  Charlex vowed
now to let the Cylons kill him before revealing anything to
them----nevertheless, a voice deep within his juvenile brain seemed to
whisper: not so fast, kiddo.
     The Cylon's commander identified himself as First Centurion Ra, then
in a guttural brusque voice said:
     "You are a colonial warrior?"
     But Charlex, too weak and immature to stand up to this arrogant
Cylon officer, ignored the question and instead responded:
     "What are you going to do with me?"
     "We are going to interrogate you.  You will answer all questions
truthfully.  If not, your life is forfeit."
     "I won't let you touch me," Charlex said in a low voice.  "I---I'll
make you go away."
     "You will not be harmed if you cooperate."
     Charlex did not answer, but he had the look of a caged animal just
before it turns upon its trainer.  
     Ra didn't seem at all disturbed by the cadet's pitiful attempts at
defiance.  He rose calmly from his command chair and approached Charlex.
     "Do as you are told," Ra spoke briskly.  "I will not repeat my
warning."
     "Don't push me!"
     "Do as you are told or I will terminate you myself." His helmet
light stopped moving back and forth.  It shined a menacing red beacon
down upon Charlex's innocent face.  "That is your only choice, human. 
Either obey us or die."
     Keeping in his emotions had always been difficult for Charlex.  Back
at the academy, Ramart was always dropping by his cubicle and giving him
gentle lectures about caution, about not questioning the lecturers so
much.  But what did Ramart know, he had always thought.  Ramart didn't
long to be a command officer.  Like he said, he just wanted to fly the
nuts and bolts off his viper.
     The smiling, chubby-cheeked face of Ramart seemed to materialize in
front of Charlex now, as if replacing his own reflection in the shiny
metal of the Cylon's silvery uniform.  Then he saw Ramart in his cockpit,
then he saw Ramart's ship exploding into a million disintegrating
fragments, and tears welled up in his light-blue eyes.  He blinked
quickly twice, hoping that the Cylon hadn't noticed.  Who could tell what
Cylons noticed?  What did they see with even?  Was that red light
drifting so lazily from side to side in his helmet an aid to Cylon eyes,
perhaps a focusing mechanism that, in its scanning, brought a single
vivid picture to the monster's organs of sight?
     If Ra perceived Charlex's tears, there was no way of telling.  The
Cylon merely continued to circle him proceeded to ask his questions.
     "How many viper fighters left in the fugitive fleet?"
     "Why?"
     "Because I want to know.  Are you from the Galactica, or is there
another battlestar out there that somehow survived our final assault upon
the Colonies?"
     Charlex held his breath as he thought it over.  Finally he said:
"It's my game, Mr. Ra.  You have to find out."
     Ra stared directly at Charlex, his red light now gliding faster and
faster from side to side along the dark line at the top of his helmet. 
He started to reach for his sidearm---then, if a Cylon could be
considered capable of changing his mind---withdrew his hand from the butt
of his pistol.
     "You are made of flesh and blood, human.  You have a nervous system
that carries impulses, the sensation of pain.  Intense pain.  You call
this agony, do you not?"  He leaned his head closer to Charlex, nearly
formed the Cylon version of a whisper: "To repeat my first question: how
many combat ships in the Galactican fleet?"
     Charlex whispered back: "I don't know how many.  There's just a lot
of them.  I only want to be nice but you won't let me.  None of you
will."  He stood there for a moment, like a stabled equine, nostrils
flared, breathing heavily.  "All right.  From now on I'm not talking. 
I'll pretend you Cylons aren't even here."
     Ra leaned back, motioned to the two guards and another pair of the
aliens who stood by a nearby entranceway. "Do not let him lose
consciousness," he said and then turned around, returned to his command
chair, and sat down in the awkward cumbersome way of the Cylon.  The
other Cylons, arms raised, with many distorted reflections of Charlex
flashing off their outer armor, closed in on the young cadet.

**********

     Starbuck stood to the side as the others, huddled together,
nervously awaited the results of the computer search.  He couldn't stop
thinking of the three lost cadets, particularly Charlex.  He remembered
each of Charlex's na‹ve and, at the time, annoying questions, and now
wished he'd been less blunt, more avuncular with the curious trainee. 
Charlex was probably dead, and whatever Adama said about command
responsibility, the fault was Starbuck's.  He didn't like drawing to a
losing hand time and again, didn't want to chance losing another cadet.
     Rapidly, the computer sorted out the names of people whose
qualifications fit the assignment as entered in the program.  Athena
ripped out the readout copy and said:
     "All right.  We have five specialists.  Three support."
     Adama nodded.
     "Lock it in," he said.
     "Locked in.  And here's the roster," Athena said, handing her father
the paper.  He examined it briefly, and then thrust it at Starbuck.
     "This is the team, Starbuck.  You and Boomer go get them.  I must
warn you that they might be a trifle recalcitrant, so give them a good
pep talk.  Understand?"
     As Starbuck started to leave the bridge, he glanced at the list.  He
stopped abruptly and whirled on Adama.
     "You gotta be kidding....sir."
     "What's the problem, lieutenant?" Adama raised his eyebrows.
     Starbuck moved closer to him and whispered:
     "These are---they're criminals.  They're grid barge inmates."
     A hint of a smile from the commander before he whispered back:
     "You are authorized to collect them, Starbuck."
     "I know that, sir, but----"
     "It is so ordered."
     "Yes sir."
     A worried look on his face, Starbuck gestured to Boomer to follow
him.  Prisoners? He thought.  Why in Kobol's name would the computer come
up with a list of prisoners?  Grid-rats.  Barge-lice.  Is this the
tribute we're giving to those three doomed cadets, sending a bunch of
criminal misfits on a mission of grave importance?  Starbuck shook his
head from side to side, wondering if the computer was suddenly under
enemy control, and if this was a part of the trap that the commander had
earlier spoken of.
     "What's the matter?"  Boomer muttered as they strode down the
corridor.  "Something serious?"
     "No, we've just placed the fate of the fleet in the hands of a bunch
of murderers and cutthroats, that's all."
     Boomer scowled.
     "Well," he said, "as long as it's nothing serious."

**********

The Book Of Zodiac:

     In my dream I seem to separate from my body and drift upward,
through the walls of this lousy cell, through the superstructure of the
grid barge itself.  For a while I float above the ship, looking down upon
its dim gray exterior, its battered sections of unpolished, impersonal
metal---seeing simultaneously, it would seem, the hundreds of lost souls
who are trying to squirm within the squares of her grids, each prisoner
trying to find one comfortable spot in which to rest.  You never find it
but you keep looking.  You're like the hairy luminous-eyed quadruped
hututh that hides from its natural enemies in the nearest enclosed niche
it can find, but, unlike the hututh, you must settle instead for a
scratchy rope being blown to and fro by a stiff wind.
     I can't stand staring at the barge any longer and I seem to catch a
magical air current that has mysterious snaked its way through the vacuum
of space, just to find me and help me escape.  Escape, escape, escape. 
The only real dream an inmate can have, no matter in what form his
dreaming mind disguises it, is escape.  He may escape from his body, as I
do, or find himself in a fantasy world of sweet pulpy food, beautiful
people, and complete luxury.
     I slide off into empty space, leaving the fleet behind me.  Looking
back over my shoulder, I watch the ships turn into slowly flying insects,
gradually diminishing to specks and disappearing.  The Galactica is the
last to disappear; it is the largest insect of all.  As I look forward
again, I know that ahead is either the good dream or the nightmare.  In
the good dream, I land on a lovely world that  is smaller than Caprica
and has a gravity approximately equal to that of Caprica. Its atmosphere
is a clear asparagus and contains mostly carbon dioxide with some
nitrogen and oxygen.  I see the pale, azure clouds drift by and admire
the monstrously garish sapphire sun.  The stars are a beautiful
green-blue. There are five moons, one of which is small and sky blue,
another is petite and white, yet another is tiny and asparagus, the
fourth is tiny and gray, and the last is gargantuan and olive, but unlike
my planet, they are barren.  This planet has innumerable continents and
two large islands. The most sacred continents are ruggedly mountainous
and they have gentle, rolling hills. Aside from those, the terrain on the
islands and other continents is most commonly mountainous. This expansive
world has seven major rivers, dozens of major lakes, ten major swamps,
and seven seas and oceans, the most prominent source of water being the
lakes. The grass and other low-lying flora is silver, various trees are
steel grey and white, and leaves turn shocking periwinkle in the third
season. The cool soil is amethyst, the rocks are ruddy, and water is
gorgeous antique gold. It has a voice, this world, and it tells me that I
have been pardoned, redeemed, and shall spend the rest of my days living
in happiness and beauty.
     The nightmare is precisely the opposite of the good dream. I'm
burning in a river of molten lava under the crimson skies of a primeval
planet.  The stench of sulfur is everywhere.  My flesh is burnt black,
black as space.  And Venus is there, her long blonde hair flowing like a
finned sea creature in the hot winds.
     Venus is there, reaching for me.  But is she trying to save me or
kill me?  That dilemma is the essence of the nightmare.
     This time, the bad dream seems to be trying to morph itself into the
good dream.  Or is Venus trying to jump into the hellish lava river and
join me in death?
     I never find out, for the next thing I'm aware of is Lipeh, the
turnkey with the arrogant cadet-blue eyes, is shaking me awake.  It seems
as if he's simultaneously trying to bash in my skull on the metal
flooring.
     "Hey!  Cut that out, Lipeh!" I cry.  "I'm awake.  I'm awake.  Look
at my eyes.  Open, right?  Awake.  Open eyes mean a man is awake.  Got
that?"
     Finally, reluctantly, he stops shaking me, mutters in that voice
that sounds like crunching desert sand underfoot:
     "They need you."
     "Who needs me?"
     "Just get the frak up, Zodiac. Some Colonial warriors wanna see ya."
     "That right?  Well tell 'em I only receive visitors at teatime."
     He pulls me to my feet and pushes me out of the cell.  As we stroll
down the free-channel, between the rows of grid-cells, I hear the various
dream noises of those other prisoners who are in their cells and not on
some laborious work detail somewhere.  The moans and grunts seem to blend
into a chant of hatred and despair.
     Lipeh takes me, surprisingly, to a briefing room in the barge's
executive quarters.  It's a well laid-out place; plush chairs, posh
tables, decorated mirrors, bad but colorful paintings on the walls----the
kind of paintings that provide the approved reality for idiots who can't
tell a picture from a painting.
     Standing on one side of the room, as if they're disdaining the use
of the luxurious furniture, are two tall Colonial warriors---one white,
one black, and both formidable-looking.  The black is clearly bright, he
has the kind of questing eyes that tell you he hasn't learned it all yet
and neither have you.  The white's a handsome guy, clearly a ladies' man,
yet tough, the kind on whom a dress-uniform cape looks molded.  His body
is strong and muscular; I can tell he's from the best breed of pilots. 
But his eyes---those are deceptive.  They say he can bluff and he knows
how to call a bluff.  There's a little bit of con man in them, a little
bit of fool, a little bit of hero, a little bit of this, a little bit of
that.  I think I'd kinda like him, like both of them, in fact, if only
they weren't stinkin' Colonial warriors.
     Well, they might be unwilling to take advantage of the plush
furniture, but I might not see anything like one of these overstuffed
conference chairs again, not for a long time.  Ignoring Lipeh, I stride
to the seat that obviously belongs to the head of the table during
meetings, plop my astrum down on it and put my legs up, like I'm ready to
call the meeting to order and am merely waiting for the yes-man to quit
shuffling his notes.  Neither warrior shows much reaction to my audacity,
but Lipeh, rushing toward me, is clearly furious.  Before he can get to
me, though, the black puts himself between Lipeh and me and says:
     "Whatever you're gonna do, pal, do it to me first."
     Lipeh, clearly intimidated, mutters an obscenity and skulks away.
     The white begins to speak, addressing his remarks to his companion,
talking of me in the third person in that bureaucratic manner I'm always
encountering and always despising.
     "Zodiac," he said, reading the information off the screen of a
mini-computer he holds in his hand.  "Commander of the Sand Garrison on
the desert planet Eidiyn. He and his gang raided a Cylon outpost."
     "Nothing illegal about that," the other man says, a smidgen of irony
in his voice.
     Sharp guy, like I thought.
     "But it wasn't a military operation," says the white.  "It was an
armed robbery.  They plundered a Cylon radium mine and refused to
surrender the bounty to their Colonial commander."
     Ahh!  He's just like all the rest of those wankers: treating our
escapade like an act of piracy.  It didn't feel like that at the time. 
Took me a long while to assemble just the right team to join Venus and
me.  Besides Jonah and Samuel, there were the four others, the ones whose
names I can't remember anymore.  Their deaths have interfered with my
ability to remember what they were called.
     And it was no picnic stealing into the Cylon sector undetected,
climbing the steep north face of the high bluff overlooking the Cylon
encampment and the mine, trying to hammer pitons into rotten rock that
refused to accept them, losing Matic and Ruth while attempting the
traverse across the rocky slope just because Jonah had been too late in
shifting the boot-ax belay that might've saved them.  And then there was
the rope descent to the encampment in the dead of night after glissading
down the smooth eastern wall of the canyon.  Our ropes were securely
anchored in a saddle, but we knew there was danger always present. 
Especially since the Cylon's guns could pick us off at will if they
spotted us.  But they didn't spot us.  We sneaked into the encampment,
blasted all the Cylon warriors, but lost two more members of our own team
in the process.  The rest of the Cylons, the worker drones, capitulated
to us easily, and we got out with all the radium we could store inside
the Cylon freighter whose controls Jonah knew as well as those in a viper
cockpit.  After all that, that smug colonial commander, with his
aristocratic overbearing manner, tried to force us to heave to (who in
Hades were the pirates anyway, them or us?) and surrender the bounty.  As
if he had any right to it!
     "He didn't go in under Cylon guns," I say to the two men, "so he
didn't deserve any part of it.  Who are you?  When I deal with slime
devils, I like to know who they are."
     Both men stand tall and exchange a puzzled glance before replying.
     "Starbuck," says the white man.  "Viper pilot.  Blue Squadron,
Battlestar Galactica."
     "Boomer. Commander Adama's Strike Wing."
     Adama, eh?  Figures his ugly puss would be involved in this somehow. 
Adama was the colonial commander who'd tried to appropriate my bounty
from me.  His angular face with those icy but penetrating eyes appears
before me.  I almost want to tell Starbuck and Boomer to find a quick
black hole and jump in, but I decide to play a waiting game, see what
they're up to.  Anything to stay out of that cell, for a while.
     "What's the drill?" I ask.
     "You'll find out soon enough," Starubuck replies then motions toward
the door.  I look in the direction of his gesture.  Jonah is now standing
there, his bullish body and hairy face nearly filling the entranceway. 
Well, the lower half of the entranceway, anyhow.  Jonah's not very tall,
but it doesn't make a damn bit of difference, the way his body---with its
low center of gravity and muscular broad shoulders---is constructed.  His
ash-blonde hair and beard are as unkempt as ever; Jonah and hairstyling
don't mix very well, and his droopy olive eyes smolder with the usual
rage, some of it probably deriving from the sight of me sitting
comfortably in my plush briefing-room chair.
     A guard pushes him forward into the room and the chains, which are
always required on a rebellious lout like Jonah clank against the metal
flooring.  Jonah looks back at his guard as if he'd rip the man's spleen
out right now if the chains didn't retard his movements so much.
     Starbuck mutters to Boomer, but loud enough for me to hear:
     "Boy, that computer sure knows how to pick 'em," He looks down at
the mini-computer screen.  "Jonah.  Expert in scaling mountains, canyons,
pinnacles and general wilderness survival.  Muscle man.  Sand Garrison. 
This guy's practically a one-man task force."
     Jonah says nothing, just stares with his hate-filled eyes.  There
are bruises all over those planes of his face not covered by hair.  His
jailers are using psychological methods to keep him in line, I see.  A
wisecrack comes to my lips, but before I can send it in Jonah's
direction, my attention is diverted toward the doorway once more.  It's
dark, but I know what's coming.  I can always sense Samuel when he's
within a kilo-metron of me.  Sure enough, his reddish-brown skinned body
eases itself into the room as if there were no turnkey guiding his way. 
My blood begins to boil.  Samuel always affects me this way.  His
obsidian eyes remind me somehow of erupting volcanoes.  His hair, in
direct contrast to Jonah's, is jet-black, with long sideburns, the back
of his neck practically invisible where covered by his hair.  I wonder if
he still hates me, still resents me as an authority figure, however much
my leadership qualifications have been diminished by my hitch in this
stinking prison.
     "Samuel," Starbuck says, staring at the screen, "demolitions expert
and specialist in alien environments."
     Samuel steps forward and speaks.  His voice is as quiet as his
movements---and, in a way, just as graceful.
     "When people talk about me, I like to see the whites of their eyes."
     Starbuck glances up from the mini-computer.  Interpreting their look
at each other is a job for an expert in facial language.  What with the
trickiness in Starbuck's active eyes and the distance in Samuel's placid
eyes, there seems no possible meeting ground for communication between
the two.  Ever.
     "I work with breathing gear," Samuel says, his voice as gentle as a
grassland wind.  "Rare gases, chemical blends.  I can take you through
land, air, fire, water...."
     "And blood," Starbuck says.  "It says you're a convicted murderer."
     "I am convicted murderer," says Samuel, mysteriously smiling.
     Murder.  I'd forgotten that.  After our capture, Samuel had grappled
with the arresting officers.  He knocked four of them down.  Two never
got up. Why should that have surprised me?  When we met, rumors of past
killings performed skillfully by Samuel had preceded him.
     I stare at Jonah and Samuel, wondering what to say to them, or if I
should remain mute in order to scout out the general terrain.  I'm about
to make the desert scout's hand signal that means all's well, but a voice
from the doorway nearly nocks me right out of my seat:
     "Hello, Zodiac, you miserable scabby insect."
     I don't want to look.  With Jonah and Samuel already here, I
should've expected Venus would be next.  I don't want to look---but I
look anyway.
     I'm not surprised at what my eyes behold.  There's no way those
snitrod jailers could subdue her spirit.  She still looks stunning.  A
big-boned woman, she's a shade taller than me, and, in my present
debilitated condition, I'm sure she appears more powerful.  Her
sunshine-blonde hair is still shoulder length and poufy, still able to
bring out the keenness of her sloe-eyed look.  Her high cheekbones add to
her slightly alien appearance.  She hates me, but I want, this moment, to
take her in my arms and beg her to love me again.
     It's hard to remember when things were good for us.  We met so long
ago, before the radium-mine raid, before Eidiyn----on our mutual home
world of Scorpia.  I vaguely recall a time when we were so young that we
romped and frolicked, when our love was predominant, more important than
the petty drives that impelled us later.  After the radium raid, she
blamed me for the deaths of the four men and one woman, but the real
split between us had formed much earlier.  The last happy time I can
clearly recall was a mountain-climbing expedition in the difficult
Caprican Daluraea Range.  We were both on extended furlong, with added
time for injuries resulting from some acts of combat that the military
chose to deem heroic, and we climbed those mountains alone, refusing even
to take communicators along so that the safety-conscious Mountain Control
Squad could know our whereabouts.  We could easily have been lost
forever, crushed in the stony death of an avalanche, dropped down into a
crevasse.  But we not only survived our foolhardy adventure, we conquered
five summits, one of them previously unclimbed.
     What forced us apart after that is a series of little mysteries.  An
argument over a matter of battle strategy resulted in a small rift---in
desert reconnoitering lingo, a crack in an otherwise sturdy boulder.  A
petty domestic harangue perhaps increased the crack to the point where it
actually split the boulder in two.  More disagreements, more
dissatisfactions, more suppressing of real emotion, led to a depression
that turned into a gully, the gully growing into a ravine, the ravine
finally---with the tragic end of the raid----becoming a deep canyon,
separating us forever.  Even now, the sand, the rock, the pinnacles,
mountains and valleys of our lives seem to lie around us.  Well, I carry
the comparison too far.  Venus would say I carry everything too far.  
     "Whee-oo!" Boomer whispers to Starbuck, clearly impressed by Venus'
formidable appearance.  "She looks like she could take us all on.  With
or without chains, she'd probably beat us all."
     "Venus," Starbuck says, consulting his computer again.  "Med-tech
first class.  Expert in laser wounds.  And desert experienced.  She's---"
     "What's the mission?" Venus interrupts briefly.
     "Commander Adama'll be briefing you," Boomer says.
     Venus casts a glance my direction.
     "Adama, huh?  You buddy-buddy with Adama now, Zodiac?"
     I laugh.
     "Just like two sandkings in a muddy burrow," I say.
     Venus scoffs at the joke, and then addresses Starbuck and Boomer:
     "To have Zodiac and myself in the same place at the same time is
asking for big trouble.  I suggest you return me to my cell.  I'm better
off with the rot in there than with the likes of Zodiac."
     Starbuck smiles.  What in Hades is he so pleased about?
     "I take it you don't like him," he says to Venus.
     Venus smiles broadly, displaying her white even teeth.
     "I'm married to him," she says.  The smile goes away as quickly as
it came, and she speaks more softly: "And no, I don't like him."
     "Hello, Venus," I say.  "You're still prettier than a Libran---"
     "Shut up, Zodiac!" she says loudly.  "I'm not taking any more of
your birdlime.  None of us are."
     Boomer examines the four of us, the old team now in irrevocable
rift, and mutters to Starbuck:
     "What a cozy little group we've got here.  This is one mission,
Starbuck, I know you're not going to volunteer for."
     "I feel sorry for you, Boomer, but I'll never be able to reach you.
     "Let's get these...these gentleman and lady out of here, Boomer,"
Starbuck says, as he folds up his mini-computer and slips it into a
pocket of his flight jacket.
     Boomer looks very disturbed as he orders Venus and Jonah unchained
and then herds us all out of the briefing room.  I'm going to miss that
chair, and I figure it's going to be a long time before I can ease myself
into one like it again.

**********

Chapter Four: A Contrived Search?

     Apollo could almost feel the Galactica's motionlessness, as if the
ship had miraculously managed to brake to a complete stop, instead of
just drifting at a point out of the photon supercannon's range.
     He made his knock on Adama's cabin door sound firm and determined. 
A touch on Adama's desk panel made the door whisper open.  Adama looked
up, smiling at his firstborn son.
     "All right, what's wrong?" Apollo's father wanted to know. "You look
like you want to bite somebody."
     "I do want to bite somebody, father."
     Adama's eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared. "Explain," he
ordered his son.
     " The computer search for members of the landing party, it
disqualified me.  It sounds to me like it's been influenced, contrived."
     A flicker of anger came to Adama's eyes as he said:
     "That's a serious charge, son."
     He was offering Apollo a chance to retreat, but Apollo was clearly
not going to take it.
     "I'm aware of that," Apollo said.  "It is a serious charge."  He
struggled to keep his voice level.  "You don't want me to go, is that
it?"
     Adama swung his chair away from the desk and gave Apollo his
patented icy glare. It had cowed grown men long before Apollo, Zac and
Athena had come into his life, and it always worked on insubordinate
Galactican officers. "Do you honestly believe I'd spare a member of my
own family?" he said.
     Apollo became aware that the recording device above the desk was now
on, had been operative perhaps since he had made his charge.  He backed
down, but not by much, speaking now in slow, measured words.
     "I'm suggesting the selection was biased, or I would've been chosen. 
I'm qualified in survival techniques.  I'm single.  I have the proper
endurance rating, not only proper but also the highest among Galactica's
personnel, officer and enlisted man.  I also have the weapons capability,
command factor, the ability to---"
     "But," Adama interrupted, "you lack experience in red-hot
temperatures."
     Apollo was prepared for this objection.
     "None of our warriors have such training," he said.
     Adama swung his chair toward the desk.
     "If the computer passed you over, it did so for a reason."     
     Apollo was equally prepared for this observation, and struggling to
keep his voice legitimate and controlled, he said, "And I know exactly
what that reason is.  You are the sole judge of who's expendable and
who's not.  And, according to Colonel Tigh, I'm rated as nonexpendable."
     Adama sighed.
     "You are the highest-rated combat experienced commander we have. 
It's imperative that we conserve----"
     "Are you sure your feelings are not obscuring your objective
judgment on this one, sir?"
     Apollo moved toward his father.  Adama remained silent, staring
sightlessly at the surface of his desk.
     "Don't you think I understand?" Apollo said, his tone gentler now. 
"You've lost so many members of the family.  Zac.  Mother..."
     Both of them now lapsed into silence.  Obviously his father was
remembering the same scenes that were obsessing Apollo.  Zac being blown
out of the skies by the Cylons.  He and his father returning to Caprica
to realize that Ila, too, was dead.  The feelings these memories
engendered couldn't be adequately spoken, not even between father and
son.  Adama rubbed his eyes as if to remove the memories and said to
Apollo:
     "Don't ask me to reprogram the search.  I won't do it."
     "You don't have to.  Just expand the party by one."
     "Apollo!"
     "If, as you said, I am your highest-rated commander, then you need
me on this mission.  What difference does my expendability or lack of it,
make when you know we're going up against that death weapon?  If this
mission fails, we're all doomed, all due to be blasted to pieces. And you
know it!"
     The two men stared at each other for a long moment, each trying to
cling to his personal stubbornness.  But finally, Adama, assuming his
command voice, relented.
     "Tell Colonel Tigh it is so ordered," he said, and started to swing
his chair back to his desk.  Before he could do so, Apollo touched his
hand, and returned his cold look with an affectionate one.  A hint of a
warming effect in the commander's steel-blue eyes appeared briefly.  It
was enough for Apollo.  He nodded and then strode quickly out of the
command cabin.

**********

     Athena, who'd been informed by Apollo of his plan to join the
mission and had advised him against confronting their father, felt angry
when she pulled out the new mission list from the computer and saw her
brother's name added to it.  She considered going to her father to lodge
a complaint, but knew that it would do her no good.  Adama wouldn't
appreciate bei