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 being besieged by both his children arguing opposite sides of
an issue.  And, to make matters worse, it was now impossible for her to
put in the request that she become a substitute on the mission----to
replace the med-tech Venus, who had expressed so much reluctance to join
the expeditionary team.
     Starbuck suddenly confronted her, his eyes fixed on the computer
sheet she was holding.
     "Is that the revised list for the mission?" he asked.
     "Yes.  Apollo is on it.  I wanted to be on it, but the computers
chose this...this Venus.  She's a convict!"
     "Hate to tell you, but they're all convicts, darlin'.  You're better
off not being on that list, believe me.  I'm just praying that Apollo
makes it back intact.  Looks to me like a one-way voyage.  Sure glad
Boomer and I didn't make it."
     Starbuck could always get a rise out of Athena, and he was
especially successful with his last little aside.
     "Starbuck," Athena whispered angrily.  "That's the side of you I can
never understand, much less accept.  One moment you're offering Blue
Squadron for a daredevil foolish assault, the next you're oozing about
how glad you are to be off the mission.  These people have a chance to
save the entire fleet.  I'd give my eyeteeth to---"
     "Good for them.  I say good for them, and more power forever.  I
personally have a very dangerous card game coming up.  Here, let me have
that readout.  I'll take it to Commander Adama."
     She looked at him puzzledly.  What was he up to now?
     "Look," he urged, "I have to be at the briefing anyway.  I'm in
charge of the prisoner detail until they accept the mission."
     She hesitated.  It was always wise to hesitate when Starbuck
volunteered for anything, large or small.  He smiled at her, and she
handed him the list.
     "Hang around that briefing room as long as you can, she said. 
"Maybe a little bravery will rub off."
     It was a cheap shot, she knew, especially when directed at a warrior
whose battle record was so distinguished.  She just wanted him to act
like the hero he was, a role he seemed to resist with relish.  Except
under battle conditions.
     No, she thought as she watched him walk briskly away from her.  I
shouldnt've said that.  Should not have angered him.  Now we're on the
outs again!  Will I never learn?


**********

The Book Of Zodiac:

     Galactica lousy Commander lousy Adama doesn't even recognize me. 
Angry, I remind him.  Even after I remind him, he gives me a blank look. 
He says yes he remembers but he really doesn't.  It was just a passing
moment in his lousy life, just a matter of duty.  I've been able to
visualize every feature of his face since our capture, and yet it's clear
he wouldn't know me from a pile of daggit-meat.  I hate him more than
ever.
     "Do you harbor any feelings toward me that would inhibit your
performance in the mission we've selected you for?" he asks.
     This is my chance, I think.  I can express my contempt and get away,
not have to do a job for man I'd rather kill than take orders from.  But
resigning from the mission means returning to the grid-barge, climbing
back into that rotten cell, and being forgotten again, perhaps for good
this time.  I don't want to go back to that cell.  If embracing lousy
Adama as a long lost friend will keep me away from it, then I guess that
is what I must do.
     "I never let my feelings stand in the way of getting the job done,"
I say.
     "Amen to that," Venus says, and then laughs.  The echo of her laugh
bounces around the command bridge like an artillery shell run amok.
     Adama screws up those fierce, almost cruel eyes and stares deeply
into mine---discovering, I know, eyes crueler and fiercer than his.
     "How is that a man of your talents, a commander, no less, is still
confined to a prison ship?" he asks.
     "You should know.  You put me there."
     "That is not what I mean.  After the prison ship managed to escape
from the confinement base on Sagitara, all inmates were offered a chance
at rehabilitation.  We need personnel only too badly to concern ourselves
with your past sins.  Only the criminally insane were denied freedom."
     Involuntarily I glance toward Jonah, wondering what his
classification was and if he'd ever been offered rehab.  If had had been,
he would've taken it, so I suspect he hadn't.  What had changed things
now, so that even Jonah was useful?
     "Most prisoners accepted the offer of Core Command to join the fleet
as useful personnel.  Why did you refuse?"
     I shrug.
     "I guess I'm just a romantic at heart."
     He screws up his brow to mach his screwed up eyes.
     "And what is that supposed to mean?" he asks.
     "Oh, I don't know.  Just that rehabilitation meant swabbing down
landing docks and repairing the rubber bands that power this lousy fleet. 
Bio-sanitation details.  Like the righteous band leader said to the
snobbish impresario, I don't take requests."
     "I doubt you refused rehab because you're a romantic.  That sounds
more like pride to me."
     "We'll match numbers on pride sometime.  Sir."
     Adama gets more businesslike in his manner and briefs me on his
precious mission.  It's simple and complicated at the very same time. 
The layout's not so bad.  The gun emplacement takes up most of the
mountaintop because of its size.  There's a small area for landing a
ship, nothing else.  Nothing except a jagged mountain that looks like
it's got more death traps hidden in its terrain than easy pathways or
slopes.  In the foothills is a large encampment that appears to contain a
full Cylon garrison.  Beside the garrison is a large airfield that
scanners show has several Cylon warships of different classes spread
across it.  Frack, felgercarb and shit!  This sounds like the radium raid
all over again!  They discover we're on the mountain; they can pick us
off for target practice.
     "You want us to go up that?" I ask Adama.
     "It's not so high," Captain Apollo interjects.  Who is this guy
anyway?  He acts like he's somebody important.
     "Shows how much you know about mountains.  Be glad you don't have to
climb it."
     Apollo flushes, red to the gills.  He's furious, trying to keep it
under his lid.
     "I'll be part of the team," he says.
     "Lords of Kobol watch over us then," I say.  "Look, the worst thing
you can do to sabotage this mission, Commander, is give me some green
amateur who doesn't know a piton from a---"
     "My son will join the mission," Adama says quietly.  His son! 
Goddamn it!  I gotta drag his son along, break my back belaying him up
cliffsides, toss him ahead of me over ridges, probably get jounced into a
ravine because of one of his mistakes.  And all because a commander wants
to give his son an edge.  This mission is shaping up just dandy.
     "I have mountaineering experience," Apollo says to me, as if that
alone justifies his presence on the team.
     "Really?  Then how could you make such an asinine remark?  Take a
good look at the geologic scan of this mountain.  What was that you said
about its not being so high?  Look, son, height's not a measure of
difficulty when you're assaulting a mountain where there's been no
recorded previous climbs to provide us information on possible routes. 
Ever hear of Mount Ofith, Captain Apollo?"
     Apollo looks like he doesn't want to discuss mountains with me, but
he responds anyway:
     "Of course.  It's on my home planet, Caprica."
     "Well, Mount Ofith is the second-highest mountain on your home
world.  And you've probably climbed it, right?"
     "As a matter of fact---"
     "Everybody has.  Nothing to it.  Six-yahren-olds can conquer Ofith. 
Despite its height, it's composed of easy slopes, well-worn trails,
practically stairs carved into the rock.  There was a time when it was
something of a challenge because of its extreme height, but that was a
millennium ago.  Once somebody had challenged it, and climbed it,
discovered its secrets, the ascent of it became easy.  Now, let me ask
you another question.  Ever hear of Mount Udisath?"
     "Well, yes---"
     "And I'd bet my grid-barge chits that you've never climbed it."
     "I tried.  Once."
     "Udisath is slightly more than half the height of Ofith.  And it's
only been scaled to the top five times.  Twice by me.  Why is that? 
Because it's a demon of a mountain, that's why.  Rotten rock, lousy
footholds, an ice cap that feels more like sheet glass, a peak that rises
straight up on all sides with nothing to grab hold of, air as thin as
your common sense, Cap'n.  More people died on Udisath than all the
surrounding mountains combined.  All the surrounding higher mountains. 
So don't look at this geologic san and tell me this one's not so high,
okay?"
     Apollo looks quite embarrassed.  Good.  I like keeping guys like him
off balance.  Maybe if he listens to reason he'll be able to perform as a
member of the team instead of being a drag on the ropes.  Still, I don't
like the look of this mountain, no matter who's on the team.
     "Now," I say, "let's establish this.  It's no easy climb, no jaunt
in the clear air for eager amateurs.  Ignoring for the moment the fact
that we can be wiped out in a millicenton if the tinheads detect our
presence, I can't see a single good route up the mountain, at least not
on the basis of this geologic scan.  The north and west faces are clearly
too tough to tackle under the conditions down there.  East and south are
better, but I don't like the look of the glacial material near the
summit.  Southeast looks promising---which is not to say very.  Given the
fact that you won't allow us sufficient time to study the mountain
closely so we can plan out a proper route---"
     "We don't have that time, Zodiac," Adama says.  "I know you need it,
but if the Cylons pincer us between the pursuit force and that cannon,
we're done for."
     "I appreciate that, Commander, but I'm not, pardon me for saying it,
pleased.  A good climb requires long preparation.  This mission---you
might as well climb it with your eyes closed.  After settling your
dispersion plans for your share of the pension fund, of course.  Are you
sure there's no alternatives?"
     Adama looks irritated.  Yeah, he doesn't like the way I'm taking
over the briefing.  Tough shit, Commander.
     "What alternatives are you suggesting, Zodiac?"
      " Am I correct in assuming that a direct aerial assault with vipers
is out of the question?"  He nods.  "What about a route inside the
mountain?  I never knew a Cylon setup that didn't have some below-ground
facilities.  They seem buggy about underground passages.  I'd bet my pass
back to the grid-barge that there're tunnels inside the mountain, maybe
even some sort of elevator system."
     Adama studies my face for a moment before answering.  Does he think
he can read me?
     "Perhaps, but all our close probe-scans end up jammed.  We don't
know what's down there, except for what I've already shown you.  If an
alternate route is discovered it should be used, I agree.  For now, we
have to assume that the only route to the laser cannon, the only chance
we have at neutralizing it, is----unfortunately---up the mountain."
     He's a fair man; I'll say that for Adama.  I wish I had him for
backup work in place of his overzealous and inexperienced offspring.  I'd
still hate him, but at least I could trust him.
     "I appreciate your evaluation of the situation, Commander.  I feel
part of our goal has to involve being opportunistic.  We should look for
any alternatives to climbing the mountain."
     "And if there are none?"
     I shrug.
     "We climb it, then."
     Adama is pleased.  Hey, that suits me fine.  Maybe if we can just
pull of this caper, I can come back to the Galactica and strangle its
commander.  Insurmountable challenges are easier to take if you got a
worthwhile goal to come back to.
     Adama briefs us on equipment.  They've got most of what we need. 
Good.  There are even a few molecular-binding pitons.  Normally I don't
like to use special equipment----too many second-rate climbers get to the
top more through technology than blood, sweat and tears---but in a climb
with so many variables, a molecular-binding piton is a good tool.  If the
rock is good, this kind of tricked-up piton can just be pushed into it,
while the binding effect makes it take hold.  Two advantages to us:
certain phases of the climb can be shortened simply because we won't have
to waste time pounding the little buggers in, and the Cylons won't be
able to detect us by hearing the sound of hammering.  Our ropes are
doctored too.  They're made of Aquarian hemp, the kind with the alterable
tensile strength.  When you need extremely flexible rope, you twist your
end to the left and it becomes as manipulable as a slitheron.  When you
need it stiff and straight, a twist to the right makes it as inflexible
as metal cable.  Even though I detest specialization in an ascent, I'll
make an exception for these tricky pitons and the magical rope this time.
     Adama completes his briefing and introduces to the straights who'll
compose the remainder of the task-force personnel.
     "The desert vehicle the shuttle will carry is different from the
usual standard landram.  It is an Ark-class scarab.  Originally designed
as a mobile laboratory for deep-star exploration, our technicians have
now refitted it with lasers and other standard military equipment. 
Sergeant Ballviurtam is senior gunnery master."
     Ballviurtam nods.  He's a tough-looking bunny rabbit.  I wouldn't
mess with him.  Adama continues:
     Abujh is from a gun crew that helped to hold the rear guard in the
last phase of the Battle of Caprica.
     Abujh is a young man in his twenties.  Fairly tall and
broad-shouldered, he looks rather fast, hardy, and heroic. Another
daredevil like Apollo.  At least he's good with a gun, so I suppose
that's worth is weight in oregg.
     "You'll need a laser technician.  Kofi is chief of the
weapons-repair section."
     Kofi's a bit taller than average and muscular.  A no-nonsense type,
I can see that.  Keen and passionate but reliable on the job.  Not much
use in a fight with his fists, but you don't have to be when you know the
mechanics of laser weaponry.
     "You've met the Sand Garrison demolitions unit under Commander
Zodiac?"
     That sets me right back on my heels.  From the way Adama looks at
me, I can tell that's just the reaction he wants from me.
     "Commander?  Am I reinstated at full rank?"
     "No, this is a temporary reinstatement.  Full reinstatement will
depend on the outcome of the operation."
     The strings have been attached.  No matter.  It's to be expected.
     Jonah and Samuel glare at me.  I can tell they don't like me being
put in charge of them.  Neither one ever liked being told what to do. 
Venus's look is neutral.  She may hate me, but she knows my reinstatement
improves the safety of them all.
     "Zodiac," Adama says, "know that you and your fellow convicts are
not all that different from us right now.  We're all in a kind of prison
put up by the Cylons."
     Jonah bellows with sarcastic laughter and says:
     "Yeah, Commander, our chains are exactly alike."
     I don't know whether outsiders could receive his message as well as
the rest of us, but I'm glad the stocky little bull said that.  People on
the outside of a prison barge never really feel the pain of being inside,
despite their fancy philosophical analogies to their own prisons.  For
the moment, Adama's point is well taken enough, but guys like him forget
the fancy talk once they're sprung from their traps.  I decide to break
the uncomfortable silence that follows Jonah's sarcasm.
     "Am I in full command?"
     If life makes any sense, I should be.
     "Of the demolitions unit, yes.  Of the expedition: no."
     Oh well.  Who says life has to make sense anyway?
     "Three warriors will command you and your team.  The officer in full
command will be Captain Apollo."
     Mentally, I throw up my hands in despair.  That's the finally
capper.  Captain Apollo in full command.  Not only is there no sense to
life, its absurdity is a set of calculated cruelties.
     Adama scrutinizes his list further.  What more pleasant little
surprises has he got sprung on me?
     "Supporting your team will be two of my finest officers, Lieutenants
Boomer and Starbuck."
     That I can accept.  You can depend on a guy like Boomer to perform
well, and I'd bet on Starbuck too.  Apollo is amazed by his father's
announcement.
     "Starbuck and Boomer?" he cries.
     Starbuck smiles and glances toward Boomer, who looks a shade
confused.
     "Must've been that tour we pulled on that Iabaronon Desert Outpost."
     I edge toward the two lieutenants.  Something tells me there's
something to be learned by eavesdropping on them.
     "We've picked up Cylon base ships approaching on long-range scan,"
Adama says.  "They'll reach us in eight to nine-hundred centons.  Whether
you've destroyed the pulsar weapon or not, the fleet moves in exactly
seven hundred."  His grim look takes in all of us.  "Good luck to us
all."
     Neither Boomer nor Starbuck notices me standing between them. 
Boomer whispers to Starbuck:
     "We were never at any desert outpost on Iabaronon."
     "Computers never lie," Starbuck says.
     Boomer shakes his head----a bit distraught, I suspect, at this turn
of events.  He moves a couple of steps away from his buddy.  I wonder if
I should expose Starbuck's con, but decide not to.  I'd still rather have
him at my side, with or without desert-outpost experience, than
hardheaded punks like Apollo.
     Speaking of hardheaded punks, here comes the youthful captain
himself, sidling up to Starbuck and whispering in a friendly tone:
     "I know how you feel about Charlex, about losing those cadets, but
you don't belong on this mission."
     Starbuck stands tall and takes his shot:
     "That makes two of us, doesn't it, Captain?"
     "Tampering with a computer readout is a serious offense," Apollo
says.
     "It's legal unless I'm caught," replies Starbuck.
     I'm surprised by the broadness of Apollo's smile.  Apparently he's
glad to have Starbuck with us too.  At least he's showing some good
judgment there.
     I'd feel a lot more comfortable about the mission generally, if
Venus, Jonah, and Samuel would stop looking at me with such enmity in
their eyes.

**********

From The Adama Journals

     Communication is impossible. Communication is improbable. 
Communication is implausible.
     I've often considered having a sampler made of those nine words,
with each embroidered splendidly in gilt threads.  I'd then hang it
behind the desk in my official quarters.
     When I'm particularly frustrated, I believe people can never reach
an understanding.  At best they attain a level of verbal exchange, which
they invest with the illusion of an understanding, especially one
meaningful to both is exchanged at the same moment.  So many
things---factors, aspects, character traits, tics, timing, temporary
obsessions, all the words we cloak intentions under----interfere
frustratingly with human contact.  For some people distinctions of class,
race, and personality cannot really be overcome, except for the trading
off of ordinary banalities, themselves substitutes for communication.
     In military life, I've often found the obligations of rank to be
obstacles in moments when I've vitally needed sufficient trust for a
subordinate to speak openly.  Aboard the Galactica, I've tried to
establish the custom that the commander is open to all viewpoints.  But
I'm still the commander, and that interferes even when I'm dealing with
outspoken crewmembers like Tigh and Starbuck.  Even Apollo and Athena,
who rankle at the formalities they have to employ to speak to me
officially, seem to choke up a bit when expressing their ideas on the
command bridge.  At least they speak openly to me in private.  No matter
how much I try to put my officers and crew at their ease, there always
seems to be a formality in the order of presentation that affects my
response to the message.  I have to allow that formality as part of the
necessary discipline required to keep our fleet continuing on its
desperate quest.  And always the point of real understanding, the bridge
to genuine communication, seems to hang between us, invoked but not
traversed.  Sometimes I wish I could hear the message in the manner----be
it angry, pleading, arrogant or obscene----that would most be comfortable
to the speaker expressing it.
     I showed the above part of this entry to Tigh, to get his thoughts
on the subject.  He smiled and said not to sweat it, all the
communication Galactica can handle is going on regularly.  Any more, and
he'd apply for transfer to the HighDream transport ship.

**********

Chapter Five: Muffit Wants To Build A Sand Castle

     Boxey could not get Muffy to master sit-ups.  No matter how much the
daggit tried, it had too much bulk to comfortably bend at the
waist----although, since it had been programmed to please the boy, it
gave the exercise a good try.  Boxey told it that it was all right to
stop trying.  Muffit responded by standing on its head.
     Boxey looked toward the doorway.  His father, Apollo, stood there,
wearing a beige desert survival jumpsuit.  When their eyes met, he smiled
at the boy.  Boxey noticed there seemed to be tears in Apollo's eyes, and
he wondered why.
     "You've trained him well," Apollo said, nodding toward Muffit.
     "Muffit's very smart.  For a daggit."
     Sometimes Boxey remembered the first Muffit, back on Caprica, the
daggit he'd lost.  He was not always sure that the second Muffit was
quite as nice as the first one.  The first Muffit had been more
affectionate; especially in the way it had licked his face with its wet
tongue.  The new Muffit's tongue was scratchy and dry, and he'd had to
tell it not to lick his face.
     Apollo got down on his haunches to talk to the child.
     "Boxey, I have to go away for a while."
     Boxey did not like that one bit.
     "We don't want you to leave us," he said.
     "It won't be long.  I promise."
     Boxey realized that there was some mysterious force that guided
grownups into making decisions that they, or anybody else, could not
like.  He didn't know whether that force was the god he'd been told to
pray to every night, or whether grownups just obeyed rules that were like
his Dad's instructions to him about eating or preparing himself to be a
Colonial warrior.
     "Where are you going?" Boxey asked.
     "Down to the desert planet.  With Starbuck and Boomer."
     Boxey did like the sound of that.
     "A desert planet!  With sand and everything?" he cried.  "Can we
come with you?  Muffit told me he's always wanted to build a sand castle.
     "Not this time.  See, it's a special project.  To help the
Galactica."
     "But I'm a warrior."
     Apollo smiled and squeezed Boxey's arm.
     "I know," he said.  "And as one you'll follow orders.  Right?"
     Boxey looked downcast.  
     "Yes sir."
     "Good.  See, disappointment at being left off a mission roster is
all part of your warrior training.  When your qualifications meet the
needs of a mission, why, then you'll be picked.  Do you see?"
     "I guess so."
     "Okay."  Apollo's voice became more military in tone.  "Your orders
are to eat your primaries and go to bed when Commander Adama says it's
time, and----what else?"
     "Say my prayers?"
     "Right.  Say your prayers."
     Apollo called to Muffit, who scampered over and offered a
metallically taloned paw.  The captain shook it and then hugged Boxey. 
It seemed to the boy that his dad's hug was harder and longer than usual. 
Then, saying goodbye again, Apollo quickly left the room.  Boxey stared
at the doorway for a moment then he said aloud:
     "Remember, Muffy, when Dad showed us the shuttle as part of our
training?"
     The sensors inside the daggit picking up the questioning sound in
the boy's rising tone of voice, Muffit nodded.
     "Well, remember that hatchway that Dad said was an emergency exit?"
     The daggit nodded again.  Since this time the boy's question was
more conspiratorial, the daggit's sensors transmitted the message that
the droid should add a low growl, so Muffit growled quietly.
     "Well, remember he told us the story of the time he'd saved a
trapped squadron by using it as an entrance?"
     The daggit-droid kept nodding.
     "Well, I can eat my primaries and say my prayers on that desert
planet, Muffy.  Let's go try that hatchway."
     Muffit, reacting to sensor-transmission, barked eagerly.

**********

The Book Of Zodiac:

     Never seen it fail once in my lifetime.  Everybody on a ship gets at
least a little twitchy in those agonizing pre-launch moments and this
shuttle's no exception.  Jonah's shifting his legs like there's still
chains attached to them.  Venus keeps fooling with a breather, examining
its straps like she's never going to get the hang of them.  Samuel sits
unmoving and straight, looking calm.  But then again, he only gets that
stiff just before he's ready to set off an explosion, or to explode
emotionally.
     The shuttle's so crammed with gear it's hard to move around in the
compartment.  I don't know what's in Adama's mind sending down this much
junk; he knows we'll never use half of it.  I told him about traveling
light.  He just nodded like he understood.  That's what guys like him do:
nod their heads and go by the book anyway.
     The gun crew, who were down in the hold checking out the armored
scarab we're going to use on the planet's surface, stumble into our
compartment like a bunch of drunks just back from a spree.  Abujh trips
over Samuel's feet and sprawls against Jonah's barrel chest like a swan
out to achieve duckling status.  Samuel snarls at him as Jonah pushes him
away:
     "Why don't you watch who you're steppin' on?"
     Abujh regains his balance and growls:
     "Why don't you watch where you put your feet?"
     Samuel gives him a disdainful look but doesn't move a milli-metron. 
Sergeant Ballviurtam bursts into the compartment, his arms clutching a
small arsenal.  None of these guys believes in traveling light, it seems.
     "Look out," Ballviurtam says, "coming through."
     "Not over me you're not," Samuel says.
     "Out of the way," Ballviurtam says.  He hands his weaponry to Abujh
and grabs Samuel by his shoulder harness.  I consider interceding against
it.  Let them get all the hostility out now.  We've got to work as a team
later.
     "Take your bloody paws off me," Samuel says quietly.
     Ballviurtam pipes up:
     "First we have an understanding, grid-rat: when a gunner tells you
to clear the way, you move your astrum on the double!"
     Oh boy! I just knew Ballviurtam would be real trouble.  Looks like
I'm going to have to get into this mess whether I want to or not. 
Jonah's already sprung up 
     "Did you just call him a grid-rat?" Jonah shouts.
     "Did I?  Actually, I meant barge-louse."
     Jonah slams Ballviurtam into the nearest wall.  For a moment it
looks like the gunner is going to go on clear through the metal.  In
rushing to hold back Jonah, I miss Samuel's move to his jumpsuit pocket. 
Out of the corner of my eye I can see him removing a small capsule.  I
should've known.  No matter where he is, Samuel always manages to find a
supply of chemical commodities.  He breaks the ampule under Ballviurtam's
nose.  Ballviurtam's head jolts backward and his body goes limp.  Eyes
glazed, he collapses to the floor.  Venus seizes Samuel's hand as he
thrusts the capsule even closer to Ballviurtam's face.  Another does and
the gunner's dead.
     "Idiot!" Venus whispers.  "Our only chance to escape is on the
surface."  So that's her game.  And she looks at me like I'm obviously
going to agree to the escape.  She turns back to Samuel, whispers: "Are
you trying to get us thrown back into the grids?"
     "Nobody steps on me and gets by with it," Samuel says calmly, his
hands fingering his shirt pocket as if he's ready to draw out another
killer capsule.  I want to tell him to lay off the chemicals, but the
noise of scuffle behind me stops the words cold dead in my voicebox. 
Turning around, I see that Samuel is now fighting Abujh.  How can they
hope to so much as even swing a punch with all this gear clogging up the
compartment?  On the other side of them, apparently attracted by all the
noise, the three Galactica officers rush to the scene.
     "Abujh!  Samuel!" Apollo shouts.  "Break it up!"
     I decide I better show some initiative by backing up Apollo's play.
     "Back off Samuel!"
     Reluctantly, Abujh and Samuel separate.  Both of them look ready to
go at it again in a minute.  It's a fight that, under the proper
conditions and with the proper space I'd enjoy watching.  Abujh might be
young, but he's still tough enough to give Samuel a good ride, though
usually nobody beats Samuel.  I beat him once.  That was in about five
fights.
     "How is he?" Apollo asks Venus, who's now stroking Ballviurtam's
throat with her strong but thin-fingered hands, helping him to breathe
while Samuel's chemical dosage is still in effect.
     "He'll be all right.  It's only a short-span paralysis."
     She's talking gently to Apollo.  Why?  Could she be attracted to
him?  Or does she want him lulled so that she can put her escape plan
into operation?  Boomer gently removes a small electronic pack out of
Samuel's other jumpsuit pocket.  Delicately he holds it up for Apollo to
see.
     "Look at this."
     Samuel makes no move toward Boomer, but instead states calmly:
     "Don't touch the switch.  It's a hand mine."
     You can see on Boomer's face he's got no intention of touching the
switch.
     "You don't use those things against your own side!" Apollo says
angrily.
     Jonah moves to Samuel's side.  They make a formidable pair: a
thick-chested roughneck who'd be a giant if not for the height he was
born with and the cool lean specter with death traps concealed all over
his body.
     "We're not barge-lice," Jonah growls.
     "Or grid-rats," Samuel says softly, but with menace.  
     "Yes we are," I say, stepping between them and Apollo.  "In fact,
we're lower than lice and rats; we're bodies.  Bodies that were picked
for this drop because Core Command believes them to be expendable."
     "Nobody's expendable," Apollo says.  I resist commenting, no you
probably aren't---as the commander's son you've probably already mapped a
way out.  Actually, Apollo's presence is comforting.  So long as he's
with us, and alive, we can be sure Adama'll dispatch a rescue force. 
Anything happens to him, the commander's unlikely to even drop us
rations.  "You were picked," Apollo continues, "by a computer that didn't
give an electronic damn about grid-barges, lice, or warriors."  Well, at
least he's got us all neatly classified.  "You're here to do a job on the
Cylons"---he hands Samuel back his kit; Samuel replaces it in his
pocket----"and not on each other.  Stow your gear. And fasten your
harnesses.  We're on countdown."
     A comforting rumble goes through the ship as we near launch point.

**********

Chapter Six: Down, Down, Down To The Merciless, Dusty Planet

     "Dirk of Night" was not the type of Colonial warrior who ever
contemplated his own death in battle.  Brisk and brawny, he looked like
the hardened veteran of many combats that he was.  Dangerous in
appearance, he had happy pine-black eyes and matching black skin.  
     He pressed his shoulders back against his seat as he awaited the
signal to launch his viper.  If anyone had told him that this was his
last launch and that in a few hours he would be dead, he would've just
shrugged.  He might've commented that if his number was up, it was up,
and then gripped his throttle a shade more tightly.
     Over the commline the command came: "Let's do it!" And so, Dirk's
viper, escort to the expedition shuttle, slammed down the launching tube
with the speed of lightning, the roar of thunder.
 
**********

     First Centurion Ra was beginning to doubt whether any information of
value could be extracted from Charlex.  As near as he could tell, the
human vermin had perhaps the best defenses against torture ever devised:
stupidity and cowardice.  Rather than responding with his name and an
interminably large amount of numbers, like a full Colonial warrior might,
he would only beg for the Cylon commander to show him mercy.
     "Enemy tracks," a technician announced.
     "How many?" Ra asked.
     "Two."
     "Describe."
     "One large.  What the humans call a shuttlecraft.  The other a
fighting ship, a viper, flying escort for the shuttle, it appears."
     "Origin of ships?"
     "Unknown."
     Ra considered allowing the ships to land, but there were too many
other unknown factors.  If the shuttle contained a rescue force or an
assault team, the possibility of losses to his understaffed garrison of
troops was too strong. He would order the cannon to annihilate them, to
wipe---no, that was not an option.  Professor Sesmar, his personal droid,
Raddion, and a crew of those damnable artificial humanoids he created
were up at the photon cannon installation for repair and maintenance.  It
would be a mistake now to alert Sesmar to Ra's modification of his
invention, even though he suspected Sesmar already knew about them.  No,
the intruders would have to be destroyed by conventional means. 
Besides---if he failed to destroy them, there were always the one-eyed
giants....
     "Activate a destroyer shell-fighter with full warhead."
     The shell-fighter was a variation of the new type of Cylon pilotless
craft that could be guided by personnel in ordinary fighters.  The
difference in the warhead-equipped model was that it was constructed from
the barest minimum of components.  Since the entire ship exploded along
with its target, there had been no need to waste material.  When he had
still been a member of Imperious Leader's general staff, Ra had ordered
the development of the destroyer shell-fighter because of the heavy
losses that were being sustained, losses that were out of all proportion
to the firepower of their under-equipped human adversaries.
     He ordered his command pilots to guide the warhead fighter, towards
the shuttle, while themselves engaging the escort viper and destroying
it.

**********

     To Apollo, the dirty planet below them looked spectral.  Its surface
was pock-marked with craters, and those wispy clouds that drifted lazily
through its skies seemed to conceal eerie mysteries.  Its appearance only
increased his natural caution.  Looking over his shoulder, he crisply
gave orders to Boomer:
     "Get a navigational fix before we penetrate the atmosphere.  We
don't know what to expect on the surface.  If we land at night, it could
be pitch black, as it was when you and Starbuck went after Charlex.  The
ground surface is bothering me even more: sand powder, violent landlocked
seas, sharp rocks, perhaps more bercesgadium clouds than---"
     Starbuck, in the copilot seat, interrupted:
     "Cylons low on the starboard quarter!"
     Apollo ordered a quick scan.  There was a Cylon patrol formation
just in back of another ship, which the scanner indicated as unpiloted. 
The ship also lacked most of the familiar features of the normal Cylon
fighter.
     "What is it, do you think?" Apollo asked Boomer.
     But the odd hollow sound of Samuel's voice answered:
     "It's not really a ship at all."
     "Samuel!  How'd you get there?"
     "I got tired of all the harassment I had to put up with back in that
cabin, so I thought I'd pay you guys a little visit."
     "You know you're not supposed to---"
     "This isn't the time to quote your stupid regulations to me,
Captain.  That ship out there, what your so-called scanner describes as a
ship, is actually a weapon.  A guided device whose nose contains an
aluium warhead, with sufficient power to blow this shuttle to bits.  Tiny
bits disintegrating to nothing.  I would assume that its guidance system
is set on a course for us."
     Samuel spoke all this so calmly, so dispassionately, that Apollo was
not sure whether or not to believe him.  He was describing their deaths,
and did not seem at all to be bothered by the fact that he would die too.
     "Employ evasion maneuver," Apollo ordered Starbuck, who immediately
reset the shuttle's course.
     "You can't evade that weapon," Samuel said.  "It's one of the
Cylons' best technological achievements.  I respect it.  You can't evade
it no matter how sophisticated your evasion procedures are."
     "What do you suggest?"
     "Destroy it before it destroys you."
     Apollo wanted to ask Samuel how he proposed to destroy a strange new
weapon, but the man had disappeared as oddly as he had materialized.

**********

     The remorseless drought had lasted now for ten million yahrens, and,
because the Cylons had forced the planet Equis away from its natural sun
and replaced it with an artificial sun of their own creation, it would
probably not end for another million yahrens.  Among this planet's simple
and primitive life forms, the battle for survival had reached a new
climax of ferocity, and the victor was not yet in sight.  Upon this
rocky, sandy globe, whose once mighty oceans were now reduced to pitiful
inland seas, only the small or the swift could flourish, or even hope to
exist.
     The cyclopean giant humanoids of the field had none of these
attributes, and they were on the long, pathetic road to extinction as a
species.  About twenty of them occupied a group of incredibly huge
caverns not far from a small, parched valley, divided by a sluggish,
brown stream.
     The tribe had always been hungry, and now it was starving.  As the
first dim glow of dawn crept into the cavern, the Cyclops called
Moonwatcher discovered that his father had died during the night.  He did
not know the Old One was his father, for such a relationship was beyond
his understanding, but as he stood looking down at the emaciated body he
felt something, something akin to sadness.  Then he carried his dead
father out of the cave, leaving him for some nocturnal predator to feast
upon.
     Like the rest of his species, the skin of Moonwatcher's body was dry
and rough, like the fronds of a dead palm tree.  His long black hair fell
over his back and a heavy dark beard concealed shoulders and parts of his
cheeks and lower chin.  His sole brown-pupiled eye was set in the center
of a pebbly, pulpy face.  Great saber teeth, as long as a man stands
tall, protruded from his lipless mouth.  All in all, a very ugly fellow
was he.
     Moonwatcher left the caverns to search for fruits and vegetables to
eat, fighting off the pangs of hunger as he did so.  Beneath his giant
three-toed feet, though, competing for the same fodder was a potential
source of more food than he or his race could ever hope to eat.  Yet all
the thousands of tons of meat roaming over the parched savanna and
through the brush is not only beyond his reach; the idea of eating it is
beyond his imagination.  Moonwatcher and his tribe were slowly starving
to death in the midst of plenty.
     The giant slowly wandered across the bare, stony countryside
foraging for roots and maybe a big berry tree.
     The ground was flat for kilo-metrons around, broken by occasional
mesas and giant boulders.
     Suddenly, Moonwatcher became aware of a terrible whining in the
bright daytime sky.  It was the same sound that had plagued his ears ever
since the little silver pests with the red eyes had taken over his world,
the pests it gave him such great pleasure to smash flat with his great
feet.  It was the sound of the shiny steel sky beasts they flew in.  How
that annoyed him, irritated him----angered him.
     But that horrible whining in the sky was about to end, Moonwatcher
would see to that.  He suddenly bent down and picked up a boulder the
size of a small human agro-settlement and hurled it into the air with his
great arm.  He watched as it arched leisurely through the air toward the
despised flying metal insects.

**********

     Dirk zeroed in on the last fighter but it evaded his fire and came
in under his viper.  His ship rocked as the Cylon's shot hit him
amidships.  He checked his scanner for a damage report.  The lousy Cylon
had destroyed the lowside engine.  Before Dirk could pull out of the spin
he was now in, the Cylon fired again and knocked a big chunk out of
Dirk's ship.  Employing all the piloting instinct he had at his command,
Dirk pulled his viper out of the spin.  Damage report showed a fuel line
had been severed.  The viper could blow up at any moment.
     The Cylon fighter was streaking towards him.  Dirk tried to shoot at
it, but his laser didn't respond to the touch of the firing button.  So
that was out, too; it had been hit.  Veering his ship to the right, he
managed successfully to dodge the next burst of Cylons shots.  But he
knew that he couldn't evade them for much longer.  This time he had,
after all, drawn his number.
     Starbuck's voice came over the commline:
     "Dirk....if you're listening....I can't get this wreck going any
faster.  There's no way I can maneuver out of that warhead's way.  So
please do----"
     Just then a gargantuan stone, like a meteor fallen from the sky,
crashed into the warhead ship and Dirk of Night's viper both at the same
time.  The explosion that resulted from the collision of stone and metal
spread across the sky in a massive fireball that rushed toward the
remaining Cylon fighter.  The Cylon ship tried to curve away from it, but
before it could finish the arc, it was sucked into and enveloped by the
widening flames and thousands of tiny stone fragments.

**********

     The shuttle lurched violently and Starbuck's gloved hand came off
the throttle as though the device had emitted a kind of electrical shock.
     "What is it?" Apollo screamed.
     "Don't know.  Either a stray hit us or the speed got too much for
our engines."
     "Captain Apollo!" Venus cried from the entranceway to the passenger
compartment.  "Everything's flying around back here.  The wind's
terrific!  Something's split in the side of the ship.  Can't say where in
all this debris, though."
     "Try to hold control, Starbuck," Apollo cried.  "I'll check this
out."
     "I'm trying, but the ship's maneuvering like a balloon that's come
untied."
     Apollo rushed back to the passenger cabin.  He spotted the huge gash
in the ship's side immediately.
     "Omigod!  The skin is ruptured.  Grab your breather gear!"
     Everyone clamped on their breathers in quick motions----all except
Zodiac, whose moves were methodical, and Samuel, who attached his
breather to his face slowly, looking as if he didn't care whether he wore
it or not.  Starbuck's voice came over the intercom:
     "She's not responding.  There's---there's a sandstorm brewing just
below one of these pinnacles I'm passing over---and we're gonna drop down
into it! Visibility deteriorating.  Surface coming up on all instruments.
Counting down!  Three!  Two!  One!  Zero!  Brace for impact!"
     A loud rumble went through the ship, sounding like a warning that
the shuttle was about to shatter into a thousand pieces.  Buffeted by the
violent winds and weather of the sandstorm, the shuttle went into a spin
that made its passengers grasp at the air, looking for something solid to
cling to.  Suddenly, Starbuck pulled the nose of the ship upward just
before it made ground contact and skidded across the desert floor,
displacing up rocks and sagebrush in its wake.  Whirling sand created a
brown mini-blizzard inside the vehicle.  The ship's sudden stop was
thunderously loud, had all the bone-shattering power of a three-G force,
and felt to the shuttle passengers like the death god had finally taken
them.

**********

     The bridge crew of the Galactica fell silent as the monitoring
screens suddenly blanked out.  Adama, alerted by the silence, looked away
from the reports of Cylon pursuit and into Tigh's tense eyes.
     "We've lost signal from both ships," Tigh said.
     Adama, recalling his conversation with Apollo about expendability,
felt cold pain at the pit of his stomach.  
     "Any reception at all?" he asked.
     "The viper channel's dead.  No lights.  Telemetry indicates total
destruct."
     "Who was it?"
     "Dirk."
     Adama remembered the black officer vividly.  His experience and
combat instincts would be missed.
     "And the shuttle?" he asked Tigh.
     Tigh paused before answering:
     "The emergency channel kicked in, red lights across the board. 
Telemetry indicates heavy structural damage.  But we could reach for them
on high band."
     "No.  Maintain radio silence."
     "Excuse me?"
     "I want to try to reach them as much as you do, Tigh.  But we can't. 
Not without revealing our position."
     If he could have talked to his son now, he would've told him that
expendability or nonexpendability had nothing to do with the fact that
Apollo had been programmed out of the mission computer search.  It had
more to do with the fear of having to deal with the exhausted emptiness
of this moment.

**********

     Ra hovered over the communications panel, where his operator studied
the action in the skies above Equis.
     "One ship destroyed," the operator said.  "One probable."
     "The patrol with the warhead ship?" Ra asked.
     "All contact lost.  They may be destroyed."
     "Contact Rearguard Patrol Leader."
     "Garrison Command to Rearguard Patrol Leader."
     Ra considered the possibility that the advance patrol had been
completely destroyed.  He didn't like it.  Because of what had been
termed important matters relating to the war with the humans, he had been
denied a full contingent for the garrison on Equis.  The general staff
had argued that, after all, it was extremely unlikely that the humans
would attempt to break through that particular defense perimeter.  Now
they were here.  Not only that, but the general staff and its Imperious
Leader had guided them here.  Further, they expected Ra to counter any
assault despite his understaffed situation.  He wondered if they relied
too much, perhaps, on the awesome power of the photon supercannon with
its annihilative strike capability.  It was, naturally, true that the
photon torpedoes shot from the cannon could easily destroy the Galactica
and the ships of its fleet.  However, before it could do that, those
ships must be located.
     The patrol leader reported in, and Ra addressed him:
     "Tracking reports one invader destroyed.  One probable."
     "That agrees with what our instruments show.  The probable dropped
out of the sky and spun out of control before our instruments lost
contact with it.  Sector Asenath."
     Ra was annoyed that the shuttle's status remained probable."
     "Search for wreckage!" he barked.  "Leave no survivors.  And if any
of those giants interferes with you, kill it as well."
     "No survivors.  Kill humanoid giant."
     The shuttle must have crashed, Ra thought.  If the humans were not
dead, his task of destroying them became infinitely more complicated. 
The unpredictable sand and occasional severe thunderstorms on Equis'
surface caused too much interference and distortion in the Cylons'
monitoring equipment.  Sandstorms could hide the intruders, ragged
terrain offered them places to crouch out of sight, and going out into a
violent electrical storm was prohibitively dangerous for Cylons as their
metallic bodies would no doubt attract lightning.  If there were any
survivors, they had to be discovered immediately, before they had a
chance to become aware of the conditions that could be turned to their
advantage.

**********

The Book Of Zodiac:

     During the disoriented moment after the crash, I see cool stars and
icy comets.  That's dreadfully wrong, I tell myself.  Doesn't jibe with
the heat that blisters my skin, yet somehow spares my body proper.  I
feel like a monument carved out of the native rock.  A monument to what? 
To my own stupidity at leaven my rotten-smelling, claustrophobic,
painful---but cool, always cool---cell aboard the prison ship?  I've been
in warm and stuffy conditions before, even heat this intense.  I've even
been on mountains where the violent cold winds, in contrast to the
semi-tropical heat of ground level, nearly blew me away--literally.  Been
trapped in a cave-in that took me centons to dig out of.  Experienced
mountainside steam vents that caused my clothing to melt, made ropes
split unexpectedly, sizzled the flesh off of otherwise healthy men and
women.
     When I come to, all I can see first is arid dust whipping around the
passenger cabin.  I can't work the breather right.  My eyes adjust and
some of the dust subsides.  We're all entangled.  Supplies have tumbled
upon us, we've tumbled upon each other.  Light.  Apollo has a working
lantern in his hand.  The lamp shines on a gaping rent in the fuselage of
the ship.  Outside, a dense sandstorm is howling around us.  I don't want
to go out there.  I'll roast to death here.  Still, I want to choose
here.
     Starbuck crawls out of the front end of the ship, a thin trickle of
blood seeping from a scalp wound.
     "Just the kind of landing you always dreamed of," he says.  "No
instruments, no engines, no landing field."
     Boomer, crawling out behind him and immediately standing up, says:
     "Grab a light."
     Starbuck staggers to his feet, grabs a light, and mutters:
     "You did a great job, Starbuck, mastering an out-of-control shuttle,
keeping us from crashing head-on.  Some hot-shot pilot you are."
     "When you're through feeling unappreciated here," Apollo interrupts,
"help check the wounded.  We lost half the ship back there."
     "Yes sir."
     Hey!  Way to go, Apollo!  You're being tough, taking charge!  Wow! 
I don't know how much of him taking charge I'm going to be able to stand,
though.
     Boomer claps a hand on Starbuck's shoulder and says: 
     "Don't feel too bad.  Anyone else would've lost it all."
     'Don't worry, I---" Starbuck says as he shoots an angry glance at
his captain.  I gather that Starbuck doesn't always see eye to eye with
Apollo.  "I'll be all right, Boomer."
     Pushing a couple of heavy cartons aside, I make my way toward the
rear of the shuttle, where I see what a real wreck looks like.  Metal
that used to be separated by intervening materiel is now securely
interlocked.  The materiel itself is unrecognizably crushed.  Jonah is
leaning over Kofi.  Apollo moves toward them.
     "How is he?" he asks Jonah.
     Jonah looks for a moment like it's an imposition for him to answer
any question, and then he says:
     "Just a rap on the head.  He'll come around in a half-centon."
     "Apollo," Venus says from the other side of the passenger cabin. 
She's crouched over Abujh.  "I can help them if you can find my case."
     Apollo moves off, his eyes scanning the wreckage.  I'm about to join
in the search, but I notice an odd body movement from Jonah.  He leans
just slightly toward Kofi's body.  The flap of his laser holster is
unsnapped, the weapon is missing.  Jonah may have the pistol, then. 
Maybe not, but it's a damn good guess.  I can't take it away from him. 
With Jonah's volatile temper, I can't tell anybody he's got it either. 
If he's got it, it'll be out and firing at any of us he happens to get
mad at.  I'll just have to sit tight on the information, see what I can
do about Jonah later.
     Apollo is helping Venus.  He's snatched the medical case from
beneath a pile of debris.
     "What's it look like?" he asks her.
     "He's got a broken arm and a couple of ribs." Her voice is cool and
businesslike now.  That's what I like about Venus, one of the things I
loved once, perhaps still love.  No matter what she feels about any of
us, she can be counted on to do the job right.  "I'm not going to rule
out internal injuries."  She looks around at the rest of us.  "Is anyone
else hurt?"
     "I am," Samuel says softly.
     "What's your problem?" she says, looking into her case.
     Samuel grins maliciously, edges his lean body toward hers, whispers
just loudly enough so the rest of us can hear:
     "I'm lonely."
     That's Samuel, all right.  Even his little jokes come out in fire
and smoke.  Venus, clearly displeased with him, grabs her case and moves
off, saying:
     "Stay out of my way.  I've got work to do."
     She settles down beside Abujh again.
     "Don't waste your time on him," Samuel says.  "We'll have to leave
him behind to die anyway."
     Always the humanitarian, Samuel.  This time he arouses the ire of
Apollo, who shouts:
     "We're not leaving anyone behind!"
     Samuel looks coldly at Apollo.  I know that look---it's the one he
gets just before he's ready to attack his prey.
     "We'll just see about that, Captain."
     Apollo, busy seeing to Kofi, doesn't hear Samuel.  I wish I hadn't. 
Samuel's all coiled up inside.  If that tension gets released, I don't
know if I can handle it.
     Boomer, directing his light toward another gash in the side of the
shuttle, reports to Apollo:
     "It's no good.  She'll never fly again."
     Goddamn it!
     "That's not the half of it," Apollo comments. "She can't sustain
life inside.  All of her systems are purged."
     Boy, this just gets better, doesn't it?
     "Looking on the brighter side," Boomer says, "I think the scarab's
operable."
     "Let's get her out fast, then, so we can move the wounded into her."
     Apollo takes a step toward the gash.  Outside, a slow and measured
booming sound, like a thousand cannons going off becomes louder quickly. 

     Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  Boom!
     After a few mili-centons, the booms fade away.  Only to be replaced
the roar of rockets as a Cylon fighter flies over us.
     "I don't know what to be more nervous about," Boomer declares. 
"That Cylon fighter that just flew overhead or those footsteps that we
heard just before."
     "Footsteps?" Apollo says.
     "Nothing else they could've been, good buddy," Boomer replies.  "And
I hope we never come face to face with whatever made 'em."
     "That makes two of us," Apollo says.  "One things certain: that
Cylon'll be back.  We'd better get everyone out of the shuttle.  Boomer,
Zodiac, help me get the scarab.
     The three of us crawl into the hold containing the scarab vehicle. 
Damn thing looks like a long fumarello with the end cut off.  Apollo
climbs into it from the port-side hatch and starts throwing switches to
activate the inboard consoles.  As I climb into the vehicle myself, I am
started out of my wits by a low growl.  Apollo flicks the switch that
turns on the scarab's interior lighting system.  There's a child and
furry animal crouching on the floor in the vehicle's rear section,
huddled into a corner.
     "Boxey!" Apollo shouts, amazed.  Apparently he knows the kid. 
Unless Boxey's the animal, that is.  The child craws forward, attempting
a smile that turns out pitifully weak.
     "Muffit wanted to build a sand castle," he says.  Muffit must be the
animal.  It sidles to the boy's side.  Wait a centon, that's no animal. 
It's some sort of droid version of an animal.  A copy of a daggit, I
think, though I haven't seen a daggit since God knows when.
     Apollo looks ready to bawl the kid out, but he reacts instead to the
obvious fact that the kid is scared.
     "Come here, son," Apollo says softly, affectionately.  Did I hear
right?  The kid is Apollo's son.  That's just perfect.
     The kid hugs Apollo and Apollo hugs him back.  Cozy.
     "It's all right," Apollo says soothingly.  "It's all right."
     I resist saying maybe it's all right with you, but what about the
rest of us?  The droid must be a mind reader.  He looks my way and growls
again.
     I don't like this setup and I don't like the way it's going.  Jonah
may have a gun.  Samuel is ready to cut throats, Venus---who knows
whatever goes on in Venus's head?  Apollo is trying to assert command
over a bunch to which command is a threat.  We have no shuttle to return
to the Galactica in.  A Cylon fighter plane may be returning at any
moment.  And just what was it that made those big footfalls we heard? 
The captain's kid is a stowaway.  I've got to put up with his mechanical
pet growling meanly at me.  Everything's barren and it's hotter than a
Scorpian's temper.  We're expected to climb a mountain that might not
even have a rock you can cling to without sliding off, knock off a weapon
that can destroy a whole fleet, escape with our teeth still in our head. 
Nope, I don't like this setup one bit, and it's beginning to look like
it's going to have to be me who makes it function at all.

**********

Chapter Seven: "What Do I care?  I'm Only A Simulation?"

     Cylon scout ships had once again detected a flaw in the camouflage
force field of the Battlestar Galactica and its ragtag fleet, and
Imperious Leader was quite pleased to verify that the humans, their
progress slowed almost to a standstill, had fallen right into his trap. 
It was obvious that they were trying to stay out of the accuracy range of
the photon supercannon on Mount Asenath.  The time had come to prod Adama
and his vile human forces.  Turning to the ring of executive officers
surrounding his high pedestal, he ordered:
     "I wish to close in on the human fleet.  Double our speed and inform
our warriors to make ready.  This will be the final battle.  Send out the
phalanx of ghost ships to attack the fleet immediately.  I want them
frightened and aware that we have discovered them."
     Satisfied with his strategy, he dispatched the officers.  The
ghost-ship phalanx should serve to confuse Adama's fleet.  The
development of the pilotless warhead aircraft had been one of First
Centurion Ra's finest ideas.  If Ra did succeed to the position of
Imperious Leader, his technologically innovative abilities should be
vastly improved by the addition of the third brain.
     He reviewed the details of his plan, satisfied with the general
outline of squeezing the humans between the Cylon pursuit force and the
Mount Asenath weapon.  Although there was no apparent reason to doubt, he
decided to consult the Starbuck simulation again.  Turning to the
simulator, which he'd not yet sent away from his pedestal, he stared at
the telepathy-template and requested the simulacrum of the arrogant human
lieutenant.
     "Hi, chum," the Starbuck simulacrum said after the outline of his
body had crystallized into focus.  Turning his attention back to the
telepathy-template, the Leader ordered that the simulacrum have memory of
their previous conversations.
     "I'm still not going to help you," the Starbuck said.
     "You can't avoid it.  Your programming impels you to answer any
question according to the knowledge we have accumulated about your real
self."
     "You can talk all your programming strips and eat them for
breakfast, bug-eyes.  Better than primaries any day."
     "Do you know about our pilotless aircraft?"
     "Your ships are pilotless even when you guys are in them."
     Suppressing his anger, Imperious Leader tuned toward the template
and ordered that knowledge of the ghost ships be added to the
simulacrum's information.  The Starbuck smiled as soon as the information
was provided it.
     "Trying to spook us, then.  Nice play, I'll give you credit."
     "Oh?"
     "Sure.  We humans have a natural tendency toward suspicion.  Give us
a force we can't explain, or a strange shape drifting through the
darkness, and we all feel a clutching in our chest, a shiver up our
spine, and the urge to run for the hills."
     "Then the ghost ships will be a successful maneuver?"
     The Starbuck appeared to think for a moment.  The simulator was
searching its data banks for an appropriate human-language response.
     "Doubt it," the Starbuck finally said.
     "Why do you say that?"
     "It's like this: Adama.  You can't fool him with magic tricks.  He
ain't like the rest of us.  Sometimes he's downright inhuman."
     "Then you believe he might not be, to use your word, spooked by our
pilotless aircraft?"
     "You might spook him a little. But scare him?  Forget it, I.L."
     "What is the precise difference in terminology?"
     "Spooking requires merely a feeling that the object is mysterious;
scaring requires that the object come up, smack you in the face, and
convince you it's out for your soul."
     "I do not completely understand that."
     "And you never will, chum."
     "I believe our strategy will succeed."
     The Starbuck smiled.
     "Good luck to you," it said.
     Imperious Leader was shocked.
     "You would wish luck to the leader of your enemies?"
     "What do I care?  I'm only a simulation."
     Imperious Leader wondered for a moment, if, since this simulacrum
seemed quite insane, the real Starbuck was equally mad.

**********

The Book Of Zodiac:

     Nothing's so bad it can't get worse if you apply a little human
ingenuity to the situation.  There was a phantomlike shrieking in the
distance.  We couldn't tell whether it was the Cylon fighter swooping to
ground level then accelerating upward or---something else.  But it was
the fighter we had to concentrate on, for it could locate us at any time,
and all of us were too hot, sweaty or injured to move out of the way with
any speed.
     Boomer tries to get things hopping:
     "Okay, everybody out!  Now!"
     Jonah scrambles for the hole leading outside.  Samuel strolls to it. 
Sorting through the smashed containers, I manage to liberate a number of
pickaxes, some of the molecular-binding pitons, other odds and ends of
climbing equipment.  They wouldn't be enough, perhaps, but we have to
salvage as much as possible.  Near the gaping hole, while still
scrounging for materiel, I stumble across a large figure huddled in the
dark.  A face, angry, comes into the dim light.  It's Venus.
     "I might've expected you to flatten me on your way out," she says.
     "I wasn't on my way out.  I was---never mind.  I didn't see you
there in the dark."
     "When did you ever?"
     She glares at me, but in her eyes is some delight at scoring her
point.  Let her have her little triumph.  Nothing gained by alienating
her any further.  If this operation is success, maybe we can get back
together, maybe----ah, it's no good fretting over futile wishes.
     Boomer rushes past us, not seeing Venus or myself.  
     "I'll take Abujh," he says.  "Starbuck!" Starbuck pokes his head
through the entranceway to the forward cabin.  "Gimme a hand."
     "I'm trying to remove the communicator," Starbuck protests.  "We're
gonna need it."
     "Sorry, you don't have the time.  When the dust storm petered out,
Captain Apollo went outside to look around.  He's just seen a gigantic
footprint---and not one of a man---so that means Cylons aren't the only
things we've got to worry about.  Either that footprint's owner, or that
Cylon ship, will be back for another pass quick as a flash, so give me a
hand with Abujh."
     Starbuck comes into the passenger compartment reaches for Abujh's
feet while Boomer cradles the gunner's head and shoulders.  I hustle
toward the exit, immediately feeling the harsh sting of the desert heat
against that part of my face that's not covered by the breather---and
then I spot the big footprint's owner!
     It's a Cyclops, a giant monolithic being towering at least sixteen
metrons above us!  A creature that walks on two legs only five times as
big as anything ever thought of as human.  It's very primitive, the lack
of tools or clothing upon that hideous two-legged hulk tells me that, and
anything that is primitive attacks whatever it doesn't understand.  
     I notice its right hand is closed around something.  It looks down
at me with its single eye and cocks back its arm, as if preparing to hurl
the contents of its balled-up fist.  
     "Apolloooo!" I shout.
     I jump out of the way as the creature throws the contents of its
hand down on the ground.  It's a wad of silver-gray metal. I recognize it
as a crushed Cylon warplane, probably the same one that had no doubt been
sent to search for us.  That a creature like this one could just pluck a
spacecraft out of the sky and crush it in one of those gargantuan clawed
hands is hideous to me.
     Behind me I can hear the other members of the team scrambling out of
the shuttle.
     As the Cyclops bellows loudly, gnashing its fangs and raising its
hands above its head in an apparent gesture of defiance, a deep rumble
sounds from inside the shuttle.  It's the scarab kicking into life.  With
a loud roar, the vehicle crashes through the side of the shuttle,
creating yet another large hole.  The scarab swerves furiously into
defensive artillery position.  From a loudspeaker somewhere upon the main
body of the scarab, Apollo's voice booms:
     "Starbuck!  Get up here!"
     "Always in demand," Starbuck yells as he jumps on the turret of the
vehicle.
     The Cyclops, not expecting to encounter resistance, picks up a huge
boulder and readies itself to hurl the jagged object at us.  Starbuck
extends long barrel of the scarab gun and spinning it around, takes aim
at the creature.  The Cyclops is faster, unfortunately.  It throws its
boulder, scoring a hit on the scarab.  Two plates fly off the vehicle's
rear, exposing the vehicle's power batteries.  Starbuck seems not to
notice.  Holding back until the properly timed moment, he stares upward,
sighting along the narrow barrel of the gun to the towering form of the
advancing alien monster.  Just as I'm about to yell at him to fire, he
does.  With an ear-splitting howl, he unloads at the beast's menacing
maw.  The ruby-beams  fly straight to their mark.  With a screech of
pain, the Cyclops clutches at its head and falls over backwards with a
massive roar and crash.  We all shield our eyes from the flying dust and
pebbles of the creature's impact.
     Turning the vehicle around, Apollo aligns it alongside the shuttle. 
In the long shadow of the giant Cyclops' corpse we assemble, at least
those of us still conscious do.  The scarab's engine coughs and shakes. 
Something's obviously wrong with it.  
     Suddenly the kid's voice booms out of the hidden loudspeaker:
     "Great shooting, Starbuck!"
     From the looks on the face of Starbuck and some of the others, I can
tell Apollo and Boomer have forgotten to inform them of Boxey's presence. 
When they hear the droid's barking over the loudspeaker, they all jump,
startled at the abrupt sound.
     Apollo, cutting off any queries about the presence of the kid and
his hi-tech pet, tells everyone to crowd around the scarab.  
     "Crowd as many as possible inside, Apollo says.  "Ballviurtam and
Jonah go in first.  And hurry.  Night could fall any centon now."
     Neither Ballviurtam nor Jonah looks like he appreciates the honor of
being the first to board the scarab.  Starbuck pitches in, helping
everybody load the scarab.  When the job's just about done, I become
conscious of Samuel and Jonah standing behind me.  I turn and face them,
after checking that everybody else is still busy with the loading.  
     "What is it?" I say as quietly and guardedly as I can.
     "You're not going to guide them across this wasteland to the
mountain?" Samuel says.  
     "We can make it," I say.
     "It's our chance to make a break."  Exactly what I suspected.
They've been cooped up for too long.  Their desire to escape has overcome
their reason, and they're not going to listen to me for long before
attempting to flee from the core group.
     "A break, huh?  Where to?  In case you haven't noticed we're stuck
on this rock together."
     Samuel's obviously been thinking this all out.  His answers are
ready.
     "We can hunt.  Build shelter.  We've been in a lot worse."
     Jonah moves in closer and whispers in his raspy voice:
     "Personally, I'm all for hijacking a Cylon transport and making a
run for a nice ice planet somewhere."
     "Yeah, and maybe you wouldn't be so hot and stinky if you'd clip off
all that damned hair on your body, Jonah.  Who knows?  You might make a
profit  selling it as a wig."  Jonah looks like he'd rather clip me. 
"Sorry, but nobody's running anywhere.  We signed on to blow up that
photon-torpedo launcher or whatever it is."
     Samuel's dark, slanted eyes narrow to slits, as much a show of
emotion as I've ever seen him manage at one time.
     "Oh, I get it.  You want to be a commander again, want it so badly
that you're willing to crawl up that stinkin' mountain."
     Oooh!  I'd feed him to that Cyclops if it weren't dead.
     "It's low-blow time, that right, Samuel?"
     "Low blows are for people who can fight back.  They broke you,
Zodiac.  You used to bite, but now you're toothless.  Have your way,
then.  Wear their damn slave collar if it makes you happy.  We're cutting
loose the first chance we get!"
     I remember when these guys didn't used to be so stupid.  Samuel says
they broke me.  Who did they break?  Is he right?  Have I lost my sense
of loyalty, that feeling of companionship we'd all experienced before the
radium raid?  But is it disloyal to rank a selfish desire for escape and
personal freedom over our duty to save the fleet from certain doom?  It
doesn't seem so to me, and I'm about to tell Samuel and Jonah that, but
out of the corner of my eye, I can see Apollo walking up to us, the sand
crunching under his heavy protective boots.
     "As soon as you're finished loading," Apollo says, "we'll get under
way."
     I glance at Samuel and Jonah.  I'm pretty sure both of them have
given up on me.  Maybe I can convince them later.
     "We're through," I say to Apollo, and walk off next to the captain,
feeling the two pairs of eyes of my former cohorts boring deep craters
into my back.
     Next to the shuttle wreck, Venus is working furiously on the injured
Abujh and Kofi.  Ballviurtam comes out of the shuttle, his arms sliding
into the harness of a backpack.
     "How are they?" Apollo says, crouching by Venus.  The look she gives
him reminds me of a look she once used to reserve for me.  Since she
wants so badly to escape, the look is probably phony.  Maybe it was
always phony.
     "They'll survive," Venus says, "if we can get them to shelter."
     "Put them inside the scarab.  Jonah, you go inside after they're
placed safely aboard."
      Jonah now hovers over Apollo and growls:
     "I don't like the company I'll be keeping in that thing,
especially..." he points at Ballviurtam "...that one.  I'll walk if you
don't mind."
     "You're part of the team," Apollo says, standing firm, "so you're
riding with us.  End of discussion."
     "I'm not letting any punk of a---"
     Jonah stops suddenly, shoots a dirty look my way.  I try to convince
him with a shrug that I'm staying out of it.  He spins on his heel and
strides off.  I should warn Apollo, if he hasn't realized it already,
that Jonah in a belligerent mood is extremely dangerous.  But then, I'd
have to inform on Jonah about the stolen gun, and what good would telling
Apollo anything do?  The smug young captain would just mutter he could
take care of it, like he always does.  I hope someday he comes up against
something he can't take care of. Soon.
     We load the two injured men aboard the scarab, and Apollo goes to
the controls.  As I climb into the interior of the vehicle, I can hear
Jonah and Ballviurtam standing beside one of the consoles, arguing.
     "You just stay outta my face from hereon out, y'hear?" Jonah
bellows.
     "When I give an order, you hop!" Ballviurtam throws his weight
around.
     "You want somethin' done, wanker, do it yourself!"
     Oh well, let Jonah be Ballviurtam's problem.  I'm not getting
involved.  All I want to do is settle down in the scarab and bask in its
nice, cool air-conditioned comfort.
     Venus, however, has positioned herself between Starbuck and Boomer. 
She'd probably rather be riding shotgun with the captain, but she always
was smart enough to take potluck.

**********

Chapter Eight: The Lost Colony

     The scarab pulled away from the site, wheeling over a mass of dying
plants.  Starbuck, saying nothing, plopped down in the seat next to
Apollo's.  They went most of the  distance in silence.  Once in a while,
Boxey whispered to his daggit, but that was about all the conversation
anybody in the scarab could work up.  They were all tense.  If
everything's been this bad so far, what's up ahead? ---In one way or
another that's what they were all thinking, whether their goal was the
mountain or a cool place for Muffit, who had no sensors for heat anyway. 
     As Apollo predicted, night came, falling like a curtain on a stage
across the plain of the planet Equis. Unfortunately, rather than
illumination by the dim light of the stars, as Venus had secretly hoped,
the night sky became a rolling mass of gray undertoned by black and a
huge electrical storm erupted.  The lightning began to fall around the
streamlined scarab, not in bolts but sheets, shattering the ground like
laser fire, leaving scorch marks every place it touched.  The vehicle was
insulated, but after a time, everyone's hair stood on end.  The sky
sounded like an artillery range.  Red lights flashed across the sky from
north to south.  In their passing, Apollo detected many black bands going
from west to east.  It was not an encouraging spectacle.  The lightning
bombardment could go on for days.  
     Boomer studied the readouts on the brightly glowing screen before
him intensely.  "I'm reading a large cavern up ahead, Apollo, at
coordinate W2-Epsilon," he shouted out as an explosive peal of thunder
rocked the vehicle with a mocking crackboom!  "Better get our astrums in
there for protection, otherwise we'll get fried by that lightning."
     "Right," Apollo nodded and eased the scarab toward a shadowy
mountain wall ahead of them.  The cliff ahead sloped inward and downward,
forming an overhang that, fortunately, had sufficient overhead clearance
to allow the giant vehicle safe entry.  He pulled the scarab into a
vacant spot and killed the engine.
     Apollo was out of his driver's seat and outside as soon as the
vehicle came to a stop.  Zodiac came right out right after him, Venus
just behind him.  It wasn't long before everyone was out of the scarab
and taking in their bizarre surroundings. 
     They all found themselves looking down a large alley, full of
run-down buildings that protruded out of the rock like the fossilized
bones of some long dead animal.  The broken columns of walls rose up from
the ground and tapered off at a point no more than twenty metrons high. 
The flat stone surface that ran between the ruined environs suggested
that this had once been the main walkway for the little city. Acres of
rotted paper debris lined the floor, no doubt rendered unreadable by the
march of time. 
     "Do you see it dad?" Boxey jumped up and down excitedly as Muffit
yapped.  
     "Yes," Apollo said nervously, looking at the lost city.  "The
architecture is definitely Colonial.  Our people have been here before." 
He sensed that this place would be of great interest to geologists and
archaeologists of Galactica's space fleet---if only they had time for
research these days. 
     "You mean---travelers from the Colonies actually settled on this
stinkin' rock?" Jonah snarled.
     "If it's not a settlement, then you tell us what it is, daggit!"
Ballviurtam blustered.
     "It looks kind of like an--" Venus began.
     "---An ancient mining town," Boomer finished for her.  "I'll bet
this blasted planet used to be filthy rich in tylium and hydrollithium
centuries ago." 
     "You don't think there could be Cylons prowling around in there, do
you Apollo?" Starbuck said, one hand on his laser.
     "We'll soon find out," Apollo replied coolly.
     Boomer ran back into the scarab and began passing out torches to
everyone and the Galactica team soon began exploring the numerous empty
galleries.  These ran through the wall of schist and stone, some shored
up with great, steel beams, others lined with a thick casing of wood.
     Parked near the scarab was a cobweb-covered heavy-duty tractor.
Venus reached the tractor and looked inside.  The controls had long since
been ripped out, as if by a crowbar or axe.  She moved on.
     Without warning, Muffit scampered off into the eerie darkness of the
bleak subterranean structures.
     "Muffit!" Boxey called out with alarm, "Come back here!"
     "Hey Boxey," Starbuck said hastily as he stepped out of the
darkness, his torchlight shining bright as a supernova against the
child's pale skin.
     Boxey ran to Starbuck and hugged him close.  "Starbuck, Muffey's
gone!"
     "Yep, they're always getting lost, these daggits," Starbuck sighed. 
"Don't worry, we'll get him and----" He paused in mid-sentence.  Around
him, he could  make out the contours of the rotten doorways and broken
windows surrounding him and Boxey.  He also noticed a slight dissipation
in the darkness.  There seemed to be an unnatural
red-to-orange-orange-to-red glow in the distance.  Whether artificial
lights or something else caused it, he couldn't tell.
     "Stay close to me, Boxey," Starbuck nervously cautioned his charge. 

     "What is it?" Boxey looked up at him, pleadingly. "Is it Muffey?"
     "Never mind.  Just---follow me."
     They made their way into the ruins for another kilo-metron, keeping
their steps slow and gentle as they made their way toward the source of
the weird red-to-orange-orange-to-red glow: A flashing neon sign over a
round revolving door, which read: The Laughing Naga: Your Friendly
Neighborhood Trading Post. 
     Boxey was trembling a little.  "Somebody's in there, right
Starbuck?" he said.  
     "Can't say for sure, Boxey," Starbuck replied.  The blonde warrior
put out a hand, applying just a little pressure to the round doorway----
     Creeeeeeeak!
     At Starbuck's push, the round door revolved and opened inward.  The
unexpected motion of the door caused the warrior to lose his balance and
stumble into the darkness beyond the opening.  
     "Starbuck!" Boxey screamed and then he leaped through the opening.
     Boxey found the blonde warrior lying in the dirt, arms outflung. 
The child ran to Starbuck's prone body and tugged frantically at his
jumpsuit sleeve.
     "Starbuck!  Starbuck!  Don't be hurt!  Please!"
     But the warrior casually picked himself up off the ground, eyes
bright and alert. "Stop fussin' with me, kid.  I'm alright," he said.
     Boxey looked all around the dark-as-night room.  Starbuck shined his
torch against one wall of the chamber, revealing a junk pile of shattered
objects, mannequins and display cases.
     "Where are we?" Boxey asked.  
     "We're exactly where the sign outside says we are," Starbuck replied
sarcastically.  "The Laughing Naga Trading Post."
     Just then there was a scratching noise, like the stylus of an
ancient phonograph over an old record.  The air became smoky and a bright
glowing substance began to form into tendrils that moved very close to
Starbuck and Boxey.  The smoky substance twisted, melted and formed what
appeared to be the shape of an old man dressed in a plastic suit.  He had
wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the long-defunct
shop.  His hair was gray, and he had a kind face. 
     "Welcome to my humble store," he said in a soft voice. "So delighted
you could come---"
     "Ghost!" shouted Boxey.
     "Hey!  Hey, partner!" Starbuck soothed, pulling the child close to
him, comforting him.  "That's just a hologreeter.  Lotsa retail stores
have 'em.  Nothin' to be scared of."
     "My name is Filbey," the figure continued.  "If you require
assistance, you have only to summon me and I'll do what I can for you."
     Suddenly there was another creaking and rumbling.  The revolving
door was closing. By the time Starbuck and Boxey reached it, the round
door slammed shut, sealing both man and child inside.
     "Frak! Felgercarb and shit!" Starbuck yelled.  "We're trapped!"

**********

     Boomer's ebony skin gleamed with metallic brilliance as the light of
his personal torch shone brightly upon his arms and face.  A gust of
interior wind raced through the long gray concrete alleyway.  The air
stank with fumes of several substances his nostrils couldn't identify. 
Somewhere, three or four metrons behind him, Zodiac's torch bobbed up and
down in the dark, like a firefly that had nipped too much ambrosa.
     As Boomer plodded deeper and deeper into the deserted outpost,
something in the darkness let out an anxious Yap! Yap!  Yapyap-a-Yap!"
     The startled warrior leaped backward, took cover behind a nearby
fuel drum, and glanced over his shoulder.  He relaxed when a familiar
shape appeared in the maw of the incandescent cone that was thrown from
his torchbeam.
     "Oh!" Boomer said embarrassed.  "Hiya, Muffit!"
     Zodiac sidled up to where Boomer was standing.  "Ahhh!  Just the
kid's stupid droid," he said.  "Goddamn piece of electronic felgercarb,
anyway."
     "The 'kid' must be in trouble, or Muffit wouldnt've come looking for
one of us," Boomer scorned, wishing Zodiac   would shut the frak up, as
he was getting tired of the man's bad attitude.  Turning now to the
daggit, the black warrior instructed it: "Muffit.  Lead us to Boxey! 
Boxey!"
     Both men whipped the sweat from their cheeks and followed the
trotting daggit, partially running to keep up with it.  The concrete
walls echoed with the slapping of their grotesque, boot-clad footsteps
and the booming syllables of Muffit's barking.  There were more fuel
drums along the trail Muffit was blazing, but these were painted bright
orange and ringed in white.  They alternated with herds of sawhorses and
lights that would, perhaps centuries ago, have been flashing yellow.  
     The daggit led them to the flashing sign of The Laughing Naga, and
scratched at the round door of the long-shuttered establishment with its
metallic "paw."  As the din of the two men's footsteps faded, Boomer
could hear two voices coming from somewhere within the structure's
interior, that of a man and a small boy.
     "Help! Helllllp!"
     "Apollo!  Zodiac!  Somebody help us!"
     "Starbuck?" Boomer said. "Boxey?"
     "That you Boomer?" Starbuck's voice came through, muffled.  "We're
in here!"
     "I don't understand, pal," Boomer said.  "Where is 'in here'?"
     "We're behind the wall!" Starbuck said, frantically.
     Zodiac's hands grew sweaty as he probed the concrete wall for an
opening.  Soon, he found the edge of the revolving door and pushed
inward, admitting himself and Boomer to the interior of the shop.
     Boomer narrowed his eyes as he watched Starbuck dust off his beige
survival suit and brushed some dirt off Boxey's hair.  "Are you guys
okay?" he said.
     "Yeah," said Starbuck, his voice hot with pride.
     Boxey gave the black warrior a two-fingered salute.  "Yes sir!"
     There was a sudden creaking and Starbuck turned, his anger causing
him to taste the bitterness of bile at the back of his throat as he
watched the motion of the revolving door.  
     "Frak!" he shouted.  "The damn door's closing again!"
     Boomer and Zodiac ran to the now-closed door.  It couldn't even be
budged now, not even with both of them pushing it.
     His muscles straining from the futile effort, Boomer finally decided
to back off.  "Looks like Zodiac and I are trapped in here along with
you, buddy," he said.
     "Just what I always wanted," Zodiac blustered.  "To be stuck in a
room with two colonial fighter jocks, a whiney brat and----"
     All of a sudden a violent crash made Zodiac start on his feet. A
deafening noise fell on his ear like the roar of a volcano.  He felt the
ground rock to and fro.
     "Starbuck?" Boxey said nervously, as he pulled himself closer to his
daggit.
     "Relax, Boxey, it's just a little thunder," Starbuck said.  
     Boomer disagreed.  He was certain it was a threat but wasn't sure
what sort of threat it presented.  "Either that or the sonic boom of a
Cylon warplane on a flyby," the black warrior added with a sense of
caution.  
     Brooommmmm! The rumbling came again, this time, with a swaying,
rocking motion that caused every loose object to crash to the floor.
     "It's not thunder and it's not a sonic boom," Zodiac snarled,
standing tensely as yet another rumble shook the room.  "It's an
earthquake!  We've gotta get outta here---now!"

**********

     Apollo suddenly threw his body against Venus, knocking her clear
just as a stalactite crashed downward from the cavern's ceiling.  
     It was as if the "sky" had erupted for all of the Galacticans; a
hailstorm of rock fragments, dust, plaster, wood, and metal that fell and
pelted the ground around them, cracking against the ancient walkway.  
     Apollo helped the blonde med-tech to her feet; the realization that
it was time to leave this place was finally dawning on him.  "Boomer!
Boxey!  Zodiac!" he called out, beginning to feel very nervous.  "Where
are you?"  
     Ballviurtam popped his head out of the darkness behind one of the
gray pillars, Jonah standing just behind him.  "They're on the other side
of a wall three blocks down from here!" the sergeant said.  "Follow me!"
     Apollo nodded and took Venus by the hand, leading her through the
dusty corridors, keeping Ballviurtam and Jonah in sight.
     They came upon the round door of The Laughing Naga.  Apollo cupped
his hands around his lips and shouted;  "Halloo!  Boomer!" 
     "Apollo?" came Boomer's voice from behind the thick portal.  "You
got three guys, a child and a daggit trapped in here, buddy! "
     "Can't you open that door?"
     "Nope," replied Boomer.  "The locking mechanism must be jammed or
something."
     Apollo looked at the sealed door and nodded.  "All right, warriors,
stand back and I'll open this door for you."
     "That's solid stone!" Jonah protested. "We haven't enough explosives
to get through that,"
     "As a matter of fact, we have, but I'd rather keep them for blowing
up that Cylon superweapon.  Besides, if I blow this open, it might set
off another tremor," Apollo finished dryly.  
     Apollo produced his blaster and was busily setting it for a narrow
beam to cut through the thick stone door.  He then triggered the energy
beam at the base of the door, and slowly drew it upwards, describing an
arch wide enough for at least two people at a time to pass through.
     On the other side of the door, Starbuck, Boomer and Zodiac watched
in mounting relief as a fiercely growing spot of light hurled sparks into
the cave, cutting a gap into the door.  Startled by the sight, Muffit
jumped back and yapped.
     "Muffit doesn't know what that is," Boxey said.
     "Your dad's burning through!" Boomer yelled.  Everyone push! 
Quickly!  Quickly!"
     They began pushing against the stone slab.  There was a muted clunk
and the door began move.  Microns later, they got it open all the way.
     The joy of the escape was short-lived, unfortunately.  The ground
shuddered with an ominous sound and suddenly a great rent appeared in the
wide alleyway ahead, as though the earth were being torn apart.  It
zig-zagged down the alley and from the widening fissure clouds of smoke
and steam from who-knew-where rose.  Starbuck, carrying Boxey, and Muffit
straggled behind the others.  Two pillars fell down in their path.  They
dodged the cascading chunks of concrete and scrambled towards the scarab.

     "All right!  Everybody!  Let's get out of here!  Get going! Now! Get
going!" Apollo bellowed.
     The scarab was shaken violently, but the Galactians managed to crawl
into it.  Apollo jumped into the driver's seat as Starbuck, the last one
in after Boxey and Muffit, raised the exit ramp.  He threw the starting
lever forward to its furthest position as a huge rock fell down from the
ceiling just a heartbeat away from the vehicle's rear end. The humming of
the scarab's engine soared to a very high pitch as Apollo gunned it
forward past the cave's mouth and into the desert beyond.  
     Now safely seated in the scarab's slick hi-tech interior, each
member of the group, Jonah included, took a moment to reflect on their
narrow escape.  They all realized that only the bold captain's speed and
quick thinking saved them all from being buried alive and entombed in
that mountain forever.
     Unseen by any of the landing party members, there was an old,
decayed road sign lying flat on the ground but a few metrons away from
the cave: "You Are Now Leaving Beautiful Moletown.  We'll Miss You."  The
Galactican scarab shot past this point, it's port and starboard running
lights diminishing into the vanishing point.
     Overhead, the stars wheeled.

**********

From The Adama Journals:

     I wonder if, when we finally outrun or destroy the Cylons and find a
planet to welcome us, we will be able to reconstruct our lost legends,
our destroyed books, and our currently unperformed entertainments.  Some
of these are, of course, preserved in our computer banks, but, alas, not
all.  Not all.  Yesterday I requested a copy of the Caprican story Camity
Star Wanderer, confident that it had to be preserved somewhere in the
fleet records.  But the answer returned scan negative.  For a moment I
could not accept the answer.  A book that I'd read and reread years ago
was no longer available---was, in effect, lost to us.  Never to be read
by human eyes again, unless a frayed copy turned up in somebody's locker
or as an artifact on some deserted planetary outpost.  I nearly
instigated a search.
     Alone in my quarters, I tried to remember the story of Camity, Star
Wanderer.  I thought I could remember it easily.  Perhaps I could renew
the oral tradition, keep alive at least the major part of my beloved
story.  But, I soon discovered, I had few of the details of the story in
my mind, even less memory of the order  in which it happened.
     Camity was just a boy, that much I remember.  A tough kid just past
the hurdle of puberty.  Trapped on an out-of-the-way military asteroid,
where his disabled-veteran father coped with his combat record by
becoming a hophead and his mother coped with the father by turning into a
shrew.  Camity vowed to escape.  I don't remember how he managed ti, but
he stole a supply shuttle, having learned simple piloting by watching the
ship's pilot do the job.  He headed the shuttle away from the complex of
military asteroids, setting his course for an area that was considered
unpopulated, although appealing rumors of sin cities and pleasure palaces
had accrued around it.  Somehow he teamed up with his new pal Sol.  I
don't remember whether Sol stowed away on the shuttle when Camity stole
it, or whether they met on one of the many settlements Camity visited. 
Sol was some kind of blob, a representative of an alien race that was
quite unpopular in some sectors of the galaxy.  There were times when
Camity had to hide Sol away, but when it was necessary, he fought tooth
and nail for his alien friend.
     It's Camity's friendship with Sol that I really want to remember. 
They worked so well together in flying the shuttlecraft across the
glaxy---I recall all kinds of clever exchanges, all sorts of moments in
which a sly joke of Sol's gave Camity peculiar and valuable insights on
life.  There was a meditation of Camity's in which he almost said he
wished that a real love were possible between a human and a member of
Sol's race.  He never really said he wanted to embrace Sol---and,
remember, Sol couldn't be embraced, or even held onto, no matter how hard
you tried---but it was clear that Camity's fantasy would include a Sol
magically transformed to human shape and quite embraceable.
     The adventures are even harder to recall than the impressions of
character.  The book was basically a collection of episodes about
Camity's adventures on the various planets he stopped at.  At the more
civilized settlements he found that his theft of the shuttle had been
recorded and he was wanted as a criminal.  He had to go through some
pretty hairy times to escape and not be returned home.  (The continuing
to flee was an especially important feature of the book---it seemed to
suggest that irresponsibility was a desirable way of life, and I find it
funny that my responsible adult self remembers that theme so
nostalgically.)  He fell in with a group of criminals, pretended to go
along with them, then thwarted their plan by getting Sol to walk in on
them at the moment of the crime.  But what was the crime?  Who were the
criminals?  Why don't I remember their characters?  Once Camity----who
was only in his early teens, remember---almost successfully impersonated
a star-cruiser captain, a disguise he was using to try to obtain a cargo
hold of food when he and Sol were starving.  I can remember that episode
pretty well.  I used to read it to my children when they were growing up. 
Zac used to pretend to be Sol, and crawl bloblike around the floor.
     I can still feel the sadness of the end of the book, when Camity and
Sol were finally apprehended.  Camity wanted Sol to be returned home with
him, but the rules wouldn't allow it.  The enforcer in charge of the
squad that captured them told Camity that Sol could not survive within
any military installation.  He would be a figure of scorn.  The enforcer
said that separating them separating them was an act of compassion, not
cruelty.  Camity said he saw the point, but I never felt he did, and
neither, I suspect, did any readers of the book.  Anybody who could read
the scene of parting between Camity and Sol without crying had to have a
sturdy hold on his emotions.  I can't really remember Camity's return to
home, perhaps because I don't really want to.  I remember it was
sentimental.  Perhaps his dad had gone off his habit and his mother had
become a saint.  It doesn't matter.  Nobody I know who ever read it ever
bothered much about believing its ending.
     Clearly, Camity Star-rover was a flawed book, and perhaps some
misguided programmer librarian thought he/she had good reason for not
including it in the Galactica computer library.  That's too bad. 
Camity's quest for a more adventurous life seems so similar to our quest
for Earth.  The story might give us hope when we need it.  No matter how
much of the book I can reconstruct, no matter how much eloquence I
attempt in trying to retell the story to anyone, I'll never really have
Camity again.  So much has been destroyed.  Too much, in fact.


**********

Chapter Nine: Silent Bridge

     Although the Galactica bridge might have seemed still and inactive
to an outside observer, there was an abundance of human movement going
on.  Crewmembers' hands were testing dials and gauges whose information
had remained stable for some time.  Communications officers kept pressing
their earpieces harder against their ears, trying to discover some
encouraging sounds.  Colonel Tigh sat at his post, rippling the corners
of printouts he'd stopped examining centons earlier.  Athena's eyes
searched every horizontal scan line of her monitoring screen, and kept
punching new combinations of the same data into her computer setup. 
Adama's large knobby hands gripped and ungripped the railing that ran
along the starfield walkway.
     Suddenly, one of the bridge officer grumbled a curse and called to
Colonel Tigh.  Tigh rushed to the woman, Adama close behind him.  She
pointed to her long-range scanner.  Tigh turned to Adama, saying:
     "That scanner's picked up a Cylon fighter squadron."
     "How many?" Adama asked.
     "Looks like an attack phalanx.  They're beginning to press."
     Adama nodded.
     "Order Blue Squadron to patrol the rear."
     "Yes, Commander."  Tigh flipped the nearest communication switch as
activity around him on the bridge multiplied.  "Scramble Blue Squadron! 
Patrol rear sectors Sigma through Omega!"
     The claxons roared through the Galactica, and the bridge crew could
almost physically detect the rush of pilots toward launching bays.  On
various screens, pilots could be seen swinging into action, flight crews
readying the vipers, and the reverberations of the fighter ships
themselves.
     The squadron launched and achieved formation long before a visual
contact with the Cylon attack phalanx was made.  Positioned well to the
rear of the fleet itself, the vipers were more than ready for the
not-so-sneak attack of their enemy.
     Aboard the Galactica, the bridge crew stood and sat at battle
stations, their active eyes watching information screens and equipment. 
Adama ordered the picture being transmitted from Blue Leader One
transferred to the main screen.  Tensely they all watched the distant
points grow into blots and then take form as flat-looking but
multileveled Cylon fighters.  The first blast from a Cylon weapon was
directed at Blue Leader One, and everyone on the bridge flinched and
startled backward when the shot seemed to come right at them.  Then the
skies were filled with laser fire and the sudden bursting flames of
direct hits.  A pair of Cylon fighters broke through the Blue Squadron
line of defense and headed for the fleet.
     "Protect the freighters!" Adama ordered.
     "Galactica to Blue Leader!" transmitted a bridge officer.  "Engage!"
     A Blue Squadron viper peeled away from the squadron and in one long
beautiful sweep fired at both of the attackers and transformed them into
two masses of fire whose flames reached out toward each other, combined,
fell together, and exploded further in a burst of bright light that, for
a brief moment, illuminated the entire wide triangle of ships that was
the present fleet formation.
     "My God!" Athena gasped.
     "Good shooting?" Adama, standing behind her, asked.
     "Not only that.  That double kill was accomplished by one of the
cadets."
     "As I said, good shooting."
     Adama walked away from her, his face apparently expressionless, but
Athena recognized a flicker of pleasure in his reaction to the heroism of
a graduate of his makeshift Academy.
     The Cylon ships, quickly routed by the dizzying maneuvers of the
Blue Squadron's vipers, retreated into the distance and became points
again.  A flight officer approached Adama and reported:
     "Blue Squadron returning to base.  Four Cylons destroyed, the rest
are running."
     "They'll be back," Adama commented.  "In packs, like lupuses.  What
do your reports show, Tigh?"
     The black colonel was scowling at a set of printouts that he gripped
tightly in his hands.  Something clearly disturbed him.
     "We got ships again, but not Cylon personnel.  The Cylons in the
rearguard ships guided the others, as before.  We lost one viper and one
good pilot.  They just lost the vehicles, if  'vehicle' is the proper
word for those things.  They're wearing us down with these empty ships. 
It's downright scary!"
     "That may be how they want us to feel.  If they come at us again, go
for the rearguard ships.  Station a few warriors on the slower freighters
with hear artillery to blast any of the pilotless aircraft that might get
through next time."
     "Yes, sir."
     Athena, eavesdropping on the conversation between her father and his
aide, sidled up to Adama and whispered: 
     "Let me go."
     "Go where?"
     "Give me some heavy artillery.  Station me on a---"
     "I told you.  We need you here."
     Adama's voice was firm.  She should've immediately returned to her
station, but she decided to press her luck.
     "Well, you're going to have to take a few warriors off the flight
roster.  Let me take up a viper the next attack.  I can---"
     "None of that.  You stay here."
     "I'm as well checked-out in a viper cockpit as any of those cadets
you're rushing into battle."
     Adama's shocked face cut off her little speech abruptly before she
could get to the logical part.
     "One of those cadets, as you so happily informed me moments ago,
performed the skillful double kill, Athena."
     "All right.  I'm properly chastened, Commander.  But one lucky cadet
is just a rationalization for your keeping me stuck at a console on the
bridge.  I want my chance at---"
     Adama's stern expression softened.
     "I promise I'll give you your chance, Athena.  But right now, back
to duty.  You are needed."
     "Yes, sir."
     Tigh, the usual papers in his hand, returned to Adama's side and
said:
     "Any estimate on time remaining until the landing party completes
the mission?"
     "It's irrelevant.  We have to move forward in"---Adama glanced at
his chronometer---"in four hundred and twenty centons regardless of
whether they're successful or not."
     Gradually, the activity on the command bridge had stopped, stalled. 
Only the nervous agitated hand movements remained.

**********

The Book Of Zodiac: 

     We continue to move forward, skirting a pocket of radiation that's
undoubtedly been here since the planet's birth.  
     We come upon a place where the sands are fused into a glassy plain. 
Apollo slows as he begins its passage, peering ahead at the chasms and
craters it contains.
     Three rockfalls assail us before the stony pillars and plateaus
split themselves and reveal a bright-blue light, edged with violet.  At
first I can hardly see anything.  My eyes, unaccustomed to such bright
light, quickly close.  When I'm able to reopen them, I stand more
stupefied, even, than surprised.
     "It's the sea!" Boxey cries.  Not surprisingly, the daggit yelps in
electronic joy, as if cued to the kid's voice.
     "Yep," says Starbuck.  "The Starbuck Sea.  I don't suppose any other
discoverer will dispute my claim to name it after myself as its first
discoverer."
     A vast sheet of water, the beginnings of a lake or a sea, spreads
far away beyond the range of my eyes.  The deeply indented shore is lined
with a breadth of fine shining sand softly lapped by the waves.  A light
foam flies over the waves before the breath of a moderate breeze, and
some of the spray falls upon the windshield of the scarab as Apollo
navigates it toward the water's edge and shifts our vehicle into
amphibious mode.  On this slightly inclining shore, about a hundred
metrons from the limit of the waves, comes down the foot of a huge wall
of vast cliffs, which rise majestically to an enormous height.  Some of
these, dividing the beach with their sharp spurs, form capes and
promontories, were worn away by the ceaseless action of the surf. 
Farther  on, I discern their massive outline sharply defined against the
hazy distant horizon.  It's quite a sea, but still desert and frightfully
wild in appearance.
     "On the other side of the Starbuck sea lies our target, Mount
Asenath," Apollo declares at the top of his lungs.  "I'm taking us in. 
Don't anybody dare get seasick!"
     We are soon afloat. Outside, the  northern shore is undoubtedly
beginning to dip under the horizon,  as if to say goodbye.  Before us
lies far and wide a vast sea; shadows of great clouds sweeping heavily
over its silver-grey surface.  I climb into the gun turret, looking for
some sight of land, finding none; no object left for my eyes to judge by. 
I'd swear we are standing still, if not for the frothy track of the
scarab.
     The weather's going to change in a few mili-centons, I can feel it. 
The clouds are lower gloomily and threateningly, wearing that implacable
look which I have sometimes noticed at the outbreak of a great storm. 
The Cylon's artificial sun just barely penetrates through the dense
cloudbank.  There's gonna be two wars fought on this planet---our war and
the war of the elements.
     "Boomer, read me weather conditions," Apollo orders.
     The black lieutenant furiously programs the necessary commands into
his computer console.  Lights flash, hard drives whirr, the printer
clatters, and Boomer reads the printout aloud to Apollo.
     "We've got a heavily voluted cumulus cloudbank coming down out
there, buddy," Boomer says.  "The sea's calm right now but it won't stay
that way; the air's heavy with moisture.  "Oh, and there's a bercesgadium
wave building up in that storm."
     "Lords of Kobol, look at those damn clouds," Samuel says, beckoning
us to one of the video monitors.
     On the monitor, the distant clouds resemble great bales of cotton,
piled up in picturesque disorder. By degrees they dilate, and gain in
huge size what they lose in number.  They weigh so much that they can't
rise from the horizon.
     "The atmosphere is being charged and surcharged with electricity,"
Starbuck calls out from a console of his own.  "Practically saturated. 
We're safe as long as we stay in the scarab, though."
     "Why's that, Starbuck?" Boxey asks, not so much out of fear as
curiosity.
     "Well, you know how your hair bristles when you stand on insulated
stool while a electrical machine is running?" Starbuck asks.  Boxey nods,
indicating that he does.  "That means your body's saturated with
electricity," the blonde lieutenant continues, "If anybody touches you,
he'll get an severe shock like a blast from a laser eel.  We can't have
that, now, can we?"
     "No," Boxey replies.
     Within ten mili-centons, the symptoms of storm become aggravated. 
The sea around us develops a huge swell, driven on by almost solid winds
and stinging rain.  Thunder echoes above like the roaring of the gods,
and lightning blazes momentarily across the seething sky.  Waves crash
down on our vehicle's roof.  They have enough weight and force, to stun
or break the ill-positioned limbs of anyone foolish enough to be standing
up there.
     Apollo, with a little help from Starbuck, pilots the scarab through
the ghastly weather.  Vicious wind, rain and sea blasts us, trying to
turn us this way or that, but Apollo is determined to remain on course
for the location of the Cylon photon cannon.
     Suddenly, there is the noise of a scuffle behind the door to the
rear storage compartment, then a thump against said door followed by a
loud, sharp crackling noise.  The power in the scarab seems to wind down
like an engine out of gas, the lights lowering in intensity before dying
altogether.  Boxey clutches the daggit instinctively, edging towards
Starbuck's side.
     Apollo leaps out of his driver's seat, bounds to the rear of the
scarab and pops open the door to the rear storage compartment.  I come
right after him and Venus steps in just behind me.
     Ballviurtam lies in the left-hand corner of the little compartment,
his arms outflung, Jonah hovering over him, stone faced and inscrutable. 
Venus runs over to Ballviurtam's prone body, checks him out.
     "He's in bad shape," she cries back.  "Very bad.  He might die,
looks like."
     "What happened back here?" Apollo roared at Jonah.
     Jonah takes a deep breath before snarling out his answer:
     "The stupid daggit wouldn't get off my back, so I offered him a
chance to have it out with me once and for all."
     Apollo folds his arms.  "You picked a fight with him." It was not a
question.
     "Yea. We came back here and he started pushing me.  I fought back. 
He pulled out his laser, figuring to shoot me, I guess, so I slammed my
body into his chest and he fell backwards.  His shot went wild and hit
the ceiling, there---" Jonah points to a yawning black hole in the
ceiling, to the exposed wires and burned-out circuits of the scarab's
batteries---"then there were sparks all over the place.  This idiot
warrior shorted out the power cells, I guess."
     Starbuck, emerging into the storage compartment, seems about to
start a fight of his own with Jonah. 
     "I'll bet he did!"
     Apollo holds Starbuck back.
     "Stop it!  We've got enough problems.  With the batteries dead I
have no manual control!  Everybody, Bellviurtam too, into the main
compartment---now!"
     Microns later, I look out the huge windshield in the front, and
through the cold, intense rain I can see the horizon lifting up from
below to sweep the scarab around in a spiral whose radius keeps growing
smaller and smaller, helpless to prevent its fate with its power cells
out of commission.  The scarab roars as it begins to tilt to the right,
out of control, her superstructure screaming in protest as if in a death
throe, even as a line of giant steely waves come perilously close.  "Oh,
damn...not again," Starbuck whispers through clenched teeth.
     We feel the terrible shock.  I find myself experiencing the
accompanying nausea that follows such continuous spinning motions.  We're
in dread, in the final stages of sheer horror.  Our blood freezes and our
nerves go numb.  Cold sweat drenches us, as if we're in the throes of
dying!  The droid's furry ears point upward, barking furiously in
response to the deafening roars echoing around the body of the helpless
scarab.  I'm no sailor, but I'm almost certain that the roars are being
caused by crashes from the waters breaking against sharp rocks on the
seafloor, rocks capable of smashing even the hardest objects man can
create.
     The frightfully rocking scarab defends itself like a human being.  I
can hear its steel muscles cracking.  Sometimes it stands on end, us
along with it!
     "We've got to hold on tight," I say, "and adjust our breathers to
full protective power, and right away."  
     "Can we make it?" Apollo says.
     Finally.  He's learning something, showing enough sense to ask my
opinion.
     "If the whirlpool pitches us to the left, we will," I say.  "Now,
for Sagan's sake, grab onto something!"
      We all hold tight to whatever objects are bolted down.  For now,
there's no other course of action.  Apollo holds the kid in one arm,
while holding on to one of the fastened-down chairs with the other.  The
breather mask the kid's wearing looks too big for him, though.  Samuel's
rigged a couple of extra straps to make it fit better.  But it doesn't
look like it's working so good.  At least when he keels over we'll get an
indication of how long the rest of us'll last.  No, that's an unworthy
thought.  Where did I become the type who'd let a kid die for any selfish
advantage?  I glanced down at the daggit, huddled against the boy,
shielding him with its body against possible harm.  It's lucky.  It
doesn't have any bones to break, can't feel fear...Hades, the damn thing
doesn't even need a breather mask.  When we've all popped off for good,
it can scamper around our bodies.
     "You all right, Boxey"?" Apollo says.
     "Daddy---I---I'm scared."
     Despite his numb nerves, Apollo pulled the boy even closer to him. 
It's not bad seeing a little human affection, even briefly, when you
consider the composition of this team.  I look over at Venus, who's deep
in some private thoughts of her won.  I remember seeing her this way,
some time long ago, while she was resting in the saddle of a mountain
ridge.  I don't remember where, I don't remember what took place before
or after, I just remember her sitting like that and I remember how much I
loved her at the moment.  I want to reach over and touch her arm, ask her
thoughts, have her nestle close to me---but I know that one move in her
direction and she'll smash her fist into my face and break my jaw.
     "What are our chances?" Starbuck, holding onto the armrests of
another chair with a deathgrip, shouts over to me.
     Another invocation of my expertise from a Galactica officer.  I'm
sure gaining in stature around here.  Too bad it's probably too late.
     "Depends on how long this storm lasts," I say, "and if the
atmosphere, under the influence of the bercesgadium starts rising to the
critical point of the gases composing it.  That's the point when, well,
when you can't really see much distinction on the critical-temperature
curve between the gaseous and liquid phases.  For our purposes, the air
outside turns to liquid.  Some call it deathpoint, though the name's
never made much since to me, since normally you're pretty dead long
before the critical point.  That answer your question?"
     "No, but---
     A cracking sound interrupts him.  Some of the rivets have given way
and water trickles in through the split seam.  We're suddenly hurled like
a stone from a sling into the midst of the vortex.
     Wham!  My head strikes against a ceiling pipe.  I don't feel scared
anymore.  I feel numb.  Drowsy.  Is it the violent shock of hitting my
head?  Or is it the bercesgadium wave getting to me?  Hey!  Snap out of
it!  You can't go to sleep.  Sleep means death.  Won't let everything end
this way.  Can't let it.  Won't.  Can't.  It's not right.  Not fair. 
Not....

**********      

     Clothes in pieces, shreds falling off my body.  Pickaxe twisting and
turning in the middle of a long slow bounce off a cornice.  Bare feet cut
and bleeding on the hard rocks of the summit.  Venus is reaching for me,
but without threat.  Her outstretched hands are meant to comfort me.  She
wants to hold me.  I stumble and fall, trying to reach out to touch her. 
Her clothing's ragged, too.  Flaps and rips all over it.  Flecks of rock
dust clinging to her face.  The skin of her hand turning black and
leprous.  Her feet are going out from under her.  No, Venus, no!  Still
reaching out she's falling away from me.  I start to fall too, but grab
an outcropping of rock and my body flaps like a flag in the high winds. 
Twisting my neck I look below me.  Venus still stares up at me, her eyes
pleading, her body gently spinning in a slow fall, doubling up as it hits
the side of a ridge, and then continues its descent.  Beyond her, the
pickaxe takes a high bounce off a serac.  I'm about to drop from the
outcropping, dive after her, but I can't make my fingers work, they seem
glued into a permanent handhold.  I start to scream but I can't even hear
myself above the shrieking of the wind.
     And then, suddenly, simply, noiselessly, I am awake.
     Where am I?  I seem still in a dream.  My body feels so numb, maybe
I am.  But why would I dream a place like this?  And so placidly?  This
place is the stuff of nightmares.  It's a cave, just like the one we
previously visited, the one with the lost human settlement inside.  This
one has several entrances.  But what's that war junk on all the walls? 
There's a hatchway from a Cylon aicraft.  A stock from a laser rifle. 
Bits and pieces of unidentifiable metal.  Scanner screens.  A bunch of
metallic Cylon uniforms.  Signs in Cylonese.  Half a control board.  All
this stuff is hanging on the walls of the cave like party decorations.  I
get the name of their designer, I'm going to scratch him off my fall
list.  The stove in the center of the cave is jerry-built from a fuel
tank.  Stove!  I've got to make my body work and get near that stove. 
Even at this distance from it, I can feel the side of my body facing it
begin to dry out.  But I can't move yet.  What's that junk in the corner,
piled so high?  I can make out---what?---that looks like sandshoes, and
that like a mountain of canteens, and I suppose those are sandsleds, but
they're so inefficiently designed, so rough in construction, they might
be a sideline product of the guy that decorated the cave.
     How did I get here?  Last I remember we were in the scarab and I was
clinging to a piece of equipment for dear life.  Looking around me now, I
can see the other members of our party, some of them still out, a couple
beginning to stir.  Apollo springs up suddenly, looks around.  At the
move, some brown furry thing near the corner jumps up, runs over, and
begins to lick Apollo's face.  It's the kid's droid.  From the other side
of Apollo, the kid himself jumps up, hugs his pet.
     "Muffit!"
     Apollo puts an arm around the kid, says:
     "Boxey..."
     The kid smiles up at Apollo.
     "You okay, Dad?"
     Apollo's return smile is a bit weaker than the kid's eager one.
     "I'm okay," he mumbles.  
     Others begin to stir.  I can move now.  I crawl toward the stove,
try to let its heat dry my waterlogged skin.  As I stand up and turn
around to dry my backside, I see something that is definitely not Muffit
standing beside an entranceway to this cave chamber.  He's in his
thirties, wiry, athletic, rumpled, used, and unshaven.  I don't think
he's a coward, though.  Not in any way.  He's hard enough looking to be a
fighter.  He looks almost superhuman.  This is the kind of guy that, when
you're assembling a team for mock hand-to-hand combat, you pick first for
your side.
     Everybody's noticed him now.  When he speaks to us, his voice has
such a deep baritone I'm not sure he's quite real.
     "You're lucky our fishing fleet spotted your vehicle and got you off
just before it sank beneath the waves."
     "That's an understatement," Apollo says.  "We were crossing the
inland sea when----    
     "When you encountered The Navel," the stranger interrupts.  "The
storm you went through wasn't responsible for it, if that's what you're
thinking.  When the tide turns, the waters rush out with irresistible
violence.  They create a vortex, monstrous waves racing together from
every point of the horizon to form the whirlpool we aptly call 'The
Navel.'  Its attracting power extends a distance of fifteen kilometrons
and it sucks down everything; boats, marine life, stray birds, even
bercesgadium waves.  We got to you just before deathpoint."
     Well, at least he speaks our lingo, even down to such slang as
deathpoint.  It seems I was just talking about deathpoint to someone. 
But who?  I can't remember.  It's like my mind passed out along with my
body.
     "We're grateful," Apollo says, moving forward, assuming his right of
command in his usual smug way.  "But...who are you."
     "Just simple gatherers," the bewhiskered type answers.
     "Then," Apollo says, glancing around the cave, "I assume you'll
return our packs.  And weapons.  And that we're free to go."
     That's it, Apollo.  What a master strategist you are.  Get to the
point.  Don't bother feeling out the intentions of the guys who rescue
you, just start making demands.  I consider pushing Apollo out of the
way, taking over, employing a little smooth con on this rumpled idiot,
find out what's up.
     "Um, you're not going anywhere,  I'm afraid," the gatherer says. 
"Where can you go, anyway?  I never said the storm was over, did I?  In
fact, it's still blasting away out there.  The bercesgadium's left you
dehydrated.  I'll see that you get liquids.  Then, we'll discuss your
departure."
     With a regal turn, he leaves the cave through the nearest dark
opening. Slowly, like wild animals circling a fire, the rest of the
expeditionary team, except for the incapacitated wounded trio, comes to
the stove.  Starbuck is still looking back over his shoulder at the place
where the gatherer made his exit.
     "I don't like the way he said that," Starbuck mutters.
     Apollo, glancing around the cave interior, suspicion in his voice,
says:
     "Something's odd about this setup.  Humans surviving on a Cylon
outpost?  I don't know anything about humans in this sector at all. 
Doesn't make sense."
     "Something else doesn't make sense," I say.  Both Starbuck and
Apollo gawk at me.  "They're not just gatherers.  Too heavily armed."
     "And have you noticed the walls?" Boomer says.  "They're studded
with wreckage.  Over there, that's Cylon armor."
     Starbuck stares where Boomer points.  
     "With scorch marks from combat lasers," he says.
     "I say we jump him and get outta here," Jonah says.
     That's Jonah for you; always right there with the sensible solution.
     "I agree," Venus says.
     What's in her head?
     "Wait a moment," Apollo says.  "If it's the Cylons they fight, and
they're mostly Cylon souvenirs all over those walls, then maybe they're
on our side.  We might be able to use their help."
     "Quiet in there!" 
     Everyone, the kid and his lousy mechanical pet included, turns
toward the rear.
     Behind Boxey, coming through an entirely different entranceway, is a
man with thin platinum-blonde hair, naked except for a loincloth around
his waist.  He stomps through the room, picks up a pack, and then stares
over at us, sneering with contempt. Starbuck whispers:
     "Who's this?"
     Apollo approaches the gatherer, puts on his best friendly voice:
     "The water? Could we---"
     "Shaddup, stupid!" the gatherer barks.
     Starbuck rushes forward.  
     "Look," he says, "the boy and the wounded need water.  Deckard
said..."
     "Do I look like Deckard?!  Now shut your damn mouth, fella....or
else!"
     "Or else what, nature boy?" Jonah, biceps bulging, fists balled,
confronts the blonde gatherer, obviously ready for a fight.
     "Not in front of Boxey!" Apollo shouts, trying to keep the peace.
     "Sorry Captain," Jonah assumes a pugilist's stance.  "You might be
willing to take this snitrod's felgercarb, but I'm not!"
     And Jonah rams his meaty left fist into the gatherer's stomach.  But
the man doesn't even lose his balance; he's still standing up straight as
a rod, as if he'd never been hit at all.  
     Jonah tries again and again, battering at the gatherer's chest with
both fists.  The smile on the gatherer's face indicates a total lack of
pain.  He continues to pummel the guy mercilessly, his hands becoming
bloody.  The only sound is the gatherer humming some unfamiliar tune.
     What in Hades is this guy made out of? I've seen Jonah in a fight
before; he once sent a man to the life station with a broken jaw that
accused him of cheating at pyramid. Any normal man would be flat on his
back and out cold by now, but this gatherer.....
     The gatherer ends the fracas---by sending Jonah tumbling backwards
into a pile of packages---with just his pointer finger! How did he do it?
     Apollo stares at the strange tableau, and then remarks:
     "Something's wrong."
     The gatherer, hands on his hips, malicious grin on his face, turns
to address us.  "Think I'm human?" he says.  "Well, think again.  I'm a
replicant---everybody that lives here is a replicant. My name's Blatty. 
I'm a combat model, high impact, and optimum self-sufficiency. That's why
it's not a good idea to get me angry or pick a fight with me.  Now, if
you'll excuse me..."
     And Blatty, pack in his arms, stomps away into the darkness behind
the secondary exit.
     Boomer, moving to Apollo's side, says softly:
     "The hair on the back of my neck is starting to crawl, guys."
     "Replicant," I say, letting the world roll around on my tongue,
bringing to mind the definition of that word. Replicants were
bio-engineered men and women constructed from a kind of skin/flesh
culture and selected enogenic transfer conversions, allowing them to
possess human features.  Occasionally, they were used in space to explore
inhospitable environments.  Most were capable of self-perpetuating
thought (depending, of course, on the intended I.Q.s of the various
models) and paraphysical abilities.  
     "Here's the liquid and some food, just like I promised," says the
voice of Deckard.  We whirl around as one.  Deckard is standing in the
opening again, holding packets of food and animal skins filled with
water.  Two other gatherers are coming through two different cave
openings.
     "What did Blatty say they were?" Boomer says.
     "Something about...replicants?" Starbuck says.
     "Actually, we prefer the name Nexus Class life forms," says a voice
whose sultry softness in no way resembles the voices of the quartet of
gatherers.  Through still another entranceway, one covered by curtains of
coarse fabric, a woman has entered the cave chamber.  And she is some
impressive vision of a woman!  Her hazel eyes go with her brunette hair
like nearcaf with cream.  She looks more like a goddess than a gatherer. 
Her rainsuit and leather leggings, together with her arsenal of weapons
(including the laser rifle slung over her shoulder), do not in any way
conceal the superbly formed body underneath all that junk she's wearing. 
Starbuck stares at her as if one of his dreams has suddenly materialized.

     "This mission is looking up!" he says to Boomer.
     The woman introduces herself as Rachel---originally a "public
relations asset," whatever she means by that.  The others have names like
Zhora, Sebastian, etc. etc.  Deckard distributes the food and water.  We
all fall on the stuff like a pack of ravaging monsters of prey.  Deckard
and Pris take seats on a slightly raised platform and watch with interest
our eager devouring of the rations.  Deckard asks how we come to be on
their planet.  Apollo, before I suggest to him that he use a little
caution, gives them a quick briefing on our mission.  He's apparently
bought their act lock, stock, and barrel.  I wish I could be so sure. 
Interrupting Apollo's statements, Deckard says:
     "You're here to destroy the Sesmar photonic communication wave
unit?"
     "Sesmar?" Apollo asked.
     "Dr. Sesmar," Rachel says.  "He's the only human around here."
     Starbuck, irritated, glances toward Pris and says: 
     "Human, you said?  A human created that monster up there for the use
of the Cylons?"
     Rachel, though clearly on the defensive, shoots back:
     "If it weren't for Sesmar, mister, you and I wouldn't be talking
right now."
     "He's our father creator," Deckard says reverently.
     The kid, who's been taking all this in, pulls at Apollo's sleeve and
asks:
     "Is Sesmar God?  I'd like to meet him."
     Somehow, Apollo's face manages to cross a fake smile with a real
frown.  
     "No, son," he says.  "He's not God.  Not if he's with the Cylons." 
He turns back to Deckard.  "Why does he work for the Cylons?"
     None of the reverence leaves Deckard's voice as he says:
     "They let him live so he can experiment, create."
     "You mean so he can create weapons that destroy other humans?"
Starbuck says sardonically.
     Rachel, addressing herself mainly to Starbuck, voices a warning:
     "Be careful what you say about the father creator."
     Deckard seems to come down from the clouds as he addresses Apollo:
     "You can't destroy the photonic unit.  The emplacement is guarded by
Cylons.  Still more Cylons are stationed in the garrison at the foothills
to Mount Asenath.  Even if you could get past them, the weapon itself is
constructed of pamerium ---practically indestructible."
     "We've got zinium," I interject quietly, and then watch them for the
reaction.  They react as I expect, with a moment's silence to assimilate
the information.  When Deckard speaks again, it is with the same awe with
which he speaks of Sesmar:
     "Zinium.  Sesmar explained zinium once."
     It's always helpful to use technical words when you're dealing with
what appear to be primitive tribes.  Well, the word, "zinium," can give
me a couple of shudders.  I've used it before and I've found I can never
feel quite calm about it.  The name derives from the use of magnolzinium,
the magnetic coiled wire that, when activated as the major part of the
explosive's ignition system, clings to almost anything.  Including
pamerium.  Easier to place around the objective than normal explosives
requiring bore holes or the attachment of high-resistance wires by
embedding them in plastic substances or through soldering, solenite need
only be secured to the magna surfaces of the cannon and then connected to
the equally magnetic base-charge materials at strategic points.  (So long
as you know where the strategic points are----which, come to think of it,
we don't about this damn cannon.)  Because of its high degree of water
resistance, it is safe to carry zinium up the mountain, especially since
its combination of chemical and plastic explosive substances is stable to
extreme temperatures beyond what humans can stand.  Further, zinium has
the most efficient pressure effect of any explosive I've ever used.  Its
density is such that its velocity of detonation is phenomenal.  A good
explosive's got to have shattering power; zinium's got that and then
some.  It blasts in all directions like an exploding star.  That's why
it's the safest and most dangerous explosive of all.  Safe, because it's
so transportable.  Dangerous, because, if you don't get out of its range
pretty quick, you've had it.  I can understand Deckard's awe, because
it's the natural reaction of anyone who's heard of zinium.
     Deckard confers with Rachel for a moment.  From his gestures I can
tell he's informing her that our possession of solenite immeasurably
increases our chances to get the weapon.  When they regally turn their
attention back to us, Deckard says:
     "You can leave the injured members of your party here.  They'll be
tended to.  We'll guide you the rest of the way to the village."
     "And then?" Apollo asks.
     "You'll find out when we get there," says Rachel.
     Apollo chews on this for a moment, and then nods in agreement.  The
replicants begin to assemble equipment for the trip.
     Apollo, crouching by the injured threesome, says to Ballviurtam:
     "I want you to stay here with Kofi and Abujh."
     Ballvirtam's eyes look like they're not quite functioning.  I
suspect that the dose of electricity he got on the scarab still has some
residual effects.  He apparently doesn't think so, for he rises in
protest and informs Apollo:
     "Captain, I'm fine."
     Apollo, rather than disputing the gunnery sergeant's bravado, gives
him a tranquilizer of smooth talk:
     "I know.  I want someone here who can defend himself.  Just in case. 
We'll be back for you."
     Ballviurtam smiles.
     "Right, skipper."
     After Apollo and I check out the equipment, we join the replicants
and the rest of the party at an opening to the cave chamber.  Starbuck is
engaged in small talk with Rachel, of course.
     "I was hoping I'd have time to dry off before we go out there
again," he says.
     "We'll find a living compartment in the village," she responds.  "I
can dry you off there."
     "I'll bet you can."
     Double that bet, Starbuck.  Wish I could have some of the action
myself.
     Apollo asks if everybody's ready.  We all nod and head out of the
chamber.  Ahead of us is a tunnel.  From the blast of harsh wind and the
rain---like thin, streaky clouds---or rain, it's a good guess that it's a
short trip to the outside.  Muffit bounds ahead of us with his usual
eagerness.  I hang back; ready to take the point-man position outdoors
when I notice that Jonah is deliberately hanging back with me.
     "When do we break?" he whispers suddenly.
     An interesting sign.  He's still trusting enough to talk to me.
     "Don't push it, Jonah."
     He glances around, making sure everybody else is ahead of us.  From
out of his jacket he takes a laser pistol.  Must be the one he stole off
Kofi.  Better I play dumb about it.  I'll have to control him if he goes
berserk.
     "Just want you to know I'm ready," he whispers.
     "Where'd you get that?"
     "It doesn't matter where.  I can use it on the Cylons. Or anyone
else who gets in our way. " 
     I can't argue with him.  So long as he's got the gun, he's
dangerous.  I glance down at the weapon, gesture for him to put it away
for the time being.  He slips it inside his jumpsuit pocket and strides
bullishly ahead to the others.
     Outside, both the winds and rainfalls have subsided.  No
bercesgadium clouds in sight anywhere.  But the heat remains.  My God,
does the heat remain.
     We proceed across the dry and pebbly grassland very slowly.  Packs
weigh us down, our own weariness doubles the weight of the packs.  Our
walking boots, the best the Galactica quartermaster has been able to come
up with, don't grip as well as I'd like.  The caps at the heel don't
provide the proper friction to keep me from slipping on loose boulders. 
Ah, well, just one small problem among many.
     Apollo gestures me forward.  He and Deckard are conferring.  Deckard
says to me:
     "This is the edge of the grassland.  We'll have to follow the
ravines from here."
     I agree, happy that the replicant shows the kind of smarts I can
trust.  His people obviously know their way around mountains and deserts. 
They may prove useful as guides.  
     We traverse the rocky ravines, a tricky task.  The three warriors
from the Galactica have trouble maintaining their balance.  I have to
laugh a couple of times at their intricate slipping and sliding
maneuvers.  Deckard signals a stop, then explains:
     "We're close to the village."
     There is a wave of relief among our party.  We're all hot, hotter
than Jonah's temper.  Last time I felt this hot and sweaty was back on
Aher, when we had to go into hand-to-hand combat across a series of stone
bridges against a Cylon attacking force.
     "The entry hatch is at the end of this ravine," Deckard says.  "Wait
here."
     Edging his body away from the side of the ravine, Deckard descends a
little ways, with Rachel following him.  As I watch them go don, I feel a
chill of suspicion go through my body.  In spite of the irrational nature
of that feeling, I have to ask Apollo:
     "Think they're turning us in?"
     Apollo clearly doesn't like that idea one bit.
     "No," he says brusquely.  "I don't know why I feel that way---but
no."
     "Well, you got all the command insights, Captain." 
     He gives me his harshest stare, as we start to follow Deckard and
Rachel down the rather steep slope.  Starbuck comes immediately behind
us, then the ever-reliable Boomer.  God, Boomer's hardly said a word
since we settled down on this godforsaken planet, but I know I want him
by my side if we get into any trouble.
     Ahead of us, both Deckard and Rachel stop abruptly, crouch behind a
large rock.  They talk together, and then Rachel comes climbing up back
toward us.  Starbuck passes Apollo and me, and welcomes her:
     "I knew you missed me, but..."
     Some things never seem to leave Starbuck's mind.
     "Cylon patrol!" Rachel whispers, then points upward toward the rim
of the ravine.  
     We all quickly find hiding places.  Along the top of the ravine, the
Cylon patrol can be glimpsed at intervals, those blasted red lights on
their helmets, sliding so sinisterly from side to side.  Fortunately, no
red light seems directed downward where we all crouch.  Just as they are
about out of sight, the dumb daggit-droid begins to growl, and the kid
whispers:
     "Ssssshhh......good daggit."
     The droid shuts up.  A Cylon seems to glance downward, but
apparently sees nothing.  Good daggit.  When we've seen no Cylon for a
while, Deckard laboriously works his way back up to us and says:
     "The way is clear now."
     I glance toward him.  His eyes are bright, concerned.  All my doubts
about him melt away.
     "So you're not turning us in to the Cylons," I say.
     "No," Rachel mutters angrily.  "We hate them."
     Deckard crawls closer to me.  His staring wrath-filled eyes alone
could destroy me at this moment, I suspect.
     "Pardon me," I say, "I'm not the most...not the most trusting person
in the universe."
     "We're Nexus Class life forms," Deckard says.  "The Cylons consider
us to be....subhuman."
     The bitterness in his voice convinces me of his hatred for the
Cylons.
     "We were created to do 'dirty jobs' for the Cylons.  Some
replicants, like Blatty, search the land for the gathering places of the
one-eyed giants; others like me perform menial tasks," Rachel adds. 
"Most of our brothers and sisters are still slaves in the village."
     "But you revolted," Apollo says.
     Both Rachel and Deckard appear to be embarrassed by the implication
of Apollo's statement.
     "Sorry, but we didn't," Deckard says.  "We're not perfect."
     Apollo's smile contains a great deal of sadness.
     "No," he says.  "Just human."
     Deckard and Rachel appear pleased by Apollo's understanding.  They
smile broadly.
     "Then," Apollo continues, "as humans you'll help us destroy that
photon supercannon."
     Both smiles fade quickly from the replicant's faces.
     "First we've got to get into the village," Deckard says.  "Come on."
     Moving with a speed we haven't been able to assume since the launch
of the shuttle from the pod decks of the Galactica, we make our way down
to the village entry hatch.  Using a chipping tool, Deckard punches ice
away from the hatch.  Forcing the valve wheels, he pulls the hatch open. 
As it rises, there is the hissing sound of released pressure.  Deckard
takes us each by the arm and helps us down into the corridor below. 
Rachel takes command of the expedition and hurries us along the
subterranean tunnel corridor.  I don't know why, but I'm glad to be here.

**********
     
Chapter Ten: Into The Research Station

     After angrily receiving the report of his scouts that the Cylon
patrol ship assigned to kill the human intruders had been plucked out of
the sky by a Cyclops, First Centurion Ra sent out foot patrols, with
orders to hunt down the humans and destroy them.
     On one of the planets of the Cylon Alliance, there was a kind of
insect---small, gray-bodied creatures with eight wirelike long legs and
antennae that never ceased activity.  They were not poisonous nor did
they bit nor were they in any way destructive to the planet's ecosystem. 
Their only drawback was that they were irresistibly attracted to the
shininess of the metal in Cylon uniforms.  All Cylons stationed on that
planet, as Ra had been for a long time, came to hate these insects,
because they were ingenious at finding ways to penetrate the Cylon
covering and implant themselves upon Cylon skin, sometimes even shorting
out a wire or two embedded in the middle layer of the uniform.  Once on
Cylon skin they became that terrible annoyance, an itch that couldn't be
scratched.  If several of them penetrated the uniform, even a normally
unemotional Cylon could be driven mad.  This expeditionary team of
humans, Ra thought, seemed composed of that revolting kind of insect. 
They were making him itch considerably, and he wanted them exterminated
immediately, so that he could transfer his attention away from this minor
futile mission and back to the major goal of eliminating the Galactica
and its fleet.
     "We found the wreckage of the humans' shuttle," a foot patrol leader
reported in.  "The rest escaped in a Colonial scarab."
     "Where is the scarab now?" Ra asked hopefully.
     "Unknown.  But the tracks we followed led to the shores of the
inland sea.  Humanoids cannot survive the maelstrom at its center."
     "I hope you are right."
     Ra felt annoyed.  The humans should be dead.  Then why did he feel
they were still skittering around like those insects beneath Cylon metal?

**********     

     The corridor down which Deckard and the other replicants guided the
expedition team proved to be one part of a vast subterranean system of
caves.  The replicant habitations were carved out of the relatively soft
rock.  To Apollo, they appeared quite primitive, with their unevenly
balanced windows and entranceways, their mottled surfaces of stone and
closely packed mud.  Their rich-brown coloration suggested the dwellings
had been subjected to a sun.  Since that was impossible this far
underground, Apollo wondered if the colors and textures were natural, or
perhaps the result of some special treatment applied to the surfaces of
the dwellings.
     Deckard halted the group, gestured that it should remain in the
shadows.
     "This passage leads to the bottom of the research station," he said.
     "Research station?" Apollo said.
     "Some time ago, a group of human scientists, fleeing from the war
with the Cylons, landed here on Equis and established an experimental
research station whose purpose was to develop inventions that could be
used to bring and sustain peace.  After the scientists' arduous work to
build the station and being their experiments, the Cylons came.  They
engaged the human group in battle, killed almost all of them, then took
charge of this planet and powered it away from the sun system to which it
had belonged.  The Cylons' artificial sun dried up much of the surface
water and reduced its forests to desert. Soon the sand came, covered the
caves, and even infiltrated areas of the research station itself.  We
don't use it for scientific research anymore, but the planners meet
there."
     "Planners?"
     "The father-creator made two types of Nexus life forms.  We're
gatherers, workers.  The planners do all our thinking.  They'll know best
how to approach the photon launcher."
     Deckard abruptly went to Rachel's side and talked with her again. 
Returning to Apollo, he announced:
     "Apollo, you're with me.  Rachel'll stay with your friends in the
village."
     "I don't know if we should separate."
     "Too many of you at once might jar the planners' chips.  They're
not....especially brave."
     "I think I understand.  Back at the fleet we have a group like that
which we call the Council of the Twelve."
     Apollo led Starbuck into a different set of shadows, saying:
     "Our turn for a conference."
     When sufficient distance from the others had been established,
Apollo said softly:
     "If anything happens to me, you're in command."
     "All right, Captain.  But remember command upsets my stomach, so
don't stay away too long."
     "You love command and you know it."
     "When you get back, be careful you're looking in the right place."
     "What's that supposed to mean?"
     Starbuck glanced over his shoulder, as if he expected attackers at
any moment.
     "Boomer and I have a wager going."
     "Man, you're full of surprises today, aren't you Starbuck?" Apollo
grinned.  "What's the wager?"
     "Which of our specialized team is going to jump us first."
     Apollo stared at him questioningly.
     "You really think they're going to go through with this mission?"
Starbuck said caustically.
     "I'm counting on it."
     "Our lives are on the line."
     "So are theirs."
     "And so's their freedom. If we're successful, we go home.  They go
back into chains."
     "Not necessarily.  The commander might---"
     "And you can stash that in the deepest cargo hold of a straggler
ship.  Adama might be willing to take a chance on Zodiac, and maybe
Venus, but do you see either Jonah or Samuel going the redeemed-hero
route?"
     "They don't have to be warriors."
     "They're always warriors, they wouldn't know how to be anything
else.  No, they've got to make their break.  If not here, on this
mission, then somewhere else on some other boondoggle.  If I were them, I
wouldn't be taking the chance...."
     Apollo nodded, said:
     "I see what you mean."
     "I thought you would."
     "Watch yourself, you hear?"
     "Sure.  Sure, skipper."
     Rachel had assembled the rest of the group. Before taking leave of
them, Apollo leaned close to Boxey and whispered:
     "Boxey, stick close to Starbuck."
     "Don't worry, Dad.  I'll keep an eye on him for you."
     Apollo tousled Boxey's hair, and then gestured for Rachel to take
over the group.  He felt a clutch of fear as he watched the team walk
off.  But why should I worry?  he thought.  Boxey's safe, so long as
Starbuck and Boomer are there to protect him.  He nodded toward Deckard,
and the two burly men entered the passageway leading to the research
station.

**********
     
     The planners looked nothing like gatherers; planners were thin and
fragile, adding to the intellectuality of their appearance. Their faces
were gaunt and dominated by high-bridged noses.  They were dressed in
thick robes, their faces almost obscured by large-fold cowls.  Five of
them sat at a primitive conference table underneath the emblem of the
Ceres-3 Experimental Research Station, a weathered holographic
mural-photo of the father creator.  Planner Sebastian brought the meeting
to order by informing the others:
     "Worker Deckard is here, in the village!"
     Planner Tyrell, incensed, slammed his fist on the table and stood
up, shouting:
     "He was told to keep his marauders out of the village!"
     Planner Tyrell's voice was pitched a little higher than Planner
Sebastian's, but there was an added level of petulance in Planner Gaff,
in a gentler tone of voice, urged him to sit down again, an invocation
that Planner Tyrell obeyed immediately.
     "I object to calling Deckard's gatherers marauders," Planner Gaff
said quietly.  "They're guerilla warriors fighting for liberation."
     Planner Gaff's statement initiated an argument among all five
planners.  Finally, Planner Holden began rapping the table with a
clublike gavel, screaming:
     "Order! Order!"
     The others subsided.
     "Bring them in," Planner Sebastian said to a guard.
     Apollo and Deckard were admitted.  They strode forward boldly and
stopped in front of the conference table.
     "Members of the Planner Council," Deckard said.  "We need your
wisdom and your guidance.  With me today is Flight Captain Apollo...from
battlestar Galactica."
     "The Galactica?!" Planner Gaff said, awed.  The other planners
displayed a similar surprise.
     "The Cylons have posted warnings against you through the star
system!" Planner Holden said.
     "Every outpost is on permanent alert!" said Planner Sebastian.
     "If he's discovered here, we're...." said Planner Tyrell, his voice
pregnant with fright.  "This must be reported!"
     Deckard stepped forward, placed his hands flat on the conference
table, his bare arms powerful with tightened muscles, and said:
     "Nothing's going to be reported."
     Planner Tyrell, though clearly intimidated by Deckard's physical
authority, squawked:
     "That's not for you to decide."
     "Apollo and his team can---"
     "His team?" screamed Planner Bryant.  "There are others!"
     "Yes.  They're here to destroy the Sesmar photonic weapon."
     All of the planners paled simultaneously.
     "Impossible!" Planner Tyrell shrieked.
     "Impossible or not...we're going to try," Apollo said.
     None of the planners could respond.  Instead they went into a
huddle.  Their discussion sounded like a covey of birds agitated by the
suspicion of preying hunters.  And these're supposed to be the
intellectuals, Apollo thought.  I should never have consented to consult
with these lunatics.  Seems clear that Deckard and the other worker
replicants are making a mistake in trusting these planners.  They
couldn't even plan the menus for a madhouse.  Finally, the huddle broke
and Planner Sebastian said formally:
     "We'll discuss your request and give you our answer shortly."
     Apollo, furious, came forward.  His upper legs collided with the
table.
     "We don't have time for bureaucratic discussions!" he hollered. 
"The fleet will soon be within range of that grotesque weapon up there! 
It must be destroyed!"
     Planner Gaff, in his best peacemaking voice, said softly:
     "We cannot rush into this.  Such matters must be discussed."  He
looked genuinely troubled, and seemed to Apollo the one planner with at
least a degree of sense and compassion.  "I'm sorry."
     However, apologetic or not, the planner's sad plea only made Apollo
angrier.
     "Let's get out of here," he said, with disgust, to Deckard.  The two
burly men started for the door.
     "We'll give you our answer," called Planner Bryant after them.  "In
time."
     Deckard whirled around and faced the quintet of planners.  He could
barely suppress his indignation.
     "Just don't betray us," he said intensely then strode out of the
room, Apollo right behind him.
     At Deckard's advice, Apollo remained close to the corridor walls,
moving from shadow to shadow, as they returned down the passageway. 
Once, when a worker replicant passed, Deckard pushed into an alcove and
they silently waited for the worker to pass.
     "Wait a moment longer," Deckard said.  After a short pause, he spoke
again: "I'm sorry, Captain.  I though the planners would help.  I
should've known better."
     Deckard's voice was filled with disgust.  Apollo understood.  To
this worthy young replicant, the planners must've seemed the height of
mental achievement.  He had now seen them for the muddle-headed cowards
they were.  It was a bitter lesson, and one that needed no reinforcement,
so Apollo said soothingly:
     "No time for that now. We have to get to the top of that mountain."
     Once the object of their mission was again put into words, Apollo
felt a shiver of apprehension.  It was easy to say: Get to the top of
that mountain.  But Zodiac's caution---and he was an expert after
all---and the misfortunes in the mission so far had made Apollo realize
what a formidable task they had undertaken. 
     Also, that last talk with Starbuck had unnerved him. If Starbuck was
right, and the four criminals were about to bolt, then there was no way
the rest of them could get to the top.  They needed Zodiac and his
collection of misfits. It seemed that the fate of the Galactica, or of
the fleet, of all the remnants of the human race, was now suspended on a
very thin stretched thread.
     "But when we get to the mountaintop," he said to Deckard, "I'm not
sure what to do.  That launcher, according to our scanner analyses, is a
mulitstage energy pump.  We're unsure of its design.  I'd hate to blow
the lens or focusing system, something that could be repaired."
     Deckard's bright eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to reduce the
lens system in his own head.  
     "I know someone who can help us," he said.
     "Who?"
     "The father-creator.  Sesmar."
     Apollo, amazed, asked:
     "He's here? In the village?"
     Deckard shook his head no.
     "He lives at the base of Asenath near the Cylon command post."
     There was a strange reluctance in the way the replicant pushed out
the words of his declaration.
     "You're afraid of something," Apollo said.
     "Yes."
     "I find that hard to believe.  What could you possibly be afraid
of?"
     "His home is sacred ground."
     "But you'll take me to him?"
     Deckard's eyes almost shut.  The power of his eyes, however, seemed
only momentarily dimmed.
     "To free my people, yes!"
     Apollo smiled and clasped his hand on Deckard's shoulder.  

**********

     Athena kept silent as she watched her father and Colonel Tigh
crouch, like observers at a spectator sport, over the scanner screen. 
Some Cylon craft had been detected toward the rear of the fleet.
     "They're looking for a straggler to pick off," Adama commented.  He
turned to Athena and asked: "What's our fleet spacing?"
     "Standard defense between each ship."
     "Close the gaps to twenty-five," Adama said, and Tigh protested:
     "Commander, some of our ships have cadets at the helm.  The
collision risk----"
     "I know.  It's a chance we'll have to take.  I want to give our
fighters a tighter group to defend."
     Tigh seemed reluctant to give the order, but finally said "Yes, sir"
and transmitted the command.  Athena scrutinized her father's face.  His
eyes seemed focused in the distance, as if he could see all the way to
the desert planet and its awesome weapon atop a mountain.  He looked,
Athena thought, very, very worried.

**********

     Charlex had not been aware of even a thought in his mind for some
time.  For hundreds of centons, it seemed.  His only awareness had been
of pain.  Now his mind couldn't even call up a picture of a single Cylon
torture device, and he knew they had used several.  Vague memories
remained.  Wires with fine needles being injected into various bodily
pressure points.  Clamps bunching up the skin and pulsating it with
electric charges.  Something that expanded his brain like a balloon and
made him think of nothing else but that it would break into flying pieces
at any millimicron of a centon.
     Pain.  That was all.  All he could remember.  When it had started,
he had vowed not to tell the Cylon leader anything.  He hoped he had not. 
He could not be sure, but he could hope.
     Now consciousness returned.  Or something like consciousness---who
could be sure?  He seemed to be back in the Cylon control headquarters,
but the room seemed distorted now.  The distortion could be residual
effect of the torture.  The Cylon leader sat in his command chair,
oblivious to Charlex.  Ra appeared more ugly, more repulsive than ever. 
His friends Ellis and Ramart had lectured him that the supposed ugliness
of the Cylons was a result of conditioning, that they were supposed to
view the Cylons that way in order to summon up the urge to kill.  Now,
watching the Cylon leader, feeling his stomach churn with hatred, Charlex
wouldn't be at all willing to dispute that.
     A human dressed in religious robes slunk into the control
headquarters, then stood behind Ra's chair, waiting to be acknowledged. 
It was a moment before Charlex realized the astonishing fact that the new
entrant was a human.  What was a strange human doing here, in Cylon
territory, standing obsequiously behind an ugly Cylon leader?
     When Ra finally did acknowledge the human visitor, he said:
     "Yes, let's see, you're Planner Tyrell, are you not?  What is it?"
     Planner Tyrell leaned down next to Ra's helmet and whispered. 
Charlex could not make out what the cowled man was saying, but Ra reacted
to it by bellowing:
     "Apollo?  From the Galactica?"
     Charlex felt a surge of joy.  The invocation of the name of his
flight commander and his home battlestar buoyed his spirits.  But where
was Apollo?  It seemed unlikely that the captain would be here on a
mission to rescue a cadet.
     Ra turned to a nearby subordinate and said in a sneering voice:
     "So humans cannot survive the maelstrom of the inland sea?  Well, it
seems they have, centurion!  Search the village.  Every compartment. 
Find them!"
     The subordinate exited quickly, taking some other Cylon Centurions
with him.  Charlex almost laughed, but it was too soon to attempt such an
exhaustive labor.

**********

     As soon as Rachel increased the chill of the glowing light in the
middle of the chamber, the team crowded around it, pulling in its
coolness as if it could be gathered in tangible rays.  Rachel touched
Starbuck's arm and led him away from the group.  Although he desired the
cool air, he was interested in anything the attractive brunette gatherer
had to say to him.
     And what she said surprised him.
     "I'll help you cool off now."
     He glanced at the others.  Samuel seemed to notice the separation of
Rachel and Starbuck from the group.  Just like Samuel to keep his cool
unemotional eyes on everything!
     "Ah," Starbuck whispered to Rachel, "isn't there someplace, well,
someplace, more private?"
     "Private?" Rachel said, genuinely astonished.
     "Somewhere we can be alone," he whispered.
     Now they had caught the attention of the entire group.  Everybody
watched them, including Boxey, although the child's smile did not
resemble the odd leers of the others.  Again, except for Samuel, who, it
seemed, never smiled.
     "There's no such place in the village," Rachel said.  "Why should we
have to be alone?"
     "Ah, well, um, then, I think I'm not so hot anymore.  I'll just go
right back to my friends and----"
     "But you don't have to be hot.  In fact, it's preferred if---"
     "I get the idea.  And it's a good idea, but...well, say, look,
Rachel.  See, ah---"
     Apollo and Deckard entered the chamber.  Starbuck let out a sigh of
relief.
     "Am I glad to see you!" he said to the captain, who seemed puzzled
by Starbuck's welcoming enthusiasm.  Boomer laughed.
     "What did you find out?" Zodiac asked Apollo.
     "There's only one man who can help us," Apollo said grimly.  The
group congregated around him as he told them about Sesmar.  Then his
voice dropped to a whisper.  "If Ravashol won't help...well, then, we'll
just have to take our chances."
     "Maybe we'll get lucky," Zodiac muttered.  Starbuck couldn't tell
whether the wiry-muscled mountaineer was being sarcastic or sincere. 
Before he could consider that problem, another replicant rushed into the
chamber.
     "The Cylons are searching the village!"
     "Calm down," Deckard said to the other replicant.  "Explain."
     "There're search patrols marching around everywhere.  All through
the village, the underground mall, everywhere.  Pushing us aside,
searching us, kicking any worker who stops to look at them.  They're
going into our living quarters, searching, ripping things, smashing
furniture, scattering us everywhere.  At the meeting hall they're
overturning the benches, tearing aside wall hangings.  They say they're
searching for the landing party and they'll start killing us if we don't
tell them where they're hidden.  They---"
     "All right, shut up!" Deckard ordered in an imperial tone.  "It must
be the planners.  One of them, or all of them, sold us out."
     "What did you expect?" Apollo said sarcastically.  "We've got to get
to Sesmar and now!"
     "I agree."  Deckard turned to Rachel, commanded: "Rachel!  Take the
others and hide them."
     "But where?" Rachel asked.
     Deckard hesitated.  His keen eyes searched the ceiling as if trying
to find a place of concealment up there.  Then he sighed and said:
     "With the children."
     "Hear that, Muffit!" Boxey yelped.  "There's children!"
     Muffit barked and wagged its tail.  Beneath the tufts of overhanging
fur, the metal surrounding the opening from which the tail protruded was
briefly evident.
     "What's this about children?" said Boomer.  "Nobody said anything
about children before."
     "We were thought to be sterile," Rachel said, smiling.  "It was a
Cylon prerequisite to maintain what they termed the purity of the Nexus
life form.  But we have been bearing children."
     "And hiding them?" Boomer asked.
     "Yes."
     The replicant who warned Deckard said nervously:
     "Please, we must hurry!"
     Standing by the entranceway, he motioned for the others to move
quickly.  Some of the expedition members seemed to linger behind, as if
afraid to leave the rare spot of coolness.
     In the corridor they split into two groups.  Apollo and Deckard
headed in one direction.  The others followed Rachel.  To the children,
Starbuck presumed.

**********

     Glimpsing a squad of Cylons passing in a cross-corridor up ahead,
Rachel motioned the group into alcoves located along the walls of the
corridor. Samuel chose to hide in the same alcove as Venus.  She had no
doubt Samuel's choice was calculated.  She'd had trouble with him before. 
He kept his attention on her as she watched around the edge of the alcove
for an all-clear signal from Rachel.
     Suddenly, without a warning, without any emotion showing on his
face, Samuel put his arms around Venus.  Squirming within his grasp, she
turned on him, eyes ablaze with anger.  Samuel whispered:
     "Scream if you want. Then they'll hear you and we'll die.  I don't
care."
     He leaned in, tried to kiss her, while at the same time forcing her
body against the wall.
     Venus worked a hand free and quickly brought it up to Samuel's
throat.  He stopped forcing her as she gripped the throat and squeezed. 
Slowly, utilizing the powerful strength in her arm, she forced him back. 
What little color there was in his face faded away.  His arms dropped to
his sides.
     "Scream if you want," Venus whispered, aping his intonations.
     Obviously Samuel could not scream.  Not even if he wanted to.  She
might not have let him go if the all-clear signal had not come from
Rachel.


**********

The Book Of Zodiac:

     Goddamn place is crawling with Cylons!  When Starbuck says its all
right to leave our hiding place, I'm reluctant to go.  Perhaps I could
run to the Cylons, make a deal, offer them----but no, no deals can be
completed with Cylons.  They make deals, sure, but as soon as they've got
what they want, they renege.  I'm better off trying to climb Mount
Asenath blindfolded than making small talk with the red-eyes.
     As the group reassembles, I decide to take the point again.  Ahead
of me, Venus, her face red in the aftermath of anger, moves out of her
hiding place.  A short interval later, Samuel slinks out of the same
alcove.  His eyes shift about.  He doesn't notice me, or doesn't care. 
Instead of rejoining the group, he begins taking steps backward.  What's
he up to?  God, Samuel, this is no time to try an escape.  But that looks
like exactly what he's trying to do.  I'm about to pursue him, but I'm
afraid he'll deliberately create a disturbance.  He has no instinct for
his own survival.  Let him go.  Perhaps we're better off without him.  I
follow a couple of steps anyway.  He disappears into another alcove. 
When he comes out, he's in one of the replicant leather working uniforms. 
How in the Twelve Colonies did he find that?  It doesn't fit his
axe-handle of a body very well.  Still, he goes off down the corridor,
with all the confidence in his stride that he's pulling it off.  I have
to let him try.  As a prisoner, it's his right to try to escape.  I used
to think of nothing else but crashing out when I was on the grid barge,
but I wouldn't join Samuel now on a bet.
     I catch up to the group.  Venus hangs back and whispers to me:
     "Samuel's not here!"
     "I know.  He's off somewhere looking for an exit."
     "Crashing out?"
     "You got it."
     "That wanker!  Least he could do was take me with him.  Guess he
couldn't, not after..."
     "After what?"
     "Nothing I'm going to tell you about, Zodiac.  But you and him
deserve the same fate, believe me."
     "Maybe.  But it's a fool's play, trying to escape from down here. 
Where can he go?  What can he do?"
     "I don't know, but at least he's trying."
     "I get your drift.  You're saying that he's trying and I'm not."
     "Believe what you want.  I don't know why I'm talking to you.  I
think you really buy that line these colonial warriors spout.  You want
to be returned to rank.  It's back to the grid-barge for us after----"
     "And you're still going to help these idiots?"
     "I don't know what I'm going to do."
     "Well, you're going to have to decide soon.  I hope nobody needs to
crank your brain for you."
     "Venus, I...."
     I stop hating myself for almost saying what I almost said.  Venus
seems to understand anyway.  She says:
     "No, nothing can be like it was before.  Don't you know the real
truth that keeps us hustling---nothing is ever like it was before."
     "There was a time when you weren't so bitter."
     "Maybe there was.  You were always the bitter one, Zodiac.  What a
switch, huh?"
     Rachel signals for us to be still.  Venus seems relieved at the
signal.  I wish I could haul her into one of these alcoves and talk sense
to her.
     Rachel leads us to an encampment that is identical to the one she
took us from, except for a row of replicant worker uniforms hanging on
the far wall.  Starbuck stays behind in the corridor to guard the
entrance.  Another glowing cool light dominates the center of the room,
like in the previous place.  Standing next to the light, brilliantly
illuminated by it, is another woman.  I know it's another woman, because
I can clearly see that our guide is still with us, standing next to
Jonah.  The woman in the room is different from Rachel---her hair is pale
blonde and she's shorter in stature than Rachel.  She's introduced to us,
for conveniences' sake, as Pris.  
     "Quick," Rachel says to Pris, "we've got to hide these humans."
     "But---" Pris says.
     "No time for planner-type talk.  The planners'll talk us all into
death.  We need to put them with the children."
     Pris nods and presses a button.  A piece of wall slices open,
revealing another compartment, a large chamber populated by several
children of varying eye, hair and skin colors.  The room is not like the
others.  It's brighter. More color on the walls and in the children's
clothing.  Rough-crafted toys are scattered around the rocky floor.
     As soon as the daggit-droid sees the children, it barks stupidly. 
The children, who clearly have never seen such an ugly ball of animated
fur, cower at the noise of the daggit.  The kid rushes forward, grabs his
pet by the collar.  He addresses the children.
     "He won't hurt you.  He's just a daggit.  Come on, Muffit."
     The kid and the daggit step into the children's chamber.  For a
moment, it's a standoff; then the replicant kids gather around the daggit
and compete to stroke its fur.
     I go quietly to the entranceway to the corridor and motion for
Starbuck to abandon his guard post and come in.  As soon as Starbuck sees
the two replicants standing gorgeously side-by-side, his face brightens
and he says:
     "This is really getting interesting."
     "Yeah, and I'm sure they'll both be responsive to your charms on an
equal basis."
     " I wish."
     Boomer catches sight of us, and rushes up.
     "Stabuck!' He notices where Starbuck's attention is riveted and
pulls at him, saying: "Later."  He glances around the chamber.  "Where's
Samuel?"
     "I don't know," Starbuck says.  "Maybe he got separated in the
passageway."
     I decide not to let the two of them in on what I saw in the
corridor.  Samuel deserves his chance, even if he is an imbecile for
making his play now.
     "What do you say, Zodiac?" Boomer says suddenly.  "I think Samuel's
been looking for the chance to make a break."
     "Nobody's ever sure what Samuel's looking for," I say
noncommittally.
     "We'd better go look for him," Starbuck says.
     "No," says Rachel.  "Let us do it.  We've got a better chance to
find him.  In our small world, strangers are rather easy to single out."
     She herds the team into the children's chamber, and then closes the
door behind us.  The kids are chattering, asking Boxey a lot of
questions, giving the daggit a good rubdown.  I found a comfortable spot
against one wall.  This is terrific!  Apollo's off on his little escapade
to catechize the father-creator, and we're all stuck in the nursery. 
Maybe I can do the mountain on a rocking equine.

**********
     
Chapter Eleven: The "Father-Creator"

     The entranceway to Sesmar's domed dwelling was decorated with
scrollwork that, Apollo assumed, must have something to do with the
religious hold he had on the replicant population.  Deckard and Apollo
entered Sesmar's quarters through a small, cramped, obviously secret
passage, and emerged behind a pile of equipment cases.
     Sesmar's living space was, Apollo noted, in definite contrast to the
primitive look of the rest of the village.  A libraryful of books lined
the high walls, and far off in the corner was an area crammed with
research equipment, both electronic and chemical.
     Sesmar himself sat at an enormous flat worktable.  A single light
shone down from a source high in the ceiling.  Apollo wondered if the
effect was calculated to add a religious aura to the image of the
father-creator busy at work.  Added to the bright light was an eerie
glow, which seemed to emanate by itself from walls not containing books
or scientific equipment.  It was easy to see why the replicants held
their creator in such awe.  Clearly, Sesmar wanted it that way.
     At first, Sesmar didn't notice his two visitors.  As he scribbled
busily on a piece of paper, his beady eyes squinted and his doll-like
hands pulled at his scraggly beard.  His curly red hair was graying, and
had receded dramatically from his forehead.  One deviation from his
religious appearance was his fiery red tunic and trousers, which almost
made him look more demonic than saintly.
     He suddenly became aware of his intruders and looked up, alarmed. 
His hands went to his papers as if they were more worth protecting than
himself.  As Sesmar reached for a warning button, Deckard ran forward,
pleading in a voice that sounded much like a supplicant's in prayer:
     "Please, father-creator, don't call for help."
     Sesmar drew back his hand, a bit calmed by recognizing one of his
replicant creations.  He took a slow walk around the large worktable
until he was standing before Deckard.  Sesmar was slightly one head
taller than the replicant.
     "You're not permitted here," Sesmar said.  "Only planners.  And
workers are never allowed to use the secret passage."
     "Father-creator, we need your help."
     "You're a Nexus-5 are you not?"
     "Yes," Deckard said proudly.  "Nexus series five, name Deckard.
     "And you?" Sesmar said to Apollo.  "What is your series and assigned
name?"
     "I have no series," Apollo said.  "I'm not even one of yours.  I'm
human. Flight Captain Apollo, from the Battlestar Galactica."
     Shocked, Sesmar backed away from Apollo as if he were tainted by
something---disease or unbelief or the quality of being human.
     "You are human!"  Sesmar yelled.  "But....the Galactica is a ship of
war!  We came here, my colleagues and I, to escape war.  I oppose war and
violence of any kind."
     "My friend, you've got a strange way of showing it!"
     Sesmar seemed genuinely surprised by Apollo's angry declaration.
     "What do you mean?" he asked.
     "What do I mean?  So you're opposed to war. Well, what do you call
that monstrosity on the top of that mountain?  A weapon of peace?"
     Sesmar seemed confused, embarrassed.  He was caught in a trap and he
knew it, but he still was looking for a way to pull himself out, even if
it meant cutting off a limb.
     "It....it ...is a photonic lens system.  Designed to transmit
intelligence across galaxies."
     "Your photonic lens system has fried two of my fighters and is
holding the colonial fleet at bay until Cylon base stars can reach and
destroy it."
     Sesmar's eyes looked frantically around the room, at Apollo, at
Deckard, at the shelves of books, at the scientific equipment.
     "Impossible!" he said.  "My system is maintained by Nexus-5, 6 and 7
life forms!"
     The shiftiness of the father-creator's eyes led Apollo to suspect
that the man was lying, trumping up quick excuses to justify himself
before his intruder.  Deckard took a step forward and said to Sesmar:
     "With all reverence, father-creator, the workers among the Nexus
life forms are whipped if they come near the photonic weapon, except at
times when you are present."
     Sesmar looked at Deckard as any god would at a subject who had
rebelled, who was in danger of falling from grace.
     "You're wrong!" Sesmar said sternly.  "I....I make adjustments. 
Repairs. I transmit and my helpers are Nexus-5 through 7 replicants."
     "Maybe so," Apollo said, "but right now you precious photon gun, or
whatever euphemism you want to call it is manned by Cylons!  And as a
weapon of war!"
     Sesmar began to pace.
     "But that's...." he said. "I mean, it's....there's no..."  He took a
deep breath and addressed Apollo: "Don't you see?  That's only a
temporary misuse of its true function.  A temporary abuse of----"
     "So you do know how it's being used," Apollo said.
     Sesmar could no longer hold in his anger.
     "I have no control over the use of my creations!  I'm lucky I wasn't
eliminated, that I still have the chance to create.  Ultimately, my
inventions will be used properly for peaceful----"
     "Ultimately?!" Apollo shouted.  "How long can you wait to get around
to your precious peacetime uses of it?"
     "I've no control, I said, no responsibility."
     "Then who does?"
     Apollo's voice was quiet but intense.  Sesmar started to speak
again, but before he could get a word out, there was a thunderous
pounding knock on the laboratory door.
     "Cylons!" Sesmar said, checking a monitor beside the large heavy
door.  Springing quickly into combat position, Apollo and Deckard drew
their lasers.  Sesmar, clearly frightened by the appearance of the
weapons and the men holding them, hesitated a moment, then said:
     "Shooting now will just bring more Cylons.  Hide behind the research
stacks."  He guided Deckard toward the stacks, telling him: "In the
equipment cases....hide under the panels."
     With Apollo safely behind the research-library tape cases, his body
surrounded by cases and one over his head, Deckard chose to hide in an
alcove near the bookshelves.  Another knock resounded throughout the
room.  Knocking before charging in isn't the usual Cylon style, Apollo
thought.  The third Cylon knock had a sense of urgency about it. Still,
Sesmar waited a couple of beats before responding in an annoyed
businesslike voice that displayed no trace of tension:
     "Enter!"
     He pressed a button releasing a door lock.  A Cylon foot patrol
entered.
     "Why did you keep us waiting?" its leader asked.
     "Did I keep you waiting? I didn't notice.  My work must occupy all
my concentration.  Would you prefer I ruin my experiments?  These are
delicate compounds."
     "Search," the Cylon leader ordered his soldiers.
     "The garrison commander will hear that you have interfered with my
valuable time," Sesmar grumbled.
     "We have orders to search."
     The troops overturned a couple of packing cases situated very near
Apollo's place of concealment.  Apollo tensed his body, ready to jump out
at the enemy if discovered.  Another Cylon awkwardly brushed against a
bookshelf, sent a few volumes tumbling to the floor.
     "This is intolerable," Sesmar said.
     "Our orders are to search," the leader said.
     "We'll see about that," Sesmar activated a telecom beside his
worktable.  "This is Dr. Sesmar.  I wish to speak to the command
centurion.
     The image of First Centurion Ra appeared onscreen.
     "Dr. Sesmar," Ra said in a voice that sounded respectful and almost
friendly.
     "Why is my work being disrupted?" Sesmar complained. "There is a
patrol here in my laboratory.  In my laboratory.  And they're----"
     "We are searching for human invaders," Ra said politely.
     "Humans?  Here in the village?  Are you sure?"
     "We have one of their pilots as prisoner already.  We are looking
for others."
     "I know nothing about any humans.  My experiment is waiting, so
please order your centurions to leave and let me continue my work.  I
need to--"
     "First Centurion Ra!" the patrol leader interrupted.
     "Speak, centurion."
     "We have found a subhuman, a worker replicant, hiding here."
     At a gesture from their leader, a pair of Cylons brought Deckard
forward.
     "Wait," Sesmar said.  "He's helping me."
     "Only planners are allowed to visit you," Ra said coldly.
     "He's here because I needed a strong back to move some equipment
immediately."
     "Nevertheless, Dr. Sesmar, the use of a worker replicant by you
without my express authority is a violation of our agree...." Ra stopped
talking, as a command room centurion diverted his attention.
     "We have captured another human----in the corridor of the village,"
the warrior announced.
     Ra returned his attention to Sesmar.
     "You see, doctor?  I can't allow any divergence from normal
procedure, no now.  Centurion?"
     "Yes, Commander Ra?" said the patrol leader.
     "Leave Dr. Sesmar to his research."
     "Should we let the worker replicant remain here, sir?"
     Ra thought for a moment.
     "No.  I can't allow such laxity.  Punish the worker replicant."
     The screen went abruptly dark as Sesmar protested.
     "But he's here on my orders.  You can't----"
     Before the Cylons dragged him out, Deckard said in a calm, reverent
voice:
     "Ra's right, father-creator.  I should've obtained the necessary
clearance before coming here.  I deserve to be punished."
     "But---" Sesmar said.  The door closed behind the Cylons and
Deckard.
     "Did you see who they hold prisoner?" Apollo said, climbing over the
wall of cases.  "I think one of our cadets---"
     "No," Sesmar said, his voice collapsing in agony.  "No."  The
doctor's eyes, when he looked at Apollo, were deeply pained.  "Why
couldn't you have left us alone?  If you and your battlestar had not
intruded upon this quadrant, all would be peaceful."
     "You harp on the word 'peaceful' as if it has some magical
qualities.  Peace isn't brought about by magic, or even magical thinking. 
We didn't have a choice about coming into this quadrant, Dr. Sesmar. 
Father-creator!  The Cylons forced us here.  They're out to exterminate
every human in the universe."  He searched for any remnants of mercy
toward his fellow human that might remain in the scientist's eyes. 
"Eventually, doctor, even you will go."
     Sesmar seemed surprised by that idea.
     "They let me live!  They could've killed me, but they let me live!"
     "And undoubtedly they'll preserve your life even longer, so long as
you keep producing your little peace weapons for them!"
     "Captain, I cannot abide---you mustn't---they are...." He paused,
and when he spoke again, it was in a near-whisper.  "Understand my work. 
All you want to do is destroy what I've created."
     "Sir, with all due respect, I have to say that something's gone
haywire in your mind.  Your creation deserves destruction.  It's an
instrument of destruction."
     "But it's capable of carrying communication units all the way
across---"
     "And maybe it will still be later, when the theory is refined, when
the machine can no longer be adjusted for use as a weapon.  Please, sir,
we must act, and soon.  Our people are being captured, and yours are
being punished for----"
     Sesmar waved a hand for Apollo to stop.
     "Before you came," he muttered, "everything was in its proper place. 
Planners to think.  Workers to work."
     "I've got a couple pieces of news for you, doctor.  The order you
revere is that of Cylons, an order based on the extermination of all
species that do not conform to their specifications.  Secondly, your
planners are such evolved thinkers they can no longer allow themselves to
come to decisions.  And your workers are thinking....and breeding."
     "Impossible."
     "Their children are hidden in the village."
     Sesmar, stunned, started to pace again.
     "Children!" he muttered over and over.
     "If you won't help me to save the lives on the Galactica and the
ships of the fleet, if our participation in a war not of our own making
so repels you, then do it for the replicants.  In a sense, they're all
your children."
     As soon as he'd said it, Apollo felt embarrassed at using such a
cheap sentimental tactic.  But, sentimental or not, it reached the
doctor.
     "I....I used some DNA from the members of our teams, the ones who
were later slaughtered by the Cylons, used their DNA in my first
experiments.  I altered the structure of the chromosomal and genetic
strands, yes; to try to develop a being that was, in a sense, more human
than you and I.  None of my experiments really worked, I thought.  The
replicants' appearance was right but they've never seemed quite human.  I
adopted the Cylon line to comfort my own failure, saw my creations as
subhuman.  I was wrong.  I ignored the occasional flash in their eyes,
the infrequent move of a hand, one that reminded me of my dead
colleagues.  You're right, Captain, in a way they are my children.  And
more than that, if not more human than you and I, they're as human as you
and I."
     Moving faster than his slightly aged body seemed capable of, Sesmar
hastened to his worktable.  He began to press buttons furiously on a
small console beside it.  On its screen, complex and intricate diagrams
began forming.  Sesmar explained that the picture depicted in blueprint
style the installation atop Mount Asenath.
     "There are two chambers on the mountain itself, one housing the
photonic torpedo launcher, the other a small garrison maintained their to
guard and operate it.  On the other side is a small airfield big enough
for one ship.  The ship occasionally brings up supplies that cannot be
transported by the single elevator the Cylons have constructed inside the
mountain.
     "The elevator?  Could we get to it, use it to get our team up to the
cannon?"
     Sesmar thought for a moment.
     "I wouldn't advise it.  Too risky.  The elevator, besides being
rather small, is heavily guarded.  Even if you could get your team
crowded into it, your presence would have been detected before you
finished the long trip to the top.  The Cylons would be picking off your
people one by one as they got off the elevator."
     "There may be some way we can use it.  Go on.  What about the supply
ship?  Can it be hijacked?"
     "No.  You could hijack it, yes, at the airfield below, but the
landing strip is so narrow the ship has to be guided in from a control
tower in the garrison.  It's doubtful you could surprise the Cylons, and
surprise is essential to make your plan work."
     "You're right, doctor.  Tell me more about the installation."
     "What you really need to know is how to destroy it.  Do you have
pamerium?"
     "Yes."
     "Then you can destroy it.  Pamerium's your best chance."
     Apollo let out a sigh of relief as he realized that Sesmar was,
after all, going to help them plan the actual destruction of the weapon.
     "For total destruction of the photonic laser unit I suggest the
jamming or reversing of the main pump.  That can be accomplished by
disintegrating the double turbo refractor.  Here, on this diagram, that's
the point you must reach, and you must allow yourself enough time to
implant the pamerium.  It's not easy, but it can be done.  Without the
use of the internal elevator or a ship, you'll have to scale the
mountain."
     "We have the personnel for such an ascent."
     "Skilled?"
     "As skilled as we could pull off a prison barge."
     Sesmar frowned but continued with his briefing of the young
Galactica captain.

**********

     Starbuck kept an eye on Zodiac, Venus, and Jonah.  At the same time,
he had the strange sense that each of them was keeping an eye on him,
even though there was little eye contact achieved.  Jonah, especially,
seemed agitated.  Boomer eased next to Starbuck and whispered:
     "Still think they might take off?"
     "Don't know.  Right now they're caged.  They've been caged for a
long time.  This might get to them.  Looks to me like Jonah'd like to
beat his way through the wall."
     "Things really switched around."
     "Don't follow you, Boomer."
     "Not sure what I mean, myself.  But they've been imprisoned for a
long time, each of them.  Been under the thumb of jailers and who knows
who else.  Now we need their skills.  They've got the upper hand.  We
have to rely on them.  It's like we're the prisoners now."
     "The strain's getting to you, old buddy.  Nobody can turn us into
prisoners.  Nobody.  Get loose.  Go play with the kids for a while."
     Boomer laughed.  Both men watched the children at play.  Boxey
seemed to thrive on the attention of the replicant children and
especially their interest in Muffit and the daggit's extensive repertoire
of tricks.
     Suddenly the door to the secret chamber started to open.  Both
Starbuck and Boomer, on alert in case Cylons were on the other side of
the sliding portal, sprang up.  But when the opening was wide enough,
Rachel ran in, exclaiming:
     "The Cylons have captured one of your party."
     "Samuel!" Venus said.  "The poor bastard!"
     She started running for the entranceway.
     "Where do you think you're going?" Starbuck said, blocking her way.
     "I'm going after him!"
     Starbuck almost let her, then it occurred to him that Venus might
just be using the opportunity to split away from the main group herself.
     "You're not going anywhere," Starbuck ordered.  "We need you for the
ascent of the mountain.  Boomer, I'll take a look.  You're in charge.  If
I'm not back in ten centons...."
     Boomer's brow furled.
     "I don't know, Starbuck."
     "I do."
     Boxey came running up to Starbuck, Muffit scampering behind him.
     "I'm going too.  Dad told me to keep an eye on you."
     "Oh, Dad told you, did he?"
     The boy nodded yes.  Starbuck put on a worried look and said:
     "Look, Boxey, I'm counting on you as a young colonial warrior to
keep these children safe.  Now, your father also told you to obey orders.
Right?"
     "I guess so."
     "Then snap to it, cadet."  Boxey managed to the stance of attention. 
"And stay clear of those women...you're on duty.  Back in a flash."
     Boxey returned to the replicant children as Starbuck followed Rachel
out of the chamber.  In the outer room, Starbuck said to her: 
     "Can you take me to where they have Samuel?"
     "The Cylons will recognize you."
     "Not if I look like a replicant."
     Going to the wall, Starbuck grabbed one of the worker replicant
uniforms hanging there, put it on over his own clothing, then gestured
for Rachel to lead the way.
     After they had gone a few steps, they spied a pair of Cylons walking
ahead of them in the corridor.  Not wanting to test his disguise with one
of the red-eyes, Starbuck cautioned Rachel to stay back.  They hid for a
moment in one of the many alcoves along the passageway.  The closeness of
the attractive brunette woman sent a few thoughts not related to the
mission sailing through Starbuck's head.  He leaned closer to Rachel and
whispered:
     "Look, when we get out of here, maybe in some hidden chamber
somewhere, we can find some, you know, privacy.  You know what I
mean...."
     "No."
     "But you brought up the subject of privacy yourself...."
     She smiled at him.
     "No, I didn't."
     "Sure you did.  Back at the----"
     "I know what you mean.  But whatever was said it was not said by
mea.  Or to me, for that matter."
     "But----"
     "That wasn't me who brought you  to the children's quarters.  That
was my "sister"; another Nexus-5 with the same incept date as mine, the
same DNA, and the same name."
     "Damn!  Knew there was something----"
     "Wait!  The way is clear.  Come on!"
     And they crept out of the alcove. 

**********

     Ra maintained a steady monitoring of the center mall area.  After it
had been cleared of the replicant population who generally milled about
there, the execution platform was raised.  The worker and combat
replicants, now suddenly aware what was to take place, began discussing
it actively among themselves.  They seemed excited.  Good, Ra thought. 
The execution would be a lesson for them.  It should prod them into
revealing the whereabouts of any other human who might be concealed in
the replicant village.  In time these human insects engaged on their
futile mission would be flushed out and killed, and Ra could stop feeling
the vague itch inside his metallic uniform.
     He glanced at another screen which displayed the entire underground
chamber.  Gloomy torches set in the walls projected the main light,
together with reflections from the ghostly stalactites that hung from the
high ceiling.
     A centurion entered the command post, informing Ra that the
execution ceremony would be initiated at his order.  Ra waved a hand, so
ordering.  He turned back to the monitoring screen, where in a moment he
saw a troop of his warriors lead the bound and tied prisoner to the
execution platform.  Along the way, they pushed replicants aside.  The
replicants, cowering, gave the Cylons a wide path.  The prisoner was
marched up a set of steps, where an executioner stood by.
     Ra beckoned to his aide to bring the other prisoner, Charlex to him. 
When Charlex had been dragged forward, Ra pointed him toward the monitor,
ordered that a close-up view of the new prisoner be placed on the main
screen.  He watched Charlex for a reaction.
     "Do you know anything about this human?" Ra asked.
     "No, sir."
     "He's from the Galactica."
     "No, he's not.  Is that all?"
     "No, Charlex.  For the last time, how many vipers are still
operational?"
     "Stop asking me silly questions!  STOP IT! STOP IT!  STOP....!"
     "Silence!  Centurion!  Remove him from my presence."
     The centurion dragged Charlex back to his corner of the command-post
room.  The cadet immediately slipped back to unconsciousness.
     Onscreen the new prisoner was being given his final interrogation. 
He had been instructed by the Cylon officer in charge that he could save
his life by answering questions in open forum----but of course, Ra
thought, he would be executed no matter what information he provided.  It
was essential that the replicants be given an object lesson in order to
keep them contained at their subhuman level of subservience.
     Ra studied the prisoner as he gave laconic responses to the Cylon
officer's questioning.  It seemed odd that the man had chosen to disguise
himself as a replicant.  He was much, much too thin.  His dark, gaunt
face simple looked nothing like the fair complexions that Sesmar had
chosen for the male replicant workers.  Nor did he look at all subhuman. 
He did not look very human, either.  There was something extrahuman in
his blank eyes and thick black hair.
     "What is your purpose here?" the interrogator asked.
     "Just passing through, I guess," the prisoner said in an eerily
quiet voice.
     The interrogator, who had been instructed not to react to the
prisoner no matter what he might say, continued to ask his next question:
     "How many of you are there?"
     "I travel alone.  I've always been a little...antisocial."
     "You're from the Galactica, are you not?"
     "Never heard of it."
     All of the prisoner's answers were unemotional.  The man must expect
that he was going to die----why did he not show some fear?"
     "How many combat ships in the fleet?"
     "Tough question.  There are so many!"
     "How many?"
     The prisoner stared up at the interrogator.  He leaned his chest
forward, glanced down at a pocket of his jacket.
     "In my inner pocket.  You'll find a tape coder.  The information you
want is recorded in it."
     The prisoner was going to cooperate?  Ra thought. That was a
surprise.  The interrogator opened the prisoner's jacket and reached in. 
He removed from inside a small electronic pack.
     "Just press that button," the prisoner said, his eyes still
emotionless.  The Cylon's gloved hand reached for the button the prisoner
indicated.  Ra realized too late what the box might be, and he dived at
the monitor screen as if he could somehow reach in and snatch the box
away from the interrogator.

**********

     Entering the mall, Starbuck was surprised at the crowds assembled
there.  In the center of the large chamber, on a raised platform, Samuel
knelt in chains, several Cylons standing around him.  Starbuck felt the
urge to push through the crowd, sweep Samuel off the platform and escape
with him.  But, no, that wouldn't work.  If only Boomer were able to
help, then the two of them might pull it off, but there was too much
Cylon firepower between him and Samuel.  A Cylon questioned the prisoner. 
Starbuck had never heard of Cylons conducting public interrogations, but
perhaps there was a strategic reason for it----you never knew with
Cylons.
     Rachel pulled at his arm and pointed toward their left, where
Deckard and the other Rachel, her "sister," stood away from the back
fringe of the crowd.  Starbuck pulled the hood more tightly around his
face and followed his Rachel to them.
     "Starbuck!" Deckard whispered, obviously surprised.  
     The gatherer didn't look too  good, Starbuck thought.
     "You all right?" he asked.
     Deckard  started to claim he was in the best of health, but Rachel's
sister interrupted:
     "He was captured by the Cylon beasts.  They used their neural whip
on him.  I rubbed a healing salve on his back, but it's badly----"
     "Forget that, Rachel," Deckard said.  "We've got to get back and get
Captain Apollo."
     "Apollo?" said Starbuck, bewildered.  "Where is he?"
     "He stayed with Sesmar.  I left him in hiding."
     "Can Sesmar be trusted?"
     "He saved Deckard from the Cylons," Rachel said.
     The two "sisters" were now standing together.  Because he had not
been watching them, Starbuck couldn't tell which "sister" had spoken to
him.  Both their faces shared the same concern.
     "Saved," Starbuck said, looking back at Deckard.  "Looks more to me
like they caught you."
     "They took me into custody, but they would've killed me if the
father-creator had not interceded.  He lied to save my life.  In the long
run, I prefer getting whipped to getting killed."
     "All right.  We'll have to get the team back together, listen to
whatever Apollo brings back.  What should we do about Samuel?"
     "Nothing we can do.  They'll execute him."
     "Execute him?  Maybe we can get the team back here, save him
from---"
     "There's no time."
     Starbuck looked toward the platform.  Samuel was gesturing with his
head down toward his jacket.  The Cylon took a box out of Samuel's
clothes.  A small electronic packet.  Where've I seen that before?
Starbuck thought.  Then he remembered where, and he shouted to the
Rachels and Deckard:
     "We've got to get out of here!"
     Samuel's soft voice filled the cavernous chamber as the crowd fell
silent:
     "Just press that button."
     Leading the three replicants into the corridor, Starbuck yelled back
at them:
     "It's a hand mine!  Get down!"
     The shock waves from the explosion made the ground beneath
Starbuck's body rumble.  The rumbling was accompanied by screams and the
sound of falling rocks in the main chamber.
     The sound of the explosion faded.  Starbuck rolled over and looked
back.  The execution area was a shambles, rocks and debris nearly
enveloping it.  Some smoke still clung to the ground and the walls, but
Cylons and replicants could be seen stirring and moving about, perhaps
searching out the dead.
     "What happened?" asked one of the Rachels.  Starbuck had no idea
which one.
     "God," he mumbled, not ready yet to answer a question straight. 
"Samuel.  I didn't think he had the---no, I should've known, those eyes,
those----I took him for a coward, Rachel.  I thought the cold look was
all a fake to hide what a misfit he actually----"
     "Starbuck," Rachel interrupted.  "What did he do?"
     "He carries packs.  Chemicals, explosives.  That box was a hand
mind.  I guess he decided to take some Cylons with him.  And
unfortunately, some of your people.  I'm sorry."
     "He was your friend?"
     "Friend?  He could've been.  Maybe.  Maybe we weren't so different. 
Ah, this ain't my style of thinking.  We better get back."
     "That way," the voice of Rachel said, but it was not the Rachel he
was looking at.  He turned and saw the twin pointing at a nearby
corridor.

**********

From The Adama Journals

     I keep thinking about Camity Star Wanderer.  Last night, I dreamt I
had a copy of the book in my hands, but when I opened it, the print was
blurred and I couldn't make out a single word, no matter how close I held
the volume to my face.  Camity, having fallen exhausted from being chased
by some fierce hirsute denizens of the land, looked up at a beautfiul
tree that seemed to lunge toward the sky from his prone vantage point. 
It had, I seem to recall, a jagged irregular bark that, in the planet's
gloomy darkness, glowed luminiscently in abstract, blob-like patterns. 
One particular blob reminded him of Sol, who'd been captured by the
natives.  The last night Camity had had of Sol, it had looked to him like
the captors were considering boiling him for their evening meal.  (I
can't remember whether Sol was rescued by Camity or fate----for some
mysterious reason, the really exciting adventures seem to have slipped my
memory.  I don't even think Sol was edible.)  Anyway, Camity---saddened
by thinking of Sol---starts to consider this oddly barked tree in more
detail.  Far above him, on snakelike branches, its leaves were ugly,
furry, and dripping with an oily liquid, drops of which feel like
miniature deadly bombs around Camity.  He did nothing to try to avoid the
drops, but none of them hit him and he thought they even curved in their
downward flight as if to miss her intentionally.
     He stared at the tree for a long time.  He had never seen one like
it.  His mind contemplated all the trees, all the landscapes, all the
natural phenomena he had seen on his travels. Before, it had all
impressed him, reminded him of the vast scope of the universe.  Now, he
wondered if this impression was an illusion.  The universe was not so
darn gosh-awful big, he thought, we are just too small to appreciate its
finitude.  This tree might be the only one of its kind on this planet, it
might be found nowhere else in the universe, but it was just a tree. 
Other planets had trees, some did not.  He knew that, of kinds of trees,
there was only a finite number existing in the universe.  Whatever the
number was, it was not often increased by one more.  That thought made
Camity think of how small the universe was.  Perhaps, he thought, people
had always been wrong in contemplating their insignificance in the
universe.  They, too, represented merely a finite number in a finite
universe.  Insignificance was not the point, which was only investing the
number with an unnecessary emotional aspect. If trees contemplated with
the varieties of human being, or even the varieties of sentient creatures
in the universe, they could come to their own similar conclusions about
the significance or insignificance of trees.  Then he began to laugh.  (I
remember the scene of his laughter very vividly.) Significance or
insignificance, finity or infinity, the tree was extremely beautiful at
that moment.  For him.  Nobody else would ever experience this moment, he
thought, no matter who rushed in and sprawled beneath this tree.
     As I search the universe for a place to escape to, I often consider
Camity's momentary dillemma.  Are our possibilities for escape so finite
that we'll eventually have to climb into the nets of a Cylon ttap?  Or
should we continue to consider them infinite, or at least as a high
number---say, the number of kinds of trees in the universe---in order to
invest those possibilities with hope?

**********
    
Chapter Twelve: Report From First Centurion Ra

     "I have reports that your puny mission on the surface of the desert
planet Equis is failing," Imperious Leader said to the Starbuck, who
seemed to be half-sitting and half-lying on his simulated chair.
     "That right?  You capture everybody?"
     "Well, not everybody yet, but soon."
     "How about me?  Am I on the mission?  You capture me?"
     "I am unaware of your presence on the mission."
     "I probably am.  I manage to get myself in trouble in spite of
myself.  If you haven't captured me, the mission isn't failing."
     "Do you think you make a significant difference?"
     "Any one of us makes a significant difference as long as we're
alive.  But I've always got a little edge.  Luck, we call it.  You guys
don't know how to utilize luck."
     "We do not apply intangible factors to our strategies."
     "Your mistake.  It's tangible but you'll never see it."
     Imperious Leader chose not to pursue that line of thought.
     "One of your people is to be executed, another will be eventually."
     "Oh?  What are their names?"
     "Samuel and Charlex."
     "I don't know them."
     "But part of the information that we---"
     "Recall that, when I was programmed, it was based on the most recent
information.  This reproduction of me doesn't know Samuel or Charlex yet,
because they were not part of your latest information from captured
prisoners.  Your data banks can't get milk from a daggit, after all."
     Imperious Leader wondered if the simulator, perhaps forced into
overload in maintaining the Starbuck figure, was now itself actually
talking back to him.

**********

     First Centurion Ra hoped that news of the explosion had not somehow
reached Imperious Leader.  It had seemed uncanny to him how Imperious
Leader sometimes knew what happened even though no one had transmitted
him information concerning the subject.  Perhaps, Ra thought that was
also a function of the third brain that he so desired.  The prisoner's
suicide made no sense to him, and frightened him a bit.  He could counter
human acts that conformed to the knowledge Cylons had of the species, but
an act like the prisoner's, suicidal sabotage, was beyond his ken.  Ra
also did not want Imperious Leader to know the extent of casualties, the
depletion of his already understaffed garrison.
     "Stand by for a message from the High Command," the communications
officer announced.
      Ra turned to his telecom screen.  All the other Cylons stood in a
rigid silence.  As the contact was made, the image on the screen was
first a scramble of dots and lines, and then it slowly resolved into the
awesome many-eyed face of Imperious Leader.  The face was not clear
because the Leader sat in shadow.
     "First Centurion Ra!" Imperious Leader barked.
     "By your command," Ra answered, according to the honored ritual.
     "The time for our final attack draws near.  Our base ships are
approaching the Galactica and its fleet.  The major assault on them is
imminent.  They will be in full range of the photon torpedo launcher
soon.  What is the status of the installation on Mount Asenath?"
     "Fully operative."
     "Good.  Initiate random firing.  Sweep the entire corridor.  You may
be able to catch the Galactica when it first enters your sector.  Begin
at once."
     "By your command."
     "I expect no less than the annihilation of that battlestar and the
entire fleet.  The way will be clear for your return to the
executive-officer staff on the command base ship, Ra."
     "Yes, sir."
     As Imperious Leader's image disintegrated into an array of swarming
and swimming bits, Ra considered the meaning of the Leader's final
statement.  With the success of the operation Ra's days of exile on this
dreadful dust planet were nearly over.  He swung around in his command
chair and ordered the officers still standing to come to attention:
     "Transmit those orders to Summit Station.  Program for automatic
fire.  Random sweeps covering the corridor.  Tell the gunnery squad I
will be joining them to guide the entire operation.  I will take the
supply ship up to the station.  Alert the control tower there to prepare
for my arrival."
     "What about the human invasion force?" an officer asked.
     "I doubt they're much danger anymore.  But double the guard at all
strategic points, at the garrison here and the command post, and send a
whole platoon to guard the elevator accessway, should they get foolish
and think they can use it."
     Ra noticed Charlex still lying unconscious in his corner.
     "We have no further need of that one.  Take him to a cold cell.  I
will examine his cortex later.  Is the supply ship ready?"
     "Yes, First Centurion."
     Ra swaggered out of the room.  Two of the remaining Cylons picked up
Charlex, his body still limp, and dragged him out of the command-post
headquarters.
 
**********

The Book Of Zodiac: 

     Apollo's only just had time to catch his breath, when the door
behind him begins sliding open.  He spins around with his laser drawn. 
The smiling face of Starbuck peeks in through the opening, saying: "Hey! 
Watch were you point that thing!"
     Apollo looks disgusted at Starbuck and says: "I thought I left you
in charge."
     "I made a command decision to reconnoiter."
     Starbuck edges into the room.  He's wearing a replicant worker
outfit, and it's filthy with dust.  Apollo reaches out and touches the
outfit, and then examines the dirt that comes off on his fingers. 
Deckard and two replicant females follow Starbuck into the room, looking
quite downcast.
     "What happened?" Apollo asks.
     "Didn't you hear?"
     "I thought I heard something when I was rushing back here through
the corridors, but---"
     "It was a big explosion.  Samuel's work.  He's dead."
     I glance at Jonah and Venus.  None of us speak.  The old code: never
show emotion when you hear one of your kind's been killed.  Apollo
studies all our faces for reactions to Starbuck's news.  I'm glad we
don't show him anything.  We all learned long ago you get no prizes for
compassion.
     Starbuck tells about the explosion.  I have to say I'm impressed.  I
always knew Samuel had no regard for human life, but I always thought he
had some regard for his own.  Still, he's dead by his own choice, and
that's the kind of control he always demanded.
     "One thing's for sure," Starbuck finishes, "he didn't betray us on
the mission.
     The mission!  Damn, I almost forgot that part of it!  I counted on
Samuel to help me lay the zinium.  He knows more about the stuff than I
do.  Without him, that puts us all a couple of steps closer to our own
deaths.  In the mission plan, Venus is backup to Samuel in helping me
with placing the demolitions.  That should be cozy.  Well, she may kill
me while we're working together, but she does know something about laying
down the zinium.
     "We've got a problem," Apollo declares.
     "Tell me something I----" Starbuck starts, but gets a mean look from
Apollo and stops.  "Yes, sir.  A problem."  
     "Sesmar says our best chance is a---"
     "The father-creator helped you?" Deckard blurts out, astonished and
pleased.
     "Yes.  We've worked out a simultaneous-attack strategy.  It's our
best chance."
     Using maps supplied by Sesmar, Apollo explains the layout at the top
of Mount Asenath and at the foothills garrison.  Then he gets down to
brass tacks: "There're three phases to the assault and they must be
coordinated precisely.  Zodiac; Jonah, Venus and myself will make the
ascent up Asenath.  After we reach the top, Zodiac and Venus will take
care of planting the explosives.  At the same time, Zodiac and I'll take
on the small guard stationed there, and keep them out of the way of
Zodiac and Venus, then---"
     "You're taking Jonah in with you, Captain?" Starbuck asks.
     "That's right."
     All of us look toward Jonah.  He looks as mean and surly and
insubordinate as ever.  If I were Apollo, I wouldn't take him anywhere.
     Starbuck doesn't know where to turn.
     "But, Captain, respectfully, I think Jonah should be assigned to
another part of the assault.  I'll go with you up the mountain."
     "No, Starbuck, you're in charge of attacking the main garrison, so
they can't respond to any calls and interrupt our little task on
Asenath."
     "But, Captain---"
     "No buts about it.  Jonah has extensive climbing experience, you
don't.  And don't hand me any of that felgercarb about you and Boomer
being stationed on some desert planet somewhere.  You and I both know how
that little detail found its way into your records.  This mission is too
important for me to have to be crawling down crevasses to get you out. 
Your job will be to strike the garrison--with the help of Deckard and a
contingent of his best fighters.  You have to render any Cylon rescue
teams inoperable, especially keep them from launching an attack on us
from the airfield.  Then, you have to get to the underground complex
below the garrison, and get through the tunnel there and encounter the
Cylon troops guarding the elevator.  It's located at this point on the
map.  Our best escape route from the emplacement is down that elevator. 
If we try to go down the mountain, we'll more than likely be killed by
the explosion or buried in its debris.  I don't want any Cylons waiting
for us by the elevator when we get down there.  Okay, Starbuck?"
     "We won't let you down."
     "I'm counting on your success.  The survival of the rest of us
depends on your gaining control of that elevator."
     Starbuck nods, but his face still shows concern.  Can't say as I
blame him.  I don't even know if I could control Jonah on a run-in like
that.  Apollo better keep all ten eyes on Jonah.
     Deckard steps forward and speaks in his formal voice: "Captain.  I
can delegate someone to join the attack squad on the main garrison, and
lead those troops of our people.  My real usefulness to you is on the
mountain, Rachel"----he points to her----"and I have considerable
experience on that mountain.  We can help you cut your time in half."
     "No, Deckard, I don't want to risk you on the mountain.  Your
people'll need your leadership and----"
     "Captain Apollo," I interrupt, "we do need someone of Deckard's
abilities on Asenath.  Remember, we've never seen it, never had a chance
to scout the terrain up close.  It's like he said.  He may know the
trails, the chimneys, the easy slopes---he can save us a lot of time."
     Apollo lets this bounce around inside his head for a moment, then
nods in agreement.
     "All right," he says.  "Let's set our timepieces."
     We all look at the chronometers supplied us by the Galactica
quartermaster.  I never could make out how to use one, but I fake the
synchronization anyway, and I press my button when Apollo tells us to
start timers.  After the synchronization ritual, Apollo gets grim,
tightens his mouth, and says:
     "We'll reach the top and start our attack in exactly eighty-five
centons."
     "Captain," I say, "it takes me eighty-five centons just to lace my
boots."
     God, the look he gives me is so hard I couldn't drive a piton into
it.
     "We must reach the top in eighty-five centons," he says.  "The
Galactica will be moving forward after that."
     "You say so, Captain," I say, then mutter to Deckard: "You guys
don't know any shortcuts, you'll have to throw us to the top."
     Deckard smiles.  A revelation: replicants have a sense of humor. 
I'm glad he's joining us.
     "You're the key down here, Starbuck, you and Boomer," Apollo says. 
"We can't get down the elevator, we blow up with the launcher.  For all
our sakes, Starbuck, don't be late!"
     Again, Starbuck reacts to a mean look from the captain; then he
says: "No, sir.  We'll be there."
     As I test all twelve points of each crampon before attaching them to
my climbing shoes, I feel the kind of fear I felt during my preparations
for every tough climb I've had to make.  It's a good sign.

**********
     
     Deckard brings us out a cave set in the foothills of the mountain. 
Surrounded by high boulders, we can't be seen from the main Cylon
garrison.  I turn around and look up at Asenath.  Although not a high
mountain in the usual mountaineering judgment of height, it is still
awesome, since it rises from a relative flatland, with no easy smaller
mountains or hills to make the approach to it gradual.
     Like the best mountains I've seen, Asenath looks designed.  Its
slopes and angles seem freshly handled by a master sculptor who'll never
grow tired of altering the look of it.  Although this mountain's surfaces
do not change their colors with the seasons; only with the position of
the artificial sun in the sky, its dark beige cast is various with
mysterious, and mysteriously attractive, shadows.  The howling winds and
the irregular plumes of cool fog make Asenath all the more mysterious and
terrifying. As I feel the slightly cooler temperatures of the higher
altitude penetrate my survival suit, I feel more confident about the
whole escapade.  Well, if not confident, at least more buoyant in
spirits.  Like all experienced cragsmen, I long for the challenge of a
mountain such as Asenath.  The pain it will cause, the imminence of
sudden death, the possibility of exhaustion and defeat--they're all part
of the challenge.  My body begins to long for the pain and the
exhaustion.  Maybe even the death, since I'd rather die huddled in the
niche of a mountain than spread out in the most luxurious cell a prison
has to offer.
     Silently we all work on readying the ropes and harnesses.  I check
out the pitons, carabiners, axes.  Breathers could protect our faces, but
there is no evidence, or even likelihood, of bercesgadium on the
mountain, so I argue against them.  Breathers could get too easily
clogged in a mountainside dust storm.  I remember running across a
climber just resting against a rock, smothered because his breather had
clogged with ice, a result of the mountain's intense cold.
     The shriek of the wind around me is so loud I don't hear Jonah and
Venus approach me.  When I glance up, the two are just standing there,
examining me with looks that suggest they've already decided the answers
to questions they haven't gotten around to asking yet.
     Jonah speaks first: "One of the replicants told me there's a supply
ship at an airfield at the top of the mountain, behind the launcher
emplacement."
     "Yeah," I say, "Apollo told me about that.  He thought we might be
able to make our escape in it, but, since he didn't know whether it would
be there or if we could operate it, he's put in our plan only on a
contingency basis."
     "Well, I can pilot one of those Cylon crates.  Remember, I learned
for the radium raid?  I say, when we get to the top, we grab the ship."
     "And go where? How long do you think it'll be before the Galactica
hunts us down?"
     "The Galactica is the hunted.  Adama's not going to waste a squadron
trying to track down three escaped convicts."
     "He knows that," Venus said contemptuously.  "You also know that, if
we bug out on the mission, the chances are the Galactica's not going to
be in any shape to hunt us down."
     "We can't let them die, we can't---"
     "Since when are your loyalties with your jailers?" Venus says.  "The
Galactica and the whole fleet are finished."
     "Not yet.  But they will be if we don't knock that weapon out."
     Venus steps back, looks at me as if I'm a painting that she doesn't
want to buy because its surface layer is cracking apart.
     "That's right," she says, "they'll all be destroyed.  And we'll be
free.  Don't give me any of that daggit drivel about how this planet's
too hostile an environment---anything's better as long as you're free. 
We'll find another planet.  Erunisor isn't all that far.  We can pick up
food, water, fuel. Go anywhere.  C'mon, Zodiac, are you with us?"
     All I can think is she really wants me to come with them.  Maybe we
can get together again.  Maybe it'll be like the old days---the
cheerfulness, the joking around, the love.  Looking into her gelid blue
eyes, it's hard to see any possibility of cheer, love or jokes reviving
there, but there's always a chance.
     "Are you going to turn your back on freedom, Zodiac?  Again?"
     Her words go through me more fiercely than the piercing winds of the
mountain.  She's blaming me for any failure, my ineptitude during our
confrontation with Adama's warriors right before our capture. I had had
their pursuing ship in my sights and had not been able to fire.
     "I couldn't shoot down colonial warriors," I say to Venus now.  It
was what I'd said to her then, too.
     "I know," she says, hate in her voice.  "The code.  The bloodline. 
And for your compassion they chained you like an animal.  Now's your
chance.  Our chance.  One last time, husband."
     What can I say to her?  She knows if I don't respond to that last
plea, I'll never agree to their plan.  And she's right; it is our chance. 
I thought I'd trade my soul to have Venus back.  Now that the opportunity
is here, and my soul isn't even on the line, I am no longer so sure.  Or
perhaps my soul is on the line and that's why I feel so empty.
     Jonah leans toward me, says: "Are you with us?"
     If I say yes, I win Venus back.  If I say no, I not only lose her,
but we'll blow the mission----Venus and Jonah'll make their move without
me, Apollo and I'll wind up dead, and so much for saving the fleet from
the damn photon torpedo launcher.  I can't say no at all, whether it's
truthful or not.  With a certain feeling of relief at postponing the real
decision, I accede to their plan.
     "I'm with you."
     As I look again up the majestic sculpturesque slopes of the
mountain, and consider how futile this mission seems, I realize that
maybe I'm telling Venus and Jonah the truth.  

**********
     
Chapter Thirteen: Moving Out

     "It's about time we moved out," Boomer said.  "We haven't much
time."
     Starbuck, peering at his chronometer, nodded. "I'll be ready," he
said grimly.
     Boomer frowned.  "What's on your mind, old buddy?  You and Apollo've
been about as tight-mouthed as an Enebian shellmouth."
     "It's Charlex," Starbuck said.  "The Cylon commander told Sesmar
they had a prisoner."
     "Sure, Samuel, but he's dead."
     "No, this was before Samuel was caught.  They already had a
prisoner.  It's got to be Charlex, couldn't be anybody else."
     "You have any idea where they're holding him?"
     "No.  The maps Apollo brought back don't indicate any
prisoner-detention areas.  But I'm going to find Charlex somehow."
     Boomer sighed.  "Look, bucko, I know you're upset about losing
cadets, but get it through your head it wasn't your fault.  There's no
reason to turn this job into a lousy crusade just for---"
     "He's somewhere in the Cylon underground complex, Boom-boom.  I'm
sure of it."
     "Well, let's keep an eye out for him, then.  The both of us."
     Starbuck smiled at Boomer.  "Thanks, old buddy."
     "Forget the thanks.  Let's get hopping."
     "Right.  As soon as I give our rear-force officer his instructions."
     "Our rear---oh, I get you.  I'll wait for you by the door."
     Starbuck walked to Boxey and knelt beside him.  Muffit tried to
squeeze into the embrace the lieutenant gave the child.
     "Okay, Boxey," Starbuck said, "as a colonial warrior, first class,
I'm leaving you in charge of these children.  They need somebody who
knows the ropes.  You and Muffit have to protect them by keeping them all
together.  Don't make a sound, no matter what you hear."
     Boxey frowned.  "What will I hear?"
     "We're going to be making some noise.  Then we'll be back for you.
For all of you."
     Starbuck stood up, started for the door.  "Take care of my father,"
Boxey said.
     "Sure."
     In the corridor outside, they were joined by one of the replicant
females, which one, Starbuck wasn't sure.  He had seen so many of them
now.  When he'd dozed off once, he'd had a dream in which hundred of
female replicants, blondes, brunettes and redheads, seemed to be
approaching him, all with their arms out, inviting him to love. This
replicant girl looked afraid.
     "Something's bothering you?" Starbuck said to her.  "What is it?"
     "I don't wish to betray my people."
     "I was right then.  Something is wrong.  Are they bugging out of
attacking the garrison?"
     "No.  They'll help you destroy the Cylon garrison."
     "Then what is it?"
     She paused, seemed to wish she could disappear into one of the
niches along the corridor, then let out her breath and said: "The
planners have been at them.  Now they want to stop you and your team from
destroying the photon launcher."
     Starbuck nearly groaned in agony and despair.  He had suffered the
meddling interferences of bureaucrats before. They always seemed to come
up with some reason for wavering from a goal; perhaps it was their
specialty.
     "How will they stop us?" Starbuck asked the she-replicant.  "Apollo
and the others will be setting the charges while we're taking the
garrison and the elevator."
     "I'm not sure.  I think they plan on using the elevator themselves,
after you get control, then going up and talking Apollo out of the
destruction of the launcher."
     "Then they have a lousy sense of timing.  They'll never pull it
off."
     "Maybe, maybe not.  All I know is that they'll try to stop you by
whatever means they can.  Here, they're waiting in this chamber."
     "Well, let's talk to them."
     Starbuck's voice was grim, determined.  The room into which the girl
replicant took him and Boomer was wide and high.  Nevertheless, it seemed
packed with planner, worker and combat replicants.  A combat replicant
that identified himself as Tyler stepped forward, his feet planted firmly
apart, appearing ready to confront Starbuck.  Starbuck asked for the
group's attention and said: "Before we rush into anything rash, let's
understand what our objectives are."
     "The Cylon garrison," Tyler said.
     "That's right.  We have to knock it out and gain control of the
elevator area within twenty centons or the Galactica is lost.  We have to
rescue our team from blowing up with half the mountain."
     Starbuck took a pause, giving Tyler a hard stare, challenging the
replicant leader to reveal his mutinous attitudes.  Tyler replied in a
cautious and quiet voice: "We'll help you attack the garrison, as we've
agreed.  Many of us here will be pleased to help you kill Cylons.  But
the photon weapon belongs to us and should be preserved intact."
     "Keep that gun and the Galactica will be blown out of the sky."
     Behind Tyler, a group of the planners kept a watchful eye on the
confrontation.  Suddenly they parted their rank, and another man, an
older man in a shocking red tunic and trouser ensemble was revealed
standing behind them.  The man's attention seemed elsewhere.  Starbuck
wondered if he was one of the planners.
     "If the gun is destroyed, so are we," Tyler said.  "Once news of our
revolt reaches a Cylon outpost or base ship, they'll come here in their
fighters to destroy us.  Our only hope is in turning the weapon against
them.  You of the Galactica and its fleet will have accomplished your
heroics and will be gone.  What's left to us then?  We'll be here alone. 
Defenseless.  Unless we have the photon launcher to repel them."
     A deep faraway rumble seemed to rattle the chamber walls.
     "Can't you hear that?" Starbuck said.  "That's the gun. It's firing
automatically!  A random shot could destroy the Galactica, even while the
position of the ship is unknown.  Once the Galactica's position is
discovered, one shot will take it out.  Don't you understand?  The
Galactica is the last colonial battlestar.  It has to survive.  The fate
of an entire race depends on it."
     "Perhaps.  But we don't know your people.  All we do know is that
you're willing to sacrifice us for yourselves.  Why should we give a damn
about you, then, if you don't give a damn about us?  You're not our
concern...."
     "That's right, Tyler, they're not your concern; they're mine," the
man in red announced, stepping forward.  Tyler and the others seemed
astonished at the man's interference.  "I'm a member of that race that's
fleeing from the Cylon's tyranny."
     "Father-creator," Tyler said, frightened.  So that's who the bearded
gentleman is, thought Starbuck, the notorious Dr. Sesmar.  "Their battle
isn't ours, sir.  We've got to protect ourselves.  We're not going to be
subjugated again.  I know, we're not perfect, but----"
     "But you're human," Sesmar said, reaching up to put a small hand on
Tyler's strong shoulders.  "More human than human, as a replicant was
meant to be."  He beamed with pride.  Sesmar stepped back from the
replicant leader and addressed the entire group: "Those are your brothers
in trouble in space.  In an odd mythic sense, they're your genuine
ancestors, the race whose DNA provided the raw materials for the creation
of more perfect versions of a humankind I hated too long and too
bitterly.  I see now that what I may have hated was not my fellow humans,
but myself.  And you, all of you, are the manifestations of that hatred. 
Well, I was wrong.  We have to help them.  Allow the photonic unit to be
destroyed and"----Sesmar paused as he examined the puzzled faces staring
at him---"and I will protect you."  The replicants did not seem quite yet
willing to accept that comforting statement, in spite of the man it
originated from.  "Trust me, my children."
     Starbuck advanced toward Tyler and said firmly: "We're out of time. 
We go now or not at all."
     Tyler's answer came back just as firmly: "Let's go for it!"
     As Tyler began assembling his troops, gathering them into squads and
platoons, Boomer whispered to Starbuck: "You give any thought to what we
would've done if they'd said they wouldn't go?"
     "Don't jar my chips me with logic."
     Starbuck avoided Boomer's next question by going to Sesmar and
saying to the bearded gentleman: "Either that was some fine con or you've
got something up your sleeve, doctor.  How're you going to protect them?"
     Sesmar's grimness dropped away like a mask, and he smiled.  "I'm not
exactly the quivering traitor that you people think.  I didn't give the
Cylons all my inventions.  Perhaps I knew there'd be a time when someone
like your Captain Apollo would arrive here and challenge me out of my
self-induced trance.  I don't know.  Anyway, don't worry.  We'll be
safe."
     Starbuck matched Sesmar's smile.
     "Yeah, I got a feeling you will.  Some people'd envy you."
     "Oh?  Why is that?"
     "Well, your godlike sway over these creations of yours is the kind
of things that fulfills some people's fantasies."
     Sesmar stopped smiling abruptly, narrowed his eyes.  "Godlike am I? 
I suppose you're right.  Father-creator and all that felgercarb.  I
shouldn't have allowed  it.  It was merely convenient.  More than that,
it just froze my creations into attitudes of mindless duty.  Thank you,
Lieutenant."
     "Why thank me?"
     "You've made me realize I may have to do some strenuous
battle...with a false god."
     Starbuck felt the need to say something comforting, but couldn't
think of anything.  Just as well, he thought.  What do you say to comfort
a fallen god?
     Tyler had his troops all organized and moving out of the chamber. 
With a casual salute Starbuck backed away from Sesmar and joined Boomer.
     "We're gonna have to move fast," Boomer said.  "I wish I knew how
the captain and the others are doing.  WE might just liberate that
elevator and find Cylons coming out at us when the doors open."
     "True.  With Zodiac and that gang of his with Apollo, they----God, I
wish I'd talked Apollo into letting me go."
     "Well, one thing at a time, I guess.  Let's go."
     Boomer looked back at Sesmar.  "Funny," he said.
     "You find something amusing in all this?"
     "No.  But look at him.  He looks so small, so solitary, left behind
there."
     "Yeah, but I think he's thinking about five steps ahead of any of
us, Boomer."
     "Maybe."
     Turning around, the two Galactica officers rushed out the doorway of
the meeting chamber.

**********

The Book Of Zodiac: 

     I swear this mountain's alive.  It's out to get us.  You can't go
two steps without being enshrouded by blowing sand, gritty flying sand,
like airborne razor blades, looking to slice you into four clean
sections.  Every six or eight meters I have to tap thick, arid dust off
my crampons.  Takes all my concentration to maintain friction on this
jagged approach slope.  Apollo keeps slipping and sliding.  My legs
aching already, I move up beside him, holler in his ear: "Walk up
straight!"
     Some defiance in his eyes.  He still doesn't like to take orders
from me.
     "Up straight!  Try to keep the sole of your boot against the
surface.  You don't get good friction, you're going to collapse from
exhaustion before we get anywhere near the top."
     He nods.  I demonstrate a couple of steps.  He picks it up from me. 
At least he's a good learner.
     The two replicants really know their way up the mountain, although
they don't climb with much style.  I always said style meant nothing on a
dangerous mountainside anyway. I'd rather have a clumsy person who knows
the terrain than a stylist who thinks he can get by on good moves alone.
     Venus and Jonah keep exchanging meaningful glances with me.  I don't
know how to interpret the blank looks I return to them.  Even if we do
make it to Asenath's summit, I don't know how we're going to survive
Jonah and Venus.
     The climb's getting more treacherous now.  We're off the easy
slopes.  Up ahead I can see dim outlines of what we have to face.  The
castlelike configurations of such a mountain are even more pronounced
from this vantage point.  It seems a huge pile of battlements, turrets,
steep walls that suggest hiding demons ready to push away ladders.  I
holler at Apollo: "We need a rest, Captain!"
     "There's not enough time.  We can't rest now, not when----"
     "Rest, hell, we need a bivouac.  I know how much time we got and I
know we can't rest long, but each moment of rest is worth several microns
on the mountain.  Sir."
     "Zodiac, I---"
     "Captain Apollo, a mountain's got to be climbed slow and steady. 
Out here, haste is the same word as death.  Look, it's not just the
danger of exhaustion I'm talking about.  The atmosphere is getting
thinner.  You try to go up too fast, it's like getting the bends under
water.  Your internal organs are affected by height and rarefied
atmosphere.  Your perception of objects can go haywire, all your senses
get dulled.  You can easily reach a point where death seems better than
taking another stop.  Believe me, Captain, going slow is going to save
your precious fleet more than vain heroics."
     Apollo glares at me for a moment, and then reluctantly agrees.  We
choose a fairly level spot just ahead.  I go up first, try to do a little
site gardening to smooth it out, but it's no use----everything's solid
and covered with dust.  We fall into comfortable resting positions. 
Jonah and Venus seem to purposely separate themselves from me.  Apollo
pulls himself beside me and asks:
     "Any more advice?"
     I'm almost too surprised to answer.  There's no sarcasm in his
voice.  He really wants to know.  Perhaps we can pull together as a team,
all of us.  With the tenacity of the replicants, the impulse toward
escape of Jonah and Venus, the willingness of Apollo to listen to
reason----perhaps I can pull all this together, use their divergent
motives to create the illusion of a team.  Just long enough to get us up
to the gun emplacement.  Then Jonah and Venus will make their play, and
I'll have to see where I stand---but no sense in worrying about that now.
     "Advice, huh?" I say to Apollo.  "Right now I couldn't give you the
standard lecture.  Either your instincts take hold or they don't.  Just
remember it's more important to climb with your feet and not with your
hands.  Hands are for leverage, for position, for balance, for keeping
you on the side of the mountain.  But you don't get a good hold, all the
arm-strength you can summon isn't going to be much help in keeping you
from falling and maybe taking the rest of us with you.  Solid anchors,
good holds, and remembering to keep your feet the best place you can, or
the second-best place, or third, or any damn place that'll keep you
steady----that's the most I can tell you right now, Captain."
     Apollo nods and looks up the mountain.  You can't see the top.  All
you can see are vague shadowy shapes, the dust plumes rising regularly
from ridges----a sure sign of strong wind areas---a low-hanging band of
clouds in the distance.  Even in the pending twilight of this desert
asteroid, the suggestion of color in the surface of the mountains is
impressive to me.  Far away the sandy veneer is a shadowy gray; closer
there are streaks and blots of brown; nearby I can make out a faint
suggestion of purple, just like I've seen on the mountains of Caprica.
     "What're the chances of an avalanche?" Apollo asks suddenly.
     "From what I can tell, no worse than usual.  No guarantees I know of
that they won't happen.  Still, this mountain's less likely than some."
     "Oh?  Why?"
     "Well, this's a hot planet.  The air temperatures pretty much
uniform, so there's nothing like melting ice to alter the terrain so that
weight pressures change and cause the kind of shifts that result in
avalanches.  Everything stays warm at about the same temperature, so
there's no shifts of climate to get an landslide started.  Terrain and
climate here should combine to make the mountain relatively stable.  But
God, man, you never know.  And there's always a good chance of a
loose-rock avalanche, if there's any disturbance or one of us sets up a
chain reaction that jars some rocks away from someplace higher up and
they start charging down at us, gathering more snow to it.  Creating an
avalanche with a 'snowball' effect, see?  But, if I were you, I wouldn't
spend much time worrying about avalanches.  There's lots more out there
to get us.  And we've had enough rest.  It's time to move out, Captain."
     I whisper the last as a hint so that the others can't hear.  It's
important to Apollo that he appears to be in control of the expedition. 
Any takeover from me would just cause resentment all around.  I have to
control this little foray with subtlety: always good to employ subtlety
on your superior officer if you want to get anything done.
     The next stage of climbing is easier than I'd expected.  In spite of
the rough terrain, there are plenty of holds.  Deckard, with his
knowledge of the mountain, has saved us a great deal of time.  We're able
to cover a significant amount of distance just using pull holds to move
our bodies up, and there's a good deal of friction to create an anchoring
counterforce.  Watching Apollo frequently check his chronometer, its
increasing illumination sending sinister shadows into his face, I begin
to get hopeful.  Maybe Asenath is one of those mountains that look rough
but prove to be no real challenge to a set of climbers.
     Suddenly things get tougher as we reach a gravel/sand/rock
formation.  Apollo wants to head straight up, but I counsel traversing
the formation as the best strategy.  Deckard agrees.  I take the lead,
setting a slow pace, tapping and puncturing the gravel-covered ground
ahead of me with the point of my axe.  It's important here to maintain
the slow pace.  Any point ahead of us can turn out to be a crevasse and
plunge us all to sudden death.
     Coming up upon a wide crevasse, we cross over a rock bridge, each
climber taking it alone and slowly.  On the other side of the bridge,
Apollo keeps peeking at the chronometer.  He's obviously getting twitchy,
but I refuse his suggestion that we cross the rock bridge in pairs.  This
is the wrong time to take that kind of chance.
     Reaching a steep rockfall, Deckard signals that it's the best and
most direct way up.  I agree.  Using some of the jagged points to make my
way a short distance upward, I start bringing out the pitons, which till
now I've hoarded.  They're in short supply and had to be saved for a
difficult part of the ascent.  I'm glad that they're molecular-binding,
since I'm afraid of excessive sound in this area of the mountain.  One
good solid echo and who knows what's going to fall on you.  I push the
setting on the outer edge of the piton to rock and push it in.  In it
goes with a sound that rises in pitch.  A good sign.  Whether
hammer-driven or molecular-binding, the piton whose sound descends in
pitch signifies that it is insecurely anchored.  Being able to interpret
the song of the piton is a lifesaving technique.  Quickly the piton's
shaft works its way all the way in, and only the oval eye at its end is
visible.  There's not enough time to loop ropes through the pitons, so
we'll have to use them simply for direct-aid climbing.
     Not thinking about our goals or the complications to them, I work
slowly, pushing in one piton after the other, forming a zigzag ladder up
the icefall.  I can sense the others climbing up behind me, but do not
look down.  I try never to look down.  On a mountain there's no place
you've been to that you are eager to see again right away.  I just
concentrate on setting the pitons in the right places and listening to
the monotonous but comforting sound of their song.
     The top of the rockfall is narrow and slightly sloped but secure. 
Above it is an overhang that could give us trouble.  Twisting the
tricked-up rope so that it's slack.  I sling it over the overhang.  The
other end floats down.  Deckard and Jonah each take an end of the rope
and pull at it to make sure the rope is anchored and in a secure place. 
Then I twist the rope in the other direction, making it hard and stiff as
a cable.  Climbing quickly, hand over hand, I make my way to the edge of
the overhang, and then laboriously pull myself onto it.  Up farther is a
more secure ledge.  Telling Deckard and Jonah to let go of the rope ends,
I climb to the ledge, where I drive the shaft of my axe into the hard
rock as far as I can, far enough to serve as an anchor for a belay.  The
ax shaft belay is the safest for the situation.  I brace my right leg by
kicking out a large step below the ax and setting my foot firmly into it. 
Supporting the ax with the upper knee of my left leg, I set the belay
rope slack and feed it around the shaft of the ax with one hand in a
round turn, low on the ax shaft, while holding onto the ax head with my
other hand.  Because of the slope, I also run the rope around the small
of my back for further anchorage then throw it back down to the others. 
Jerking on the rope, I alert them to finish their climb to this ledge. 
Gradually I watch each of them, Deckard and Rachel first, then Apollo,
Venus and Jonah, come over the ledge.
     At Deckard's suggestion we rope together and work our way along the
ledge, sometimes holding close to the wall of ice at spots where the
ledge narrows, sometimes crunching down to creep beneath low-hanging
cornices.  We reach a point where a fairly gentle slope eases away from
us to our left.  I signal the others to hold back while I take a look,
and edge myself forward gradually along the edge toward the slope.  As I
look up, some clouds above me part briefly and I think I see the outline
of the gun emplacement, dark against the onset of nightfall, not far
above us.  I turn to tell Apollo, but before I can say anything, there is
a great shuddering explosion above me and the sky is afire with a bolt of
photon energy that has just now discharged from the gun.  It's launching
photon torpedoes now.  Maybe the Galactica is within range.  The sound of
the weapon is deafening.  The mountain seems to shake and a rumble that
seems to emanate from deep within the mountain joins the thunder of the
gun.  I look up.  A huge crest of rocks and sand is coming down at me.  I
have just enough time to shout: "Avalanche!"
     Then the snow reaches me, and the ledge beneath me breaks off in a
falling chunk.  There is a brief jerk on my rope, then an abrupt sense of
free fall.  Apollo has acted quickly and sensibly.  He's cut the rope to
save the rest of the team.  My face is briefly in the air outside then I
am completely enveloped by the sand and pebbles.  I seem to be falling
more deeply into it, like a swimmer being pulled along by an unexpected
fierce underwater current.

**********
    
Chapter Fourteen: Six Centons

     Landing his ship on the narrow airfield atop the mountain, Ra
released it from the control of the guidance personnel, while a ground
crew slung cables around it to secure it against the high winds. 
Snakelike, a tunnel emerged from the side of the gun-emplacement building
and attached itself to the ship's exit hatch. Inside the tunnel, a
gunnery master joined Ra and a moving runway carried them into Summit
Station.  The gun took up most of the space within the emplacement.  It
looked like a massive chunk of gray metal cut out of the mountain itself.
     "Are you ready?" Ra asked the gunnery master, who turned to the
chief gunner and said: "Photon cannon aligned?"
     "Aligned," the gunner replied.
     "Pump system to speed?"
     "Speed."
     The master turned to Ra and announced: "Ready."
     Ra, feeling a moment's glow of satisfaction, ordered: "Commence
automatic fire."
     The master pressed a button and the weapon shuddered into action. 
Ra could sense the photons assembling deep within the launcher's bore as
it quickly built up the power to hurl its torpedoes.  The first salvo
seemed to burst out of the launcher unexpectedly.  As it blasted upward,
the nighttime sky was briefly filled with a flaring light.  For a very
shot time the asteroid seemed lighted by a secondary sun; then the
torpedoes entered the cloud cover and night returned abruptly.  Beneath
them, the mountain seemed to shake, the usual reaction.  Ra heard the
sound of a small landslide developing.  Even though the foundation of the
emplacement went deeply into the mountain, Ra sometimes worried that the
entire structure could tumble from the mountain as the result of a
massive avalanche.  But the gun rumbled and another sky-lighting salvo
burst forth from the mouth of the cannon.
     Ra checked with his control room to see if the Galactica had yet
been discovered within the sector.  The report was negative.  Still, Ra
knew one of the deadly projectiles from the photonic-unit weapon could
still find its way randomly to wherever the Galactica was.  If that
happened, even more glory would accrue to him, and Imperious Leader would
be suitably impressed, Ra was sure.  Ra's ambition was suddenly making
sense again, and he looked forward to the successful outcome of this
assignment---the termination of the human enemy and Ra's restoration from
exile to full rank and responsibility.

**********

     Imperious Leader had to interrupt his dialogues with the Starbuck to
conduct the final phase of the assault upon the human fleet.  His base
ship had now arrived at the sector where the Galactica and its fleet
drifted.  He directed a Cylon task force to initiate attack upon the rear
of the fleet, not a sneak attack this time but a full-fledged assault.
     He would send wave after wave against the humans, enough warships to
finally wear them down or push them into the range of the Asenath weapon. 
It was a flawless plan.  To Imperious Leader, the attack seemed already
ended.  His active third brain was already contemplating post-battle
problems and matters upon Cylon-dominated planets.  Strange political
factions seemed to be emerging around the empire, and the members of
these nearly rebellious groups had not yet been located and shunted off
to the harmless classes of Cylon society.
     He looked over at the Starbuck-simulacrum, which was lounging in its
usual arrogant way.  Logic dictated that the simulator be removed from
the pedestal, but Imperious Leader wanted the simulacrum to view the
final defeat of the race for which it was a representative illusion.  The
Leader realized that, once the simulator was deactivated, the simulacrum
would no longer exist----that any feeling of vengeance the Leader might
achieve from the Starbuck's reaction to the annihilation was merely a
response to information gathered from data banks and presented in human
form.  The Starbuck would be returned to nothingness, a collection of
binary digits that would never form again.  Imperious Leader wondered
what revenge he would gain by showing the Starbuck the annihilation of
the human race.  His feeling of vengeance would be as illusory as the
Starbuck itself.  On the other hand, if the Starbuck displayed any
reaction---shock, anger, and disgust----it would be a satisfying coda to
the moment of victory.  And Imperious Leader very much wanted to observe
the arrogance of the Starbuck collapse.

**********

     Adama watched the attack of the Cylon task force on a series of
screens above the communications console.  Colonial vipers were fiercely
engaged in a running battle with the front ranks of the Cylon force.  On
a central screen, he could see a wave of Cylon fighters sweeping into
position and firing their lasers in a wide-arced multiplaned pattern of
fire.  Two colonial vipers shattered into fragments and disintegrated in
a consuming fire. Athena, standing beside Adama, cursed under her breath
and clenched her fists.  But there were only communications screens to
hit.
     A quartet of vipers peeled off from the main group as if to flee,
and then abruptly turned and fired furiously at the right flank of the
approaching task force.  Lines of laser fire crossed and intersected,
forming a brief asymmetric network of fine-lined light.  A pair of Cylon
ships fell from the rank and blew up, and then a third and a forth.  With
each destroyed Cylon ship, Athena whispered encouragement to the vipers
that had knocked them out.  In a moment, the screens seemed filled with
exploding Cylon ships.
     Although the Galactica squadrons had turned back the first line of
Cylon attack, there were more warships in the distance.  Tigh silently
handed Adama a report, which showed that the Cylon base ship had now
entered the sector and was bearing down on the ragtag fleet at high
speed.
     Adama looked up from the report just in time to see a chain of
bright stars stabbing into space ahead of the Galactica like a
well-thrown spear.  They had passed by them and faded into the distance
before anyone on the Galactica had time to react to them.  Another chain
of stars followed it, at a different angle, farther away.  A third seemed
dangerously close.
     "They're sweeping the entire corridor with those photon torpedoes,"
Adama said to Tigh.
     "Blue Squadron coming in," Athena reported.  "Nine destroyed vipers,
seven of them piloted by cadets.  Seventeen too damaged to go out again
right away, perhaps a dozen ready for another battle.  Red Squadron
reports similar damages."
     "What about the Cylon forces?" Adama asked her.
     "They're retreating.  But more Cylon warships have entered the
quadrant.  Base ship not far behind."
     Adama looked at Tigh, who nodded in agreement to the question on the
commander's face.
     "Our time is up, Colonel," Adama said, then turned to the bridge
officer and ordered: "Flank speed ahead. We're going right through."
     Another chain of stars was too far in the distance to be
threatening, but they went through that part of the sector that was right
on the Galactica's course.
     "The expedition must have failed," Tigh said, suggestions of tears
in his eyes.
     Adama glanced at the console timer.  "They still have six centons
left," he said.
     "Six centons," Athena whispered, and tried not to think that Apollo
and Starbuck might already have roasted to death upon the planet.

**********

     Starbuck dodged blasts of laser fire from Cylons defending the
entranceway.  The burning materials around him in the destroyed command
post only served to heat up his rage at the enemy even further.
     Sesmar's replicants, driven by the kind of hatred that accumulates
from a long oppression, had easily gained the advantage on the Cylons
guarding the command post.  Approaching the headquarters in beige and
brown survival suits, the replicants had so blended in with the landscape
that they had caught the enemy by surprise.  Boomer and Starbuck held
back until combat had begun in earnest then they entered the fray, laser
pistols drawn and shooting.  After disposing of the guards, Starbuck
leaped down into the corridor leading to the main underground complex. 
Boomer remained right behind him.
     As they ran down the passageway, one of the girl replicants,
Crystal, caught up with them.  A Cylon lumbered out of a side corridor. 
Reacting quickly, Crystal fired at it.  Sparks from the wired suit flew
as the Cylon fell.
     A group of Cylons at the end of the corridor began firing at them. 
Starbuck, Boomer, and Crystal plunged to the ground. 
     "We're trapped," Boomer yelled, looking behind him at the fight
raging between the Cylon command-post guards then ahead at their new
attackers.
     "Over there," Starbuck cried, pointing to a hatchway on his left. 
"What's on the other side of that?"
     "The cold cells where the Cylons hold prisoners," whispered Crystal.
     "Prisoners?  I was told that nobody among you knew where the
prisoners were kept."
     Crystal's eyes widened in amusement.  "I know."
     "All right, all right. Can you open that hatch?"
     Crystal crawled over to it, and slowly began to turn the valve that
opened the hatch.  There was a small surprising squeak, and Starbuck
tensed himself for what might spring out, aiming his laser pistol
directly at the hatchway.
     "There's bound to be guards," Crystal said.
     "I'll take care of them.  They're probably not used to people
breaking into a prison."
     As Crystal slowly opened the hatch, Starbuck eased himself through
the narrow opening.  He motioned for Boomer to follow.  

**********

     Charlex had been concentrating on moving his head from side to side
for some time.  It was the only movement of which he was capable.  He
seemed to have lost contact with the rest of his body long ago, right
after the Cylon guards had roughly dragged him into this chamber and
pushed him into a tubular frost-gray cold cell.  At first he had tried to
keep his fingers and toes moving, but when they had turned completely
numb he had started to do the exercise with his head and neck.  Now he
felt like stopping that too.
     His eyes were just beginning to droop shut when he saw a quick flash
of movement to his right.  He had just enough strength to look that way. 
A man was firing at the two Cylons who were standing guard in front of
the triple row of cold cells.  A colonial warrior, from the look of the
outfit.  Starbuck, it was Starbuck.  Who was Starbuck?  He could barely
remember, even though the name had flashed into his mind.
     First one Cylon fell, then the other, both dropped by the crouching
Starbuck.  The clang of their metallic uniforms against the floor echoed
through the cold-cell chamber.  There seemed to be more movement on the
right, but Charlex found he could no longer turn his neck in that
direction.  For a moment he lost consciousness.
     Suddenly he was awake again.  Starbuck had broken open the door to
Charlex's cell and was pulling him out.
     "Can you move?" Starbuck asked.
     "Is he alive?" asked an attractive woman who stood behind Starbuck.
     "Unless those tears in his eyes are self-generating, he's still with
us."
     Charlex tried to talk but couldn't.  Starbuck picked him up
delicately, as if he were an expensive art item, and took him out of the
cold-cell chamber.  A rush of what seemed to be warm air in the corridor
brought back feeling in Charlex's toes and fingers.  He tried to tell
Starbuck.  Although sound emerged from Charlex's frozen lips, Starbuck
said he couldn't understand what the young cadet was saying.
     Gradually, Charlex became aware that combat was raging all around
them. He tried to force his hand to reach toward his holster to draw out
his pistol, then remembered that the Cylons had disarmed him when he'd
first been captured.
     Starbuck left him leaning against a wall inside a dark niche, like a
sculpture propped up in a dusty forgotten museum storeroom.  As he
listened to the sounds of battle outside, Charlex became aware of the
feeling coming back into his body.  When he was aware of the blood
flowing through his body again, he knew he would be all right.
     Starbuck returned to the niche.  The lieutenant's face was grimy
with dirt.  "Can you walk?" he asked Charlex.
     "I can try."
     "Well, you better, cadet.  I leave you here; the Cylons we missed
might get you.  If we missed any, that is.  C'mon, we're going to
liberate an elevator."
     "An elevator? No, I don't wanna---"
     "Hey, it's gonna be fine.  I just need the manpower.  Maybe if the
Cylons see you, they'll drop their guns and surrender."
     "Drop guns?  Surrender?  Mr. Starbuck---"
     Starbuck seized Charlex and pulled him out of the dark niche.

**********

     Loud noises above and below frightened the replicant children, made
them gather together in tight little groups and crouch against walls.  At
each vibrating noise, Muffit ran toward the doorway and hopped up and
down. It looked like it wanted to bark, but Boxey had ordered it not to,
and Muffit was nothing if not obedient.
     The doorway slid open slowly.  One of the pretty women came through
it, and told the children to be especially quiet.  Alerted by the action
at the garrison headquarters, some Cylons were roaming the corridors,
looking for the agitators.  Afraid, all the children nodded they would be
quiet, and the woman went out again.
     Boxey got down on his haunches by the doorway and listened.  At
first he could hear nothing; then---after another of the loud rumbling
noises----he could hear the gravelly mechanical nasality that he knew was
a Cylon voice.  They were in the outer chamber.  One of them thumped
accidentally against the doorway.  The woman was saying something to
them, something about not knowing what was happening and would they
please not violate her privacy.  Another thump on the door, and he
thought he could hear a Cylon asking what was on the other side of that
entranceway.  Boxey signaled the other children to come to him. 
Reluctantly they approached the doorway and Boxey told them: "We might
got to get out of here.  If that door opens, we got to run. Muffit?"
     The daggit-droid pivoted its head toward Boxey.
     "You lead the way, you hear, daggit?"
     Muffit responded with the low growl that was his programmed vocal
response to a whispered instruction. Boxey crouched by the doorway,
wondering if his dad or Starbuck would be proud of the way he took
command just like a colonial warrior would.
     Suddenly the door was ripped open.  All Boxey saw was a Cylon's
gloved hand at the edge of the door before he quickly sprang into action. 
Hollering, "Okay, Muffy, now!" he barreled through the doorway, gesturing
to the replicant children to follow him.  Muffit leaped right at the legs
of the Cylon who'd opened the door, and tripped him.  The Cylon's metal
suit was ripped open by the jagged boulder he fell upon.  The other
Cylons, astonished by the fact that it was children attacking them, made
futile grabs at the small forms scampering past them.  But Cylons, in
their heavy metallic suits, tended to be a bit awkward in movement, and
the cumbersome giants captured not a single child.
     In the corridor, Boxey ran left, shouting: "This way!"
     He knew that his father or Starbuck would have led their troops with
a shouted command like that. The only trouble was, he didn't know where
he was going.  Muffit dashed ahead.  The best bet, Boxey figured, was to
follow the daggit.
     Muffit led them through several corridors, stopping every once in a
while when there were Cylons in the vicinity.  The slightest noise that
sounded like a Cylon patrol marching near them, made the children crouch
behind rocks and hide in the alcoves.  The loud noises that shook the
walls of the corridors and caused rains of dirt and small rocks kept
sounding regularly.
     Finally the daggit stopped beside a hatchway whose portal had been
loosened by one of the jarring explosive noises.  Very hot air seeped in
through the tiny spaces around the hatchway edge.
     "It's hot out there, Muffy," Boxey said.
     The daggit-droid growled in response but edged toward the hatchway
and pointed its snout a little way out.
     "But you think it's our best chance.  Right, Muffy?"
     Muffy growled again.
     "Okay, we'll try it.  I guess everybody's cool enough."  Boxey
glanced around at his squad of replicant children.  It might be too hot,
even for them.  Maybe they should just head down the corridor. Suddenly
there was the sound of a marching Cylon patrol coming toward them. 
Obviously Muffit was right.  They had to go outside.  Boxey got two of
the larger children to push open the hatchway so they could all get out;
then he gestured his squad to leave the corridor for the surface of the
desert world.
     It was hot outside, but not as hot as it had been earlier, when the
Galactica team had first arrived on the planet.  Boxey didn't know where
they should go now.  A fire raged in the distance, across the sandy
field.  It was nighttime, and it was the only light, so Boxey decided
they should go toward it.  A moment later, the sky itself suddenly lit up
like a flare, and he could see the building where the fire was raging. 
It wasn't that far away.  They could make it.
     The trek across the sandy field was harder than Boxey had expected. 
Muffit kept returning from his guide position ahead and herding the
children together, prodding them forward.  Just when Boxey felt he was
getting too sleepy to go any farther, they reached the edge of a field
that wasn't covered by dust.  Much of the rock underneath was showing. 
Some of the rock surface had scorch marks on it.  Boxey looked up.  It
was an airfield.  Arranged in rows were several Cylon fighters.  Beyond
the ships, inside the Cylon command post, the fire was now blazing out of
control.  They couldn't go inside there, Boxey realized.  He looked again
at the Cylon ships, dark silhouettes against the background of the fire. 
     "Get inside the ships," Boxey ordered the children, and they began
scrambling into the nearest fighters.  Boxey went further ahead, Muffit
scampering at his heels.  He chose a ship at the end of a line, where he
would have a good vantage point if any Cylons came toward them.  As he
climbed into it, he was surprised at how empty it was inside, not at all
like the complicated technological insides of a viper or of the holograms
of Cylon ships that Apollo had shown him.  It didn't seem real; it seemed
like the ghost of a ship.  Nestling against Muffit, he curled into a ball
and tried to maintain a watchful eye out of a side porthole of the ship. 
He remembered that this was where the Cylon navigator sat.  It was nice. 
Comfortable.
     He felt sleepy.
     He was asleep.

**********

The Book Of Zodiac: 
     
     At first, all I can think of is how foolish I feel at having told
Apollo there was almost no chance of an avalanche.  Of course, this is
just the sort of avalanche I'd warned him about, loose sand, gravel and
rocks set rolling by a loud explosive sound.  What am I doing worrying
about how foolish I might've looked?  What'll Apollo care about that when
he's examining my blackened, crushed corpse?  What am I thinking about,
corpse?  He'll never come looking for me.  I'll just go up with the
photon torpedo launcher when it explodes.  If it explodes. God, the
laying of the zinium's up to Venus now, and all that's on her mind is
escape.
     Why am I worrying about Venus and Apollo?  Got to start worrying
about myself.  Already I'm moving my arms in a swimming motion, seeking
the surface of this crush of sand.  It's important not to panic.  Hold my
breath. Find an opening of air, find the surface.  I shake my axe off my
arm, work the pack off my back to lighten myself, give me the lightness
to swim to the top of the sand.  Don't panic.  Keep the arms and legs
moving.  Grab at anything for leverage upward.  Clear breathing space in
front of me with my hands, take quick breaths, keep going upward.
     I can't do it.  I must be too deep under.  Can't do it.  Must keep
trying.  Keep trying until I die.  It's that simple.  Death, simple when
you get the hang of it.  Keep the arms going, thrusting upward, reaching
for life, reaching for anything I can grab, reaching.  My hand breaks the
surface.  I make my arms work even harder.  My head doesn't seem able to
get there.  It should be there by now, should break clear.  Why isn't it
breaking clear?
     Suddenly I realize why I haven't broken the surface, perhaps for
some time, and I take a breath.  
     Everything around me is still; then the night sky lights up with
another salvo from the photon gun.  Now at least I'm oriented.  I haven't
fallen far.  I'm lucky.  I should be halfway down the mountain.
     "Zodiac!'
     That's Apollo's voice.  Where is he?  By the light of another pulse
I see that he's a short distance above me, descending by rope from the
ledge I fell from.
     Working my legs slowly and steadily, I pull my whole body to the
snow surface.  Apollo, belayed by Venus back on the ledge, is laboriously
making his way toward me, testing the surface in front of him with
touches of his axe.  I pull myself into a semicrouch, enough to dig my
crampons into the loose surface.  Still I make my way toward Apollo.  He
reaches a hand toward me.  Reaching up, I can just about touch him.  One
more tough step, then....Got him!  With a fierce jerk of his arm he pulls
me toward him, and I grab onto the rope.  My eyes search the line of rope
all the way up to Venus' belay.  It looks all right.
     "Slack," I holler up to Venus.  She lets out more rope.  "You all
right?" I ask Apollo.  
     "I was about to ask you the same thing."
     "I'm fine.  I'm surprised you came down to get me.  What'll this do
to the timing of the mission?"
     Apollo smiles.  "We need you to lay the explosives, Zodiac.  Had to
come get you."
     "Sorry, didn't mean to take a cheap shot at you.  You're doing all
right, Apollo.  That was quick thinking back there, cutting the rope. 
You might've all been dragged down with me."
     "Just did what you taught me."
     "Well, it was good.  You probably should've left me buried alive
under all that debris, but thanks."
     "Just get that gun for me, okay?"
     For a moment, I'm amused by the moral ambiguity of my position. 
I've told Jonah and Venus I'm with them in their escape plan, even if I
didn't know for sure whether I was.  Now I tell Apollo I'll get the damn
gun, even though I'm still inclined to take off with Jonah and Venus. 
When we get to the top of Asenath, if we get to the top of Asenath, I may
even be surprised by my own decision.  Pulling at the rope, I yell up to
Venus: "Climbing!"
     "Climb!" Venus yells back.  And slowly Apollo and I ascend to the
ledge.
     Deckard and Rachel seem glad to see me alive.  Jonah's not so sure,
I think.  Venus's eyes are as blank as Samuel's ever were.  Does she
really mean it when she hints that we can get back together?  Or is that
just a ploy to gain my help?  Ploy or not, Venus can be depended on to
fulfill her promises.  Should I care whether or not she does it willingly
or just to complete a bargain?  It would be easier if I didn't care,
but----unfortunately----I do.
     The rest of the climb presents few problems.  The avalanche seems to
have made it easier.  There are hundreds of small ledges, footholds and
handholds, that allow us to make it to the level of the gun emplacement
in free climbing.  Intermittently, the torpedoes launch and the gun's
light shows us the route ahead.  In a sense, the gun's ammunition is
helping us to make up for lost time, aiding us in its own destruction.
     In the last stages, as if driven toward it, Venus and Jonah lead the
way to the gun emplacement itself.  Then they turn, their figures
ill-defined in the shadows.  It is a moment before I realize that Jonah
has his laser drawn and is pointing it at the rest of us.
     "If we go," he says to Venus, "it has to be now."
     "I'm with you," she says, moving to his side and staring at me,
looking for my response.  I stop climbing and Apollo passes me as if he
doesn't know there's a laser pistol pointed at his head.  Pulling himself
up to the level of the gun emplacement and standing up a short distance
away from Jonah, Apollo says: " You've got no place to go, Jonah."
     "You didn't look carefully enough, Captain, or you would've seen the
Cylon ship anchored just over there."
     He gestures to the left.  Sure enough, the ship rests there, held
down by electronic anchoring rays that give off occasionally sparkles in
the oppressive darkness.  I start climbing directly at Jonah.
     "We're getting off this sandbox, Captain," Jonah says, "and flying
right out of---"
     "There isn't time," Apollo says.  "Don't you understand"---he points
to his chronometer----"the Galactica is passing through the quadrant
right now.  We've got to silence that gun."
     "You've got a one-track mind, Captain," Jonah's smile is grim,
sinister.  "You think I care about what happens to the Galactica?"
     Apollo takes a step toward Jonah.  I keep climbing, my eye on Jonah.
     "The Galactica is the only ship that can protect you.  All of you." 
He looks desperately at Jonah and Venus, squints down at me.  "Without
us, you're finished."
     Venus smiles. There's a lot of evil in that smile.
     "You don't seem to realize who's finished here, Captain," she says. 
"Your mission.  Your battlestar.  Yourself."
     I keep climbing.
     "The Cylons won't rest until every one of us is put to death,"
Apollo says.  "Every one of you."
     "Don't worry about us," Jonah says.  "We're going to make it. We've
been through just as tough. We'll make it."
     "To where?"
     Jonah's voice drops.  It's just barely audible.  "That, my friend,
is of no consequence to you."
     I'm up to the ledge now.  I pull myself onto it, next to Venus, on
the other side of Jonah and Apollo.
     "The Sand Gang's together again," Venus mutters.  "What's left of
it, anyway."
     I nod.
     "Glad you're with us, Zodiac.  I wanted you back on my side."
     When she says this, I am so tempted to be with Venus again that I
almost grab the gun from Jonah to shoot down Apollo myself.  Apollo is
clearly shocked seeing me stand up with my former gang.
     "I should've expected this from you, Zodiac," he says.  Looking down
at Deckard and Rachel, who are still on the mountainside but slowly
ascending, he says, "Stay back."
     "Should I drop him, Zodiac?" Jonah says, aiming his pistol toward
Apollo's chest.  I'm surprised.  It's been a long time since Jonah last
treated me like a leader.  I almost like it.
     "No," I say to Jonah.  "Give these people a fair chance.  We'll just
get to the Cylon ship and---"
     "Fair chance?" Venus says.  "That's still your trouble, isn't it,
Zodiac?  Always the humanitarian.  Okay, so be it, let's---"
     Above us, the photon cannon roars.  The sound is thunderous, feels
like it's loud enough to kill.  The vibration makes Jonah lose footing
for a brief moment, and he steadies himself by holding onto the
emplacement wall with his free hand.  It's my chance.  I jump at Jonah,
getting a boot behind one of his stubby legs and tripping him up.  He
falls to the ground next to me.  Inadvertently he fires the pistol, and
its ray goes upward, looking strangely feeble against the bright light of
the photon torpedoes shooting toward the cloud cover.  I slam his arm
against the emplacement wall.  The pistol goes flying. Apollo picks it
up.  Knowing I'm at a disadvantage in fighting Jonah, I spring away from
him, go to Apollo's side.  "Your play, Captain," I say.
     "For a moment there, Zodiac, I believed you."
     "Believed myself.  For a moment."
     Apollo smiles. "Even after that, I still don't know whether or not
to trust you."
     "Better for you if you don't, Captain.  I wouldn't."
     Jonah pulls himself up slowly, glaring at me.  His hatred of me
seems to have doubled, if that's possible.  I'd hate to have to compute
the degree to which Venus's hatred has grown.
     "Zodiac!" she says.  "That was our chance!  We had to take it!  And
you, you----"
     "Venus," I say, "I don't know how to make you understand.  You can
blame it on humanitarianism if you like, although I doubt if most
straights'd care to call me that.  But, look; we're here on a mission. 
When I accepted the mission, and you came with me, you were accepting it,
too.  I don't know what's got into you, but think: this is a mission to
save what's left of the human race, what's left of a civilization that
prospered for millennia on the twelve worlds.  We can't let the remnants
of the race die for our own selfish goals.  So we're going to do this. 
You understand that, both of you?  This mission is going through!  And
the two of you are going to help, understand?"
     "A pretty speech, Zodiac," Venus says, "but I'm sitting here and
watching.  You can't make me do any---"
     "All right.  We're not a team anymore.  Venus, okay.  I guess the
break in that came long ago, and it was probably my fault.  All right. 
Deals.  Both of you understand deals.  Once we get the explosives
planted, the timer set, and the Cylons effectively out of action, you two
can have that ship, go anywhere you want, be free."
     "Zodiac, I don't---" Apollo says.
     "That's the way we'll do it, Apollo.  You get your gun blown up;
Venus and Jonah get the ship.  It's the only way everybody gets what he
wants. You can forget about the warbook fighting codes up here."
     "And you, Zodiac," Venus says, stepping forward.  "Where do you go? 
What do you do?  What do you get?"
     I want to tell her that I want her, but it's no good.  You can't get
Venus to give herself, no matter what deal you offer.  She needs to be
free, all right, I'll give her that."
     "I stay with Apollo, with him and Deckard and Rachel.  We'll take
the elevator out of there.  While we're on the way down, you two'll have
plenty of time to take off and go....go wherever you can find that
pleases you."
     I look away from her piercing gaze and survey the panorama below us. 
There is nothing exceptional to see, nothing worth climbing this mountain
for.  Under normal conditions, with ample time for planning, it's an easy
mountain, an easy climb, not worth the effort.  The desert planet itself
is ugly.  Nothing on it as beautiful as where we stand now, at the top of
the mountain, next to an awesome weapon which we plan to blow to pieces
moments from now.
     "Come with us," Venus says, her voice offering nothing more than the
trip.
     I almost throw out all my fancy reasons and say yes anyway.
     "Nope, Venus."
     "Why not, Zodiac?"
     "Can't say.  Something about being responsible. Something about
knocking out this weapon for whatever you want to call it, the common
good or the salvation of----"
     "Shut up, Zodiac.  You just want to play hero, be he-man, copy this
scanner-screen image of a warrior here..." She points to Apollo, who
shows no reaction.  "Well, okay.  Just don't give me any of your he-man
speeches.  We do the job because we're professionals; don't mouth off
about anything else.  WE do it because we're the ones who can do it. You
can have the glory of humankind and sprinkle it on your crops as
fertilizer.  We accept your deal.  Okay, Jonah?"
     Jonah sullenly agrees.
     "All right, then," Venus says.  "Let's get to it."
     Apollo steps forward, says: "The Galactica's time is running out."
     As if to punctuate his remark, another salvo---perhaps the one
destined to turn the Galactica into space ash---is emitted from the bore
of the torpedo launcher.
     "Get the explosives together," I say.  "Then we get moving."
     Apollo----who, after all, has taken a lot of felgercarb from me in
the past few moments---hesitates, then nods.  "Okay," he says.  "You're
in charge, Zodiac.  Get us into that photon station."
     "You got it, Captain."
     Working silently, we get the stuff together, each taking his
assigned load.  Venus and I splitting what Samuel would've carried. 
Samuel.  I'd almost forgotten about him.  What difference would it have
made to the cause of Venus and Jonah if he'd been there?  What difference
would it have made for my own decision?  I had always really been afraid
of Samuel.  One thing for sure: Samuel wouldn't have given the Sand Gang
the edge they needed to succeed in their escape.  Perhaps I couldn't have
so easily stood on this godforsaken ledge and made my noble speeches and
swung them to Apollo's side.  If Samuel had been there, perhaps I'd have
gone with them.  Well, no use worrying about that now, not with the job
waiting to be done.
     Circling around the encampment, we arrive at the entrance to the
intake tube.  It opens onto a dark tunnel.
     "This intake tube opens into the cooling system," I say to the rest. 
"The photon torpedo gun is inside.  We've got to place the zinium just
right.  Our supply's a bit depleted, my fault.  I let some of it go,
sorry.  Back in the avalanche, when I released my pack.  Matter of
priorities.  I put saving my astrum over preserving the zinium."
     "You're prone to mistakes like that," Venus says, with the first
smile I've seen from her in some time.
     "According to Sesmar's geogram," Apollo says, "the key element is
the energy-exchange pump.  If we can wreck it, pressure with build up
inside the launcher, causing it to overload and blow itself up."
     "Sounds good to me.  You and Jonah and the replicants hold off the
Cylons, and Venus and I can lay the wire, set the timer.  Let's take a
look."
     We crawl inside the intake-tube tunnel.  It's narrow and we have to
crouch down.  I feel like an insect eating my way through insulation. 
Suddenly the walls of the tunnel begin to tremble as the pressure of the
photonic energy inside the gun barrel builds up for another launch.
     "Hang on!" Apollo shouts.  "They're using the intake."
     As the wind pulls through the tunnel, it's like being outside in a
mountain sandstorm.  Holding onto the side walls, we are able to continue
on.  A sweep of vapor passes us, and I hold my breath, not knowing what
it's composed of.  When the photon cannon sends up its next salvo, the
sound seems to reverberate in the tunnel for an eternity, threatening to
diminish only when deafness has set in.  But it stops after the firing.
     Up ahead is a grid that must be used as an entrance for maintenance
purposes.  We crawl to it and Apollo pushes it open.  On the other side
we can see the immensity of the photon launcher's interior.  The weapon,
a mammoth dark gray cylinder, dominates the center of the chamber. 
Spreading down from its base is a central control shaft around which
several Cylons are working.  Huge pillars support domes in which the
photonic energy sources are apparently collected.  In the Cylon manner of
illumination, lights along the high castlelike walls shift irregularly in
intensity.  It looks like a room in which nightmares are stored.
     A group of officers gather around some kind of console, directing
the action of the gun.  Beyond them is another officer, looking very much
like them, except he's got a lot more bands of black decorating his
silver-metallic uniform.  The decoration, if I remember correctly,
identifies him as a First Centurion.  He's the head honcho, then, the one
especially to watch out for.  
     Apollo leans toward me, and whispers: "The firing station in the
center..."
     "What about it?"
     "Does it control the photon pump?"
     "Yep, it sure does."
     "That's our target, then," Venus says grimly.
     "Right," Apollo says.
     "If I get you right, Apollo," I say, "we blow that and the whole
system overloads.  I don't know if you realize it, but it's also going to
tear off the top of the mountain.  Before I set the timer, you better
have that escape elevator secured.  I don't want to have to wait for it
to arrive from the first floor, buddy."
     Apollo closes the grid and gawks at his ever-present timepiece.  The
wrist device glows in the dark, and flickers a bit as its coordinates
change.
     "Three centons," he whispers.  "I hope Starbuck and Boomer are at
the elevator by now, or else we'll have to take the fighter."
     "Take the fighter?!  Wait a micron, Apollo!  Now, I promised that
ship to Venus and Jonah and I...."
     "If it means survival, all promises are off.  Don't worry.  I'll let
your friends have the ship as soon as we're off the mountain.  What's the
matter?"
     "I've been worrying about how much trust you can have in me.  I
forgot to worry about whether or not I could trust you."
     "You can't."
     "I realize that now.  Youd've made a good member of the Sand Gang,
Apollo."
     "Thanks, I think."
     The head honcho barks something in that typical Cylon voice that
sounds like a series of electrical shorts.  The other officers react and
work some devices in their respective equipment.  A surge of power
resounds through the room.
     "They're stepping up their launching rate," Apollo whispers. "They
must know the Galactica's entered the quadrant, maybe even know its
coordinates."
     "We're ready when you are, Captain."
     Gently, Apollo lifts off the grid.  Gesturing to Jonah, Deckard and
Rachel to follow him, he slips out the opening. Jonah pushes Deckard
aside.  Once the combat's begun, Jonah's always extra-eager to get into
the fray, no matter whose side he thinks he's on.  Venus and I are alone. 
Venus is carefully not looking at me.  She adjusts her grip on the coil
of zinium wire and waits, like me, for the shooting to start.  I lean
toward her and whisper: "I'd go with you, Venus, but---"
     "I don't want to hear about it."
     And that defines our relationship at the moment.  This is the point
toward which the years of love and working together were heading.  It all
comes to this.  I want to say it, and you don't have to hear it. If, on
the other hand, you wanted to hear it, I wouldn't have to say it.
     With a series of sudden hisses, the shooting begins in the
emplacement-gun chamber.  I jump through the grid opening, Venus right
behind me.  Out of the corner of my eye I can see Apollo blasting away
from behind one of the pillars.  He drops a couple of Cylons with a pair
of perfect shots.  Although I can't see them, I can figure where the
others are by the three pillars from which the other laser fire is
coming.  The Cylon gunners and warriors guarding them are trying to
assemble into some order. Staying close to the wall, Venus and I seem to
have escaped their notice.  A communications device near us suddenly
explodes from being hit by a stray Cylon shot, and Venus and I dive to
the floor.  Venus crawls by me, directly to the base of the
energy-exchange pump. Efficiently, without a look at the battle raging
around her, she begins to lay the wire.  I scamper to the other side of
the pump and begin laying down my wire, but I sense movement to my right. 
Glancing up, I see a Cylon coming at me, his weapon drawn.  Twisting
around slightly, I bring out my laser pistol and drop him.  Like most
Cylons, he falls with a clumsy-sounding thump.  No other Cylon seems to
have detected my presence.  Good.  I can't allow them to have too much
time while we're escaping.  Zinium wire sticks to the side of the metal
without even a loop of air showing in it, and it's virtually uncuttable
by conventional means---but I don't know what equipment these bastards
might have.  If they're able to disconnect the wires, or enough of them,
the gun won't go up.  But if we can hold them off until the timer's set,
then its unlikely they'll be able to move fast enough to save the gun.
     I return to my work, feeling an odd glow of satisfaction from the
professional way I lay down the wire.  Everything's working out well.  At
least on our part.  I haven't time to check out how Apollo's attack is
working out.  There are sufficient notches and outjuttings to wrap the
wire around, enough concave area in which to plant the explosive charges. 
The wire adheres easily to the flat surfaces of the pump.
     Crawling underneath the pump through an arched tunnel that leads to
an energy feeder, I begin to attach the timer there.  Venus crawls into
the tunnel from her side and methodically leads her wire toward the
timer.  While I manipulate the switches of the timer, she attaches the
ends of her wires to it.
     "How's it going on your side?" I ask her.
     "Good.  Apollo and Jonah're dropping the creatures left and right. 
A couple of them seemed to see what we were up to, but they were dropped
before they got near me."
     "Okay.  Everything's set.  Look out and see if Apollo's got the
elevator ready."
     She crawls out and is back right away.
     "He's doing something with the controls beside the doorway.  But
it's not open yet."
     "Only one thing to do in that case: wait."  I glance over at her. 
Her face is now tense.  "You and Jonah'll be in the air in a couple of
microns.  Maybe we'll all meet again sometime, in some exotic outplanet
bar or---"
     "I'll look again."
     She comes back and says the way to the elevator is clear.  Nodding,
I flick the switch that irrevocably sets the timer.  Now the Cylons can
tear at the zinium till they're blue in their metallic faces.  There's
nothing they can do. The gun's going to go ka-boom!

**********

From The Adama Journals

     Ila and I used to enjoy going to the theater at least once or twice
during one of my rare furlongs.  She recognized my need for escape and
usually selected comedies or musical entertainments.  But once in a
while, to satisfy Ila, we went for a tragedy.
     Caprican tragedy contained one significant variation over the
tragedies created in the rest of the twelve worlds---the added feature of
an alternative ending.  The alternative ending was intended as a kind of
release following the emotional drain of the sad or awesome events of the
play proper.  Some audience members didn't stay around for it, claiming
that the proper reaction to the fate of the tragic hero/heroine was to
purge ourselves by participating emotionally in the tragedy.  But I
always enjoyed the alternative endings, bizarre as some of them were. 
Generally, they showed what the lives of their hero/heroine would've been
like if they had surmounted or survived the dramatic events that had
propelled them toward their disaster.  Often their lives were shown as
serene, their experiences having brought them emotional and intellectual
growth as human beings.  Because of what seemed to me a forced optimism
in such an ending, I much preferred the other traditional alternative, in
which the dramatist generally showed that the complications of life (and,
by implication, drama) continued to affect or plague the characters,
although usually in not as nobly tragic a way as the main drama.  I liked
that.  I liked the idea that we were all expected to continue the drama
of our own lives past major crisis points, and had to renew our hopes,
fears, and mysterious expectations on a regular basis.
     Ila said such a reaction suited me, since after the pleasant
intervals of furlong I always had to return to my own continuing tragedy,
the war with the Cylons.  She preferred the meaningful single crisis, the
test of nobility or even merely of the dimensions of character, over the
uncertain extensions of the alternative ending.  She may have had
something there.  Whatever.  She's dead now, beyond suffering---while I
have to confront one major crisis after another.  I sometimes consider
alternative endings---ones where the Cylons give up, or we finally
destroy them, or a mysterious third force intervenes and decides the
outcome for us.  Even more, I would rather not consider tragedy at all. 
Ila, I needed you here now, I needed that particular alternative ending. 

**********

Chapter Fifteen: The Progress Of attack

     When he was informed that contact with the command post in the
Asenath foothills had been lost, Ra was disturbed, but not worried. 
Abrupt dust storms on the mountainside frequently interfered with
communication between headquarters and summit station.  Nevertheless, the
interference was inconvenient at this moment.  Just before communications
were disrupted, Ra had been informed that objects appearing to be a
battlestar and a number of smaller ships had entered the quadrant.  A
preliminary fix had been established, and Ra had directed that the weapon
be set to fire photon torpedoes toward that fix.  There was a good chance
the Galactica had already been destroyed.  He ordered the emplacement
communications officer to continue attempts to contact headquarters, and
asked the gunnery master for more power and a faster launch rate from the
gun itself.
     As he listened to the satisfying thunder of the photon-gun-pulse
releases, Ra considered how he would return in triumph to Imperious
Leader's base ship.  He would have to be decorated, another thin-lined
black band around the shoulder, or perhaps the more prestigious award of
a thicker band at waist level.....
     He very nearly missed the beginning of the humans' attack.  There
was a brief flash of movement near an intake tube, and Ra turned to see a
human leaping from behind an energy pillar, his laser pistol drawn and
already firing.  A Cylon gunner fell.  Another human jumped out of the
intake tube and fired.  A trio of Cylon officers, Ra's bodyguard,
gathered around him and almost blocked his line of sight toward the
attackers.  Two more figures jumped out of the grid opening.  Ra could
not believe what his sensors were telling him.  Two of Sesmar's
replicants were actually helping the human attackers!
     The chamber was quickly filled with the blazing light and floating
steam of the attack.  Fire and crossfire obscured any sensible view of
the action for Ra.  To his left, one of his guards fell, his uniform on
fire.  For a moment, Ra was fascinated with the corpse, clearly dead but
with the red light in his helmet still actively piercing the layers of
smoke.  The humans, always more agile than Cylons, seemed to be leaping
everywhere, taking up new positions behind new pillars.  Gunners and
centurions were falling at a rate near that of the now accelerated
launching rate of the photon cannon.  The reserve squad of centurions
from the garrison rooms joined the battle.
     Ra's center bodyguard fell.  The remaining guard pushed his
commander back against the wall and started firing at anything that moved
toward him, as if he did not care whether his target was human or Cylon
as long as they didn't endanger the commander.  But a line of laser fire
hit the last bodyguard at neck level.  Sparks shot out from the wiring
leading to his helmet and he tried to get off one more shot before
dropping heavily to the floor.  Ra, clinging to the wall, started easing
his way along it, toward the elevator.
     The smoke cleared momentarily and he saw that three of the humans
were now gathered around the elevator, fending off attackers.  Ra,
drawing his pistol, tried to take aim on the tall young man who was the
apparent leader, but one of his own centurions got in the way.  Ra had to
retreat.  This was no time to get into the battle.  His ship!  He must
get to his ship, alert the rest of the garrison at the command post, and
bring them back here to repel this strange quartet of human attackers. 
What were they doing here anyway? he thought as he ran toward the tube
leading to his aircraft.  Why did they want to destroy the small number
of Cylons at the gun?  The gun!  Were they trying to do something to the
gun?  They could not stop it as long as it was set in the automatic mode. 
Only Ra or the gunnery master could do that.  And the gun could not be
destroyed---Sesmar had stated firmly that the material composing the body
of the gun was indestructible.  The mechanism was too complex for them to
tamper with in any way.  Sesmar had provided the factor that allowed only
specially imprinted gloved Cylon hands to operate the shut-off plate
which would stop the gun's automatic steady firing.  Sesmar had vowed
that----but Sesmar was also responsible for the replicants.  He had been
their protector, in fact, when the Cylons had wanted all batches
destroyed.  And now two of Sesmar's replicants were involved in this
sneak attack!  If he had lied about the replicants, then perhaps he had
lied about the gun.
     Ra felt an impulse to protect the gun, but the battle raging behind
him was too ferocious.  He risked too much---his squadrons of centurions,
the gun emplacement, himself, his ambition---to chance getting killed
checking out such a suspicion. The important goal was to board his ship
and gather troops to return here and vanquish the humans.
     He looked back.  How could only four attackers do so much damage? 
Cylons had fallen everywhere, it seemed.  Smoke and fluttering sparks
flew up from their bodies.  Their red lights dimmed and went out.  But
this was no time to weep for the slain.  The official mourning would come
later, in proper organized ceremonies.  Ra turned to run through the
gangway tunnel to his ship.
     And found a short stocky human blocking his way and aiming a laser
pistol at him.  Ra threw himself against the wall as the human fired.

**********

     The photon bolts were now arcing toward the fleet with shorter time
intervals between them.  A supply ship had been hit and apparently
destroyed by one of the powerful torpedoes.  By quick alterations of
course, the Galactica had missed being hit twice.
     Athena studied her father's grim face.  He stood at his post,
gripping the railing that ran in front of him and seemed stymied by the
photon cannon's fierce attacks.
     "Can't we do anything to counter the force of the torpedo
launchings?" he asked Tigh.  
     The aide shook his head no.  "We've analyzed them from every angle,
looked for some way to anticipate them, but we simply don't have
sufficient data.  If only the expedition had been able to---"
     "Don't give up hope yet.  The expedition may still be functioning."
     Tigh seemed about to protest, but instead returned to duty.  Athena
knew that the colonel, knowing the efficiency with which Apollo worked,
did not expect her brother to stretch out the mission time to the last
possible micron.  She hoped Tigh was wrong.  But she couldn't help but
feel despair over the mission.  If they were going to destroy the
launcher, they should've done so by now, they should---
     A photon torpedo swarm that passed so near the Galactica that Athena
was certain that, if she had time to go out and check the superstructure
surface, she'd discover singe marks there rudely interrupted her thoughts
on the subject.

**********

     Imperious Leader was pleased with the progress of the attack. The
trap was just about sprung.  The Galactica had been forced into the
quadrant where the pulses from the photon weapon would be most effective. 
He had ordered that the coordinates of the Galactica be transmitted
regularly to Ra on the desert planet, then had continued the pursuit of
his own fleet after the human ships.
     Just after the coordinates had been transmitted, the Cylon fleet had
lost contact with the garrison on Equis.  That was an annoyance, albeit a
slight one.  The Galactica was definitely trapped between the pursuit
force and the ultimate weapon.  There was no way it could escape.  
     But then, why was the Starbuck simulacrum, which had been informed
of each phase of the action, and had to know that annihilation was
imminent, grinning and keeping so quiet?

**********

The Book Of Zodiac: 

     I don't expect to see what I see when I crawl out of the tunnel
under the gun.  Dead Cylons are lying all over the place.  Apollo is
gesturing toward the elevator.  I start running toward it.  Venus splits
off away from me, toward the tunnel to the Cylon ship.  I try not to look
at her go.  Then she stops running and yells: "Zodiac!"
     By the entrance to the tunnel, Jonah is grappling with a Cylon. 
It's the officer, the head honcho with all the decorations on his
uniform.  A section of his black-banded sleeve is sizzling----Jonah's
obviously fired at him, but missed.  Now the Cylon creep's all over him. 
Jonah still has his pistol, but it's pointing futilely upward toward the
ceiling.  He fires it once, and I hear the crackling of a destroyed light
source above me.  The Cylon picks Jonah up, holds him with his feet
dangling above the floor.  Good Kobol!  I never knew a Cylon could be
that strong. He's Jonah's match all the way.  Venus tries to leap at the
Cylon, but the bloody bastard seems to anticipate her move and slides out
of her way while still clutching Jonah.  I start running toward them,
laser drawn and pointed in the Cylon's direction, waiting for a clear
shot at him.  The Cylon's holding Jonah in front of him now.  If I shoot
I'm more likely to hit Jonah.  Venus, in better position, grips the
handle of her pistol to get a steady aim, but the Cylon moves Jonah's
body a bit to the right toward her, blocking her line of shot.  He's
using Jonah as a shield.
     Backing into a tunnel, he keeps his attention on both Venus and me. 
Picking up Jonah even higher, he squeezes him in a fierce one-armed
embrace.  I can hear bones crack inside Jonah's body.  The Cylon forces
his other gloved hand between himself and Jonah's head.  He pushes
Jonah's head backward, breaking his neck.  Then he tosses Jonah toward
Venus, as if the body were a light bundle.  For a moment, my reflexes go
bad on me; I can't really comprehend what the Cylon officer has done.  I
never could beat Jonah in a fight, except for that once.  This Cylon
creep has disposed of him in an instant.  I start chasing after the Cylon
finally, firing wildly.  Ahead in the tunnel, the Cylon doesn't even look
back.  He's in his ship and the tunnel's closed off before I can squeeze
off a shot at the ship's fueling area.  The tunnel rumbles and detaches
from the ship.  I feel the floor slipping out from under me.  I scramble
backward, reach the main chamber just in time.  I would've slid downward
through the gangway tunnel and found myself back on the mountain with
nothing to do but kill time and wait for the explosion to kill me.
     Venus is kneeling beside Jonah, trying to find some miracle in her
medical training she can use to restore him. I grab her arm and try to
pull her away.  She resists, and I can't budge her.
     "He's dead, Venus."
     "I know."
     "Let's go."
     She stands up, looks down at the corpse briefly, sadly.
     "He was a murderer, Venus, just a---"
     "I know, and he was such a rotten grid-rat I don't know why I'm sad,
why----let's get out of here."
     We run to the elevator.  Apollo pushes us inside, then he and
Deckard back in, firing furiously at the few remaining Cylons.  Rachel,
firing off a few shots to the side, runs in just after them, and the
doors close behind her.  All of the technology on the elevator is of
Cylon manufacture, but Apollo knows something about it, because he pushes
the right plates and we begin descending.
     "How are we for time?" I ask Apollo.
     "I'm not sure.  Lost a little there at the last moment."
     "Won't the blast cut the cable if we don't reach the lower level in
time?"
     "It might.  We'll find out."
     I'll say one thing for the Cylons, they sure know how to build
elevators.  This one moves downward so smoothly, it's impossible to tell
what our descent speed is.  I hope it's fast, I surely do.  Venus has
folded her tall broad body into a back corner of the elevator car.  Her
eyes are vacant, her mouth slack.  Rachel whispers to her, evidently
trying to say something comforting, but Venus isn't having any, and she
really gestures Rachel away.  She wipes her forehead with the back of her
hand, dabs at her cheeks.  Sweat is running off her.  Running off all of
us, in fact.
     Apollo keeps his gaze fixed on the old chronometer.  I try to
interpret the strange flashes of light on the hexagons of the elevator
control board.  There's no way of telling whether or not we'll make it to
the bottom in time.
     "How much time?" I ask Apollo.
     Without taking his eyes off his timepiece, he says: "Ten microns."
     "You have any idea whether this elevator's out of range of the
blast?"
     "I can't say.  Maybe."
     "Hopeful, anyway."
     "Eight microns."
     Copying Apollo, I set my jaw at grim.  The only sound in the
elevator car is Apollo's whispering countdown.  He reaches one, and we
all tense.  There is a long silence.
     "Maybe I did something wrong with the----"
     But the explosion interrupts me.  It's a deep rumbling blast
followed by a series of increasingly louder ones.  The chain-reaction
effect of the zinium is proceeding according to plan.  I can interpret
the sounds of zinium as precisely as an average person can detect changes
in a melody.
     At the loudest explosion, the elevator stops abruptly.  My legs feet
like they're being pushed through the floor.  Deckard does fall, knocking
against Apollo and Rachel.  Apollo grabs at the control panel and
steadies himself.
     The explosions stop.  We all take a simultaneous deep breath and I
seem to feel the floor of the elevator swaying beneath me.
     "Are we falling?" I ask Apollo.
     "No. But something's loose somewhere.  I don't know if---"
     "Captain Apollllooooooo!" cries a voice below us.  The sound is
faint but clear.  Apollo, amazed, looks at me.
     "That's Starbuck's voice," he says, then crouches down near the
doorway and shouts downward, "We're up here, Starbuck.  Can you hear me?"
     "Pretty good, Captain.  Think I can see you. You're about fifty
meters above us.  Looks to me like there's a maintenance ledge
about...about twenty meters below you.  If you can get to that, there's a
sort of ladder."
     "Okay, Starbuck, thanks.  We'll be right down.  Keep your people out
of the way."  Apollo stands.  "Okay, Zodiac, what do you suggest?"
     "Blast a hole in the flooring first, then we'll descend by rope.  I
mean, rope we got in abundance, right?"
     "Just about my idea, too.  Stand back, everybody."
     Aiming his laser pistol at a section of flooring, he quickly carves
out a circle of metal.  Holstering the laser, he taps that part of the
flooring with his axe. It gives way easily and falls down the shaft.  We
hear the clank of it hitting the bottom even sooner than we'd hoped.
     "Okay," Apollo says to me.  "Who should handle the belay?"
     "No need for a belay, Captain.  I still have some of the fancy
pitons."
     "I don't understand. How are you going to get out there into the
shaft and push them into the rock, how---"
     "They hold in metal, too.  Watch."
     I set the molecular-binding scale on the top of the piton to metal. 
Kneeling down, I drive them into the thick flooring in a semi-circle. 
Going in, they sound good.  They should hold.  Venus, thinking ahead of
me, has rope ready and attaches it to five carabiners, then snap-locks
them to the five pitons.  I test that each carabiner is securely locked
to each piton and satisfy myself that they should hold the rope.
     "Good work," Apollo says.  "Okay, I'll go first, test the holding
power of the rope and----"
     "No, Captain," Venus interrupts.  "We appreciate your bravado,
but---"
     "It's not bravado, it's common sense, as the leader of---"
     "Common sense?  Hardly.  You showed us on the mountainside how
experienced you were when it came to climbing.  All due apologies, but
the same goes for descending, Captain.  Zodiac and I have better
experience and more training.  We'll go first.  Is that all right by you,
Zodiac?"
     "Of course it's all right."
     I have to struggle to keep joy out of my voice.  Venus's asked me to
team up with her again, even if only for this one task.  Of course it's
all right.
     "Ready Zodiac?" Venus says, as she flings the coil of rope through
the hole and then sets it for the stiff cable-like tensility.
     Venus seems normal again, like in the old days.  Efficient, steady,
eager to attack a task without pause.  "Should we rope together?" I ask
her.
     "No.  Better to descend one person at a time.  Safer that way, in
case the conditions on the mountain affected the rope at any point."
     "Shall we toss a cubit for who goes first?"
     "No.  I'm going first."
     "Venus, I'll----"
     "Zodiac, it's my play."
     She's appealing to my sense of leadership.  If I tell her not to go
first, she'll defer to me.  But, on the other hand, she's telling me
she's not only go the right to go first, but she's got the best shot at
doing it right.  She's angling for an unselfish command decision.  I have
to give it to her.  "All right, Venus.  Take care."
     She smiles.  "Sure thing," she says, and has grabbed the stiff rope
and started descending before I can come up with a clever good-bye.  I
lie prone in the hole and watch her descend in the dim light cast by our
lanterns and the interior illumination of the elevator.  A crack of light
can be seen crossing the bottom of the shaft.  It's not a long descent to
the bottom at all.
     "It's an easy rappel," Venus hollers up to us.  "Easy.  All of you
just dig your crampons in the wall and let your legs do the work.  I have
to.  I forgot to wear my gloves, they're probably up there on the floor
somewhere, and this ropes as rough as a rasp file.  My hands're gonna be
as raw as daggit meat."
     "The rock jutting out below you, Venus, it looks loose," I holler.
     "Right.  I see it.  Thanks, Zodiac."
     Bouncing her feet off the wall sometimes, at other times digging the
crampons in for a few careful steps, she slowly makes her way down the
rope.
     "I think you're just about there, Venus."
     "Yeah.  About another half-metron."
     When she reaches the ledge, she gives a good kick at the side of the
shaft wall and lands, clumsily but firmly, on the ledge.
     "All right, Zodiac," she hollers up.  "Nothing to it.  Come on down. 
I can anchor the rope from down here, so it'll be even easier for you,
cragsman."
     Reacting quickly, I grab a section of the rope and easy myself out
of the floor hole.  Venus is right; the rappel is easy.  Having watched
her rappel, I can do it even faster.  The rock I shove my crampons into
is firm and I get good friction all the way down.
     I am about three meters from the ledge when I hear a reverberating
rumble above me.
     "What's that?" Venus calls.
     "Another explosion.  Or one big avalanche or quake on the mountain."
     I start scrambling down the rope. When I am near level with the
ledge, the shaft starts trembling in reaction to the blast.  Some rocks
fall right by my head.
     "Swing yourself this way, Zodiac," Venus yells.
     I swing toward her.  She grabs my leg, eases me down toward the
ledge.  The noise in the shaft grows louder.  More rocks disengage from
the shaft wall.  Venus grabs my left hand with her right.  My right is
still on the rope.  As my foot touches the surface of the ledge, there is
another frightening rumble and I feel the ledge breaking away beneath my
feet.  Clinging to the rope, I try to tighten my grip on Venus's hand. 
She tries to do the same, but neither of us can quite coordinate.  Her
hand, raw and bleeding, slips a bit in my glove, but she manages to hold
on.  She flings out her feet, trying to get them onto the piece of ledge
that's left.  I try to get leverage to help her swing, but can't.  My arm
feels stretched, hanging from the rope.  Venus tries again for the ledge
but fails, although her foot briefly touches its ledge.  Now she's
hanging below me, dangling.  "Grab a piece of the rope!' I holler.
     She reaches toward it with her left hand, puts her fingers around
it, seems to grip it.
     "Don't let go of me yet!" I cry, but she is already letting go.  I
don't know whether she intends to grab the stiff rope with both hands and
whether her right hand, too raw to hold on, just slips out of my glove. 
Whatever, she has also lost her grip on the rope.  She begins to slide
downward.  She makes a grab at the rope with her free hand but misses. 
Then both hands are off the rope and she's falling.
     I remember her falling away from me in my nightmare.  This fall is
nothing like the one in the dream.  It's quick, and her scream echoes
through the shaft even after her body has struck the bottom.

**********

Chapter Sixteen: They did it!  They did it! 
 
     Athena brought Mount Asenath into focus on the monitor screen.  This
was the first scan they'd been able to make of the desert planet's
surface in quite some time now.  For a moment, at least, the mountain
could be seen clearly.  She called Tigh over.  He nodded grimly.
     "Then they didn't get it," he said, pointing to the photonic weapon
on top of the mountain, which responded to his point by letting out
another chain of torpedoes.
     Athena and Tigh stared at the screen as if it were playing a visual
entertainment disc.  For both of them, the apparent stillness of the
planet's surface seemed to, once and for all, signal defeat for the
Galactica.
     "I thought for certain they'd----" Athena muttered, but was
interrupted by an intensely bright flash of light from the top of the
mountain.  At first she thought it was just another salvo from the gun;
then she saw the barrel of the launcher turn bright red, then white, just
before the whole emplacement exploded outward.  The whole summit of the
mountain seemed to erupt and form a small cloud above where the
emplacement had been.  Debris was still flying outward when she turned to
Tigh and yelled: "They did it!  They did it!"
     "Commander," Tigh shouted.  "The photon torpedo launcher's been
destroyed.  It----"
     The Galactica was rocked by a salvo from the photonic gun, passing
closer to the battlestar than any previous salvo had.  A warning light
flashed on, signifying a fire in the cargo hold.  Adama ordered a fire
crew dispatched.
     "Was that the last barrage from the gun before it----?" he said to
Tigh.
     "I hope so.  I certainly hope so."
     Tensely, everyone on the bridge waited, each person dreading the
eerie thought of being wiped out by a weapon that had already been
destroyed.
     "That's it," Athena said at last, looking up from her scanner.  "It
was definitely the last one."
     A sense of relief passed across the bridge, and several crewmembers
managed a weak but emotion-filled cheer.
     "They've done it!" Adama said, smiling for the first time since the
attacks had begun.  More crewmembers supplemented the growing cheer.
     "Send down a rescue unit with full fighter escort," Adama ordered. 
"Athena can pilot the rescue ship.  I'm sure she'd enjoy that."
     Athena almost hadn't heard her father's last orders.  Then they
exchanged affectionate smiles, as she escaped from her communications
console and headed for the launching deck.

**********

     Ra was nearing the headquarters airfield when the explosion above
him sent his ship rocking, nearly into a spin.  Climbing out of that
spin, he saw the massive final blast that destroyed the laser weapon.  He
didn't have much time to think about it, for the shock waves from the
blast caused his ship to go out of control again.  Ra tried to restore a
steady course, but he could not stop the plunge downward.  He managed to
level off the ship just before striking ground, and it skidded to a stop
in the sandy field, a few meters away from headquarters.
     Fearing a systems failure that would set the ship afire, Ra
scrambled clumsily out of the cockpit and staggered a few steps away. 
His arm, grazed by the shot from the stocky human's gun, began to hurt
again.  He looked back at his ship.  Much of its underside had ripped
away and it was no longer flyable, but it didn't catch fire.
     Turning, he started walking toward the command-post building.  For
the first time he saw the dying fire inside its portals.  Suddenly, he
understood everything.  While the bomb-planting team had attacked the
summit station, another group of humans, perhaps also aided by Sesmar's
deceptive clones, had attacked the command post and probably the
underground complex.  That was why the Cylons at the gun had lost
communication contact with the headquarters in the Asenath foothills.
     Ra wanted to run wild with rage.  Running wild was a rarity among
Cylons, but not unknown.  For the first time, Ra understood what rage was
all about.  This infernal small group of humans had not only wrecked his
garrison and blown up his gun, they had also exploded his life.  There
was no more point to his ambition.  He would never succeed Imperious
Leader.  His life had become as useless as a street poet's on the home
planets of the Alliance.
     Inside the command post, he surveyed the damage. The humans had
totally wrecked the place.  Their attack and the subsequent fire had
transformed everything into smoking wreckage.  He touched the activation
button of the transmitter, hoping to see the shape of Imperious Leader
form bit by bit on the fractured screen, but there was no response to his
pressing of the button.  The only piece of furniture still intact in the
room was his command chair.  He slumped into it.
     Using the meditative factor of his second brain, he was able to put
himself into a trance that not only calmed him, but mercifully removed
awareness of his surroundings.  He did not know how long he remained in
this state.  When he came to, he was immediately aware of the danger.  He
looked out the command-post's window.  A large ship had just come down
from the sky, followed by an escort of fighters.  Vipers.  Human ships. 
What were they doing here?  To rescue their invasion force?  Or complete
the destruction of his unit here?  No matter.  What did he care what the
humans' motives were anymore?  The only instinct left in him said to
destroy them, any of them.  He would start with this rescue force.
     Slipping out of the command-post structure, he made his way to the
airfield without being blocked by any of the enemy.  The first ship he
came to was one of the Cylon fighters that were equipped to guide the
ghost ships that were positioned in the front ranks of the airfield.  He
could control five ghost ships from this guidance craft.  It was just
what he needed.  The humans would think an entire Cylon squad was
attacking them, when it was only Ra and a quintet of ghost ships.  He
looked up at the human ships.  There might be too many of them, but he
would give them a good battle before going down.
     Pressing a control-panel plate so that the scanning equipment
recognized the imprint of the glove on his right hand, he brought the
fuel activation level to full power.  To his left, he saw some children,
reacting, perhaps, to the sudden noise of his aircraft, crawling out of
the fighter next to him.  Children?  What would children be doing in a
Cylon fighter, especially children who vaguely resembled Sesmar's
accursed replicants?  Everything, it seemed, was going crazy around him. 
No matter.  The destruction of human ships would bring back his sanity. 
He pressed the plates that powered the ghost ships.  Ahead of him, five
ships stirred quickly to life.

**********

     Starbuck helped Apollo climb out of the elevator shaft.  A meter and
a half below, on the floor of the shaft, Zodiac still knelt by the body
of Venus.  The man just sat there, as if he were willing to wait through
eternity for a flicker of movement from her.  Starbuck considered going
down there, convincing him to leave her, telling him that they could
arrange a proper disposition of the body, burial or flames, later.  But
he decided to leave Zodiac alone with his sorrow for a couple of moments
longer.
     "She did a good job up there," Starbuck muttered.  
     "Both of them did," Apollo said.  "By the way, thanks for being
here."
     "I told you not to worry about my timing.  Though the Cylon guards
put up so much resistance, they darn near were your welcoming committee,
Captain.
     "Any Cylons left in the garrison?"
     "No," Boomer said.  "They seem to be wiped out."
     "We'll have to regroup now.  Boomer, you go back and get Balivirtiam
and the wounded, bring them back here. Take a squad of Deckard's people
to help you."
     "Yo!" Boomer said.  He turned militarily and strode away.
     "Starbuck, you get Boxey and the children."
     "Right, Captain.  Hey, Cadet Charlex, come with me."
     Charlex---or at least a scrawny version of the immature
cadet---appeared from a shadowy niche and weakly saluted Apollo, who
returned the courtesy.
     "I didn't expect to see you, Charlex."
     "I---I never said anything to them, sir.  Honest!"
     "Well, that might earn you a bit of metal, Charlex."
     "A...bit...of...metal?"
     "An award, Charlex, a medal."
     "Oh, yes sir."
     "Go help Starbuck."
     Apollo went back to the elevator shaft and descended to Zodiac. 
"We've go to go now," he whispered.  "I'll send someone back for Venus."
     "I should've saved her, shouldn't have let her drop, shouldn't---"
     "Take it easy, Zodiac.  We have to go."
     Zodiac stood up, looked down at Venus's body.  "I wanted to get back
together with her," he said.  "I was thinking of that, back on the
elevator.  Well, that was probably so much felgercarb.  She'd never've
come back to me.  But there were so many things I---"
     "Let's go."
     "Right."
     They climbed out of the shaft, Apollo giving Zodiac the final hand
up, Deckard approached them, saying: "Dr. Sesmar told me to inform you
that he's established contact with the Galactica.  They're sending down a
rescue unit.  It should arrive anytime now."
     Apollo told Deckard to take him to Sesmar.  With Zodiac following,
they made their way through labyrinthine corridors to Sesmar's quarters. 
Sesmar smiled when he saw Apollo.  "Your rescue ship's just inside the
atmosphere now," the balding scientist said.  "It should be coming
through momentarily.  Are you all right?"
     Apollo glanced at Zodiac, whose eyes seemed vacant.  "Well enough,"
Apollo said.
     "My replicants have been conducting a celebration in the main hall. 
Look."
     Sesmar pointed toward the telecom screen.  Apollo looked.  The
replicants were, indeed, making merry, he thought.
     "Happiness has been alien to them," Semsar commented.  "It is good
to hear it again."
     "The Cylons will come back," Apollo said.
     "We'll be ready for them, I assure you.  What matters now, friend
Apollo, is that you've saved us.  You've saved my children."
     "I might suggest you stop calling them children, sir.  You may be
having a little trouble with them from now on.  They're becoming more
human than human."
     "Thank the Lords of Kobol for that."
     Starbuck, bursting into the room, interrupted the handshake between
Apollo and Sesmar.  "Captain!" the blonde lieutenant cried, "Boxey and
the children.  They aren't there!  Rachel's twin told me the Cylons came
and the children ran away in the confusion."
     "Send everyone you can to search the corridors, Apollo commanded. 
"You come with me, Zodiac.  You too, Deckard.  I'll need your help
getting around out there."
     Zodiac followed Apollo and Deckard out of the room and down a long
corridor.  Finally catching up to them, Zodiac said to Apollo: "Where are
we going?"
     "To the airfield.  The children might be wandering around on the
surface.  The heat or the bercesgadium could kill them!"
     "But why the airfield?"
     "We're going to hot-link a Cylon ship and go off looking for them."
     "Oh."
     "You got a problem with that?"
     "No.  I just thought you wanted us to do something drastic."

**********

     Boxey had been awakened briefly by the sound of loud explosions and
the lighting up of the sky.  Muffit had barked.  Boxey had told the
daggit to be quiet and gone back to sleep.
     Now he was awakened by the lurch of the ship in which he slept.  A
rumble from the front of the ship sent tremors though its walls.
     "We better get outta here, daggit," Boxey said, but he had trouble
getting his body to move.  It felt numb all the way through.  "Go get
Dad, Muffit....or Starbuck!"
     The daggit barked again, seemed to hesitate, and then shoved its
snout against the exit hatch of the ship.  It came open narrowly, and
Muffit squeezed out.  The hatch slammed shut behind it.  Boxey could hear
Muffy's barking outside.  He tried to force his body toward the hatch but
it was no use.  He couldn't move fast enough.  Just as he'd reached the
hatch by crawling, the ship started throbbing and Boxey could feel it
lift off the ground.  
     Boxey didn't know whether to be thrilled or scared.  He'd always
wanted a ride in a Cylon ship, he just wasn't sure now was the time.

**********

     Athena steadied the rescue shuttle just below the ionosphere and
ordered a crewmember to establish contact with the expedition.  After a
brief colloquy with a strange-looking man named Sesmar, who told her that
Apollo, Starbuck, and Boomer were safe, she set the crew to their proper
tasks.  The medical officer reported ready. The pilot who'd be driving
the landram reported ready.  The warrior contingent, brought here in case
any Cylons attacked during the rescue operation, reported ready.  As she
was about to set the rescue mission going, the communications officer
reported: "Activity on the airfield below.  Cylon ships revving up."
     "Are you sure it's Cylons?  Sesmar said the garrison was wiped out."
     "I can't tell who's piloting the ships.  It looks like nobody's in
them, from the scanner probe."
     "Ghost ships!  Equipped with warheads, maybe.  Alert the escort
force but tell them to hold fire until intent of attack is established."
     Athena's brow furled.  She tightened her grip on the controls of the
rescue shuttle.
     Five of the Cylon ships on the airfield below lifted off
simultaneously, followed by a sixth ship from a rear rank.  Athena asked
for a further scanner probe, and was told that the rear ship contained
personnel; outline indicated a lone Cylons.  The other ships were
definitely of the designation ghost ship, and were warhead-equipped.  
     "Any intent of hostile activity?" Athena asked.
     "Not yet."
     A moment later one of the Cylon ships gave a sign of hostile
activity.  It flew right at a colonial escort viper.  Reacting rapidly to
Athena's hasty order of "Fire!" the viper shot at the ghost ship. 
Hitting it head on, the viper's fire caused the Cylon ship to burst into
flame and plunge toward the planet's surface.  It exploded before hitting
the ground.
     "The other Cylon ships are maneuvering into attack positions," the
communications officer said.
     "Blast them out of the skies!" Athena ordered.

**********

     Ra had put the first ghost ship into operation too hastily.  He
should not have sent it up against one of the vipers.  The human craft
was too maneuverable, could evade the ghost ship too easily, and explode
its warhead before it could do any damage. Clearly, the better strategy,
if he were to get any revenge at all, was to destroy the larger, less
maneuverable rescue ship.  Fiddling with the controls, he set the
guidance system for an attack on the human rescue shuttle by two of the
remaining ghost ships.

**********

     Boxey, feeling better now from the exertion, pulled himself forward
into the cockpit of the Cylon ship.  He realized his ship was part of a
line of ships.  Up ahead was what looked like a shuttle from the
Galactica.  He hoped it was from the Galactica.  
     Next to him one of the other ships flew forward with a loud surge of
power.  It ran right at what Boxey recognized as a colonial viper, the
kind he hoped to fly someday.  It looked like the fighter was going to
crash right into the viper.
     "No, don't," Boxey cried aloud.  "Shoot it down, warrior!"
     Which the pilot of the viper promptly did.
     "Good shooting!" Boxey yelled, and then watched two other ships pull
out of the line and head toward the formation of Galactica spacecraft.

**********

     Athena recognized the move of the two ghost ships immediately.  One
would loop up and attack the rescue shuttle from above, while the other
would zero in from below.  
     "Intercept!" she ordered.
     Two vipers intruded themselves between the lower attacker and the
rescue shuttle.  Catching the ghost ship between two lines of fire, they
set it aflame.  Another shot and they got the warhead.  The ghost ship
exploded.  The shockwave rocked the shuttle, and Athena was able to level
it off again with extreme difficulty and quick reflex responses.  She
wished she were in one of the vipers.  Any ship lighter and more
maneuverable than this rescue shuttle.
     "The other ghost ship!" her communications officer said.  "It got
two vipers.  Blew itself and them right out of the skies.  It's
horrible!" He turned to the console.  "There's a message coming in.  It's
Dr. Sesmar again."
     Sesmar's voice sounded strained, desperate.  He asked to speak to
the officer in command.
     "What is it?" Athena said.
     "The ships attacking you.  They're nonpersonnel guidance-system
craft that----"
     "Yes, I know all that.  Don't worry. Three of them are already
destroyed.  We'll get the others, then----"
     "No, you can't!  One of them may have one of your people on it.  A
boy.  A----"
     "Boxey?"
     Sesmar briefly conversed with an squinty-eyed man dressed in
coveralls.  Turning back to face the screen, he said: "Yes, that's the
right name.  Somehow he got on one of the Cylon ships.  Captain Apollo's
on his way up in a Cylon fighter."
     "All right, doctor."  She turned to the communications officer and
said: "Report."
     "The other two ghost ships are closing in together.  Looks like
they're ready for attack.  The ship in the rear is definitely guiding
them."
     "Can you tell which ship Boxey's in?"
     "No.  Scanner probe's not come up with that information."
     "All right.  God, we might have killed----we'll have to execute
evasive action until we're sure whether or not Boxey's in one of those
two ships!  Tell the fighter escort to pull away.  They're officially out
of combat."
     "But---"
     "I can't have one of them going in half-cocked and shooting down the
ship Boxey's in.  As soon as one of the ghost ships makes a move at us,
we're just going to have to evade it.  Those are your orders."
     "We can send one of the vipers after the guidance ship, then---"
     "Uh-uh.  Too risky.  The guidance ship just might be able to explode
the warheads on the ghost ships by remote.  I don't even know if the
lousy Cylon's aware of Boxey being in that ship."
     Feeling her body tense, she gripped the controls as she heard the
communications officer shout: "One of them's comin' right at us!"

**********

The Book Of Zodiac: 

     The way Apollo skims across the sandy fields, you'd never think he
just got done climbing a mountain and attacking a photon torpedo station
a short time ago.  He's even still wearing his climbing equipment.  An
axe in-holster bumps against the side of the ship as he runs.  Deckard,
keeping up with him and giving him directions, is even more loaded down
than Apollo.  The clone still has a full pack and all his equipment.
     Anyway, how do I know it's only been a short time since we got off
the mountain?  I haven't been keeping track.  I don't know how long I sat
by Venus's body.  It could have been centons.  Venus.  I don't want to
think of her.  I don't want to think of that.  At every step I take, I
seem to think Venus's dead, Venus's dead, Venus's----I've got to stop it. 
She knew the risk she was taking, she accepted it.  I would've been the
same.  But Venus's dead.  And I'm not.  I should be.  Venus's....
     I try to take my mind off it.  Looking up, I can see the rescue ship
hovering in the blue sky of daytime, like a somber queen bee, with the
smaller vipercraft buzzing around it like drones.
     I have to put on an extra rush of catch up to Apollo and Deckard. 
Just ahead of us is the Cylon airfield, next to the wrecked command post. 
A group of the replicant children are gathering at the edge of it. 
Apollo runs up to them, shouting: "Where's Boxey?"
     There's desperation in his voice unlike any I've heard before. 
     A child answers: "We don't know.  He told us to hide in the ships. 
He went on ahead there."
     The child points to the front rank of Cylon aircraft.  Suddenly a
fighter behind us starts throbbing with power.  Ahead of us five ships in
the front rank rev up.  Apollo runs toward them, Deckard and I following
a few steps behind.  As we get near the five ships in front, the hatch of
one of them squeezes open and what comes out of it but the kid's daggit
droid!  The hatch springs shut behind it, as it scampers up to Apollo,
barking loudly.  Apollo seems to understand the bloody droid-animal.
     "What is it?" I ask Apollo.
     "Boxey's in there, I think.  He must be, if Muffit was.  In that
ship.  It's a ghost ship."
     "What's a---"
     Before I can finish the question, Apollo whirls around and starts
running toward the ghost ship---just as it begins to lift off the ground. 
We're all forced backward by the swirling tornado in its wake.
     I'm recovering my balance as Apollo grabs my arm and starts pulling
me toward the nearest Cylon fighter.  All of the ghost ships are in the
air now.  Stopping by the fighter, he turns to Deckard, yells: "Throw
your mountaineering equipment aboard, then get to Sesmar!  Have him send
a message to that shuttle that Boxey's in one of the ghost ships. 
Hurry!"
     Deckard, reacting immediately, is hurling mountaineering equipment
aboard the Cylon ship before Apollo finishes his orders.  First there's
his pack, then his axe, then a whole package of pitons----he must've been
hoarding them.  Apollo, after dumping his climbing material onto the
pile, pulls me onto the fighter.  Deckard's coil of rope follows me
aboard; then the replicant turns on his heels and sprints off.  He is
surprisingly agile for a man running on a hot sandy surface.
     Apollo is busy monkeying with some wires beneath the control panel
of the Cylon craft.  
     "Can you really fly one of these things?" I yell.
     "Theoretically."
     "Theoretically?  You mean you've never----"
     "No."
     I glance around me.  The insides of the ship are weird, all
pinwheels and improbably rounded gears, and other things I can't begin to
make out.  I turn back and stare at Apollo, trying to keep my mouth from
hanging open.  
     "There," he says, getting up and taking the pilot seat. 
     "There what?"
     "The controls are easy, but they're keyed to imprints of electronic
wiring inside Cylon gloves.  Fixing those wires should inform the
monitoring devices that I'm a Cylon."
     "Listen, Apollo, you're so alien to me right now that you're
beginning to look like a Cylon."
     He doesn't bother to respond, but fingers a couple of buttons and
levers.  The fighter kicks into action.  I find myself falling into a
copilot seat at the upward thrust of the ship.
     Above us, I can see a ghost ship in the middle of blowing up.  I
glance over at Apollo.  The strange controls are keeping him busy; he
hasn't time to comment.  I wonder what I'm doing here, and why he
insisted on shoving me into this ship.  His eyes look insane with
desperation.  What in damn Scorpia is he planning?  I don't think I want
to know.
     As we zoom upward, I watch two ghost ships, apparently guided by the
fighter that's staying to the rear, suddenly zero in on the rescue
shuttle, one from above, the other from below.  A pair of vipers knocks
out the one going after the shuttle's underbelly, but the other one
nearly succeeds in blowing up the rescue ship.  It's stopped by two
vipers, who are themselves caught and destroyed by the subsequent
explosion.  Other vipers seem on course to attack the remaining two ghost
ships.
     "No, don't, don't...." Apollo mutters.
     Suddenly all the vipers peel away from the shuttle.
     "Deckard got through to Sesmar," Apollo shouts.  "They know Boxey's
in one of those last two ships."
     I almost don't want to say it, but I do: "How do you know Boxey
wasn't in one of the ships that went down?"
     "I've kept track of the markings on the ship he was in.  It's the
one up there on the right."
     I look where he points.  That particular ship has left the other one
now and his heading right toward the rescue shuttle.  For a moment it
looks like it's going to crash right into the front of the shuttle, but
at the last moment the shuttle dips and flies under the ghost ship. The
ghost ship flies up into the sky, its course already being redirected by
the guidance ship.
     "Okay, good," Apollo says.  "Whoever's flying the shuttle's an
expert.  That was precision flying!"
     "I'm sure it was.  But what good's it going to do?  If I follow you
correctly, that Cylon thing's got a warhead and it's not going to stop
searching out the---"
     "We're going to have to stop it.  We're going to have to get Boxey
out of there."
     Did I hear him right?
     "Just how do you propose to---"
     "Tell ya in a flash.  Just let me take care of that other ghost ship
before it gets the shuttle."
     Manipulating the strange controls with a tense efficiency, Apollo
heads for the other ghost ship, which is now bearing down on the shuttle. 
The shuttle has just pulled out of its dive, but it manages to veer off
rightward to evade the attack of the warhead-equipped fighter. Before the
ghost ship can have its course redirected toward the shuttle, Apollo
dives our ship right at it, then pushes a multilined template in front of
him.  Laser fire shoots out from the front of our ship.  A few tongues of
flame and the ghost ship is a real ghost now.  I hope Apollo was right
about which ship Boxey's in.
     The last ghost ship heads directly for the highside of the shuttle.
It looks like there's no chance the rescue ship can get out of the way,
but at the last possible moment it surges forward with a blast of power
and the ghost ship goes unsinged through its flaming wake.  The ghost
ship goes into a deep dive.  Apollo mutters: "No, it can't crash.  It
can't---"
     It doesn't.  The attacker is pulled out and buzzes the ground.  If
Boxey's really in it, he must be having one hell of a fun ride.  That
Cylon pilot's showing considerable skills at precision flying by remote.
     Apollo turns to me, talks quickly: "Okay, Zodiac, it's up to you
now."
     "Up to me?  To do what?"
     "Listen and don't interrupt.  The climbing stuff, you know how to
use it.  Anchor the rope here, and climb down to the ghost ship, get
Boxey out with your fancy equipment.  That's it.  It's our only chance."
     "Chance, hell!  It's----"
     "Do it!"
     The desperation in his voice puts an end to it.  Sure, I'll do it, I
say to myself even as I start gathering the equipment, what do I care?  I
might as well die, too, like Venus.  Even as I contemplate my own death,
I work out a plan.  It probably won't work, it shouldn't, but I don't
like to try anything this dumb without a plan.  Why shouldn't it work? 
All I've got to do is work my way down to a ghost ship that's engaged in
attacking a shuttle while the revered Captain Apollo keeps still another
ship that he's never flown before steady enough for me to do my job
without falling from the rope to the desert floor below.  I can do that,
can't I?
     As I anchor the rope to an axe that I've wedged between the base of
the copilot seat and another jutting piece of  ship whose function I
can't even guess, I notice that the belay's no worse than some I've set
up on mountainsides.  I tell Apollo a few hand signals I'll be using
that'll let him know how to fly while I'm operating below.  Then I grab
three molecular-binding pitons, and using my famous Scorpion slipknot on
each, I connect them all with a length of rope.  Attaching another piece
of rope to a second axe, I coil it and secure it on my shoulder.  I check
to verify that my laser pistol is still in my holster.  Taking still more
rope, and with a few more applications of my famous Scorpion knotwork, I
jerry-rig several loops at the end of the climbing rope I'm going to use. 
Some of the loops are small enough to slip a boot into, which is exactly
what I intend to slip into them.  Another two loops are big enough to fit
me rather snugly, albeit without much style, at chest and waist levels. 
I weight down the main climbing rope with a lot of junk I rind around the
interior of the Cylon ship.  Apollo keeps looking over his shoulder, as
if to say: Aren't you ever going to be ready?
     "Good flying!" he shouts suddenly.  Apparently the pilot of the
shuttle has executed another great maneuver!  Swell!
     After setting the rope to stiffer cablelike tension and kicking open
the side hatch of the Cylon fighter, I throw the rope out the hatch.  The
weight at the rope end keeps the rope from dragging directly behind the
ship, but the angle downward still looks less favorable to me.
     "Check with you later, Apollo," I scream, and don't wait for his
answer.  Grabbing the rope and gripping it tightly, I hurl myself
backward out of the open hatch of the ship.
     As I descend, I try not to notice the intense heat, the fierce wind,
the memories of Venus clinging to the rope in the elevator shaft.  The
razor-hot wind is easy enough to ignore---they're no worse than in some
deserts---but the memories of Venus are hard to dispel.
     I reach the bottom-weighted area of the rope and slip my booted feet
into two of the loops I'd knotted.  Looking down, I see the ghost ship
beneath me.  It's heading toward the shuttle again.  Somehow, Apollo's
keeping pace with it.  Concentrating on the ghost ship itself, I'm only
half aware of the evasion manuever of the shuttle.  Waving my hand in the
gesture telling Apollo to descend closer, I then watch the ghost ship
come toward me.  Suddenly, I'm right next to it.  I have to act fast,
since I don't know when the Cylon guidance pilot might pull the ship away
from me.  Checking that the chest and waist loops are secure, I quickly
slip my body into them, thus freeing my hands to work.  I gesture to
Apollo to edge me closer to the ghost ship.  He does.  I jam the three
pitons, set on metal penetration, into the side hatch of the ship.  Just
in time.  Before I can do anything about attaching the axe to the rope
linking the pitons, the ship seems to drift away from me, the hatch now
out of reach.  That's okay; I figured on that.  I take out my pistol and
quickly but deliberately fire toward the hatch.  Although I'm not up on
the technology of the superstructure of this bloody ghost ship, I place
the shots where the locking mechanism and single hinge of an ordinary
Cylon spacecraft hatch should be.  My shots seem to be accurate, at least
the abstractly designed scorch marks at each ring look right.
     Well, I've been lucky so far.  The wind tearing at my clothing makes
me realize just how fast we're going, and for a moment I'm terrified. 
I'm putting my life on the line, just trusting Apollo's piloting skills. 
Well, he came quite well recommended.  I try to tell myself.
     As the ghost ship makes another run at the shuttle, it passes very
close to where I'm hanging.  I get a good view of the cockpit.  The kid's
in there, all right.  He's enjoying himself!  He's all wide-eyed and
excited.
     Apollo pulls up slightly and follows the ghost ship's run.  Again
the shuttle executes a smooth evasive action.  Following the path of the
ghost ship, I signal Apollo to lower and move to the left, which he does
smoothly.  This time the hatch is just out of reach.  Okay. I slip the
axe into its coil of rope off my shoulder.  Feeding out just a bit of the
rope, I then fling the axe toward the pitons on the hatch.  First time,
it just misses and I have to reel it back in like a fishing line.  Taking
a deep breath first, I then throw the axe again.  This time its point
catches hold of the rope linking the pitons, its long surface hooked
snugly onto two of the connecting strands.  Replacing the coil of rope on
my shoulder and taking a firm hold on my end of the section of the rope
leading to the axe, I signal to Apollo to slide rightward abruptly, away
from the ghost ship.  The rope jerks tight and for a moment I don't know
if it's going to hold; then suddenly there is a loud cracking sound and
the hatch pulls away from the ship, and begins to plunge downward.  I
shake the coil of rope off my shoulder before the heavy weight of the
hatch can break off any piece of my anatomy, and I don't even bother to
watch it hurtle all the way to the ground.
     The hole left behind in the ship is more jagged than I'd have
expected.  Apparently the hatch pulled away pieces surrounding it. 
Quickly I slip out of the chest and waist loops and grab onto the
climbing rope.  After signaling Apollo to head back toward the ghost
ship, I grip the rope with both hands and release my boots from the
footholds.  As Apollo executes the sweep toward the ghost ship, I kick
back with my legs as hard as I can under the circumstances, then forward. 
My aim has got to be just right.  The side of the ghost ship comes close
to me much too fast, and I don't have time to think. Swinging my legs
outward, I aim for the hold in the side of the ship.  Apollo holds the
Cylon fighter steady.  I almost miss, anyway.  My leg scrapes a jagged
edge of the hole as both legs begin to go through.  Letting the force of
the swing carry me, I let go the climbing rope and plunge through the
unevenly shaped but wide opening.  I don't know why I don't break every
bone in my body, as I hit the opposite wall and bounce back toward the
other side, just missing going out again through the jagged hole which
I'd so clumsily entered.
     I lie on the floor of the ship, trying to catch my breath, trying to
make some part of my body move.  Suddenly the kid is standing over me,
each of his eyes as large as the hatchway opening.  Beyond him, I can see
Apollo's ship hovering high above the cockpit.
     "Where'd you come from?" Boxey says.
     I reject all the bad jokes I could make for a reply to that question
and just say: "From up there, kid."

**********

Chapter Seventeen: Goodbye 

     It was all Athena could do to keep from watching the rescue attempt
of Apollo and Zodiac.  Instead, she kept her attention on the controls,
carefully timing her evasive maneuvers each time the ghost ship
approached.  It seemed that each escape from it was narrower than the one
before.  She could hardly believe she'd heard right when an officer
reported that Zodiac had jumped from the rope and through the open
ghost-ship hatchway.  She now understood completely why the computer had
kicked back Zodiac's name during the search for personnel.  She was also
glad that Apollo had worked himself onto the mission roster. There were a
lot of good pilots in the Galactica squadrons, but with the possible
exceptions of Starbuck and Boomer, only Apollo could have flown a strange
ship with that much accuracy and precision.  Well, as far as precision
flying went, she wasn't doing too bad herself, she thought, as she
plunged the shuttle downward to evade another diving attack.
     "What's happening out there?" she asked the crewmember who was
keeping track.
     "Nothing.  No, wait.  Something.  The guy just made some gesture out
that hole.  Apollo's bringing his ship closer, the rope's right next to
the hole.  The guy's coming out.  He's carrying something, like a big
pack.  It's Boxey, I think, it looks like Boxey, and they're both on the
rope now, clinging to it."
     "Confirm that it is Boxey, please."
     The crewman squinted at a picture on the monitor, then shouted
joyously: "Confirmed!  It's Boxey, all right!"
     "How far are they away from the ghost ship?"
     "Not far.  No, wait.  Apollo's ship is veering to port.  He's
carrying them away."
     "Are they out of range of any explosion?"
     "Yes, I think so."
     "Confirm they're out of range."
     The crewman paused before answering.  "Out of range.  Confirmed."
     "Escort leader!"
     The voice of the escort officer came over the commline: "Yes, Ensign
Athena?"
     "Destroy that ghost ship.  And the guidance ship too.  Both of them. 
Immediately."
     She watched the ghost ship explode with great pleasure.  Other
vipers from the escort chased after the guidance ship, which now dived
toward the ground.  A shot from one of the vipers crossed the Cylon ship
highside, and it began to wobble.  Incredibly, the Cylon pilot was able
to keep it steady for a crash landing on the Cylon surface.  A clear view
of the Cylon ship became lost in the swirling sand created by the crash
landing.
     In the distance Athena could see Apollo descending his ship
carefully, delicately, toward the airfield, Zodiac and Boxey hanging from
the rope.  The rope seemed to just touch the ground when Zodiac, holding
onto Boxey, jumped off and went into a gentle roll along the ground. 
After a moment of lying there, both Zodiac and Boxey stood up and shook
themselves off.  Boxey leaped up at Zodiac's chest and hugged him.  Even
from this height, it looked to Athena as if Zodiac didn't mind.
     An aide distracted Athena's attention from the events below by
telling her that Commander Adama was on the commline and wanted to talk
to her.
     "Yes, Commander?"
     "I just wanted to tell you----good work.  We were...impressed with
the flying skills of you and Captain Apollo."
     "Yes, sir. I'm taking the rescue unit in now for a landing."
     "You'll have to make it quick.  The Cylon pursuit force is still on
our tail, and we won't be able to keep them at a distance for long."
     Athena resisted smiling until the image of her father had faded from
the screen.  The guarded praise he'd given here had been worth all the
medals in the fleet.  "Prepare to land," she ordered her crew.

**********

     Beside the rescue shuttle, Sesmar gripped Apollo's shoulders and
said his farewells.  "May the blessings of the Lords of Kobol be with
you, Apollo.  May you one day find Earth."
     "May the blessings of the Lords of Kobol be with you,
father-creator," Apollo replied.  
     Apollo and Deckard embraced.
     "And thank you and your people for your help," Apollo said.  "If you
and Rachel hadn't led the way up Asenath, I don't----say, where's Rachel,
anyway? "
     Deckard hesitated before answering: "I believe she and her sister
went into the shuttle to say goodbye to Lieutenant Starbuck."
     "I should have known.  Starbuck!"
     Inside the ship, Starbuck was busily bestowing kisses on both
Rachels, each one in turn.  They both seemed to be enjoying the ritual
immensely.
     "It's time to go, Lieutenant," Apollo said, trying to keep from
laughing.
     Starbuck appeared reluctant.  He sidled conspiratorially over to
Apollo and whispered: "Can't they come with us?  There's only two of
them, and---"
     "No, Lieutenant. We can't interfere with these people any more than
we already have."
     "It hasn't been such a bad interference," one of the twins said.
     Apollo's observation to Sesmar had been more correct than he'd even
suspected; the replicants were becoming more human than human.
     "Captain," Starbuck urged, "this is a chance in a lifetime.  Two
versions of the same beautiful woman.  Can you imagine?"
     "Only too well can I imagine. Another time, Starbuck."
     "But, Captain..."
     "No buts, Starbuck. Good-bye, both of you, and thank you. We're all
in your debt."
     "I just wanted to pay off some interest," Starbuck muttered; then he
said in a way that took in both sisters: "Good-bye, Rachel."
     They both bade him farewell together, an identical sadness in their
eyes.
     As Starbuck watched them disembark, Boomer patted his shoulder and
said: "Win one, you lose one."
     "I just lost two," Starbuck said.
     He turned and saw Athena glaring daggers at him from the entranceway
to the pilot compartment.
     "I think I'm on a real losing streak," he mumbled to Boomer; then he
stepped forward, saying, "Athena, they were just my friends.  Really."
     She continued to stare daggers at him.
     "By the way," he said, in his most disarming fashion, "I heard you
flew the pants off this rig."
     Her mouth made a nervous movement at the corners, as if it very much
wanted to smile.  
     "But I missed it.  Tell me about it, huh?"
     She said nothing, but nodded toward the cockpit of the shuttle.  He
followed her in, and took the copilot seat as she began to run equipment
checks preparatory to launch.

**********

     For the first time in recent memory, Imperious Leader felt stunned. 
He had had to verify the report three times with his executive officers. 
The laser gun had been destroyed.  Contact with First Centurion Ra and
his garrison had been lost----apparently the communication systems there
had been destroyed along with the launcher.  Some human ships had been
detected leaving the desert planet. Then, abruptly, the human fleet
itself had escaped.  None of his officers knew how, although they
suspected the Galactica had successfully created another camouflage force
field.  None of his officers knew where they had escaped.
     The trap should have worked.  It was as if it had been sprung and
captured its quarry, and still the humans had found some way to wriggle
out.
     He came out of his reverie to find the Starbuck simulacrum looking
at him and smiling.
     "How did they escape?" Imperious Leader asked the Starbuck.
     "Escape?" it answered.  "That's all just so much felgercarb,
bug-eyes.  We beat you, that's all.  We beat you again.  And we're gonna
keep on---"
     Imperious Leader leaped at the Starbuck, intending to strangle it. 
His hands went right through the Starbuck's neck, and it did not alter
one degree of its smile.  With one gigantic effort, Imperious Leader
pushed the entire simulator off his pedestal, sending it crashing to the
floor of the chamber.  Sparks flew in all directions.  For a moment, the
Starbuck stood at the center of the wreckage, then suddenly flickered
out.

**********

The Book Of Zodiac: 

     After what I've been through, the bridge of the Galactica seems
incredibly claustrophobic, even though it's an immense chamber.  But I
can't stop my shoulders from contracting at the box that I feel enclosed
in. Boxes, prisons, cells.  That's my life.  Maybe I should have taken
the opportunity to escape with Venus and Jonah.  They might still be
alive and I might not feel so trapped.  Still, as I look around at the
joyful crowd gathered on the bridge, I couldn't help but feel that their
lives were traded for the lives of all around me; those crew and
passengers on the many ships of the fleet.  Perhaps it was the proper
trade.
     Adama is in his commander mode and praising Apollo and the
expedition for the successful completion of the mission.  He tosses a
couple of bouquets to Athena and Apollo for their flying skills.  I try
to feel a part of it all emotionally, but all I can feel is that it was
just a job I did.  I wouldn't downplay my part in it, especially the rope
swinging act I did with the kid, but I still don't feel that I belong
here, soaking up the rhetoric of praise.  They used me because they
needed to.  Otherwise, they would've left me in my stinking hole.  The
hole they're going to send me back to.
     Adama has moved to Charlex and is eulogizing on how brave the young
cadet was.  Well, that's true enough.  I'd rather have been hanging on
that rope and falling in that avalanche than be subjected to Cylon
torture.  Good work, Charlex, you deserve the praise.
     Suddenly, Adama is standing in front of me.  I try to straighten up
to some  semblance of attention, a reflex from the "good" old days, but
my bones are in so much pain I can just barely move them.
     "And Zodiac," Adama says in his resonant voice.
     "I know.  Back to the old grid-barge," I say, and try to smile as if
I don't mind.
     Adama smiles back.  The monster, smiling about sending me back. 
Damn him!
     "No," he says after a pause.  "I think you served out the rest of
your sentence down on that desert planet.  You're needed on the
Galactica, Commander."
     I almost didn't hear him say the last word.  Commander. 
Reinstatement in rank.  If only Venus were here, she might just----I've
got to stop thinking of her now.  Anyway, she'd only have said that
reinstatement in rank was just so much felgercarb.
     Adama grips my shoulder for a moment, then moves on.  Now he faces
the kid and his daggit pet, which is doing a good mechanical version of a
happy drool.
     "Boxey," Adama says, "if anyone should be sent to the grid-barge for
disobeying orders..."
     The kid looks scared.  I almost want to protect him.  The daggit
squeals.
     Maybe a good scare'll cure the kid of sticking his nose into
dangerous places.
     But I doubt it.

**********

Chapter Eighteen: The Disgrace Of Ra 

     First Centurion Ra pulled his heavy body up over the hanging
cornice.  The sound of metal in his uniform scraping against the rocky
surface sent echoes rolling down the mountain.  He glanced down at the
uniform.  Many of the black bands awarded him as decoration for valor had
been scraped away by his climb.  Breaks in the suit that had occurred
during the crash landing of his ship had rendered it only barely
functional.  He had had to continue to wear it as protection against the
rising hot temperature.
     There was only a little farther to go.  Exercising all the willpower
that two brains could offer, he climbed upward.  By the time he had
reached the summit station, he knew he had no more powers of exertion
left in his body.  He lay still for a long time.
     Finally, he could force his body to rise.  Without looking around
him, he began stepping heavily across the wreckage until he reached the
center where the remains of the once-mighty weapon stood.  Its shell
still rose majestically toward the blue cloud-speckled sky.  But it stood
on a mangled foundation.  The awesomely powerful energy pump was in
jagged ruins.  Fragments of the station broken, split, bent, lay about
the still-intact flooring.  At points, Ra could see a helmet or uniform
from one of his centurions perceivable beneath some part of the ruins.  A
bridge of burned metal had formed across the gaping elevator shaft. 
Except for the shell of the gun, nothing tangible revealed what it once
had been.
     Leaning his heavy body against the shell of the weapon, Ra resolved
to go into a meditative state.  The ability to do that in the midst of a
disaster such as this was a second-brain quality for which he was
extremely grateful.
     He could meditate here, oblivious of the wreckage around him and
what it meant to his life, for a long time.
     Perhaps for the rest of eternity.
     Or until a relief garrison arrived.
     Or until he died.
     What did it matter?  
     
THE END 
Posted: February, 2006