ISLANDS IN THE SKY 
A Battlestar Galactica/Lost in Space/Salem's Lot Crossover fanfic by Paul
Robison

Battlestar Galactica is the property of Universal Studios & Glen A.
Larson Productions, (c) 1979.  
Lost in Space is the property of Irwin Allen, Space Productions and 20th
Century Fox Studios (c) 1965. Salem's Lot is the property of Stephen
King, (c) 1975.  

All are used without permission but with no intent or anticipation of
monetary gain.  This is solely for my amusement as well as the amusement
of whoever else may read it. 

SPOILER: 
"Saga of a Star World" (Battlestar Galactica) (c) 1978 MCA Publishing,
L.A. Cal.

SPECIAL GUEST STARS: 
Susan Norton (Queen Nor)- 'Salem's Lot
Kurt Barlow (Bar-Lo)-'Salem's Lot
Zalto (Lost in Space, Season Two, "Rocket to Earth)
Mr. Straker-Salem's Lot

From the Adama Journals:

     More than a thousand yahrens ago, the war with the Cylons began
suddenly---wihtout warning, without even a formal declaration that war
was to be.  Like pirates, shwooing no threats and cowering beneath false
colors, the Cylons opened fire on our merchant ships without even an
invocation to heave to, or a cautionary blast from a mega-pulsar cannon. 
They came to destroy, and they destroyed our ships by the thousands.  A
fleet of their warships, basestars as they are sometimes call, headed for
the Twelve Colonies.  Supercilious beings that they were, the Cylons did
not anticipate that we would be ready for them.  We were ready for them
and for the next thousand yahrens we continued in battle readiness.
     But a thousand yahrens is a long time, even when the duration of
some yahrens is compressed by the time twisting of space travel.  We
forgot the extent of Cylon treachery.  Instead, we became slaves to our
own myths.  We could not be subjugated, we were resourceful people who
loved freedom, we welcomed adventure.  When the Cylons offered peace just
as abruptly as they had initiated hostilities, we had forgotten that they
wre not worth trusting.  We embarked on the peace mission with hope, with
the expectation that ten centuries of unceasing warfare would finally be
ended.  Peaceably we had explored myriad diverse worlds of the universe,
peaceably we had established the  republic of twelve planets that became
our Colonies, peaceably we would live again.  Joy grew in our hearts. 
Those of us whose lives had been totally committed to the war should have
known better, should have perceived that the joy in our hearts had a
strategic significance.  The more we moved away from the facts that
formed the structure of our design, the more we became like the
buriticians who governed us, men and women who had so clouded their minds
with the words of power that they misunderstood the words of the powerful
when they smilingly offered peace.
     I keep saying that we should have known better.  That is the fallacy
of the democratic instinct.  I should have known better.  Coping with an
alien mind that was not understandable had always been my special
ability.  For once it failed me.  Afterwards, I vowed it should never
fail me again.

*****

CHAPTER ONE: PATROL

     The contact sensor implanted in Zac's jumpsuit at mid-back sent
waves of tingling impulses up and down his spine.  The sensor system
detected an anomaly in this sector of space; its mild, pulsing stings
notified Zac to investigate it.  Excited anticipation joined the induced
impulses as he keyed in the automatic search and watched data, both in
numbered and diagram form, accumulate on his scanner screen.  When he had
first returned to the battlestar Galactica as a green ensign grown
overconfident with the informational input of Academy training, Zac had
been counseled by his father, Commander Adama, not to become too excited
about the war or anything connected with it.  The war had been going on
for a thousand yahrens, Adama had said, no need to welcome it as if it
were your best friend.  However, Zac had never been able to lose the
thrill of zooming through spac ein his very own sleek-lined Viper and
blasting Cylon Raiders into pieces of space dust.  Now that he was a
lieutenant, at 23 yahrens old way past his majority, he still felt the
same eagerness for battle he had known on his first launch from the
Galactica's launch bay.
     His scanner now displayed the flaw that the warning system had
located.  Two unidentified aerial devices hanging near an old moon,
called Cimtar on the star map, that orbited around the decaying orbit of
the single planet of this out-of-the-way, never inhabited solar system. 
A perfect spot from which to ambush the Colonial Fleet.  As part of a
vanguard patrol for the Fleet, it was Zac's duty to investigate this
bizarre, lurking threat.
     "Somehting..."said the voice of Apollo.  Apollo's whisper was so
sibilant, his words were so precisely enunciated, that Zac could have
sworn his brother was right there in the cockpit with him instead of
scouting in another fighter some distance away.
     "Yeah," Zac said, "I see them.  What do you think?"
     "We'll think about it after checking it out.  It might be a Cylon
patrol."
     "Maybe.  It's an awful long way from home, though.  Where's their
base ship?"
     "Probably no base ship.  Long-range reconnaissance craft, refueling
vessels carrying extra Tylium.  Strange..."
     "What, Apollo?"
     One thing Zac had learned as a warrior was to listen to any of his
brother's suspicions.
     "I'm not picking up anything but static on the far side of these
guys, Zac."
     Apollo was right.  Zac glanced at his scanner, saw only the two
mysterious blips and an odd, steady field of static interference beyond
them.  The static appeared to indicate a storm, but no storms had been
charted earlier for this sector.
     "I see what you mean," Zac said. "I thought there was something off
with my scanner."
     "It could be a storm, though that doesn't make..."
     Apollo's voice drifted off, leaving behind a note of puzzled concern
in the staticky silence.  After a micron, Apollo said, "If it is a storm,
the Fleet'll be coming through it, and soon.  We'd better go have a look. 
Kick in the turbos."
     "But Apollo, the standing orders on conserving fuel specifically
forbid the use of turbos, except under combat conditions or making the
jump back to base."
     Zac could've predicted his brother's irritated response.
     "Kid, don't let that peace conference back of us screw up your
judgment.  Until we get official notice of a singing, anything goes. 
These are still the front lines."
     On his ear-receptors, Zac could hear the thunderous acceleration of
Apollo's Viper as final punctuation to his rebuke.  Okay, he thought,
let's get to work.  Pre-battle tension enveloped his whole body.  It felt
good.  Zac ferociously pushed the trio of turbo-engagement buttons and
shoved his foot down on a pedal.  The resulting thrust drove him back
against his seat.

*****

     As they hurtled toward the old moon, Apollo felt uneasy that there
should be any kind of disturbance within the unpopulated Qinar Sector. 
It just didn't check out.  The orders his father had sent out
specifically commanded that all ships, whether war or merchant, should
transmit their exact locations at all times.  There was no reason that
any of htem should have forgotten, no strategic or trade reason for them
to take the dangerous chance of hding out.  When you eliminated all the
known Colonial ships, including outlaw craft, there was only one
solution.  Cylons.  It wasn't a solution, Apollo particularly wanted to
come to.
     Zac's voice came through the com.
     "Hey, brother?"
     "What is it, kid?"
     "I know why I drew this duty.  Tigh's shifting me---no, mark that
out---Tigh's teaching me a lesson for that little rest-and-recupeartaion
escapade with Squires' chief nurse in Life Station.  But how did you get
stuck with this patrol?"
     Why did Zac always have to know everything?  Sometimes his youthful
curiousity annoyed the poggies out of Apollo.
     "Oh," Apollo said, "I was figuring that, once the armistice is
signed, they'll be turning out all of us warriors, sending us to one of
those planets where they force you into so much organized leisure you go
out of your mind with boredom.  So---I just wanted one last bite of a
mission."
     "Uh huh," Zac said. "Say, it wouldn't be because you wanted to ride
herd on your overeager young brother, would it?  I mean, watchdogging me
for the duration of this patrol?"
     "I resent that, Zac.  I'm not watchdogging you.  Not at all.  Like I
said, I..."
     "You sure, big brother?"
     Apollo hated the sarcastic emphasis on the word big.  Sometimes his
kid brother could be a royal pain in the astrum.
     "Don't be silly, Zac.  You've got a fine battle record---not to
mention the tiresome old datum that you came thorugh with the highest
marks in the history of the Academy.  I don't need to ride herd on you."
     "Aw, forget it, Apollo."
     The com crackled in silence for a moment, then Zac spoke again.
     "Say, what're you going to do when the armistice is signed?  Really
go to one of those boring leisure planets?"
     Apollo smiled. He wasn't sure that Zac, who always needed somebody
to talk to, would understand what he was about to say.
     "When the war's officially over, I don't think I want to settle down
on any planet.  Just long enough to refuel and relaunch."
     "Well, what are you planning to do for the postwar time, Apollo?"
     "Not sure.  But there's a lot of space still to expore.  That's the
real challenge, Zac---deep star exploration.  Who knows what we'll find
beyond the Colonies?"
     "As long as it's not more Cylons.  They jar my chips.  You looking
forward to peace with them?  I mean, really?"
     "If you mean, do I believe inpace with the Cylons, especially one
that'll last until the ink d ries on the treaty, my only answer is----I
don't know.  But I don't think we'd better be discussing it over the com. 
If we're being monitored, it might be a little embarrassing back aboard
the Galactica."
     "Yeah, how about that, Galactica?  Your face red, Colonel Tigh,
sir?"
     "Cut that out, Zac.  Keep your mind on the patrol.  Cimtar's just
ahead.  Let's roll over and have a good look.  Whaddya say?"
     "Roger dodger, old codger."
     In an instant they were hovering over their objective, a spacecraft
that was large and ponderous, wasted looking.  It seemed to float
aimlessly, bobbing like a baitless fishing lure in its own portion of the
sea of space.  Above it was the old moon, below it a purplish layer of
clouds tha Apollo did not recall as bing a normal feature of the barren,
uninhabited planet.
     "What is it?" Apollo whispered.
     "I'll tell ya in a flash," Zac replied.

*****

     Zac punched out the combination that would identifiy the vehicle
pictured on his scanner.  The intensity of the scanner pictured changed
as various profiles of existing aircraft were compared with the
antiquated conveyance under study.  A match was quickly made and the
identification appeared in printed form below the picture.
     "Warbook says a Cylon tanker," Zac reported.  "My scanner reads it
empty."
     Apollo's voice became agitated.
     "An empty tanker?  What in Kobol is an empty tanker doing way out
here?"
     "And where's the other ship, the one that..."
     "Screened off by this  one, apparently.  Under cover, as far as I
can make out.  Funny---wonder what they're hiding."
     "I don't know, but it's awfully close to those clouds."
     Zac felt impatient, not ready to wait for his brother's orders. 
When he made captain like Apollo, he could give the commands.  Of course,
by then Apollo would be an admiral or something, and probably telling Zac
what to do.  Even though he had looked up to his gallant brother since
childhood, even though his own prestige at the Academy had been enhanced
by the tales of Apollo's heroism that he had recounted to his classmates,
Zac was eager to get out more on his own, perform the kind of
seat-of-the-pants flying exploits that had made Apollo so famous on all
the battlestars.
     Why was he thinking like this now?  Here his father and the other
great leaders of the Colonies were on the Atlantia working out a peace
arrangement, and Zac was still hooping to become a great war hero. 
Stomething askew in his thinking there.  He would have to talk it all out
with Apollo later, when they got back to the battlestar and had their
regular post-mission talk.
     "Well, kid," Apollo's voice whispered softly in his ear.  "We came
to look.  Let's get up closer."
     "Watch it, Apollo," Zac said, and was immediately astonished by his
own uncharacteristic caution.  "I've got a funny feeling about this."
     "Funny feeling, eh?" Apollo's voice was now warmer, touched by a
note of brotherly affection.  "I always told Father you behaved more like
a Scorpian, that you weren't a true Caprican."
     "Still, I have this funny feeling..."
     "You're not old enough to have funny feelings, warrior!" Zac nodded
even though Apollo couldn't see him.  It wasn't unusual fo rhim to have
such an immediate physical reaction to a rebuke from his brother. 
"Anway," Apollo continued, "while we're stuck out here on patrol,
Starbuck's pulled a couple of those Gemonese into a hand of pyramid, and
I want to get back before he cleans out those suckers."
     Looking out his sideview, Zac watched Apollo's Viper peel off in
order to sweep around the ancient freighter.  Feeling very much like the
younger brother he was, Zac set his flight pattern to follow, hitting at
the course buttons angrily.

*****

     Commander Adama's angular cheekbones seemed the work of a skilled
diamond cutter.  But his cold, penetrating eyes could have have been
designed by even the finest of artisans.  The members of his crew feared
Adama as much as they loved him.  There was a popular superstition aboard
the Galactica that, when the commander became angry, those powerful eyes
retreated into his skull and gave off rays that made him look so inhuman
he might just have materialized as a god from some new alien mythology. 
Although tall and strong, he had none of the muscular man's typical
clumsiness in normal movement.  His gestures were smoothly graceful, and
there was an ease in his bearing that made even his enemies comfortable
with him---at least when he was comfortable with them.
     He stood away from the others, his fellow leaders from the Quorum of
the Twelve.  Their toasts to their new-found peace rang falsely in his
ears.  In front of him, as if arranged for his own personal viewing, the
millions of stars visible through the Atlantia's starfield reminded him,
as it reminded all contemplative men, of his own insignificance in this
universe.  And, even more, of the smallness of the historic event being
enacted behind him.  Men fought wars, cheered the coming of peace, then
always seemed to locate another war to keep the peace from becoming too
comforting.
     This peace, in particular, disturbed him.  There was too much strain
to the enthusiasm, too much simplicity in the negotiations.  He didn't
like the fact that the absent Cylons were controlling the event like
distant puppet masters---sending a human go-between and arranging the
ultimate rendezvous for treaty signing at their own chosen coordinates in
space.
     President Arcon, looking very much like the wise man of tradition in
his flowing toga, had called the settlement the most significant in human
history.  The array of candelight on the banquet table, catching the
blood-red jewels on his silver chalice, had lent a religious aura to the
official toast.  And the subsequent unctuousness of Baltar's response to
the toast left a bad taste in Adama's mouth.  Why had the Cylons used
Baltar as their human messenger for this conference?  Although a
self-proclaimed count, Baltar was little better than a trader, a dealer
in tylium, lithon and turbonite.  He was rich, yes, overwhelmingly so,
but not a fit laison between the humans and the Cylons, not the proper
carrier of sacred trusts.  Why send a corpulent merchant whose unhealthy
skin suggested the tarnishing of coin when power-hungry diplomats were
available?
     Who could ever known what went on in the alien mind?  There might
have been some reasoning among Cylons that led to the choice of the
overweight, soft-looking trader.  And, besides, who was Adama to judge
the facets of the peace?  He'd never known peace, he'd geared his entire
life to the fighting of the war.  He knew nothing, factually or
philosophically, about peace.
     Adama returned his attention to the celebration, which was in its
final stage of formality.  Arcon embraced Baltar.  The trader's ornate,
colorful garments, especially the long, flowing velvet cape, made the
president's simple robes appear rustic.  The two men seemed alike only in
the high boots each wore---a bizarre link, since Arcon's boots clashed so
strongly with the austere lines of his white silken toga.  Even in this
respect, Baltar's footwear, with its scroll-like decoratons, appeared
more sumptuous.  It was absurd, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve
having to warm up officially to the merchant-messenger.  Arcon's voice
boomed across the Atlantia's dining room.
     "You've done well, Baltar.  Your tireless work has made this
armistice conference possible.  You have secured for yourself a page in
the history books."
     A page in the history books, indeed! Adama thought.  The man didn't
even deserve a decent burial within a footnote.
     It always annoyed Adama that his old friend Arcon speak so
officiously and with such an overtly political manner.  They had gone to
the Academy together, Adama and Arcon.  Fate had continually thrown them
together in classes, a solid example---they always claimed---of the Lords
of Kobol cementing a valuable friendship.  Their comradeship had been
secured later when they had both been assigned to the same battlestar
fleet as Viper pilots.  After being elected President of the Quorum of
the Twelve, Arcon had continued to rely strongly on Adama's advice. 
Until now.
     The obsequious look of humility upon Baltar's face forced Adama to
concentrate again on the starfield.  His shoulder muscles tightened as he
heard the trader's reply to Arcon.
     "The Cylons chose me as their liaison to the Quorum of the Twelve
was an act of providence, not skill."
     Party noises intervened and Adama could not hear Arcon's subsequent
remarks to the trader.  Good, he did not want to hear any more
politicking.  He had had enough of that already today.
     "You look troubled, old friend," Arcon said. Adama had sensed the
president's approach, but he chose a bit of petty insubordination by not
taking note of it.  Suspecting Adama's antagonism, Arcon spoke with the
patronizing nasality that was his trademark when he was opposed.  Fussily
stroking his bald head as if he were considering wearing a wig, he said,
"Well, I see the party isn't a huge success with all my children."
     Although he rankled at Arcon's patriarchal phrasing, Adama decided
not to reply in kind.
     "It's what awaits us out there that bothers me," Adama said,
pointing toward the bright starfield.  Arcon smiled his best
condescending smile.
     "Surely," he said, "you don't cling to your suspicions about the
Cylons.  They asked for this armistice.  They want peace.  For myself, I
look forward to our coming rendezvous with the Cylon representatives."
     Adama studied the president's bland, confident face, and considered
addressing him in the blunt vocabulary of their Viper pilot days.  No,
Arcon had been  too far removed from the field for too long to understand
plain language anymore, so Adama resorted to diplomatic phrasings.
     "Forgive me, Mr. President, but---but the Cylons hate humans deeply,
with ever fiber of their existence.  In our love of freedom, of
independence, our need to feel, to question, to affirm, to rebel against
oppression---in all these ways were are different from them.  To them we
are the aliens and they'll never accept our ways."
     "Ah, but they have accepted.  Through Baltar, they have sued for
peace."
     There was a finality in Arcon's voice, a
this-is-the-end-of-the-discussion command.  Adama stared at the bald man
who, even though they were contemporaries, looked so much older.  He knew
there was no point in opposing him at this supposedly joyous moment.  As
in any battle, there was also a logical point of retreat in political
disputes.
     "Yes," Adama said, "of course you're right."
     And, of course, Arcon had come to him requiring this capitulation. 
Pleased, the President stopped stroking his bald head so nervously, and
grabbed his old comrade by the shoulders.  The man radiated confidence,
Adama wished he could be that assured, but Baltar's vigilant stare only
added to his present uneasiness.
     Leaving Adama alone, Arcon strutted back to a group of the more
jubilant Quorum members.  Adama, sullen, walked along the rim of the
giant starfield which composed nearly one-half of the dining chamber.  He
stopped at a position from which he could observe his own ship, the
battlestar Galactica.
     He took great pride in the unanimous acknowledgement of the
Galactica as the greatest fighting ship in the Colonial Fleet, and the
most efficiently run of the Fleet's five battestars.  Commissioned at
least two centuries before its present commander's birth, and commanded
by Adama's father before him, the Galactica had survived thousands of
rough encounters with the enemy, no mean achievement when one considered
the notorious Cylon deviousness.  With the destruction of the Atlantia's
sister ship, the Pacifica, Adama's craft had become the largest fighting
battlestar in the Fleet.  And since he had taken over command its record
had become as impressive as its size.  The most heroic exploits, the most
suicidal missions, the highest number of Cylon kills were all now part of
the Galactica's gallant history.  If this peace lasted any time at all,
the battlestar would surely be declared a monument to human achievement.
     While it appeared to drift placidly, the Galactica was actually
"idling" at near lightspeed.  Its slowness was due to the fact that it
had, as guardian to the Atlantia during the peace conference, to keep its
pace down to the Command Battlestar's speed.  No wonder.  Where the
Atlantia was a hive of bulkily designed sections, the Galactica was a
slim-lined, multi-level vehicle whose functional components allowed for
the rarely achieved combination of size with speed.  In regular space, it
could traverse distances nearly as fast as the fighting craft launched
from it.  Its fuel system provided the most power possible from the
mixture of Tylium with lesser fuel sources.  Its launching decks could be
activated within microns, emerging as long extensions from the
cylindrical core of the vehicle, and its guidance systems had been
refined---at Adama's orders---so that his pilots could land on an
InterFleet Memo without smudging a single letter.
     Adama was equally proud of the efficient social system within the
ship.  A commande rcould not wish for a more cohesive crew---amazing when
considering the thousands of people required to keep a battlestar going. 
His daughter Athena was always saying the crew worked well because they
knew they had a fair and understanding commander.  While he chided her
for the sentimentality of the observation, he was pleased that the
skillful performance of everyone on the Galactica testified to the
abilities of Adama as commander (His father had predicted that Adama
would surpass his own achievements after he regretfully retired from
active command, and the prophecy had proven out---so far).  Yes, it was a
fine ship and a fine crew.  Even his impulsive children----Apollo, Zac,
Athena---shaped up when it came to the needs of the Galactica and its
commander.
     Now, though, more impressive than his battlestar's efficiency within
or without was the image of beauty it created set against the background
of flashing stars.  So delicate were its lines, so multifaceted the jewel
of its blue-gray surface that a casual observer looking out the viewing
wall of the Atlantia's starfield would not in the least suspect that its
dimensions were so monumental, its overall size so huge.  Adama recalled
his father saying that the Galactica was the size of a small planet, that
a traveler could use up most of a lifetime walking its corridors without
having to retrace a single step.  He had learned later that the old man's
description was somewhat exaggerated, one of the outrageous tall tales he
had so savored in the telling.  Still, the Galactica would be a mighty
challenge for the dedicated hiker.  Viewing it now, he was struck for a
brief moment by the feeling of disbelief that it was his domain, his
world.  He had felt that way when command had originally been transferred
to him two and a half decades ago, and he now felt it quite deeply again. 
He grew impatient to return to the Galactica as soon as possible, to
escape from the emptiness in the joyous sounds of the Quorum's victory
celebration.

*****

     Starbuck didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that a
gallery of onlookers had formed behind him.  When he had a pair of rubes
like these two on the line, word always spread through the ranks of the
Galactica, and people came running to the ready room.  It was considered
a privilege to be in on the kill.  Starbuck's gambling acumen had become
so famous that his name was now part of warrior slang.  To be
"starbucked" meant that you had allowed yourself to be maneuvered into a
situation in which your defeat was inevitable.  It was in the vocabulary
of battle as well as in that of the gambling tables.
     Like an actor, the handsome young lieutenant knew how to play to an
audience.  He let his face, so clean-cut for a man so diabolically
shrewd, assume a mask of naivete, as if he had just boarded the
battlestar fresh out of the Academy.  Awkwardnes substituted for the
normal grace of his movements, and he leaned into the table like a man
who wo ndered how he had gotten himself into this mess in the first
place.  It was all part of the setup.  The gallery knew it, just as they
knew he was ready to sweep down on his foolish opponents like a Cylon
patrol from behind a cloud cover.
     This time his marks were a pair of Gemonese from the planet Gemon. 
Apparently Starbuck's notoriety had eluded them, for they held their
round cards with a cavalier sureness characteristic of men positive their
hands are the winning ones.  Like all Gemonese they resembled each other,
even though their features were quite dissimilar, one thin-faced, the
other with a hint of chubbiness.  Something in the expression of the
Gemonese, a placidity bordering on inanity, seemed to make all of them
look alike.  Gemonese were among the most intelligent members of any
battlestar crew, but when it came to gambling they were often the easiest
victims of all.
     Starbuck was ready now.  He could feel victory on the smooth
surfaces of his cards, as if it had been encoded there as a private
communication for his hands only.  Keeping his voice steady, he
announced:
     "Just to keep the game instructive and because you're new to it,
I'll only wager...oh, say, this much."
     Coolly he pushed out half his stash, an evenly stacked high pile of
square gold cubits.  His dark blue eyes hid the mockery of his opponents
which he felt inside.  The two men looked quite astonished. 
Simultaneously, and with a duplicate raising of eyebrows.  As they had
done all game, they passed their single hand of cards back and forth,
while whispering together about their next move.  Some smiles and a pair
of chuckles activated the previously stoical gallery.  They all had a
stake in each of Starbuck's strategic moves.  As each of them had
arrived, Starbuck's buddy, Boomer, had collected cash from him to add to
Starbuck's cubit-pile.  Now they were sensing his own profits.
     "Despite the humblness of this hand," said the Gemonese who now held
the cards, "for the honor of our colony, we must challenge you."
     "Honor.  Challenge.  Gemon," said the other Gemonese.  Whichever one
spoke, the other usually echoed the main points of his statement.
     The Gemonese with the cards pushed forth apiloe of cubits equal to
Starbuck's wager.  Starbuck could feel the gallery tense.  He was about
to speak, say it was time to acall, when the Gemonese quietly spoke
again:
     "And for the glory of Gemon, another equal measure."
     "Glory.  Equal. Measure," said his partner, who now took the hand
back and himself pushed the pile of cubits that would double the stakes. 
Feeling the nervousness of his gallery, Starbuck knew it was important to
continue feigning his relaxed manner.
     "Well," he said, fingering some long strands of his cornstalk-yellow
hair, "in the name of our planet Caprica and for her everlasting glory,
I'll measure your increase and double it."
     If they hadn't been packed so closely together, some members of the
gallery might've passed out and fallen to the floor.  Starbuck shoved in
all his remaining cubits and sat back confidently.  He felt a tap on his
shoulder, and he looked up into the tense black face of his buddy,
Lieutenant Boomer.  Who else but supercautious, never gamble unless it's
surer than a sure thing, intellectual Boomer?
     "Where is the remaining portion of your bet?" said the cardholding
Gemonese.
     "Remaining.  Bet."
     "Just a moment," Starbuck said. "Come on, guys, up with the rest of
it."
     The gallery seemed to take a collective step backward.  Boomer acted
as its spokesman:
     "Could we speak to you for a moment?  In private."  Turning to the
Gemonese, he said:  "Only be a flash, fellas."
     With an exaggerated courtesy, Boomer led Starbuck away from the
table.  Out of sight of the Gemonese behind a nervous wall formed by the
onlooker's gallery, they were joined by Lieutenant Jolly and Ensign
Greenbean, whose physical appearances made it clear why the Galactica's
crew had awarded them such descriptive names.  Jolly was hefty, a strong
but overweight young man---while, of course, Greenbean was tall and thin. 
The conference among the four men was conducted in heated whispers.
     "Are you crazy?" Boomer said.  Boomer, who rarely sweated, now wiped
away lines of glistening perspiration from his brow.
     "Were you listening?" Starbuck said. "This is for the glory of
Caprica."
     "Glory, Caprica," Jolly said.
     "Are you a Gemonese, too?" Starbuck said, smiling.  "Look, have I
ever steered you guys wrong?"ike that?"
     The faces of the three men, especially Boomer's, displayed the
message that of course he had.
     "All right," Starbuck said. "Once or twice.  But this is the real
goods.  I can take these guys.  Look at it this way, we'll double our
money.  They're trying to buy the pot."
     "You told us they didn't understand the game," Jolly said.
     "Evidently they caught on fast," Boomer growled, but he sighed.  He
was always a pragmatist, whether in gambling or in a furious encounter
with the enemy.  All that reading on his bunk viewer had made him a
thoughtful analyst of any situation, and for this one he could see that
cutting losses was simply not practical---the investment was much too
high. "We've got to do what Starbuck says or we lose everything we've
already got in the game."
     Boomer moved among the gallery, forced its members to cough up
enough to cover Starbuck's impulsive wager.  Handing a neatly-stacked
pile of cubits to Starbuck, he told him to go it.  Starbuck nudged the
cubits to the center of the table and turned his cards over.
     "Beat that," Starbuck snarled, his voice sending up an unsettling
echo through the stillness of the room.
     The Gemonese smiled and revealed his cards.  The gallery stared at
the tragedy revealed by the pasteboard hexagons, then collectively they
sagged as they had to watch the Gemonese rake in the golden cubits.

*****

     For a brief moment Apollo got a good look at a second tanker, the
one that had been revealed as the companion of the first on his and Zac's
scanners, before it disappeared into the cloud layer.  He couldn't tell
whether the move was a strategic one, or whether the apparently empty
ship had simply drifted into the portentous clouds.
     "There's the other ship, tucked in nice and neat," he said to Zac. 
"Now what is she and what's she doing?"
     He restrained his urge to chase after it. He wasn't ready yet to
follow a possible ghost-tanker into possible jeopardy.  Not until he had
made every other kind of cheek first.  However, as soon as he tried to
punch out a scanner program, the scanner's screen began presenting a
meaningless jumble of symbols.  It was as if something inside those
clouds were trying to lure him inside, one of the Space Lorelies so dear
to saloon storytellers.  After trying every check he could think of, he
told Zac of the failure of all his sophisticated equipment to get a fix
on the mysterious clouds.
     "I get the same mess from a scan of that tanker back of us," Zac
said. "Whatever I try, just a jumble."
     "Somebody's jamming us."
     "Who?  Warbook says they're both unarmed freighters."
     "My foot.  If they're jamming us, they're hiding something.  There's
no choice.  I'm going in there."
     "But the cloud..."
     "I'll take the chance."
     "All right, but I'm not sure I like the idea of us flying in blind."
     "Not us, kid.  You stay put."
     "I can't..."
     "If I need you, I'll call you to come in after me, Lieutenant."
     Apollo headed his viper ship direction into the cloud mass.  He
heard Zac's agitated voice over his communicator:
     "This jamming's knocking out my scanner now."
     Inside the clouds Apollo tried to work his own scanner again, and
received the same jumble.
     "Nothing but a harmless cloud cover," he said.  "Not heavy at all,
not as dense as it looked. I  don't see why they'd send up all that
electronic...uh, oh."
     Breaking through the other side of the clouds and looking down, he
suddenly saw why.  Below him was an immense Cylon staging area and he had
flown right smack into the middle of it.
     "Apollo, what's going on!?" said Zac.
     As far as Apollo could see there were Cylon warships, with their odd
curves and arclike limbs.  In one of the ships he could see the usual
traid that composed a Cylon fighting crew.  Two helmeted pilots sat side
by side.  Their tubular shaped helmets covered what Apollo knew from a
closeup examination of Cylons corpses to be many-eyed creatures with
heads that apparently could alter shape at will.  In the center of the
helmet was a long but narrow aperture from which emerged frine
concentrated beams of light.  No human had ever discovered whether the
light was generated by the Cylons themselves or was some facet of the
helmet's technology.  Now, as Apollo stared at this particular trio of
Cylons, he was startled to see one of their helmet lights swing upward
toward his Viper.  At the same time the Cylon observer motioned to his
fellows to follow his gaze.  Apollo punched a reverse loop on the
directional touch plate.  His ship rolled upward and over, and screamed
off in a tight turn.  At the same time, he radioed to Zac:
     "Let's get out of here!"
     "Why?"
     He caught sight of Zac's ship as he came out of the clouds.
     "I'll explain later."
     Zac's viper promptly rolled over to follow his brother's
accelerating craft.
     "Apollo," Zac said, "for a couple of harmless tankers, it seems to
me you're buring up an awful lot of unnecessary..."
     Zac's voice was interrupted by the sound of explosions.
     "What is it, Zac?"
     "Ships.  Cylon ships.  Co me at me.  They're firing.  Hold on.  I'm
coming..."
     Checking the scanner, Apollo could make out four Cylon ships
pursuing his brother's plane.  He punched in the direct-com line to the
Galactica, but got only static in reply.
     "They're jamming our transmission, kid.  We've got to get back to
the fleet and warn them.  It's a trap, an ambush.  They've got enough
firepower to take out the entire Fleet."
     "But Apollo, there's the peace mission, the whole Quorum of the
Twelve, they couldn't..."
     Apollo heard an explosion through his earpiece.
     "What is it, Zac?  Are you all right?  What's wrong?"
     Zac's frightened voice responded.
     "Apollo, they zapped my port engine."
     "Take it easy.  Look, we're not going to make it showing those
louses our backs.  I can see four ships on the scanner.  How many you
make out?"
     "Same.  Four."
     "Damn them.  They only sent four after us.  It's insulting."
     "Maybe, Apollo, but they're doing awfully well."
     "Only because they're behind us.  Okay, when I count three, hit your
reverse thrusters and maximum braking flaps.  We'll give them a little
surprise.  Okay?"
     "Okay!"
     "One...two...three!"
     While the sound of his won craft's reverse thrusting was deafening
in his ears, the subsequent silence of the Cylon fighters flying past him
was disconcertingly eerie.  Although he could not see his helmeted
enemies, Apollo was sure they were confused by the abrupt maneuver.  He
could picture them scanning the sky, their beams of light going every
whichway, trying to locate him and Zac.
     Narrowing his eyes, he put his finger on the firing control button
of his joystick.  One of the Cylon ships flew into range.
     "Right here," he whispered, "you gallmonging snitrad."
     He squeezed the trigger.  The Cylon ship disintegrated, transformed
immediately into astral debris.
     Zac's fighter came into view, pursuing another of the Cylon ships. 
Knowing his brother's moves, Apollo could sense him lining up his target
and firing.  The second Cylon vehicle disintegrated.  The remaining two
fighters divided and veered off.  The element of surprise had gained
Apollo and Zac two direct hits.
     "Not bad, little brother," Apollo said. "Okay, you go after the guys
on the right..."
     Apollo directed his Viper ship at the Cylon fighter on the left. 
Before it could swing around to attack positon, he lined it up on target,
squeezed the trigger, and blasted it to the far reaches of space.  As he
swung his craft around he could see Zac again, just in the act of firing
at, and missing, the last of the Cylon attackers.  Heck, Apollo thought,
the kid was so often a shade two eager, too quick on the trigger.  Zac's
pray veered off, did a tricky loop that Apollo recognized as a skilled
maneuver only the best Cylon pilots could execute.  Before Zac realized
what had happened, his enemy had taken up position behind his plane.
     "Apollo..." Zac said.
     "I can see.  Keep them interested just a little longer. I'll be
right with you."
     "Interested?  Believe me, they're interested!"
     As Zac tried to pull away from his pursuer, his ship ws hit again.
     "There goes one engine," he said.
     Apollo's Viper swooped in on the Cylon fighter from the side,
heading toward it on a perpendicular course.
     "Steady," he whispered, "steady.  Just don't look this way, guys."
     He thought he saw one of the Cylon pilots become aware of him a
moment too late, just before the ship exploded.
     Sighing, turning his ship toward Zac's, Apollo said, "The day those
guys can outfight us without a ten to one margine..."
     "Apollo," Zac said, "better look at your scanner."
     He looked, saw that a larger attack force had emerged from the
luminous clouds.  What looked like a solid wave of Cylon Raiders was
heading their way.
     "Ten to one, yeah," he said, "but a thousand to one, that's not
fair."
     "What does it mean, Apollo?"
     Apollo laughed mordantly.
     "It means, little brother, that there isn't going to be any peace. 
The peace mission was a trap right from the start.  We've got to get
back, warn the Fleet."
     "Do it, Apollo.  I'm short an engine, you know.  I won't be able to
keep up with you."
     Apollo was impressed by the note of courage in Zac's voice.  He was
a member of the family, all right.  But family meant more than just
forced bravado.
     "I can't leave you, Zac."
     "You have to, Apollo.  Hey, I'll be okay.  I'll keep ahead of them,
don't worry.  I'll put my foot in that turbo and make it back ahead of
them.  There's no other choice."
     "Okay, partner.  Meet me in the ready room, I'll keep the ambrosa
chilled."
     "I don't need liquor right now, thanks.  I've got enough coming my
way."
     "Good luck, kid."
     Before the turbo thrusters engaged, Apollo took one final look at
his brother's starfighter.  Then the turbo kicked in and the Viper seemed
to vanish immediately from the black, suddenly morbid sky.

*****

     The farther away his shuttlecraft took him from the Atlantia and its
unpleasantly cheerful set of buriticians, the more relaxed Adama felt. 
It was always good to return to his own ship.  He longed to take one of
his famous tours, go down among the crew for some casual chatting and
perhaps a few slugs of the kind of brew that did not often find its way
into command cabins.
     "You're thinking the kind of thought you always refuse to tell me
about," Athena said, swiveling her pilot seat around toward him."
     "As you were, Ensign.  Your commander needs to maintain his
privacy."
     She assumed a fake pout, then lalughed as she swiveled back.  For a
moment Adama examined his daughter's profile.  He knew she was considered
beautiful, especially by Starbuck and the other young officers who
competed for her attentions.  However, even as a loving father, he had
difficulty perceiving Athena as beautiful.  For one thing, she looked too
much like him and too little like her mother, who was the real beauty of
the family.  Athena's face was angular like her father's, but the overall
effect was softer, less granitic.  Her nose displayed the same hint of
aquilinity and her mouth the same thin-lipped straightness.  Although he
imagined these features as showing the world a firm look of determination
in himself, he didn't think they blended well with Athena's lustrous dark
hair and the one good features she did inherit from her mother, her eyes. 
Every time he caught the look of his wife, Ila, in those glowng blue
eyes, he found himself glancing away to avoid the longing that always
accompanied his memories of Ila.
     In their married life, he and Ila had been apart for more time then
they had been tighter---this time it had been almost two yahrens since
his return to Caprica---and that enforced separation was the one
requirement of the military career that he had always despised.  If it
had not been for the war, they could have had the kind of balanced, happy
life that now came only at well-spaced intervals, although, as Ila often
argued, perhaps their love was intensified by the long disruptions. 
Without them, she said, she and Adama might have become dull old married
folks, never really acknowledging each other's existence.  Instead, they
remained bedazzled, youthful lovers who still appreciated each other's
virtues.  Adama had replied that she was just saying that absence makes
the heart grow fonder, albeit it in a more roundabout and loquacious way. 
Of course she said that---and a little bit more.
     As he loked as his daughter now, intent on her duties, he saw a
feminine version of himself.  Even her body, with its attractive and
clearly sensous features, seemed to suggest useful strength rather than
useless coquetry---or perhaps that was a just a father's biased
point-of-view.  He loved her, would always love her, but would never in
the Twelve Colonies of Mankind be able to see her as an object of intense
interest to gentlemen suitors.
     The communicator light flashed on and Athena quickly donned her
headset.  Her brow furled as she listened.
     "Something's wrong," she said.
     "What is it?"
     "I don't know, but they just put the Galactica bridge on alert."
     "On alert, why..."
     "Ease up, Father, we'll find out what's up on the old bucket soon
enough.  Just let me get this crate onto the landing bay safely.
     She engaged the landing hookup and checked out her equipment. 
Everything was okay.  The landing bay came out of its pod, expanded, and
seemed to ease itself under the descending shuttlecraft.  Athena guided
the small craft to the final stopping point indicated by a flashing red
deck light.  When the shuttlecraft settled to a stop, both father and
daughter were out of it and running.
     On the bridge Adama found his aide, Colonel Tigh, squinting at his
scanners intently.  Tigh, a, short, wiry black man who had been through
many battles at his commander's side, was not one to panic easily, yet he
seemed very apprehensive and jumpy at the moment.
     "What is it?" Adama said.
     "Our patrol ran into trouble," Tigh responded.  "We're picking up
signals but we can't make anyting out of them.  Jamming of some sort."
     "The trouble, what is it?"
     "I can't tell yet.  Pirates, maybe.  Maybe smugglers.  Or..."
     Adama could read Tigh's real conclusion in the man's eyes.  Cylons. 
Definitely Cylons!  Looking out at the starfield at the placidly drifting
command ship, he ordered the radio man, Omega, to connect him with
President Arcon at once.  When Arcon answered, there was still that sound
of partying in his voice.  Adama cut that short.
     "One of our patrols is under attack, Mr. President.  We don't know
by whom."
     Arcon's pale face on the monitor altered at the speed of light. 
Adama thought for a moent there was interference affected the picture's
resolution.  The skulking figure of Baltar, his chubby face showing a
concerned that seemed feigned to Adama, moved into the picture.
     "As a precautionary measure," Adama continued, "I'd like to launch
intercept fighters."
     Like to? he thought.  That was the kind of mealy-mouthed phrasing
Arcon expected from the more servile members of the Quorum of the Twelve! 
In the old days, Adama would have said he was determined to send out the
intercepts.  His stomach churned as he watched Baltar lean in toward the
president and whisper in his ear.  Arcon nodded.
     "Yes, you're quite right, Baltar.  Quite right," he said. 
"Commander..." Where did Arcon get off addressing his oldest friend so
formally?  Why did he put such official airs in front of the despicable
Baltar?  "Commander, as a precautionary measure, I insist upon
restraint."
     "Restraint?!"
     "Yes, restraint.  Commander, if this turns out to be an encounter
with some outlaw traffic, we could jeopardize the entire cause of peace
by displaying fighters when we are so close to our rendezvous."
     To Adama the Cylon choice of rendezvou point seemed more suspicious
than ever.
     "Mr. President, I just told you that two of my aircraft are under
armed attack."
     "By unknown forces.  We must receive proper information.  You're not
to launch until the situation is clearer."
     "Sir, may I at least urge you to bring the Fleet to a state of
alert?"
     Adama's throat tightened, unable to believe he was pleading like
this.
     "I'll consider it.  Thank you, Commander."
     "He'll consider it," Tigh said angrily.  He had never been able to
keep his feelings in.  It had lost him a battlestar command post at least
once.  "Has he gone mad?"
     "Colonel!"
     Tigh looked around.  Clearly he was a bit embarrassed at the way the
bridge officers had become ominously silent, listening to them.
     "I'm sorry, Commander," Tigh said.  "It's just that...well..."
     "Yes.  What?"
     "The patrol under fire. It's, well, it's under Captain Apollo's
command."
     "Well, if I can't depend on my own son, who can I depend on?"
     "Zac's with him.  One of the men took sick and Zac was on the bridge
at the time, and, well, there was a this little matter of a disciplinary
nature, a nurse, and I...I..."
     "Enough, Colonel. I understand your concern.  But Zac can take care
of himself as well as his older brother can."
     He turned away from his aide, afraid that the man might read in his
eyes that he didn't believe a word of what he was saying.  In action, Zac
had good instincts, good moves, but was too impulsive---always had been,
ever since he was a wild kid stealing rides from every shuttle or
freighter that he could stow away in.  The fact that Zac had raced off on
patrol was stil another of the wrong things that had gnawed at Adama's
nerves from the beginning of this strange peace junket.
     For the next few mili-centons, the crew of the bridge worked
silently, aware of the explosive tension that surrounded their commander
like a minefield.  Adama and Tigh spoke only to issue orders.  When there
were no more commands, Adama spoke to his aide.
     "Anything?"
     "Still nothing from the fighters, sir.  One thing I'm sure
of---their transmission is being jammed deliberately.  If we don't launch
soon..."
     "We cannot launch when it has been expressly forbidden," Adama said,
measuring out his words carefully.  He could feel the eyes of the entire
bridge crew staring at him.  "This might, on the other hand, be an
appropriate time to order a test of our battle stations drill."
     Tigh smiled and the rest of the bridge crew followed suit.
     "Sound the battle stations alert, Colonel!" Adama shouted.

*****

     The identical smugness on the faces of the two Gemonese infuriated
Starbuck.  The main goal of his life had just that moment become to wipe
that self-satisfaction off both their faces.  Sitting down at the table,
with the remains of the gallery's cash reserves overflowing in his big
hands, he grinned his best country-boy grin at his opponents and pushed
the large pile of cubits to the center of the table.
     "Okay, guys," he said.  "The showdown play, right?  One hand. 
Sudden death."
     The Gemonse frowned simultaneously and whispered together.  Even
though he was not up on their language, he could tell by the quarrelsome
sound of their voices that they were debating the odds.  They came to
their agreement, nodded at the same time, and pushed the equivalent
amount of cubits into the pot.
     "Sudden death it shall be, Caprican."
     "Death.  Caprican," said the other.
     Smiling genially, Starbuck began shuffling the cards.  When the
hands were dealt, one of the Gemonese picked up thiers immediately while
the other leaned over his shoulder to inspect it.  Starbuck waited a beat
before picking up his hand.  He knew the nonchalance of such a pause
could unnerve the already anxious Gemonese and affect their play.
     As he regarded the hand, he realized with a surge of exultation that
he hadn't needed to employ such elaborate play-acting.  His cards were
all one color, and all the same symbol, the highest ranking---the
pyramid!  He could sense the electrified crowd reaction behind him, and
started to lay out the cards for the Gemonese to read and weep.
     "You may never see another one, fellas," he chortled. "A perfect
pyramid."
     Both Gemonese mouths dropped open in perfect unison.  The
cardholding Gemonese was about to throw his hand.
     The alert-claxon blared loudly through the ready room, jarrig
everybody's concentration and sending several crewmembers into immediate
action.  A woman reading a book on a corner bunk dropped the volume and
started running. A sleeper flung himself out of a chair near the card
table and, awakening a moment after his instinctual rise, he plunged
sideways as he tried to avoid the running woman.  In plunging, his body
bumped against the table.  The cards, including Starbuck's perfect
pyramid, slid and fluttered in all directions, some falling to the floor. 
When they were already dispersed, Starbuck made a futile grab at their
ghosts.  The Gemonse watched the cards scatter, exchanged a look, then
smiled together.  
     "Unfortunate," one of them said. "We'll have to replay hand at later
date."
     "Wait a micron, you..." Starbuck cried.
     "Duty calls," said one Gemonese.
     "Duty," said the other, while picking up his battle helmet from the
floor (brushing off a couple of round cards that had stuck in ridges
along its surface), and scooping their half of the pot into it.  Their
bodies tense in battle readiness, the two rushed out of the room.
     "Come back here, you rotten crasodies!" Starbuck shouted.  "Hey,
somebody  stop them!"
     But it was too late to stop anybody.  After their collective moment
of shock, even members of the gallery started charging for the exits,
gathering up their helmets and flight kits on the way.
     Starbuck shrugged his shoulders, pocketed his half of the pot, made
a mental note to distribute the cash back among his contributors (but
only if they asked), and hurried to the flight-prep corridor.
     Running along the luminous ceiling of the enlongated chamber that
was the catapult deck, a transparent vacuum tube revealed the even rows
of the Galactica's fighter ships, side by side in their powerful
launching cribs.  As the vehicles were thrust out of the tube onto the
deck itself, their pilots emerged from chutes that had carried them from
the flight-prep corridor.  Each pilot raced on foot to his individual
ship, while ground crews activated the sleek, delta-winged craft for
launch.
     Starbuck emerged from his drop and sprinted to his ship.  After
jumping onto a wing, he executed his famous into-the-saddle leap into the
cockpit.  Jenny, his ground-crew CWO, belted him in.  Her darkly
attractive face showed extreme concern as she closed the form-fitting
cockpit over him.
     "What's going on?" she screamed.
     "Nothing to worry about," Starbuck replied. "Probably just some kind
of, I don't know, aerial salute for the president as they sign the
armistice or kiss the Cylons or something."
     Jenny frowned.
     "That's disgusting," she hollered.
     "Disgusting? What's disgusting?"
     "The idea of kissing the Cylons, that's what, it turns my stomach."
     "Don't knock what you haven't tried."
     "Get outta here, bucko!"
     Jenny hit the main power switch and Starbuck felt the familiar
thrust backward that always accompanied the engagement of the flight
systems.  He took the controls and taxied to his launch point where, his
craft joining the titanic array of the Galactica's iridescent vehicles,
he waited tensely for orders to launch or return."

*****

     Although Adama had to keep aware of the information on all of the
wall screens before him, his eyes inadvertently kept returning to the one
that showed Apollo's ship coming into physical range of the battlestar.
     "Starboard langind deck ready for approaching single fighter,
Commander," Tigh said.
     "Sir," one of the bridge crewmen said, "long-range scanner picks up
a large number of craft moving this way at high speed."
     Adama and Tigh glanced apprehensively at each other, then rushed to
the scanner screen toward which the crewman pointed.
     "Get that pilot up here as soon as he lands," Adama ordered,
checking the progress of Apollo's approach to the landing deck, "and get
the president back on the codebox."
     He tried to discern some meaning in the screen revealing the wall of
ships coming their way, some proof of the awesome threat he felt
emanating from it.  The president's face, looking a bit less smug than
before, came onto the communications screen.
     "Yes, Commander,' Arcon said blandly.
     "Mr. President, a wall of unidentified craft is closing toward the
Fleet."
     Baltar's puffy face appeared at the edge of the screen, smiling
oddly.
     "Possibly a Cylon welcoming committee," the trader said.
     "May I suggest that at the very least," Adama said, "we launch a
welcoming committee of our own?"
     "Mr. President," Baltar said, "there remain many hostile feelings
among our warriors.  The likelihood of an unfortunate incident with all
those pilots in the sky at once..."
     "A good point, Baltar," Arcon said.  "Did you hear that, Adama?"
     Adama could barely restrain his anger, but his voice remained steady
as he replied.
     "No, Mr. President, I can't possibly have heard correctly.  Did
Count Baltar suggest we allow our forces to sit here totally
defenseless?"
     "Commander!" Arcon's voice was unusually sharp.  "We are on a peace
mission.  The first peace man has known in a thousand yahrens."
     "Mr. President..."
     Tigh touched Adama's shoulder, a printout report clutched in his
hand.
     "A lone ship is coming under attack from the main approaching
force," Tigh said.

*****

     As his plane seemed to limp through space, Zac could see on his
scanner the rate at which the Cylon fighters were narrowing the gap.  His
information, displayed at the bottom of the screen, indicated that he had
no r eal chance to get back to the Galactica ahead of the Cylons, and
there was no way he could pump extra speed into his damaged craft.
     "I may have to turn and fight," he said aloud.  He was a little
disturbed that Apollo was out of communication range and could not
respond to his younger brother's bravado.  Even though he often resented
the tight leash Apollo kept him on, Zac wished he would return now to
tell him what to do.
     The Cylon ships opened fire and Zac's ship lurched---another direct
hit.  His scanner flashed, then went blank.  A straing oscillating whine
filled the cockpit, and the fighter slowed even more.  Zac pushed on the
throttle, tried to force more speed out of the ship.
     "Come on, baby, not much farther," he said. "Give me all you got!"
     The ship vibrated as it took another hit.  Zac felt the blood drain
out of his face and his heart began to beat rapidly.

*****

     Enraged, Adama ripped the printout sheet from Tigh's hands and waved
it toward the screen, which showed Arcon's now troubled face.
     "Did you hear that, Mr. President?" he shouted, feeling in control
of the situation now, as his anger at the officious buriticians erupted. 
"Your welcoming committee is firing at our patrol."
     Arcon backed away from the camera, his body looking as if it had
collapsed inside the tent of his toga.
     "Firing," he said. "But...firing...on our patrol...that can't...I
demand an explanation, Baltar!" He looked around frantically for Baltar,
who no longer stood smugly at his side. "Baltar!...Baltar!"  He looked
back at the screen.  "He's...he's left the bridge, Adama."
     "I'm ordering out our squadrons," Adama said.  The defeated man on
the screen nodded sheepishly.  
     "By all means," he said. "Yes.  Immediately.  Now."
     Before Arcon had spoken, the bridge crew of the Galactica,
responding to Adama's rapid gestures, had swung into action.  Adama
scowled at the screen showing Zac's fighter under heavy attack from the
Cylon ambush party.  He could sense what was about to happen, and his
throat tightened.  Zac's ship was within range of the Fleet now.  The
static caused by the Cylon jamming diminished, and Zac's voice suddenl
reverberated loud and clear across the Galactica's bridge.
     "...they're up to...I don't think I can...wait a centon, I see you
now, Galactica.  My scanner's working again.  Everything's A-OK!  We made
it!  We made it!"
     Even as Adama felt the wave of happiness in his son's joy, he saw
the three Cylon fighters closing in for the kill.
     "NO!  Watch out, Zac!" he hollered at the screen.  Tigh shouted too,
in echo.  Admittedly, he has a tendency to be.
     Obviously not receiving from the Galactica, Zac's voice beacam cooly
businesslike.
     "Blue flight two.  In trouble.  Request emergency approa----"
     The Cylon ships fired simultaneously.
     Zac's ship exploded, became a flash of light, disappeared.
     All around Adama there was silence. Only the sounds of equipment
could be heard.  On the screen next to the one that had pictured the
destruction of Zac's plane, the array of Colonial Fleet fighters ready
for launch spread as far back as the camera eye could detect.
     "What was that?" Arcon's voice destroyed the silence.  For a moment
Adama could not figure out what the president was talking about.  What
was what?  He had a flash memory of Zac smiling, in battle-gear, so
engagingly eager to make a heroic name for himself.  Then he turned
toward Arcon's image.  His voice was low, bitter, crackling with
suppressed rage.
     "That was my son, Mr. President."
     Tigh gestured crew personnel into action as the attacking fleet of
Cylons came into view and opened fire.  Adama turned away from the small
screens and examined the massive starfield.  Hundreds of Cylon fighters
streaked by, firing salvo after salvo of their laser-particle torpedoes. 
The starfield---ablaze with the marks of flame, explosion,
destruction---had suddenly been transformed into a deadly fireworks
display.  Two Fleet battle cruisers exploded together.  Tigh looked
anxiously toward Adama, waiting for his orders.
     "Launch fighters!" Adama shouted. "All batteries commence fire.  I
say again---commence fire!"
     As the claxon aroused the ship and the noises of counterattack
began, Adama's tightly clenched fist slammed against empty air.

*****

From the Adama Journals:

     We often debate the differences between individual death and mass
death.  People say there is more sorrow involved in mourning he end of a
loved one's life, than in mourning the tragic annihilation of hundreds of
thousands or millions of victims whose identities are unknown to us.  I'm
not sure that's true.  I have viewed the death in action of a son and
also been forced to consider individual deathas and mass deaths athat
were all part of the same insidious event in history.  It seems to me all
the deaths were intricately connected to my sorrow in ways that I could
never explain.  The tangled, subdued sorrow over the multiple deaths of
some mass disaster is, I believe, no less intense, no less meaningful, no
less important, than the more dramatic outward show of grief for a person
who has had the considerable misfortune to die alone.

*****     

CHAPTER TWO: HOLOCUAST!

     As Adama directed the launching of the Galactica's counterattacking
forces with growled commands and fierce, violent gestures, his
counterpart on the enemy side was in a calm state of meditative
relaxatioin as he maintained complete surveillance of his meticulously
planned battle strategy.  He was sitting in the exact center of the Cylon
equivalent of a battlestar, a circular vehicle which tapered down almost
to a point through several dark and metal-webbed deck levels.  Power for
the ship emanated upward from the nether point, where highly volatile
liquid Tylium was mixed with neutralizing fuels and forced into the
generational systems by the action of what appeared to be revolving
pinwheels.  Humans who had glimpsed the formidable Cylon base ships up
close had unanimously described them as spinning tops.
     The Cylon commander, whose name would translate into Colonial
Standard as "Imperious Leader," sat above his officers on a huge pedestal
whose sides were marked with hundreds of sharp-edged and barbed points
that sent off sporadic threatening gleams in the shifting light of the
immense chamber.  On his many-eyed, knobby head, whose surface colors
were various shades of gray, like shadows without sources, he was now
wearing a helmet that was the Cylon version of the massive communications
panel aboard the Galactica.  All the same informational units that spread
across one side of the Galactica's bridge were contained in miniature in
the helmet.  With it Imperious Leader could keep track of all phases of
the battle simultaneously.  At the same time the helmet was feeding him
the necessary abstract information from which he could formulate the
proper improvisations on the basic strategy.  All of this information was
being transmitted to him from a contingent of executive officers who
circled the pedestal and dispatched their data in invisible beams upward
to the leader's helmet.  The Cylon officers were also in helmet contact
with each other, so that trifling and unnecessary bits of information
could be filtered out before transmission to the leader.  If the
transmissions beams had been visible, the headquarters chamber of
Imperious Leader would appear to the casual observer as an impossibly
intricate crawlon's web.  In spite of all the communication activity, the
dimly lit room, populated by unmoving figures cemented in sitting and
standing positions, suggested a rigid serenity, an alien gentlemen's club
with members engaged in apparently harmless contemplations.
     In his third-brain, the one that monitored the functioning of his
other two brains, Imperious Leader enjoyed a deep flow of satisfaction. 
His entire life had been pointed toward this moment, the final and
overwhelming defeat of the alien pest that had infected the perfect unity
of the universe. He had been born in a time when the war had been going
on, in human measurement, for seven hundred yahrens.  His first-brain,
replacing the rudimentary one that trained and educated him in his early
years, had been awarded him at the proper ceremony marking his passing
from childhood to maturity.  First-brains were the basic guidance system
of both the Cylon citizen and centurion.  Since the first-brain's
activities concentrated on perceptions related to information gathering
and efficient performance in whatever job had been assigned the
individual Cylon at the maturity ceremony, only the simple interpretive
powers were implanted in it. In Imperious Leader's case, his childhood
achievements, especially the physical ones, had qualified him for the
coveted job of centurion.  Even better, he had quickly ascended to
fighter pilot status and won the name that would have been (loosely)
translated into Colonial Standard as "Ace of Aces."  As a result of his
mastery of warfare techniques, he had been award his second-brain much
earlier than his peers.  The second-brain gave him the abilities
necessary for Cylon officers, particularly the gift of analyzing and
interpreting information.  When the second-brain operated in conjunction
with the first-brain integrally, as it always did for Imperious Leader,
one rose to the level of executive officer.  He had become one of the
youngest executive officers in the history of his race.  He knew now
that, if he removed his helmet and let his many eyes survey the officers
surrounding the pedestal, he would be besieged by keen memories of
himself doing their jobs, interpreting and filtering data for previous
Imperious Leaders.
     When the most recent Imperious Leader had reached the end of his
reign (each Leader held power for a specific term; about three-quarters
of a century in the time of Man, although the Cylons used no such
constricting measurements of linear time), he dictated his selection as
successor.  Whatever his choice, no grumbling would have been heard from
the Cylon executive officers because there was no aspiration to power. 
Cylons believed that the decrees of their superiors at any level or in
any position originated in a master plan known completely only to the
Imperious Leader.  For them it was only logical, since Imperious Leaders
were the only Cylons with a third-brain and therefore the only Cylons in
possession of all information.
     Even though he displayed his reaction to none of his fellow
officers, the present Imperious Leader had been mildly surprised when his
predecessor had selected him.  The awarding of leadership generally went
to one of the officers senior in command experience.  He had served long
and well, but did not consider himself eligible for the supreme echelon
until the next time of selection.  However, with the same stoicism with
which he would have reconciled himself to death in battle, he accepted
the awarding of the third-brain.  As soon as it had been implanted, he
understood why his predecessor, who now communicated with him
telepathically, had chosen him.  Besides being part of that telepathic
network connecting the few third-brain holders who had not as yet
selected their time of death, he now possessed, according to Cylon
belief, the capability of limitless wisdom.  While the second-brain had
allowed him a substantial amount of understanding about what happened,
why it happened, and how it happened, the third-brain allowed him to
transcend the tyranny of mere facts, to rise above the limitations of
trivial speculation, insight, and idea.  With the third-brain he could
connect his first-brain information and second-brain interpretations of
the information to a vast accumulation of knowledge going bac in time
very nearly to the beginning of the Cylon culture.  He discovered that
not every Cylon could admit the third-brain into his body and, in fact,
most of his compatriots would have involuntarily regjected it.  For that
reason primarily, the selection of successor to Imperious Leader was
always carried out with extreme care.  Tests at the implanting of the
first-brain indicated the few Cylons who had third-brain potential. 
Those who qualified were kept under intense scrutiny during the ensuing
years.  Some were weeded out when certain character instabilities emerged
in difficult test situations, while others were merely killed in the
war---a high number, since third-brain qualifiers tended to take high
risks in warfare.  By the time the present Imperious Leader rose to the
executive staff, he was one of only six survivors eligible for
third-brain implantation.  The final selection was made by the Cylon in
command, advised by all the former living Imperious Leaders, supplemented
by analyses based upon memories of dead Leaders whos brains were
preserved in the historical tanks.  When he had awakened from the
third-brain implantation, knowing immediately why he was the choice, he
agreed thoroughly with that decision.
     All of this, plus the entire history and accumulated knowledge of
the Cylon race, was his in an instant.
     Now he reviewed the progress of his scrupulously deisgned
diversionary battle tactic against the Colonial Fleet, and he looked
ahead to the main plan that was about to commence.  The enemy was sure to
be routed.  His victory over the humans would assure his place in Cylon
history.  He could expect to hand over command to a successor in the far
future, with satisfaction, knowing he would continue to be an influential
Leader, even in voluntary stasis.
     His base ship now approached the main target, the most important of
the twelve targets to which he had deployed the massive forces under his
command.  He wished to supervise personally the destruction of the planet
Caprica.  His spy network had informed him that it was the home planet of
his chief human enemy, Adama, and he wanted the pleasure of causing its
destruction for himself.
     It was odd, he thought, how dealing strategically with humans as
enemies for so long had forced him often to think like a human being. 
His predecessor had warned him that it would be necessary to utilize a
portion of the massive third-brain for the contemplation of human ideas,
in order to coutner the enemy's moves in battle.  He could not deny that
the ability to copy human thought processes had been invaluable in
fighting this stubborn, irrational race that was the enemy, but he had
never liked the times when he had to engage that part of his brain which
contained the essence of human knowledge, the clumsy stronghold of
unreason that housed human philosophies.  Even now, as an image of the
present state of Caprica was transmitted to him from several sources, he
could not help seeing the coming annihilation of the humans in their own
terms.  Good and evil, that was the kind of concern that perplexed
single-brained, inefficient human minds.  If one of them had his
abilities and could penetrate the limitless dimensions of the Cylon three
brains, the human perceiver would have been appalled that such simple
dichotomies as good and evil just didn't exist for the Cylons.  What was
essential to all Cylons was preserving the Natural Order of the Universe,
and they were relentless guardians of that order.  For that reason the
humans had to be exterminated.  Their adventuresome ways and overriding
need to explore areas where their mere presence threatened universal
order had irretrievably destined them for elimination at Cylon hands. 
Imperious Leader believed peace must be returned to the universe.  The
humans' unfortunate tendency toward independent thought and action could
no longer be allowed to disturb the inhabitants of worlds whome they
visited without invitations.
     Good and evil!  He detested the human portion of his mind  for
forcing him to consider that subject.  He envisioned the deaths he would
cause, the cities he would demolish, the worlds he would reduce to
rubble---and saw that from the human viewpoint all of this necessary
warfare was evil! The Cylons were evil.  He was evil.  He detested the
very concept of evil, as much as he despised the concept of good.  They
were not opposites, and they were not mutually exclusive.  Even most
humans knew that.  First-brain Cylons sensibly accepted the consequences
of warfare as essential, and neither mourned their own deaths nor felt
triumph in killing humans.  Nevertheless, before initiating the
destruction of Caprica, Imperious Leader found it necessary to disengage
all his human philosophies, so that he could concentrate on strategy.
     Two Centurions strode toward him, stopped before the pedestal, and
formally communicated the request to attack, a ritual that went back to
days when the Empire was ruled by Imperious Families.
     "By your command," the first officer said.
     "Speak," said Imperious Leader.
     "All base ships are now in range to attack the Colonies," the second
Centurion said.
     As the ritual demanded, the leader removed the communications helmet
and stared at his minions, his many eyes glowing with a rare moment of
elation.
     "Yes," he said. "The final annihilation of the alien pest, the life
form known as Man.  Let the attack begin."
     The two Centurions made perfunctory bows and rejoined the spider web
of fellow executive officers.  Even before they regained position and
Imperious Leader had redonned his helmet, large apertures had opened all
around the main circle of each Cylon base ship.  Cylon warships emerged
in precise sequence from each aperture and flew to their pre-battle
positions, where they formed a twelve-tiered, coruscating wall that, when
fully constructed, divided into waves, each of which had a Colony as its
eventual target.

*****

     No other Colonial Fleet battlestar had been able to launch full
contingents of fighting craft in time.  The Cylon attackers now picked
off easily the ships, sitting ducks, that were catapulted out.  Adama
realized with mixed sadness and anger that only the Galactica's fighters
were left to lead the fight against the immense attacking force. 
Outnumbered, they alternatively dodged and flew at Cylon fighters.  Laser
cannons fired and cross-fired, their radiant, thin lines chaging to
spectacular eruptions of yellow and red flame when they foud their
targets.  As usual, Fleet warships fought with more skill and better
accuracy, but the overwhelming odds of this battle---this treacherous
ambush---seemed to be working against them, and Adama experienced a sharp
pain in his gut each time Cylon fire destroyed one of his ships.  The
Fleet would lose many pilots today, perhaps all of them.  They had
already lost Zac.  Adama told himself to stop thiking of his son's death. 
He must stop thinking of it.  It had been painful enough to watch it
happen while he stood helplessly by, watching it on a screen like one of
the entertainment cassettes he often watched in his quarters.  There
would be more pain later, but now, like all commanders who had tragically
lost sons in battle, going back in time through the many devastating wars
the race had endured, Adama had to keep his mind on his duties.
     Apollo rushed onto the bridge, and Adama hastened to his side.  The
young man was out of breath and he spoke ina  staccato fashion:
     "Cylons...ambush...they ambushed us...had to leave Zac...no other
option...had to lave...didn't want to, but had to...he's disabled...I'm
going to go back and lead him in."
     "I'm afraid that won't be possible," Adama said.  His mind raced,
searching for a way to tell Apollo of Zac's death.  The two brothers had
been devoted to each other and there seemed no gentle way to break the
news.
     "Father," Apollo said, his voice awash in desperation, "I left
him---just hanging there--his ship was damaged---I didn't know what else
to do.  I've made my report---if I don't go back..."
     Suddenly, staring into his father's eyes, Apollo perceived their sad
message.
     "No!" he said in a weak voice.  Tigh came to his side and spoke.
     "Captain Apollo, Zac's ship was destroyed just short of the Fleet. 
I'm sorry."
     "But...but...I left him."
     "You had no choice," Adama said gently.
     Apollo turned away, his face pale.  Adama recalled the times when
Apollo, as a child, had shown such excruciating pain.  He wished he could
take the man into his arms as he had once embraced a crying boy.  But
Apollo would, he knew, brush off any sympathetic touch at this moment,
and Adama knew enough to let his son come to terms with his own pain. 
Telling Apollo again that he had no choice, the commander quickly scanned
the screens of the communications panel and ordered Tigh to report.
     "Captain," Tigh said, "we have to know how many base ships we're
dealing with."
     "No base ships," Apollo replied, some strength coming back into his
voice as he went into warrior mode.  "Only Raiders.  Thousands of
Raiders.  I saw them hovering over Cimtar."
     "That can't be, Captain," Tigh said.  "Fighters couldn't function
this far from Cylon without base ships.  They don't have the fuel."
     "No base ships!" Apollo shouted angrily.  "Just fighters.  Fighters
lined up from here to Hades.  I saw them.  Maybe a thousand, maybe more."
     "How do you explain that, Apollo?" Adama said, forcing his voice to
remain normal in order to quell his son's natural anger."
     "I can't explain it," Apollo said, his voice calming.  "We picked up
an empty tanker on our scanners.  My guess is the Cylons used it to
refuel for the attack.  They flew to the tanker from wherever their base
ships are right now."
     Adama's brow furled as he digested the information Apollo was
providing.  It was just the data he needed, it shed light on the elusive
riddle of this sudden ambush and the fake peace conference.  The thought
that had been nagging him ever since the alert had been sounded came into
the forefront of his mind.  Tigh was speaking.
     "Why operate so far from Cylon without base ships when it isn't
necessary.  They would've been out of our range at the old moon."
     "Because," Adama said, "the base ships are needed---someplace else! 
Get me the president!  Now!"
     The president's blood-drained face flashed onto the proper screen
before the echo from Adama's shouted command had faded form the bridge. 
Behind Arcon, fire raged on the Atlantia's bridge.  Arcon was
frightened---Adama hadn't seen a look like that on his face since that
day at the Academy when they sweated out the senior finals.
     "Mr. President," Adama said, striving to control his voice.  "I
request permission to leave the Fleet."
     "No!" Arcon screamed hysterically.  "That's an act of cowardice,
Adama.  You know better than that!"
     "Arcon!  I've reason to suspect that our home planets may face
imminent attack."
     The president, his eyes clouding with desperation, moved out of view
for a moment.  The Atlantia's camera readjusted, caught the broken man
leaning against a wall.
     "No, I say!" Archon bleated.  "You are in error.  You must be. 
It's---impossible---I couldn't have been that wrong.  Not that wrong."
     "Arcon, this is no time to debate the..."
     "Silence, Adama!  Don't you...can't you...I've led the human race,
the entire human race, to ruin."
     "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, man!  We've got to act!  Now!"
     "I can't----can't act---can't even think straight---cant..."
     "Arcon, you didn't lead us to this disaster, but we were led all the
same."
     "Led---by whom?"
     "Baltar!  I must have been Baltar!"
     "No, Commander, that couldn't be.  I don't believe it.  I won't..."
     A deafening explosion drowned out the rest of Arcon's sentence.  The
camera, blown off its moorings, momentarily caught a picture of a section
of the command bridge being ripped open, then engulfing flame rushing
across, then nothing.  Adama shifted his attention to the starfield,
where he could see the flagship crusing in the distance.  Fires could be
seen blazing inside it.  Suddenly, with a burst of blinding light, it
blew apart, disintegrated into thousands of pieces.  After a moment,
there was emptiness where the Atlantia had once been.
     Activity on the Galactica's bridge had come to a standstill, as the
crew looked on in stunned silence.  However, Cylon warships closed in on
their own ship now, and there was little time for reverent silence.  Tigh
now stood beside Adama, the inevitable printouts in his hands.
     Look sir, our long-range scanners have picked up Cylon base ships
here, here, and here.  That puts them well within range---striking
range---of the planets Virgon, Sagitara, and..."
     He could not say it, so Adama finished the sentence for him.
     "Caprica."
     Athena, who had been helping plot the course of the Galactica and
the enemy base ships on a large, translucent starfield map, turned
suddenly at her father's words.
     "Caprica," she whispered.
     "Helm," Adama said, not looking at her, "bring us around.  We're
withdrawing.  Colonel, we're heading for home.  Plot the proper..."
     "Father!" Athena interrupted, coming to Adama's side, "what are you
doing?"
     "Sir," said Apollo, from his other side, "our ships..."
     "This is necessary," Adama said. "We'll leave our ships behind to
protect the Fleet."
     "But they can't return to us," Athena said.
     "Yes, it is possible for them to return.  They can use refueling
stations to..."
     "If the refueling stations haven't been destroyed, too," Apollo said
bitterly.
     "Well, Adama said, "those with enough fuel, those that can obtain
enough fuel, they can, well, they can catch up as best they can."
     "Sir, I must protest!" Apollo said.
     "Later, please," Adama replied.
     "We should tell them, transmit our intentions..."
     "No. If we have any advantage left, any advantage at all, it's
surprise."
     Adama briefly felt anger toward his two children as they sulked back
to their positions on the bridge, then he suppressed all emotion as he
crisply gave the orders that transported the Galactica away from the
embattled Colonial forces.  He tried not to notice that most of the power
ships in the Fleet were aflame.
     When they had moved out of range of the battle, a bridge officer
announced that all electronic jamming had ceased.  
     "They're clearing the air for their electronic guidance systems,"
Apollo said.
     "That means the attack is under way," Tigh said.
     "No, sir," said a bridge officer, "we're picking up long-range video
satellite signals.  Everything looks perfectly normal at home."
     Everybody's attention centered on the monitors that displayed scenes
of Caprica.  Adama concentrated particularly on an aerial view that
showed Caprica's beautiful, pyramidal architecture to a particularly good
advantage.  He had a similar view in his work room at home, not far from
the scene he was watching.  Ila had given the holoview to him.  He must
not think of Ila now.
     Clearly, it was a beautiful day in Caprica's capital city.  A
downtown area bustled with shoppers, a row of residence pyramids appeared
serene.  The communications was picking up broadcast transmissions.  It
all looked so peaceful, so much like the scenes they had all anticipated
returning to at the conclusion of the peace mission, so ordinary that
Adama for a moment considered the battle behind them had been proven a
lie, a dream, and instead they now flew toward a glorious reality.
     "Commander," Tigh said quietly, "perhaps---perhaps we're in time. 
Or maybe, maybe the Cylon attack on our Fleet was just some action of a
dissident faction, a small anti-peace movement trying to cause trouble."
     "Unlikely, Tigh," Adama said. "Unlikely."
     The wave of Cylon warships appeared suddenly, as if from nowhere, on
a screen adjacent to the home-planet views.

*****

     Serina's eyes teared from the steady glaring light bouncing off the
fronts of the all-glass shopping-mall buildings.  In the middle of giving
orders to her techinicans about where to set up the TV equipment, she
whispered inot the microphone of her makeup kit, told it to come up with
something to alter the tear level in her eyes.  It produced a steady,
treated tissue with which she dabbed away the offending moisture. 
Besides acting as a sponge, it also medically soothed her eyes'
irritation.
     As she attended to her work, many startled passers-by stopped to
stare at her---the price of being a media personality known all over
Caprica.  For herself, she had grown tired of the face known to millions. 
It was beautiful, sure---with all that long auburn hair, plus the green
eyes, and the full sensuous mouth, not to mention the slim, curvaceous
figure that had become the Caprican ideal of beauty---but when you had to
check it out daily, almost by the centon, on monitors, verifying that it
was suitable for general viewing, you could easily get sick of suck
comeliness.
     Her ear-reciever announced thirty seconds to air time, and she got
into position in front of the camera.  As the count worked down to zero,
she spot-checked the scene immediately behind her.  She was pleased with
the beauty of the flower arrangements, especially the raised
quarter-circle of brightly colored flowers spelling out the word PEACE. 
Above the word were spread the flags of the the Twelve Colonies.  How
impressive, she thought, and what a marvelous backdrop for the
celebration that's going to break loose when the peace is officially
announced.  The count reached zero, the red light came on, and Serina
began her speech.
     "Serina here, at the Caprica Presidium, where preparations continue
as they have continued through the night for the ceremonies that will
commence when the long-awaited announcement is beamed here for the peace
conference.  Even though it's early dawn here, large crowds of people
have gathered all around the Presidium complex.  Anticipation is growing
as Capricans ready themselves to usher in a new era of peace.  So far,
details of the armistice meetings are not coming in as hoped for because
of an unusual electrical interference blocking out communication.  We've
not even received official announcements regarding the rendezvous with
the Cylon emissaries.  However, as ssoon as information is available you
will see the first pictures of what has been described at the most
significant event since..."
     The sound of a distant rumbling explosion was followed by a closer
earsplitting noise of shattering glass as windows and door panels all
around the Presidium broke simultaneously, sending shards of glass flying
everywhere.  The cameraman pointed ina  direction behind Serina and to
her left.  She turned and looked that way.  People near her had stopped
working.  Most of them looked back toward the area where the explosion
had occurred.  A few hurried past her, toward the mall exit.  Farther
away some raucous shouting began.  Serina beckoned toward her cameraman
and soundwoman, while still addressing the camera.
     "Excuse me. Somethig's happened.  C'mon,  Skyar, Dandra, let's see
what it is.  Excuse me, sir, madam, could you let us by, please!  I don't
know what it was, but it sounded to me like some sort of explosion. 
Perhaps some sabotage from dissidents, if there are such things as
dissidents on Caprica.  Listen to that crackle of glass underfoot.  You
picking that up, Dandra?  Yes?  Fine, I really don't know what...wait,
here comes someone.  Ma'am, could you tell me what---I guess she's not
telling anybody anything.  She looked scared, I thought.  Maybe you
noticed.  Wait a micron, let's see if we can...excuse me, pardon me."
     Elbowing her way through the milling crowd while maintaining
continual check to see that her crew followed her, Serina forced her way
to an open spot.  Skyar, her cameraman, quickly set up the camera and
nodded to her to begin.
     "I still haven't figure out what...Oh no!  Skyar, get that on
camera, quick!"
     Skyar pointed the camera where she directed, at the horizon beyond
the city where a huge brilliant fireball was rising like a drifting but
erratic sun, followed by another, just as huge and just as bright.
     "A tremendous explosion," Serina said, looking toward her soundwoman
to make sure it had been recorded.  When the aftershock rumble faded, she
resumed her commentary.  "Two explosions.  You saw them on camera. 
People are beginning to run in all directions.  This is terrible,
horrible!"
     She hoped her voice was not giving away her feeling that it was
exciting, also.
     "Nobody seems to know..."
     She was interrupted by a Cylon warship streaking across the sky,
shotting bursts from laser weapons into the crowd.  Around her, people
started to drop like flies.  Oh, my Lords of Kobol," Serina thought, this
is real!  It's war!  It's not just a disaster, it's...
     A pyramid to her left exploded with a thunderous roar, a monolithic
building farther away started to fall forward, splitting away from its
foundation, pieces of it falling onto a running mob.  The whole street
began to rock and Serina fell unglamorously into a clump of greenery. 
She looked up; Skyar was steadily aiming the camera here way.
     "Not at me, Skyar.  The explosions, the fire.  This is terrible!
Ladies and gentlemen, it's terrible!  Someone's bombing Caprica City.  It
looks like----Cylons?"
     A fighter swinging low over the city made her duck her head into the
bushes.  It fired in her direction.  A young woman running by her plunged
to the ground.  Standing up, Serina started to go to her aid, realized
suddenly she was dead.
     "She's dead!  She's----Skyar, Dandra, we better take cover, we
better..."
     Throngs of people ran by her, jostled her, almost toppled her over
again.  More explosions, screams, planes firing.  Skyar continued to
point the camera at her.
     "It's hopeless," she said.  "People are dying all around me.  I
don't even know if we're still on the air.  I see a small child over
there, running for his...Look out!  Look...!"
     Another low-flying plane released another volley of laser fire. 
Skyar was hit along with his camera.  Sparks flew from the splitting
camera as Skyar fell to the ground.  Dandra started to run, abandoning
her soundboard.  Serina threw down the microphone, ran toward the young
boy she had seen chasing after an animal.  Another swooping attack
fighter came down directly at them, its laser cannon at full blast. 
Diving, Serina pushed the child away from the burning laser path before
it reached them.  Holdling the trembling child close to her, she watched
an entire wave of fighters scream by, their weapons indiscriminantly
adding to the awesome destruction.  A concrete obelisk crashed a few feet
away.  Serina tried to ignore the yells of pain amid the rubble. 
Something fell upon her, and suddenly there was no air.
     One of her arms was still free and she could move it.  She began
frantically digging toward the surface, resisting the driving impulse to
take a breath.  Her arm broke through.  She frenetically shaped an escape
hatch in the dirt and pulled herself and the child into the air.  After
taking a quick inhalation, she pulled the child all the way out of the
hole and checked him over to ensure he was all right.  He was a small
boy, about six yahrens old.
     "Don't try to move for a micron," she said to him.
     The boy began to cry and Serina pulled him to her, comforting him.
     "Everything's going to be all right," she said.
     "Muffit," the boy said, "where's Muffit?"
     "Who?"
     "My daggit.  My daggit.  Where is he?"
     "Your daggit?  Oh, I'm sure he's fine."
     Daggits, animals native to Caprica, had been easily domesticated by
the first colonists and had become the favorite choice of pet among
younger children.  Parents liked the four-legged, short-furred rascals
because, in spite of their playfulness, they always protected children. 
Serina smiled.  She was continually amazed by the unique ways children
focused their concentration.  This boy, unaware of the meaning of the
Cylon invasion, was more concerned about his lost pet than the
devastation around him.  He probably thought finding the daggit would set
everything right again.
     Although the Cylon fighters no longer flew across the sky, the dust
from their attack was still settling all around Serina and the boy.
     "Muffit!  Muffit!" the boy hollered.
     "I'm sure he's fine, honey," Serina said, trying to make her voice
sound as if she believed every word.
     A tall man ran toward them, his bloody left arm hanging limp and
useless at his side.
     "Move everyone!" he shouted.  "Move!  Evacuate the center!"
     "My daggit," the boy said, "where's my..."
     "This isn't any time to think about..."the man said, but Serina
waved for him to shut up.
     "C'mon," she said softly.  "We've got to go.  I'm sure your daggit
is all right."
     "Please, miss," the man screamed desperately.  "The building
there'll topple at any moment."
     Serina looked in the direction toward which the man's functioning
arm waved. Before she located the about-to-collapse building, her eyes
fixed on a pillar from  which what looked like a daggit's limbs stuck
out.  Shielding the boy's head, she maneuvered a few steps toward the
pillar.  It was the daggit, all right, crushed underneath the pillar, its
pointed snout buried in the dirt and rubble.  Turning her body so that it
screened any possible view the boy could have of the dead animal, she
pointed in the opposite direction and said:
     "There he is, must've been him, running that way.  Let's go have a
look."
     "I want Muffit.  Is he all right?"
     She picked up the boy, held him close.
     "Sure, he's all lright.  Everything's all right.  Everything's going
to be just fine.  Just fine.  Do you have a name, honey?"
     "Boxey."
     She wiped some of the dust form the boy's face.  He was a
cherub-faced child, with large brown eyes and a shock of curly brown hair
hanging down on his forehead.  She imagined that a shock of hair was
continually getting in his eyes.
     "Hello, Boxey," she said.
     She looked past him, at what remained of the city. Not much
remained.  The buildings that still stood were rocked with explosions,
bursting with fire.  The wounded man pulled at her with his good arm, and
still carrying Boxey, she began to run.  She did not look back at the
sound of the crashing buildings behind her.  As they hurried pat the
place where her camera had been originally set up, in front of the floral
arrangement spelling PEACE, she noticed that the flowers had been
completely buried and that the flags of the Twelve Colonies were in
flames.

*****

     Athena kept glancing covertly at her father to check on his
reactions to the dreadful slaughter they were all helplessly viewing on
the Galactica's multi-screened communications console.  Most people would
have expressed the opinion that Adama was emotionless, that he didn't
react at all to the holocaust, but Athena knew better.  She detected the
somber pain in his eyes.  He stood stiffly, nodding at the reports of his
officers, but Athena could tell he was thinking of her mother, who lived
in a suburb of smoking pile of rubble that had once been Caprica City. 
She wished they could leave their duties, be father and daughter again
for just a centon, go to a quiet room and hold each other.  But that was
impossible.  Mother's got to be all right, she thought, she's got to be!
     Tigh had moved to his commander's side with the latest report.
     "Sir," he said, "long range scanners are picking up Cylon base
ships.  They're launching to all outer planets."
     Athena, hearing this, wanted to slam her fists down on the panel of
gauges in fron toher.  A conversation she had had just a few days ago
with Zac and Apollo came back to her vividly.  She had been arguing with
them about the coming peace mission, contending that the Cylons could be
trusted.  They were at the very least an intelligent race.  Apollo said
Cylons might have technological prowess, but he wasn't so sure they could
be described as intelligent, at least in human terms.  It was an old
argument, one that she had had in countless times since joining the
service.  Cylons might be intelligent, but they were certainly not
compassionate; they were hardly, in fact, emotional at all.  Apollo, like
many others, believed that the ability to feel was necessary for
intelligence.  Athena held to her belief that the Cylons might have
feeling, must have emotion, it just wasn't describable in human language. 
Since their cultural systems were so entirely different, she argued, we
must search for and discover the other differences, too.
     Their argument had become quite heated, although she and Apollo knew
the debate itself was ancient, almost ritualistic.  Zac broke it up by
laughing suddenly and saying they should all get "falling down drunk" in
order to make their argument more logical.  They all laughed.  Their
father, walking in on the hysterical trio, chided them for siliness below
the call of duty.  It had been a nice moment, a fine moment, the last
time they'd joined in warmth as a family.  Now Zac was dead---and Athena
didn't want ot think deeply about that now. 
     She tried to shake the sorrowful thoughts out of her heard by taking
a reading of her equipment.  However, she couldn't help but watch the
monitors often.  Planetside, things were worse.  There were fires
everwhere.  Buildings were still falling down.  Bloodied and burned-up
corpses were tucked into doorways and corners of debris as if arranged
for some sick snitrad's pleasure viewing.  
     "First Zac, now this!  They trused us to protect them!" She sensed
her father looking disdainfully her way.  "How could we let it happen? 
Why were we guarding a bunch of corrupt buriticians instead of our homes? 
We let it happen.  We let it happen."
     She looked toward Adama, saw the pain in his face again, wished she
hadn't spoken.  He was the commander.  When she said how could we let it
happen, she knew that inside he heard why did you let it happen.  She
wouldn't be able to take that back.  Yes, it was true, but she wouldn't
be able to take it back.
     For the next few microns she performed her duties while still in the
dream state. But all the concentration she oculd work up would not push
the gruesome memories of destruction out of her mind.  If only Starbuck
were here to cheer her up, she thought---but she didn't even know where
he was.  They had left him behind with the other they had---they had
abandoned!  He had to come back.  At least Starbuck had to come back. 
She needed him now.
     Tigh called everybody's attention to the largest monitor screen. 
The Cylon bases ships had now been located.  One of them could be seen in
closeup, the other two in the distance.  All of them were launching more
fighters. Another officer locked in scenes from all of the Colonies. 
Each picture showed Cylon fighters on bombing runs.
     "What are the reports from the other eleven Colonies, Colonel?"
Adama asked.
     "I'm sorry, Commander.  There's no hope."
     "But there's always----what about Sagitara?  They have the most
sophisticated defense system in all the Colonies.  Perhaps there's still
time..."
     "Sorry, Commander.  The planet is in flames."
     Athena had never seen her father so pale, so close to fainting.  She
took a tentative step toward him.  He saw her and waved her away.  He
turned to Tigh.
     "Prepare my shuttlecraft," he said.  Tigh appeared as startled as
everyone else who heard the commander's request.
     "Your shuttlecraft, sir?" Tigh said.
     "I'm going down on the surface of Caprica, Tigh."
     "That's out of the question, Commander.  You can't take the risks."
     "Carry out my order, Tigh!"
     "I can't sir.  If the Cylon scanners should pick you up when you get
out of our camouflage force field, they'll kill you."
     "I'm going with you," Apollo said.
     "Yes," said Athena.  "Me, too."
     Adama touched her arm, spoke softly:
     "You stay here.  We'll be all right."
     "But I must!"
     "No.  You're needed here."
     She capitulated to the firm tone of command in Adama's voice.  As
elder brother, it was Apollo's right to take this particular trip, even
though it was usually her job to pilot the shuttlecraft for her father.
     "We'll go in my fighter, father," Apollo said.  "You're the last
surviving member of the Quorum.  If we run into a Cylon attack ship, at
least you'll have a chance."
     "The captain's right," Tigh said. "And, since I'm the one who has to
fill your shoes if anything happens, well, I must insist you go down in
the fighter, Commander."
     Adama nodded at Tigh.
     "You proceed to rendezvous with the survivors of the Fleet.  Make
all necessary preparation.  You must proceed as if I might not return."
     "Not return?" Tigh said.  "You'll return, Commander."
     Tigh extended his hand and the two men, old friends as well as
fellow officers who had served together for more than thirty yahrens,
clasped each other's wrists as they shook hands.

*****

From the Adama Journals:

     Nobody likes being called a coward.  I didn't even understand the
misconceptions placed uponmy withdrawal of the Galactica after the Cylon
ambush.
     There is a fable that goes back so far in space lore that nobody
knows its basis.  A moon miner in the solar system that contained the
fabled Earth works the natural satellites of the various planets.  A
miner is like no other space adventurer, braving the desolate areas were
even warriors would cower in fear, just to dig out those materials vital
to human progress.  Moon miners, according to legend, live more
ferociously than any other heroes in the space fraternity.  At a party on
some outworld of the system, honoring one of the usual holidays devoted
to harvesting or history, a group of moon miners party happily. 
Suddenly, their celebration is interrupted by the roar of a loud, ugly
voice.  A strange, ugly man, dressed in a bizarrely colorful variation of
the basic green mining outfit, strides into the center of the party. 
Nobody has ever seen him before or knows where he comes form. 
Immediately he chides th eminers for their cowardice and offers them a
challenge.  "You should," he says to them, "choose the bravest of your
number and I will allow that designee a shot at him with the weapon of
his choice."  Our hero, named Solar in many versions of the story,
springs forward and makes his choice.  In many versions it's a vehicle,
usually a bulldozer equipped with the surface-mining scoop.  Aiming the
bulldozer at the ill-mannered intruder, Solar runs it at him full force. 
With the scoop he knocks the villain so high in the sky that the man goes
into temporary orbit.  But he comes down, lands on his feet, and tells
the miner-hero that they'll meet again, on the next occasion of the
holiday, and it will be Solar's turn to receive a blow.  "But where will
I find you?" Solar asks.  "It'll be your business to find out for
yourself," the villain responds.  Among moon-miners, the implication of
cowardice is the worst insult and so our hero spends the next yahren,
experiencing many adventures, including the usual romantic dalliances, in
search of the domain of the rude intruder.  But nobody he meets seems to
know where the villain lives.
     Finally, the legend has it, the moon miner co mes to the original
moon, the one that circles Earth.  He's never been there before, never
known its magical properties, never even glimpsed the legendary home
planet of the Thirteenth Tribe from the vantage point of its own moon. 
If he finds the villain and lives through the experience, he vows to
descend to Earth, perhaps spend his remaining days there.
     On the moon his adventures continue, but he begins to despair of
ever finding the goal of his quest and taking the return blow.  However,
on the day fated for their meeting, he encounters an old hag nestled in
an abandoned scoop within a manmade crater, and she instructs him.  The
villain dwells in an orbiting castle in the sky above the moon, and Solar
must launc himself there.  "Why must I launch?" he asks.  "Why can't I
just hop the daily shuttle or a passing freighter?"  She says that the
boastful villain claims that the miner will prove himself a coward if he
comes up by shuttle or any safe conveyance.
     Solar secures himself upon the track of a mass-driver, a long
beltlike device used to launch products of the mines to a precisely
located receiver-scoop vehicle, called a catcher, where it's transferred
to an orbiting space station.  He sets the mechanism going, and he begins
to be pushed along the mass-driver track.  At first slowly, then faster
and faster.  As his speed increases, he gradually rises a few hectars
above the trace of the mass-driver, and then a few hectars more, kept
from flight only by plates designed to prevnt a payloand form being flung
into space ahead of an exactly computed time.  With acceleration he
speeds up the final launch slope.  Restraining plates drop away and he's
thrown into space, into the dark sky above the moon.  A living corporeal
payload, Solar speeds through the vacuum of space.  His rate of speed
increases to six hundred maxims per centon.  In front of him, the
villain's floating green castle appears, as if out of nowhere.  At the
last micron it puts out its own catcher and rudely interrupts the
moon-miner's flight.  
     Naturally, our hero would have been broken into a million pieces,
just like a mining payload---but this is a fairy tale, and he awakens in
the bedchamber of his host.  The villain now extends his hand in
friendship and says that the debt is paid.  Solar has verified his
bravery, he is no coward.  And---who knows?---in stories where villains
are instantly transformed into comradely hosts, perhaps Solar the moon
miner does realize his dream of visiting Earth.
     There were times when my own apparent cowardice made me feel like
the moon-miner, as I faced the destination where I might be broken into a
million pieces.  However, I could not count on awakening comfortably in
my opponent's bedchamber.

*****     

CHAPTER THREE: WE WILL FIGHT BACK

     When the Galactica withdrew from battle, Starbuck almost fell out of
his cockpit in anger.
     "What's going on?" he radioed Boomer.
     "Don't ask me.  The Commander's calling the shots."
     There was an edge of sarcasm in Boomer's voice, the tone of the
hardbitten pilot who knows full well you cannot trust anybody in
authority.
     "But he can't leave us hanging out here like..."
     "Hey, you guys," Greenbean's voice broke into the transmission.
"What's up?  The Galactica's pulling out."
     "You noticed!' Starbuck said.  "I don't...it must...there's gotta be
a good reason."
     "Sure there is," Boomer said. "It's dangerous around her.  A guy
could get...heads up, Greenbean, you've got a pair on your tail."
     "Pull up yourself, Boomer," Jolly's voice cut in.  "You're in
somebody's sights yourself.  I'll try to get 'em off."
     As Starbuck zeroed in on the sinister fighters pouncing on Boomer,
he looked back at the deaprating Galactica and muttered more to himself
than to anybody who might be listening.
     "There's gotta be a good reason."
     He had scant time to be introspective about the mystery of his
mother ship's hasty departure as scores of Cylon fighters impolitely
demanded his attention.  Several times he was nearly trapped in one of
their insidious and dreaded pinwheel attacks, in which a dozen Cylon
vehicles surrounded their target and each, in a complex, intricate
sequence of arclike sweeps, bore down on the human flyers.  A pinwheel
was a particularly tough style of attack to evade, but Starbuck had been
up against evry deceptive tacitc known to the vicious, iniquitous Cylons
and could time his own moves to match theirs---and wipe out many of them
in the bargain.
     Time and the fact that the Cylons greatly outnumbered the humans
took their toll.  Soon Starbuck discovered that his weapons charge had
diminished to a dangerously low level.  With no Galactica around to
return for recharging, he could become a sitting duck for even the
greenest of Cylon centurions.  He searched the sky for another
battlestar, where he could make an emergency landing for new fuel and new
armament charges.  He found the Solaria, but it was under heavy attack
from a squadron of Cylon Raiders.  Starbuck could see, through its
portals, the flickering of hundreds of fires inside the battlestar.  He
directed his own fighter toward the besieged Solaria.
     "I'm with you," said a voice in his ear.  Boomer, streaking by just
above him.  The Cylon pilots hadn't seen either of them yet.  They zeroed
in on the target.
     "I got him on the left," Boomer said.
     "And me on the right," Starbuck said.
     Boomer and Starbuck released their laser torpedoes synchronously.  A
second later the Cylon ship exploded, leaving thousands of lazily
floating metallic traces in its sector of space.  Another rCylon fighter
emerged from the far side of the Solaria, took aim at the battlestar,
fired a massive charge, and hit it amidships.  Starbuck could see the
Solaria begin to split in half as the Cylon fighter pulled away.  Cursing
malevolently, he bore down on the enemy and, relishing vengeance, sent
the ship to oblivion with what seemed to be the last good shot he had
left.
     "Nice shooting," Boomer said.
     "Yeah, but a little late," Starbuck snarled, as he watched the final
stages of the Solaria's disintegration.  
     He located another Cylon fighter in the distance and started toward
it.  But his common sense took over from his rage.  Testing the firing
button on his steering column, he heard the faint whine that told him
that the weapons charge was now below efficiency level.  He veered his
own ship to the right, to escape any attack the Cylon craft might
attempt.  However, to his amazement, the several enemy ships he could
discern now all went into an abrupt arcing turn and headed away from the
human forces.
     "What's up?" Starbuck said.
     "Total defeat is what's up," Boomer said. "The Solaria was our last
battlestar.  Minus the Galactica,of course, which seemed to find it
militarily necessary to turn tail and--"
     "Stow that, Boomer.  We don't know what happened yet."
     "Okay, okay. Whatever they've destroyed the fleet, the slimy louses,
and there's no use hanging around."
     Jolly's voice cut in.
     "They're turning tail.  Let's go get 'em!"
     "No!' Starbuck cautioned. "We've barely got enough fuel as it is."
     "To do what?" Boomer said. "To joyride around this sector?  Where do
you propose we land.  Lieutenant Starbuck?  There's nothing left for..."
     "The Galactica has left," Starbuck said. "I suggest we try to find
it."
     "Right," said Jolly, "and when we do..."
     "We shoot it down," said Boomer.
     "Tone it down, Boomer," Starbuck said. "Let's make time to hear
their side.  They must've had a good reason to pull out when they did."
     "Yeah," said Jolly.  They're cowards!"
     Starbuck heard Boomer's soft malicious laughter in tacit agreement
with Jolly's accusation.
     "How do you propose we get to the Galactica, flyboy?" Boomer said.
"You gonna take us by the hand and guide us home?"
     "We'll find it, don't worry.  First, we've got amake it to one of
the fueling space stations or we're not gonna get off the pot."
     "What make you think the Cylons didn't take out all the fueling
stations?" Boomer asked.  "I mean the question with all courtesy, of
course, skyrider."
     "We'll just have to find out, won't we Boomer?"
     "If you say so."
     Boomer's plane banked and swept off from Starbuck's portside wing. 
Jolly followed suit.  After a moment of hesitation, so did Starbuck.
     Fortunately, the refueling stations, which were hidden from Cylon
view by camouflaging force fields, were all intact, and the squadrons
were able to refuel.  With the scanner transmission no longer jammed,
they worked out the coordinates for the Galactica right away.  Starbuck
was puzzled by the fact that the battlestar was in the region of their
home planet.  That location only seemed to support Boomer and Jolly's
accusation that Adama had taken the Galactica away from the fray for
cowardly reasons.  During the long trek back, as they made two more hops
to fueling stations, Starbuck convinced Boomer, Jolly, and the other
fuming pilots of the need for caution----not only to wait to find out
what had happened, but to save themselves and their planes.  Still, he
could feel his own rage build to the boiling point.
     As they neared the Galactica, Starbuck ordered the flight patterns
set on a direct line to the battlestar's landing deck.  When he pushed
his own course button, however, sparks from the control panel flew
suddenly all over the cockpit.  At the same moment a piece of the
instrument panel popped out and dangled from its morrings.  The ship
tried to waver from the dictated flight path.  Trying to keep it straight
manually, Starbuck had to deal with the electrical shorting directly. 
His mind telling him to work slowly, he forced his fingers to keep wires
apart and try to sort out the problem.
     "Reading you, Red leader one," said a voice on the communicator. 
"From here something appears to be wrong with your craft."
     "Damn right something's wrong.  I'm in trouble, in trouble."
     Tigh's voice cut in.
     "We read you, Red leader.  How can we assist?"
     Starbuck tested his portside stabilizing rocket.  Normally its
thrust could be controlled by a lever on the instrument panel.  But this
time, pressing the lever, he found it wouldn't respond to his touch. 
Instead,  it coughed and swung about in an erratic rhythm.
     "I've got battle damage," Starbuck reported.  "Stabilizer won't keep
steady thrust.  Put a systems analyst on the line."
     "On the line," said a voice immediately.  Starbuck recognized it as
Athena's.  He glanced quickly at the small, round picture of her he had
pasted as a souvenir at the top of the scanner panel, and could see her
in his mind scowling over the gadgetry of the guidance system.  "What's
your status, Starbuck?"
     "This is no time for trainees, Athena.  I'm in big, big trouble."
     "I'm the best you've got right now, warrior.  You'll stay in big,
big trouble if you keep talking like that.  What's your fuel?"
     He looked at the gauge.
     "Low."
     "All right.  Run the check with me.  Alpha circuit, close and
alternating to left servo circuit..."
     Reaching deftly past the sparking circuit board dangling from
beneath his instrument panel, he closed off a circuit switch.
     "Alpha circuit closed and alternating," he said, "to left servo
circuit."
     He checked the stabilizer, which was now dead, not responding a bit
to his touch on the lever.
     "No response."
     "Omega C circuit," Athena said.  Her voice was calm, aloof, sounding
much like it did in response to his sly proposals in the ready room. 
"Closed and alternating to servo support circuit..."
     "Alternating to servo support circuit."
     He felt the sweat becoming roaring cataracts down his brow.  The
stabilizer was still not responding.
     "Does not respond."
     A small choking sound---the engine beginning to misfire.
     "My fuel is zeroing out," he said.
     Tigh's voice cut in again, addressing Athena.  
     "Bring him in at zero thrust, with all stabilizers cut off.  There's
no choice."
     "Wait!" she cried. "One last check.  Is your right stabilizer
steady?"
     "Right stabilizer is steady."
     "Cross patch right servo to left."
     "Cross patching right servo to left."
     Working as patiently as possible, Starbuck made the necessary
cross-connnections on the panel.  He looked out again at the stabilizer. 
It teetered limply, stone cold.
     "No luck," he said.  "I can't reverse thrust.  Get everyone out of
the way, I'm coming in hot."
     There was a pause before Athena's answer came.
     "All right, you're cleared to come in."
     Her voice sounded apprehensive.
     "You'll be coming in like a missile," she said. "The deck is cleared
for an emergency."
     "Thanks for the comforting thoughts."
     "Don't mention it.  See you on deck."
     "That's a date."
     Boomer's voice cut in.
     "Would you listen to this guy?  He loses one lousy stabilizer and
he's gotta have all the ladies out to watch him ventilate the flight
deck.  If the ladies'd only..."
     Jolly's voice interrupted.
     "Good luck, Starbuck."
     "Thanks, Jolly.  Red Leader to flight deck.  I'm coming in hot,
ready or not.  I hope you guys aren't counting off for neatness."
     His sweat felt like a raging sea in a torrential storm.  The deck
swung out from Galactica way before he was ready.  He knew the deck hands
inside the battlestar were in readiness  for disaster, ready to mop up
his blood if that turned out to be the necessary duty.
     He could lose this one.  Well, the famous Starbuck luck had to run
out some time.  He engaged all the devices on his instrument panel that
still functioned.  His ship careened down to the deck.  He could feel
himself on the verge of blacking out as he made his descent, and he shook
his head to clear it. Just before landing, he was able to turn the Viper
into something resembling the correct entry attitude.  He knocked out a
series of landing strobes as the Viper touched the deck.  Sparks flew in
all directions.  As his ship shuddered into the entry port and hit the
emergency force-field cushion, he did black out...

*****

     ...When he came to, after only a few microns of darkness, he saw the
small emergency vehicles racing out of pockets in the walls toward the
crashed Viper.
     Everything was okay.  He was in terrible pain, but everything was
okay.  The Starbuck luck was stll as good as gold.  He headed through the
hatch.
     "Starbuck, are you all right?" Athena cried, as she ran up to him
and into his arms.  He hugged her perfunctorily, released her abruptly,
and started walking toward the elevators.
     "For a guy who just had a whole fleet shot out from under him, I'm
fine," he said.  "No thanks to your father!"
     Athena hurried after him.
     "You watch your mouth about my father!" she said.  "You have no idea
what we've been through!"
     "Yeah?  You should've seen how we spent our day.  Joyriding, just
joyriding.  Keeping the Cylons off your astrums while you took on a
pleasant little cruise away from us!"
     Athena stopped him in front of the turbo-lift.
     "Good Kobol," she said.  "You really don't know what's happened, do
you, Starbuck?"
     "You bet your life I know what's happened, little darling.  You
should get a scan of what this baby looks like from out in space when she
quietly cafoots away from the scene of battle.  A beautiful sight,
serene----unless of course she happens to be your base ship picking up
and sneaking away, leaving you high and dry like a ..."
     "Stop it!  Listen!  The Colonies, Starbuck, they're all gone.  All
of them.  Wiped out by the Cylons!"
     "What are you talking about?  Destroyed?  How's that..."
     The turbo-lift door opened, and the raucous noise of the bridge
drowned out the remainder of Starbuck's question.  Angry, he stormed into
the room.  Nobody noticed him.  The voice of one of the bridge officers
rose over the clamor.
     "Fighter ships coming in on both decks, sir."
     Tigh moved towar dht officer and said:
     "Give me a full report.  What's the count?"
     Tigh? Starbuck thought.  What's he doing giving the orders?  Where's
Adama?  There can't be anything wrong with Adama!  He felt disoriented,
thrust into some alternate universe where Adama no longer existed and the
terrible cowardice of removing the Galactica from her proper place had
somehow been transformed into heroism.
     "Sixty-seven fighters in all, sir, twenty-five of our own."
     "How many battlestars?"
     The officer paused before revealing the information.
     "None."
     "What?!"
     "We're the only surviving battlestar."
     "Oh...my...God!" Tigh looked shocked. When he spoke again, it was
ina choked voice:  "Make the pilots from the other ships as welcome as
you can."
     Starbuck strode up behind him and said:
     "It's too late for that, Colonel."
     He heard Athena, keeping pace with him, whisper:
     "No, Starbuck, not..."
     He could sense all the bridge officers staring at him, as Tigh
turned toward him.
     "For some of those guys you want to welcome," Starbuck said, "it was
a tossup to them whether to land here or blow the Galactica to pieces
with a bellyful of torpedoes.  Maybe they got talked out of it, or maybe
nobody had any left."
     "What's the meaning of this insubordination, Lieutenant?" Tigh
barked.
     "He doesn't realizewhat's happened yet," Athena interjected. "I told
him some of it, but it doesn't seem to be sinking in.  I don't think any
of them really know."
     Puzzled, Starbuck looked around him.  He noticed Boomer and Jolly,
looking just as furious and frustrated as Starbuck felt, just arriving in
one of the elevators.
     "Realize what?" Starbuck said.  "That the old man turned tail and
ran, leaving all our ships to run out of fuel, making..."
     Tigh's angry gesture compelled Starbuck to stop in the middle of his
sentence.  The Colonel nodded toward one of the officers.
     "Put the tpes of the transmissions we monitored back on the
scanners.  For our young patriots here."
     Starbuck started to complain further, but the pictures that came
abruptly onto four of the screens on the console effectively silenced
him.  The pain of watching the disaster on a single screen was stretched
to unbearability when multiplied by four.  Starbuck's fists clenched in
frustration as be became aware that there was no chance he could climb
back into his cockpit and battle those Cylon fighers that had worked
their grisly havoc centons before.
     "I'm sorry," he said, "sorry."
     Behind him he heard Boomer and Jolly, muttering sadly, joining him
in his remorse.

*****

     Adama stood on the old familiar hill, inspecting the line of the
new, unfamiliar battles scar that ran in a deep rut across his property. 
The line seemed to go off into infinity, or at least to the base of the
row of fires that raged at the edge of the crumbling, far-off city. 
Every building there must surely be ablaze by now.
     He headed down the hill, unaware of Apollo following close.  A
faraway sound of many voice was growing increasingly louder.  Glancing
over his shoulder, Adama could see the flickering of a dozen torches
beyond Apollo's Viper.  Roaming mobs already?  No matter; he could deal
with them when they reached him.  Unless they had some kind of fanatical,
wild-eyed leader, he believed he cold handle any mob.
     He turned back and resumed his walk down th epath, the one he had so
carefully laid, stone by stone, in the first yahren of his marriage to
Ila.  The broad, deep battle scar cut across it, too, running all the way
toward his home.  He kept his eyes away from the house for as long as he
could, but fin ally he had to look.  Once an attractive series of living
units---he had laid out its interlinking half-circles himself, as
diligently as he had put down the stones in the path---it too was now
sliced down the middle by the straight-line scar of battle.  One one side
of the line much of the dwelling still stood, but the other half, the
half containing Ila's sitting room, was now a burnt ruin.  All lingering
hope of Ila's survival left him as he stared at the damaged structure. 
There was little chance Ila had wandered off by herself.  She knew his
first impulse when free would be to return to her here, and she would
wait.  If she were here now, she would have run out of the house into his
arms.  What was her schedule for the time of day when the attack had
occurred?  Late afternoon.  That was the time she usually took a nap. 
She had probably been asleep then, or been awakened by the shrill squeals
of diving Cylon Raiders.  He did not like to think of her in terror.  It
was unlikely, anyway.  In recent yahrens, Ila had become slightly hard of
hearing, although she didn't like to admit it.  Anyway, she could sleep
through anything, no matter how loud.  She had probably stayed asleep.
     Stop this rambling! he thought.  She's dead!  Admit it to yourself. 
She has to be dead!  There's no other possibility.  
     Adama felt the tears well up in his eyes.  Walking into the house,
he didn't have to stop for the scanning device, which had been reduced to
a knobby lump of debris and dangled by a wire from a jagged hole in the
wall.  The front door hung uncertainly from a single hinge.  He went
directly to the living room, to the row of holographic photographs that
had been implanted into a wall yahrens ago.  There was a single source of
light in the room, a rectangular candle with each of its twelve permanent
wicks ablaze.  Each flame represented one of the Twelve Colonies, and
Adama felt a momentary odd surge of joy when he saw thaty all still
burned, as if the candle were saying to him that the Colonies must, and
will, survive.
     He remembered the pleasure Ila had found in that candle when she had
discovered it in a nearby town bazaar.  She always delighted in searching
for bargains, and would often go too many uneconomical laxars out of her
way and come back arguing that her latest purchase was especially
economical.  The flickering light from this special candle cast strange
auras on the series of pictures she had so carefully selected before
arranging for the laser procedure that made them part of the wall.  There
were photographs of the entire family, he and Ila, Athena and Apollo and
Zac.  Zac.  He cold not bear now to look upon the eager hopeful smile of
Zac, nor could he examine the chronological half-circle of phots that
traced Zac from child to adult.
     Adama recalled a recent conversation with his youngest son, one of
the last talks they had had.  Zac, somewhat drunk from a glass of the
unusually potent ambrosa which always tasted so mild but provided a heady
kick, had revealed to his father his intention to eclipse Apollo.  He
said his whole life was directed toward bettering his brother's
achievements.  When Adama had begun to provide soothing fatherly advice,
Zac had interrupted him by telling him he simply didn't understand.
     "Father, all the time I was growing up, it was Apollo this and
Apollo that, every second thing I heard about was some big heroic Apollo
exploit.  Don't misunderstand me.  I'm just as proud of him as you and
Mother are, as Athena is, but don't you see we all have somebody we have
to beat.  Sometimes it's just some idealized role model, sometimes it's
somebody real.  With me, it's Apollo.  I love him, but I've got to beat
him."
     Adama had tried to convince Zac that there was more to life than a
stratified sense of competitiveness, but the boy wouldn't listen.  He had
left his son that knight feeling a vague sense of failure.  Had he
invested his children with a distorted ambition to succeed?  Or was it
the war that fired up his heroic ambitions?  Perhaps Adama had devoted so
much of his life to the war, hardly taking ote of is own considerable
achievements in it, that he had failed to give his progeny a proper
perspective on life.  Perhaps he made Zac and Apollo, even Athena, pale
copies of himself.  All of them were geared to perform heroic acts, make
important decisions, assume leadership as naturally as others went about
daily tasks.  Yahrens ago Adama himself had accepted such
responsibilities as natural consequences of being his own father's son. 
Was it possible that the cracks in a life devoted solely to military
matters wold start emerging in the third generation?  No---he was being
too hard on himself.  Zac may have been unjustly ambitious, but he was
also young.  Adama suspected that at the age of twenty-three he might
have been similarly oriented toward success and just as energetic in
talking about his future hopes.  And his other children, Apollo and
Athena, showed no signs of personal or psychological problems.  Apollo,
combinging bravery with intelligence, was a fine fighter pilot, one fo
the best, and Athena's sharp-witted ability to synthesize information in
order to come to a quick decision seemed to destine her for a command
post.
     As he looked away from the pictures of his children, Adama realized
that he was exaggerating Zac's slightly besotted declarations because of
his own deep sorrow.  Zac had just shown a natural, youthful desire to
flee from the nest.  But even as he told himself that Zac's aspirations
were not his fault as a parent, Adama could not quite rid himself of the
nagging thought that perhaps they were.
     For a micron he wished that all these pictures were not embedded so
firmly in the wall.  He would've liked to turn thiem around, fact them
toward the wall, as angry people did in the ancient novels he often
scan-read during recreation periods.
     Finally, he had to look at the pictures of Ila.
     The poses in the neat circle depicted her at several ages from
seventeen to fifty.  The most recent photo showed her smiling broadl at
her fiftieth birthday party the previous yahren.  In the background he
and the three children stood, their figures dimly lit, perhaps put in
shadow by the glow of her pride.  He reached out to touch the figure in
the foreground of the picture, was surprised at the framing glass which
blocked his hand from the three-dimensional figures inside.
     He and Ila had both drunk a bit too much ambrosa the night of that
birthday and had foolishly speculated on the far-off future---on the day
when Adams would have come to the end of his usefulness to the Colonial
Fleet and could pension himself off to his home on Caprica.  Even as they
had spoken, they knew how absurd their hopeful speculations were.  As
long as the war continued, Adama would have refused retirement and
pension, and was likely to serve in at least an advisory capacity after
he became too feeble to command.  In Ila's last letter, which arrived
just before the beginning of the peace conference, she had written that
if the conference were successful, then perhaps their absurd hopes for
the future might be realized after all.  He had enjoyed a moment of
hope----but just a moment.  That was all the Cylons allowed, one moment.
     He looked at the youngest Ila, the oldest photograph taken just
before their marriage.  Memories of that time came back to himin a flood. 
When he met her, Ila had been a dedicated career woman, determined to
become one of the Quorum of the Twelve.  At the age of seventeen she had
run for, and won, a seat on the local council.  Her radical ideas had
already drawn attention to her, especially her plan to reduce the city's
contribution to the overall Caprican military budgets.  Because she was
gleaning some support from the populace, themselves tired of the war
which was then almost a thousand yahrens old, certain military and
political circles concluded that she should be investigated.  Adama, then
a young ensign on TDY to the Caprican training base, was dispatched to
check out the mild agitation in the boondocks, and see what he cold do to
smoothe it over.  Caprican law would not allow Ila's right of free speech
to be interefered with, but there was nothing in the books that said a
handsome young ensign couldn't possibly influence a beautiful young
agitator.  The insight of the military higher-ups in this matter proved
to be extremely prescient.  Not only had Ila been positively influenced
by the ensign, he had fallen head over heels in love riwht her, from the
first moment he saw her making an impassioned speech to her council.  He
had always preferred women with strength of character, and Ila turned out
to be one of the strongest women he had ever met.  Her inner strength had
saved him time and time again during the course of their marriage,
especially during those moments when he had to be told no as he leaned
toward some ridiculous course of action.
     Each separate likeness of Ila he looked at started similar waves of
memory.  He saw her beauty in all her stages, could remember his love
growing through all the Ahrenss.  Suddenly he broke down, began to cry.
     "I'm sorry, Ila," he sobbed. "I was never there when it matter. 
Never there."
     Inevitably, he thought of all they might still have accomplished
together, all they might have done in the past.  The pain became too much
to bear.  He willed the tears to stop, willed himself to turn away from
the wall of photographs.  When he looked up, he saw Apollo standing in
the doorway.  Obviously he had been there watching for a long time. 
Apollo had forgotten that Apollo was with him;' he was disoriented for a
mili-centon.  With his fingertips he brushed away some of the remaining
tears and and struggled to control his voice as he addressed his son.
     "I didn't---didn't hear you come in."
     "Forgive me, Father," Apollo said.  "I should have gone away, left
you alone."
     "No, no, that's all right.  I was...was just gathering a few
remembrances."
     There were some nonholographic photos spread on the mantle below the
arraned pictures.  He picked one up, offered it to Apollo.
     "Would you like to have this likeness of you and Zac?"
     Apollo drew back.  When he spoke there was a clear edge of
bitterness in his voice.
     "No," he said. "Look, there are crowds coming.  They probably saw
our ship land."
     "I'm not worried about them.  I'll be a few microns here..."
     Clearly the decision was against Apollo's better judgment, but he
nodded stiffly and started to leave.  In a milimicron, he was back in the
doorway, saying:
     "Maybe she wasn't here.  Maybe..."
     "She was here," Adama said with finality.  "She was here."
     Apollo muttered. "Yes, of course," and left.

*****

     Standing by his ship, Apollo watched the angry crowd of people
approach.  They moved like a mob, disorganized, with a lot of arm waving
and jostling.  Their voices, pitched high and shrill, made their
hostility clear.  Apollo wondered if his father had judged correctly in
staying around.  A mob like this one might kill the both of them, and
what good would that do?  Perhaps he should have insisted more
strenuously, rushed the old man back to the plane and taken off before
the crowd's arrival.
     Adama might, after all, be too overwrought right now to make a
decision wisely.  It certainly didn't seem rational to Apollo for the old
man to mourn quietly before a bunch of old photographs.  Apollo didn't
like photographs.  They were just ice sculptures that would melt away if
you refused to look at them, and the last thing Apollo wanted was to look
at pictures of Mother and Zac.  He had refused his father's offer of the
photo from the mantle----and that picture had once been his
favorite---because he couldn't bear to look at it, to see Zac's smiling
face and their arms around each other's shoulders.  If he kept that
picture, it would definitely call up the memory forever of their last
battle together, definitely force him to speculate about his possible
error in leaving Zac out there all alone.  The kid wasn't ready to be
left on is own and, in spite of the fact that all military wisdom
dictated that Apollo would return post-haste to the Fleet with his
information, he would always wonder whether or not he should have turned
and flown back to Zac, helped the kid out when he really needed it.  With
the present desolate condition of the war, it was a memory he could not
afford.
     The mob stopped about fifty laxars from the ship.  Some of them
pointed toward it angrily.  Apollo walked forward, trying to gauge the
depth of their enmity.  Some of the people who were doing the pointing
turned to point toward him.  Gradually, the entire mob took notice of
Apollo coming out to meet them.  A man came forward, shaking his fist,
shouting.
     "Where are they, the rest of your fancy pilots?"
     Another man, just behind the first speaker, hollered:
     "Where were you, boy, when they were killing everyone?  What were
you doing?"
     Other men and women separated from the crowd and edged toward
Apollo.  They were angry, as if they wold like to tear him apart and
spread the pieces from here tto the burning city.
     "Wait," called a woman who was running to the front of the crowd. 
The front ranks parted and she stepped forward, leading a small boy by
the hand. "Let him talk." She turned to Apollo, and walked a couple of
tentative steps towrd him.  Apollo was sruck by her beauty, which shone
through the dirt marks on her face and the dishevelment of  her hair and
clothing.  "Before they jump at your throat, I'd like to know a few
things.  Where you were.  For that matter, where was everybody, the
entire military force?  Where were all of you?  Even after the battle had
begun, we prayed for relief, but you never came."
     Her words were enunciated precisely, with a theatrical projection. 
This lovely woman could be the real danger to him, Apollo thought.  The
mob he could handle by tactics learned in training, but one intelligent
person could combat such tactics easily.  To give himself a moment to
think, he looked down at the boy beside her.  The child's face almost
couldn't be discerned through all the dirt on it, but his innocent eyes
were clear as they stared upward at him.
     "Most of us are dead,' Apollo said, trying to speak as
matter-of-factly as possible.  The crowd quieted down.  "We were
ambushed.  There is no more fleet."
     First there was a collective gasp in the crowd, then individual
reactions of anguished crying and angry despair.  The woman looked around
at the mournful people, he face showing the confusion she felt.
     "But," she said, "but why---I mean, you're here.  Where did you come
from?"
     "The battlestar Galactica."
     "It survived?"
     "Yes..."
     "What of the president, what about the Quorum of the Twelve?  And
the other Colonies.  We can fight back surely.  We're united, all twelve
colonies, after hundreds of yahrens.  Our combined strength, it can't
possibly be defeated, that's what we were all taught, what we learned
from the cradle."
     Adama, standing by the wing of Apollo's craft, moved into the
flickering light and spoke.
     "Our unity, our strength, came about too late."
     The woman clearly recognized Adama, and her head made an automatic
bow.
     "Commander Adama!" she shouted.
     Others in the crowd reacted to the name.
     "Serina," Adama said.
     His mere appearance seemed to bring home to Serina and the crowd the
impact and scope of their defeat.
     "Then it's true.  They've beaten us.  We're doomed."
     Adama's look was stern, magisterial.  Apollo turned away from it and
looked down at the boy who was, inexplicably, smiling as he looke dup at
Apollo with admiration.
     "Can I ride in your ship, mister?" the boy said.
     Apollo bent down and picked the boy up.  The child was lighter than
he looked.  As he replied to the boy, he thought of Zac and he had to
look at his father as he spoke.
     "Fighter planes are no place for little boys."
     Adama must have understood the meaning of his son's glance, for he
looked away, some hurt in his eyes.
     "They're going to have to be if our people are going to survive,"
Serina said.
     Adama walked slowly up the hill and turned his attention toward the
burning cities.  Serina moved up behind him.  Apollo followed, still
holding the boy in his arms.
     "Commander," Serina said, "we're going to have to fight back.  We
can't---can't simply give up."
     A long silence followed.  Both Serina and Apollo stared at the
commander, searching for signs of decision.  When Adama looked their way
again he seemed to look past them.
     "Yes," he whispered, "we're going to fight back."
     Those in the crowd who could hear his declaration told those closest
to them.  Word spread quickly.  As the knowledge was shared, the crowd
reacted variously, with cries of satisfaction, frustration, vented anger.
     Adama took a copule of steaps toward Apollo before speaking again. 
When he talked to his son, it was as if the crowd beyond them didn't
exist.  The intimacy was a combination of father speaking to son and
commander addressing captain.
     "But we can't fight back here, and not now.  And not in the
Colonies, not even in this star system.  We must gather together every
survivor from each of the twelve worlds, every man, woman, and child
who's survived this infamy.  We must get word to them to set sail at
once, in any vehicle that'll carry them, no matter what its state."
     "Father," Apollo said, "there isn't enough time, not enough time to
arrange provisions.  I'm sure the Cylons will be sending landing parties
to eradicate the survivors.  What we should do---if would just send in
our remaining fighters..."
     "No!  Too many of them, too few of us.  There's a time to fight, but
not now.  We must withdraw, fight another day.  It's only..."
     "But---but there's no way to board the entire population on the
Galactica, and we have no troop carriers anymore.  Those
vehicles---they'd be---they'd be little better than a rag-tag fleet. 
Their potential for conversion to hyperspace capability is marginal at
best."
     "You're thinking logically, yes, but this isn't the time for logical
thinking.  We'll use what we do have.  Every intercolony passenger liner,
freighter, tanker, even intracolony buses, air taxis, anything that'll
carry our people into the stars."
     "And when they've gathered in the stars?" Serina asked softly.
     "We will lead them.  And protect them until they are strong again."
     Adama's eyes glowed with such powerful confidence that, for a
moment, Apollo couldn't be sure whether he was facing a madman or a
savior.  From the confused face of Serina and the curious looks emanating
from the mob, it was clear that they weren't sure either.
     Apollo tried to picture what his father proposed.  All manner of
ships rising from planets in flame---as he had called it, a rag-tag
fleet.  The survivors of all the Colonies, the Aeries from Aeriana, the
Gemonese from Gemon, the Virgos from Virgon, the Scorpios, the Leos, the
Picons, and the Sagitarians.  It just didn't seem possible.  But judging
from the determination displayed on Adama's face, Apollo wasn't going to
pull forth any doubting auguries.
     Apollo nodded, said they had to try it.  Serina agreed.  Soon the
mood of the crowd had changed from puzzlement to confidence as they
cheered their leader.

*****

From the Adama Journals:

     The assembling of the survivors!  What a miracle that was!  Word
went out over all the secret channels.  Somehow, people on all the Twelve
Colonies received it.  I'm told that the waves carrying the message only
had to burn their way through the thinnest beginnings of planetary
atmosphere before messengers on the surface were dispatch in every
direction.  Get to a rallying point, salvage eveyr ship with sufficient
thrust to reach the chosen coordinates, sneak around, above and beneath
the Cylon patrols that were scouring the ground and weaving webs in the
sky.
     Not every refugee made it to our secret rendezvous.  We have, in
fact, no way of knowing how many failed.  In the aftermath of a holocaust
like the Cylon massacre, there's no time to arrange for the proper
memorials, no cenotaphs that can be planted in airless space.  Some made
it, some did not.  They came to our designated assembling point, around
which Apollo had neatly improvised an enveloping camouflage force field
that made us invisible to the many Cylon search patrols that passed near
us.  How no ship led the Cylons directly to us is simply another racet of
the historical miracle that took place.
     Divine intervention was suggested to some by the fantastic chain of
events that brought thousands of survivor ships to us.  Whether it's
interpreted secularly or mystically, the miracle happened.

*****

CHAPTER FOUR: IN THE STARS THEY GATHERED

     The Cylon Imperious Leader had learned long ago to rise above his
revulsion at the sight of a human being.  In the atypical times when he
had needed in the uncomfortable course of duty to actually face a
captured enemy, he had felt sick for a long time after the interrogation. 
They greatly disturbed his sense of unity.  He was never sure why, but he
absorbed small doses of their irrationality when forced to be physically
near any of them.  Now, self-discipline and the deliberate suppression of
certain portions of the third-brain enabled him to encounter a human
without undue reaction afterward.  However, the human being standing
before him at this time threatened severely to restore the old irrational
responses.  While trying to figure out why this particular human was so
particularly unsavory, he carefully shut off those parts of his mind that
could be significantly affected by the being's mere physical presence.
     The answer to his growing feelings of revulsion might be the
simplest, the most obvious.  The man, Count Baltar, was a traitor. 
Traitors deliberately disturb order for their own selfish gain.  They
were the vilest of a vile race. And Baltar was surely the greatest
traitor of all, since his betrayal had made the human annihilation
possible.  While the leader would have liked to treat this traitor with
proper contempt, the involved ceremonies of Cylon courtesy demanded that
he at least be polite.
     "Welcome, Baltar," he said, controlling the vocal output of his
helmet so thtat a human-sounding warmth underscored the words.  "You have
done well."
     Baltar, who had sustained an emotionless appearance since being led
to the Leader's pedestal, now suddenly spoke in anger, adding to his
voice that strange inflection that humans termed sarcasm.
     "I have done well, eh? What have you done?  What of our bargain?  My
colony was to be spared!"
     Another unexpected and unreasonable outburst of emotion from a
human.  Imperious Leader should have been prepared for it, he knew, but
he did not always correctly judge the erratic use of emotions that made
humans so annoyingly unpredictable.
     "The bargain was altered," the leader said, his third-brain
instructing his voice boxy to put a humanlike sarcasm into the words. 
The sarcasm was a good approximation, and he felt quite content with it.
     "How can you change one side of a bargain?" Baltar said.
     It was like a human to place what little logic he did have at his
command into a framework of extreme selfishness.  They cold never see the
scope of a larger plan unless they were directed toward it.  Even then,
their minds seemed unable to absorb such a plan's completeness.  They
could, it seemed, see parts but never wholes.  No wonder they were not
fit to govern a single portion of the universe.  As he replied to Baltar,
he continued to give his voice a human sound, so as not to confuse the
stupid, traitorous man.
     "Count Baltar, there is no other side.  You have missed the entire
point of the war."
     "I don't know what you mean," Baltar said. His voice suddenly
subdued, he cringed.
     "What I mean is that there could be no dominion over the species so
long as man remained a power within the universe.  There are no shades of
meaning when it comes to this.  Man or the Alliance, the answer is
obvious.  Compromise is not at all acceptable."
     A whining tone came into Baltar's voice when he spoke next:
     "But you have what you want!  The threat is gone, it no longer
exists.  I delivered my end of the bargain.  On my world, my reputation
is firm---whatever Count Baltar says he'll do, gets done by him and him
alone.  I did what I was supposed to!  My dominion was to be spared, you
said it was to..."
     "Dominion?  There can be only one dominion, one power, one
authority.  There must be no exceptions."
     "What are you, you think you're some kind of god?"
     "Gods are one of the intellectual trivialities of your race."
     "All right, forget I said that.  But, believe me, I have no
ambitions against you."
     Imperious Leader blended a burst of laughter into the sarcasm of his
voice-box misture.
     "You grow smaller as you stand ther e, Baltar.  Could you think me
so foolish as to trust a man who would see his own race destroyed?"
     "Not destroyed---subjugated. Under me!"
     "There can be no survivors.  The Alliance is threatened even if one
single human being remains alive on one of the Colonies."
     "Surely---surely, well, of course, you don't mean me."
     Urgent messages were being transmitted to him from his aides all
through the chamber.  He had spent too much time already with this
pitiful human representative.  And he fancied himself a worthy survivor!
     "We thank you for your help, Baltar.  Your time is at an and."
     Two Cylon centurions materialized out of the shadows in which the
leader had positioned them.  Each took a fleshy arm and lifted Baltar off
the floor.
     "No!" Baltar shouted. "You can't!  You still need me!"
     "That is unlikely."
     "I have---I have information.  Please.  My life for my information."
     Always willing to bargain, Imperious Leader thought, this human wold
never stop desperately offering trades.  
     "What is your information?"
     Baltar pulled away from the centurions and approached the pedestal. 
There was a surprising arrogance in his walk.  
     "My life?" Baltar said.
     "Your life," the Leader said. An easy promise---after all, he had no
real obligation to keep it.
     Baltar looked to each side as if he suspected he could be overhead. 
By whom?
     "At the spacedrome on Caprica----when your centurions were
collecting and exterminating survivors, one of them gave me information."
     "On what grounds?"
     "That I spare the man's life."
     "Did you?"
     "Of course not.  I beheaded him myself."
     "Fascinating.  Continue, please.  What did he tell you?"
     "Many humans escaped, he said."
     "How could that be?"
     "They escaped in ships, anything they could find.  A handful of
survivors.  And you haven't located them."
     "Perhaps you are ri ght.  But they would have neither fuel nor food
for a prolonged voyage."
     "He told me they were heading for a rendezvous with a surviving
battlestar."
     "A battlestar?!"
     "Yes.  He said it was the Galactica."
     "That can't be!  I will not allow it!"
     "I don't know what you can do about it."
     "Make it my business to destroy those ships.  And their precious
Galactica. Take him away."
     "But my information...you promised...you said..."
     The centurions seized Baltar and began to drag him out of the
chamber.
     "You can't do this to me!" Baltar shouted. "You promised me my
life!"
     "Only if the battlestar Galactica is delivered to me, Baltar.  If
not, you shall die."
     Imperious Leader contemplated the man's loathsomeness.  By human
standards, the traitor was evil.  To humans, evil was a relatively simple
concept.  A measure of premeditated malice, a dose or two of harmful
action, some negative thoughts that did not conform to a standard that
would change eventually anyway.  The kind of trivial feelings that guided
Batlar, traits like weakness and selfishness, were equated too easily
with the idea of evil in human minds.  To them, Imperious Leader would be
evil, which certainly measured the absurdity of their view.  
     Imperious Leader ordered his network to root out and destroy the
surviving humans, with special attention to the complete disintegration
of the battlestar Galactica. As his centurions began sending out the
message, the leader allowed himself a momentary surge of gratification. 
He was close to his goal now.  With the annihilation of the humans, order
could be returned to the universe, and he was the founder of that new
universal order.  Although he would not have admitted his feelings to be
akin to Baltar's repulsively human selfishness, he could not help but
acknowledge to himself that his place in Cylon history had been
strengthened considerably by the imminent removal of the human pest.

*****     

     Adama prayed that his rising hopes were not unreasonable as he
oversaw the assembling of the ragtag fleet at the chosen coordinate
points in space.  Many of the survivor ships were decrepit, scarred
vehicles, as expected, but more of them had slipped through the Cylon
lines than he'd thought possible.  Reports showed that almost two-hundred
and twenty ships, representing every color, colony, and creed of the
Twelve Colonies, had been dredged up as the result of the communications
and physical searches initated by his people.  They might not exactly be
suited for combat, but at least they were ships.  They gave the human
race, now reduced to a miniscule fraction of the population that had
flourished in the Colonies, another chance.  A chance to survive, a
chance to---someday---defeat the Alliance.
     As he watched reports come in on the various screens, he was midly
amused by the signs on the batter sides of some of the rescued craft. 
Virgon Tool Spaceways.  Soto Alternative Space Travel.  Tauron Integrated
Cargos.  The new fleet consisted of thips of every assortment, size and
shape.  It might not look like much, but it was the best he had.
     "You look like the felus that swallowed the underbird," Athena said,
referring to a famous Caprican children's story.  She smiled slylu.  How
long had she been standing there observing him?
     "And you're rude for a subordinate whose sole claim to rudeness is
that she's the commander's daughter."
     She turned toward the starfield and sweapt a hand across their
immediate view of several of the odd-looking ships.
     "That's quite an array of squadrons," she said. "Or are you going to
divide them into squadrons?  You could put all the transportation ships
into one, all the moving-van ships into another, and so on and so..."
     "That'll be enough, young lady."
     "It's all just a roundabout way of asking you what you're planning."
     Troubled by the question, he turned away from Athena.  The move did
him no good.  Starbuck hovered nearby, slightly in front of a puzzled
Colonel Tigh.  In the shadows, the newswoman, Serina, sat beside Apollo,
their backs to the communication panel.
     "Very well," he said, "you all want some kind of an explanation from
me, an answer to that single question: Where shall we
go?  Here then, is my idea."
     "Idea?" Athena said, a bit too hopefully for her father's pleasure.
     "The Book of the Word tells us that we, the Twelve Colonies of
Mankind, descended from a single mother civilization on the planet Kobol,
which, seven thousand yarhens ago, set out from their dying planet to
carry the seeds of humanity to new colonies in the distant stars.
     "We, the 70,000 odd survivors of this recent Holocaust represent
oall of the Colonies of the House of Kobol, save one."
     "Save one?" Athena asked. "I don't understand what you mean.  As far
as I know, each of the Twelve Colonies had survivors and we've managed to
rescue them."
     "I'm not talking about the Twelve Colonies," Adama said, smiling. 
"No.  The Book of the Word also speaks of how the House of Kobol was, in
fact, comprised of Thirteen distinct tribes that journeyed out to the
stars.  And that Thirteenth Tribe took a completely different path from
the one chosen by their brethren.  They journeyed to another world, far
out in the distant universe and were never heard from again.  With the
result being that only scholars of the ancient writings ever recalled the
existence of the Thirteenth Tribe and the planet they chose to settle
on."
     "Okay," Athena said, "we all know something about this.  It's been a
part of Colonial mythology for yahrens.  I remember how, when Zac, Apollo
and myself, while we were growing up, would stay up late with you and
listen to you tell stories of an ancient human civilization on a place
called Earth, sometimes you called it Garden of Earth, although that's
never made any sense to any of us."
     "It may not be mythology, Athena."
     "But it may be."
     "We shall see."
     Adama was irked by his daughter's proddings.  He had been excusing
her recent shows of temperament on the grounds that she had been through
so much misery since the beginning of the Cylon doublecross, but now he
wondered if it was time to combine parental with military discipline and
speak to her harshly.
     "It is my intention," he resumed, speaking more slowly to test his
own patience one word at a time, "to seek out that remaining
colony---call it Earth if you must.  Whatever you call it, it may be the
final outpost of humanity in the universe.  Only there could a society
have developed in a manner similar to our own.  And only on Earth might
there exist brothers of man who have the capacity within them to help us
fight back one day against our enemy, the Cylon Alliance."
     "But, if the Alliance hasn't discovered them yet, maybe they're safe
from attack.  Maybe we shouldn't even..."
     "Athena!  It's the only solution we have.  The Alliance is going to
chase us across the universe.  Lieutenant Starbuck, you have a question?"
     "Yes, sir.  If we're talking about this same colonyk, this
thirteenth colony, well, I don't think anybody knows where it is.  Even
if we did, we barely have enough fuel to get there."
     "A very good point, Lieutenant.  We have to find a fuel source,
then.  A fuel source and extended provisions for the long journey."
     Colonel Tigh came forward.  
     "Commander, this is hardly a fleet of sturdy, well-equipped
warriors, up to battling the universe.  I mean, most of these people
barely got away with their lives.  They're emotionally and physically
unprepared for the kind of journey you're proposing."
     Apollo stood up and spoke.
     "Sir, less than a third of these ships can make lightspeed.  It
could take generations to find Earth."
     "Ah, but you're talking about it as if you believe in it, or at
least in the possibility of it.  It's a sign that it's worth seeking out. 
We'll find it because we have no other choice.  No choice.  If we mark
time in this corner of the universe, the Alliance'll find us.  No, we'll
travel only as fast as our slowest ship, we'll be only as strong as our
weakest brother."
     "Your rhetoric is attractive but I think we should fight."
     Even Apollo was turning against him.  No matter.  He had to
persevere.
     "We're the only surviving battlestar and our warriors are up to the
task of protecting the whole fleet.  Let's leave it at that.  You may
speak your mind at the next council."
     "Thank you, sir."
     Serina leaned forward and spoke in the style of her journalistic
profession.
     "I'm a bit vague on this business, star mythology was never my best
subject."  Which meant, of course, that she knew a great deal about it
and was pretending ignorance in order to draw him out.  "You say that
this thirteenth colony, this other world, is named Earth, and it may be
somewhere out there in the universe, still populated and still amenable
to receiving returning Colonial inhabitants."
     Adama turned back to the starfield, as if an easy answer to Serina's
question was spelled out there in neon letters by the decrepit vehicles. 
He felt like an ordinary seaman searching the horizon for a glimpse of
sail.
     "I think there is a real world called Earth and that it is out there
and will welcome us," he said finally.  "I believe it is there."
     "Belief is a word associated more strongly with hope than fact,"
Serina said, adding a belated "Sir."
     "Belief, hope," Adama said, "they're all we have, all we've ever
had."
     "Forgive my skepticism, Commander Adama, but you're asking us to
join you on a religious quest."
     "I'm not.  And yet, I am."
     "You can't go off on a religious quest when we..."
     "I can," Adama said, "and I will."
     He made a long survey of their puzzled faces.
     "And I'm not going alone."
     When he saw that Serina was about to protest again, he said softly:
     "There's no other choice."

*****  

From the Adama Journals:

     I realized one thing about leadership during the period of exodus
from the Colonies.  A leader, no matter how benevolently he regards
himself, has to be something of a tyrant.  If he lets everyon phase him
out of his plan, allows them complete access to all information so they
can see the overpowering odds against them, he takes the risk they'll
become too discouraged to perform the little jobs that bring us forward
through all the tedious phases.  Human resilience is a marvelous quality,
and we proved that durin gour time of reorganizing our society, repairing
our damage, converting our ships to hyperspace power, building up the
hopes of our people even while we reduced their food rations.  I had
faith in our resilience, but knew it worked best when the goals were
limited.  The emotions of people who are struggling with the aftermath of
tragedy can be stretched to a breaking point if too much is demanded at
once.  So I had to remain a tyrant, remain aloof even from my friends and
family.  More than once my own resilience was put to task.  No wonder
tyrants so often turn mad.

*****     

CHAPTER FIVE:  SUFFERING

     "I need sleep in the worst way," Starbuck moaned, as he and Boomer
briskly made their way across a narrow walkway that hovered over a maze
of tubing and pipes.
     "Worst way, best way, any way," Boomer muttered. "I just want to get
off this lousy duty detail."
     Starbuck shrugged.
     "I don't know. I get a real kick out of being an investigator, makes
me feel like a real detective.  So I look at it this way.  It isn't the
worst duty in the fleet, asking a lot of questions.  I hear they're gonna
send some poor guys from Beat Section crawling around on the outside of
some old skybus looking for a solium leak."
     "Mmmmmm...how'd they miss us for that detail?"
     "You got me, buddy."
     Like most Colonial Warriors, Starbuck hated the thought of a solium
leak.  A derivative of the fuel source, Tylium, the solium compound was
less volatile but more insidious, since it was often difficult to detect
until it was too late. 
     They left the walkway and entered the freighter's engine room. 
Turning a corner, they came upon Captain Apollo, who was concentrating on
an electronic measuring device as his crew pointed solium detecting wands
in various directions.
     "What have we here?" Starbuck said.
     "I don't think I wanta know," Boomer replied.
     Apollo looked up from the measuring device and glanced angrily at
the two new arrivals.  Starbuck's body tensed.  Apollo's emotions were
unpredictable these days, since his father had begun assembling the
ragtag fleet.
     "Would you two knock it off?" Apollo said. "I'm trying to listen for
solium leaks."
     Starbuck and Boomer looked quickly toward each other, then turned in
unison, intending to retreat to the walkway.
     "'Bye," Starbuck said.
     "Halt!" Apollo bellowed.
     The two men stopped in their tracks.
     "Apollo," Starbuck said. "That stuff is dangerous.  I don't want any
part of it.  I mean, these old ships shouldn't even be flying."
     "There wasn't really any choice, was there?  How many people did we
have to leave behind for lack of ships, do you imagine?"
     "Nobody knows."
     "But you can be sure there were a lot, all left to be exterminated
by the gallmonging Cylons.  So---unless you want to volunteer permanent
assignment on this tub, which incidentally shows every sign of
adaptability to hyperspace conversion, you'll help survey each and every
ship in the fleet for damage.  And that means look for solium leaks.  Or
I'll be tempted to loan you out to Beta Company."
     Without waiting for any response from Starbuck or Boomer, Apollo
abruptly turned, picked up the measuring device, gestured toward his
crew, and walked toward the ship's bulkhead.
     When he was out of hearing range, Boomer whispered to Starbuck:
     "Keep talking, old buddy, and you're going to get us in real
trouble."
     Ah, he's got a fly up his exhaust tube.  I don't know what's going
on with everybody.  They'll all sniffing plant vapors, if you ask me. 
Ten thousand light yahrens from nowhere, our planet's shot to hell, we're
running around looking for leaks in old buckets, our people are starving,
and you're worried about me getting us in trouble.  What's the matter
with you?  What's the matter with everybody?  I say we might as well live
for the day.  We haven't got many of them left!"
     They followed Apollo through a bulkhead hatch into a passenger
compartment.  At last it was a passenger compartment now, whatever its
original function might have been.  Starbuck was at first struck by the
thick feeling of the air, which seemed to resist inhalation.  Small
wonder, for the room was packed with people---old, young, crippled, babes
in arms.  Some of them lay on the floor, clearly exhausted and spent. 
Others pressed up against packing crates.  Still others had transformed
the crates into their own private shelters.  As the crowd took note of
Apollo's presence, many of them reached toward him, their smudged fingers
clutching and clawing at the young officer.
     "Back," Apollo said.  "Please stay back."
     The crowd looked as if they might jump  onto Apollo, but were
apparently checked by the move of Boomer and Starbuck to the captain's
side.
     "Where's the food?" a bedraggled and obviously desperate woman
shouted.  "What's happening?  We haven't had water in two days!  Two
days!"
     "Please!" Apollo shouted.  Starbuck had never heard Apollo's voice
become so strident.  "I'll be glad to help each and every one of you. 
But stay back, Starbuck, Boomer..."
     Starbuck drew his sidearm.  He raised it toward the ceiling to
display it for the threatening crowd.
     "Put it away, Starbuck," Apollo said. "These people are already in
battle shock."
     "Yeah?  Well, in another couple microns they'da been using you for a
doormat, Captain!"
     "Where's the food?" an emaciated old man screamed.  The phrase was
quickly becoming a ritual to these suffering people, Starbuck noticed. 
"Why haven't we seen or heard from anyone in two days?"
     "What in Hades is going on?" another man said. "Have we been left
behind?"
     Apollo took a deep breath and gestured for silence.  The crowd
quieted down. 
     "You haven't been left behind," Apollo said in a level "There must
be some problems in distribution.  But it'll be corrected, I promise you
that.  Just be grateful you're alive and please give us a chance to
adjust and find out what your needs are."
     "We need food, that's what we need," the emaciated man said in a
whining voice.
     "And medicine," said one of the women.  "There are wounded here,
with us."
     "That's one of the reasons we're here," Apollo said. "To check these
things out, find out what your problems are."
     "The problem is," said a professional, middle-aged man with a beard,
"the problem is we're all going to die!"
     Apollo sighed.
     "No," he said, "no one is going to die.  Now, it'll take a while,
but we're just now finding out how many of us have survived."
     "Hardly the fittest," the professional man said bitterly.  Apollo
chose to ignore the man's sarcasm.
     "We need to know what your skill levels are," Apollo continued, "so
that we can utilize them in helping each other.  Boomer, get on the
communicator and let Core Command know these people haven't had any food
or water in two days."
     Boomer nodded and moved to a clear space, where he flipped open his
communicator.
     "Now," Apollo said, "do any of you need immediate life-station aid?"
     An old woman raised her hand.  Apollo nodded in her direction and
she began speaking in an unfamiliar tongue.
     "What's she saying?" Apollo asked Starbuck.
     "I think it's some kind of Gemonese dialect.  I'm not up on it,
maybe Boomer can translate."
     "Boomer's too busy right now.  Does anyone here understand this
woman's dialect?"
     A tall woman, almost the height of Starbuck or Apollo, moved to the
front of the crowd.  Her clothes were in shreds, and Starbuck noted that
a trim, small-breasted and slim-hipped figure was suggested in those
parts of the woman's body that were on public dispay.  Although her face
was dirty and smudged, and her blonde hair disheveled, he suspected that,
cleaned up and groomed, this lady would be quite a looker.  Most likely,
she would be a great beauty, he thought.
     "She says that her husband is feverish," the woman said laconically,
in a deep voice that was almost sultry in spite of her messy appearance. 
She held her left arm at her side at what seemed to Starbuck a peculiar
angle.
     "There's something wrong with your arm?" Starbuck asked.
     She turned toward him.  Her eyes were blue and it seemed to him that
they glowed with emotional strength as she stared directly at him.  
     "There are others in greater need than I," she said.
     "Get her out of here!" growled a plump woman who had stationed
herself to the right of Apollo. "She should be jettisoned with the dead!"
     A number of muttering voices assented to the woman's opinion. 
Starbuck could sense a danger in their nastiness, an anger that could
easily rise to open hostility.
     "You're right, Starbuck," Apollo said. "Her arms looks broken.  Get
her and the old man to the shuttle."
     Starbuck helped the old man and his wife to their feet, then took
the injured woman by her good arm.  He was conscious of the many
obscenities and insults being released around him.  Their jeering seemed
to be escalating to a danger point.  He might have to draw his weapon
again, despite what Apollo had ordered.
     "Make daggit meat out of her," one woman shoted, and several voices
assented.  Starbuck didn't look in their direction, although he kept a
wary eye for suspicious movements in his immediate vicinity.
     "Dirty," another woman said.
     "Socialator," said a man.
     "No place for refuse," muttered a voice that clearly belonged to the
professional bearded man.
     A muscular man stepped up to Apollo as if he were spoiling for a
fight.
     "It's a sin to starve us," the man said, "while the buriticians
luxuriate in their private sanctuaries."
     "Nobody's in luxury," Apollo said. "I promise you that."
     "I've seen it," said the slighter man, who joined the muscular one
in his confrontation with Apollo.  "I saw it with my own eyes aboard the
Rising Star, before I was cast out and reassigned here."
     Boomer saved Apollo from answering by stepping to his side and
announcing loudly, "Core Command is aware of the problem."
     "Then I can tell these people that food and water is on the way?"
Apollo said.
     "They're aware of the problem!"
     "What is it?" said the professorial man. "You're keeping something
from us, aren't you?"
     "Relief is on the way, I'm sure," Apollo said. "You've got my word
as a warrior."
     Starbuck had finally made his way to the bulkhead hatchway, but
hesitated there in case Apollo needed his help.  The woman and the old
couple waited with him, their bodies clearly tense with apprehension that
violence could erupt at any moment.
     "Your word as a warrior," said a plump woman.  "You were the ones
that brought us this death watch, warrior!"
     Apollo looked back at Starbuck, motioned for him to get the woman
and the old couple through the hatchway.  He and Boomer began edging back
to the opening as the space between them and the crowd narrowed.
     "Corrupt," the professorial man hollered. "The entire Quorum was
corrupt.  We were betrayed.  Betrayed---by all of you!"
     From the other side of the hatchway, Starbuck watched Apollo and
Boomer get through the opening.  Apparently just in time to save
themselves from being trampled on by the angry but frightened crowd. 
Boomer quickly shut the hatch and spun its wheels rapidly to seal off the
compartment.  Sound of agony and anger could still be heard on the other
side of the round portal.
     "My Lord..." Boomer muttered.
     "You said it," Starbuck said.
     Apollo's crew, who had remained in the engine room checking out
solium leaks, gathered around, while Boomer told them what had happened
in the makeshift passenger compartment.  Apollo shook visibly.  Starbuck
moved to him.
     "What happened?  Why aren't these vehicles being supplied?  I  know
we're low and Adama's cut rations, but we're not this..."
     "I don't know!" Apollo hollered, his voice again a bit more strident
than Starbuck was accustomed to.  "But something's gone wrong, and I've
got to find out what."
     When the pounding began on the passenger side of the hatchway,
Apollo ordered everyone back to the shuttle.  He and Boomer took the
controls, while Starbuck remained with the young woman and the old
couple.  As soon as they had put some distance between themselves and the
old freighter,  Apollo switched on the shuttle's communicator and spoke
angrily into the mike.
     "Alpha shuttle to Core Command."
     "Core Command.  Go ahead, Captain Apollo."
     "Request clarification on food dispersal."
     There was a crackling silence before the Core Command voice replied.
     "No information is available at this time."
     Apollo exploded with anger.
     "What're you talking about, no information available?  God damn it,
I just left a ship full of starving people.  They haven't seen a morsel
of food in two days, and no water either.  What in the name of Kobol's
going on?"
     Another long pause before the Core Command reply:
     "I'm sorry, shuttle Alpha.  Core Command has no information
available at this time."
     Apollo gave up and flipped  off the communicator.  Turning to
Boomer, he said, "What's going on?  What'd they tell you when you called
in the food shortage?"
     "Same thing they told you.  A vague acknowledgement of the problem,
you might say."
     "Boomer, I'm getting a very uneasy feeling."

*****

     It seemed to Cassiopeia that her broken arm had felt better since
the Galactica' s officers had removed her from that seething crowd.  In
the cramped spaces of the passenger compartment, the arm had been jostled
too often, pinche din between shifting bodies.  Now it seemed filled with
a comforting numbness.  Her emotional panic had subsided as well. 
Knowing that so many of those poor despairing people were conscious of
her previous position as a socialator, she had been afraid that some of
them might have taken out their frustration on her.  There were many
hidden weapons among that crowd.  One of them might have been used on
her.  She felt more relaxed now as she helped Starbuck interview the old
Gemonese couple.  When he had finshed with that interview, he turned to
her and said:
     "Now, I'll need some data from you. That way the Life Station'll be
ready for you when we dock."
     "Life Station?"
     "Just a fancy name for our sickbay.  Don't fret it.  Let's see. 
First I'll need your name and occupation."
     "My name is Cassiopeia."
     "Lovely name."
     "I think so."
     "Designation."
     "I'm designated a socialator."
     She saw the usual reaction in his eyes.  She was accustomed to it. 
Men from the other worlds, Capricans especially,  had a good bit of doubt
in them when it came to discussing socialiation.
     "It's an honorable profession,' she said testily, "practiced with
the blessing of the elders for over four thousand yahrens."
     She wondered if she should explain to him the yahrens of preparation
to which she had been submitted---the endless courses concerning social
behavior, human knowledge----before her license was granted.  She decided
that, although there was kindness in this handsome young officer's eyes,
a warm look that conveyed the potential for understanding, she had better
not martial the arguments that defended her profession.
     "I didn't mean to imply anything," Starbuck said. "I was just trying
to figure out what the excitement was about back on that barge."
     She smiled.
     "Those women were from the Otori sect among the Gemonese.  They
don't believe in physical contact between genders except when sanctified
by the priests during the high worship of the sunstorm, which comes every
seven yahrens."
     "Wow!  No wonder those little buggers are such good card players!"
     "Excuse me?"
     "Nothing."
     He asked her several more routine questions before ending the
interview.
     "Well," he said, "they'll be waiting for you with this information
when we dock.  Are you in pain now?  Can I give you something?"
     "You've already been very kind."
     Starbuck's smile was engaging.  She would've hugged him, if she had
had two good arms to use for it.
     "What can I tell you, Cassiopeia?" he said. "It's my job.  Also, I'm
not one of the Otori sect, right?  And I"ve been getting these
headaches." Obviously, Starbuck knew of a socialator's abilities at
curing mild illnesses with intricate massage techniques. "The pressure's
getting to me, I suppose.  I just need some kind of release."
     "Make an appointment," she said, using her professional tone of
voice.
     "I just might do that.  I might just---migh---uh..."
     His fumbling with the language made him all the more attractive to
her.  He looked like he might be acting the role of shy young officer. 
He had not seemed the type previoiusly.  Well, she though, it would be
fun exploring that particular line between reality and pretense.

*****

     In order to collect his thoughts, Starbuck made an excuse to go to
the command cabin of the shuttle.  The woman had intrigued him from the
first.  Discovering she was a socialator excited him even more.  He had
heard about socialators, and often wondered about their arcane---some
said even metaphysical---abilities.  If things settled down, and he could
shake the weariness that his incessant duties had brought him, it might
be fun to take the glamorous Cassiopeia out.  Athena, of course, would be
angry.  Lately, the commander's daughter had been laying claims of
ownership on him, and he didn't like that.  Let her be angry; it'd be a
good lesson for her.
     In the command cabin, Starbuck noticed that Apollo seemed unusually
tense and angry.  He was about to say something to the captain, when
Apollo flipped on the communicator and broadcast to Core Command.
     "This is Alpha Shuttle changing course to rendezvous starliner
Rising Star.  Shuttle will proceed on to Galactica with patients for Life
Station."
     He flipped the communicator off as angrily as he had switched it on.
     "What're you up to?" Starbuck said.
     Apollo's look threatened discipline for insubordination if Starbuck
continued the familiarity.  They had always been easy with each other
before. What had gotten into Apollo?  He was beginning to act like a
tin-god version of his father."
     "If you don't mind my asking, sir!" Starbuck added.  
     Apollo waited a micron before answering.
     "I'm stopping at the Rising Star. I think I can find out what's at
the bottom of this conspiracy of silence there."
     Reacting to the rage in the captain's eyes, Starbuck decided not to
ask what he meant by 'conspiracy of silence.'

*****

     After Tigh brought him the news that there had been several reports
of near-riots due to the lack of available food, Adama sat for a long
time, looking out at the starfield at his scattered, vulnerable-looking
ragtag fleet.  The Cylons would tear those poor ships apart if they ever
detected the camouflage field.
     "Father?" said a voice behind him.  Athena.  "Are you all right?"
     For a moment he did not want to talk to her, but her sad, pleading
eyes forced the words out of him.
     "I can't say I'm all right, no.  If anybody said to me he was all
right just now, I'd set him up for a psychiatric examination."
     "That doesn't sound like the warrior I'm used to.  What happened to
the joy of living to fight another day?"
     "I took a tour belowdecks.  The commander appearing to cheer up the
passengers, you might call it.  You should've seen their faces. 
Desperate, looking for a chance to live.  And here I am, the commander,
the authority figure.  I could make the choices.  I could say who's to
live, who's to die, pass out priorities like chits in a lottery.  One
woman, with a baby in one arm, grabbed me with the other.  I didn't know
what to say, didn't..."
     "Father, no!"
     "I have to say it, Athena. I don't want this anymore, don't want
what they so felicitously call the responsibility of command.  Let
someone else do it, let someone else take up the burden."
     Adama turned in his chair.  Athena sat next to him, guided his head
to her shoulder.  She felt odd in this comforting position, as if she had
become possessed for a moment by the spirit of her mother, Ila.
     "Easy, father," she whispered. "Listen, if it hand't been for you,
we'd all be gone now.  Instead, many are saved.  It's extraordinary. 
Look out on that field of stars.  It's the most beautiful sight I've ever
seen.  Look at our ships. If you look at them technically, sure they're
old, rusty, beat up, battered.  But they contain life.  Life searching
for a new world, a place to be and grow.  Happiness.  A future!"
     Adama started to protest, wanted desperately to say it was time for
him to pass leadership to someone elese---but, for a moment, he was
caught by the view outside.  He saw it as Athena had described, and it
was awesomely beautiful.

*****

     Apollo left Starbuck to pilot the shuttle back to the Galactica and
took Boomer with him onto the Rising Star. Lieutenant Jolly, who had been
alerted to Apollo's arrival, joined them in a dimly-lit corridor that
connected the liner's two baggage areas.  Apollo was astonished at the
information that the chubby officer provided.
     "Contaminated?" he said incredulously.  "That's impossible.  Weren't
the provisions checked before they were boarded?"
     "For radiation, yes," Jolly said, "but there was no time to check
for Auron poisoning."
     "Meaning all this food is worthless," Boomer groaned.
     "We can't be sure of that," Apollo said. "Not yet.  Auron breaks
down the structure of the food.  Jolly, have your crews go through every
container.  Chances are some of the supplies were shielded enough from
the bombs to be saved."
     Jolly did not look particularly confident.  
     "This is the third ship I've checked thus far," he said. "It's not
looking good."
     "Salvage whatever you can," Apollo ordered.  "Even scraps will
help."
     "What do we do with the rest?"
     Apollo found it difficult to speak the words of his reply:
     "Jettison it.  And keep your mouth shut about the problem.  If
people find out we haven't any food we're going to have a mutiny on our
hands.  C'mon, Boomer, something I want to check out up in elite class."
     Apollo charged up the iron step ladder as if in response to a full
alert.
     Serina came around a corner in a hallway and bumped into the briskly
walking man.  As they backed away from each other, Serina started to
laugh at the awkwardnesss of their situation, but Apollo's cold look made
her think better of it.  She changed the laugh to a smile, and then
waited for his response.  He just continued to look at her, his opaque
blue eyes showing no emotion.  Serina was impressed with the look of the
man now as she had been when they had first encountered each other back
on Caprica.  With his obviously strong body and broad shoulders, his
light brown hair so carefully groomed that its strands might be arranged
by the book, his ruggedly attractive face whose hint of cynicism
suggested vast experience in so young a man, he appeared to be just the
kind you could count on in an emergency, and these days she anticipated
emergencies on a regular basis.  In spite of his impressive look,
however, there was a definite note of arrogance, a drawing back from that
which shouldn't be touched, hinted at by his stiff bearing and in the way
one corner of his thin-lipped mouth turned down.
     She held out a hand, which he took with a definite lack of eagerness
for the social amenities.  She wondered if she dared ask him for help.
     "My name is Serina, Captain Apollo," she said amiably.
     "I remember your name," he said brusquely.
     "Come down off your epaulettes, Captain.  I need to talk to you."
     "Look, Miss Serina, I'm very busy now, I"ve go to..."
     "Far be it for me to interfere with you're duties.  Goodbye,
Captain."
     She whirled around and started to walk away from Apollo.
     "Ah, just a centon," Apollo said, then turned to the young, black
officer who was standing slightly behind him.
     "Boomer, why don't you go on up to elite class and see if there's
anything we should be concerned about."
     Serina, recalling the ugly plushness she had observed on her single
visit to elite class, considered telling Apollo he wouldn't like what he
would find there, but decided the captain would see it for himself soon
enough.  After the black officer had left them, Apollo turned to her and
said:
     "Well then, what can I do for you?"
     In spite of the cool politeness, he sounded quite annoyed with her.
     "Please come with me," she said. "It won't take long."
     She led him down a series of hallways which normally housed the
lowest-class passengers on the Rising Star.  People were crowded into
narrow cubicles.
     "I'd've thought a celebrity like you'd do a little better than
this," Apollo said. "A neat little compartment of your own on the elite
levels."
     "I was offered that, from several men whose approaches were quite
subtle.  Anyway, I had no interest in pulling space.  I took what I could
get fairly."
     "I believe you."
     She was startled by the warm sincerity of his comment.  She might
like this captain, after all, even if he did have a ramrod up his spine.
     "I want you to help me with the little boy," Serina said.
     "Little boy?  The one I saw on Caprica?"
     "Yes.  Boxey's his name.  I found him in the rubble during the
bombings."
     "What's the matter with him?"
     "I'm afraid it isn't good.  A mild form of shock.  He hasn't eaten
or slept since the bombing."
     "Do you have food?"
     "I managed to get some form Sire Zalto, on the upper level.  Boxey
won't even nibble it."
     "I'll have him dispatched to the Life Station right away."
     "I don't think that's going to be the answer.  I don't know what to
do.  The poor kid's blocked out all memory, can't tell me anything about
his family or where he comes from.  All he ever talks about is this
little daggit that got killed while they were running through the
streets.  He doesn't know it's dead, thinks it's just lost. 
I---uh---maybe you might be able to help..."
     "Me?  If he won't eat for you, I don't know what I can do."
     "If you remember, he seemed to spark a little when you talked to him
on Caprica.  Frankly, I got the feeling you're pretty good with children,
Captain."
     Serina didn't understand the brief sad look that crossed Apollo's
face, but she began to see that the aloof young captain was more
complicated than she had thought.
     "I grew up with a kid brother," Apollo said.  "Okay, let's take a
look at your little Boxey."
     Serina led him down a long companionway in which refugees had been
crammed into many improvised living quarters.  Some of the little niches
were already decorated with simple makeshift remnants, a couple even had
curtains up hiding blank walls.
     They stoopped by a niche which had a curtain drawn across its
entranceway.  A dim night light inside showed through the thin material
of this drapery.  He glanced at Serina, who told him to go inside. 
Entering, he fo und the young boy lying on a cot and staring at the
ceiling.
     "Excuse me," Apollo said. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything." 
The boy's eyes widened as he recognized his visitor. "I'm in charge of
finding young men to try out as future fighter pilots.  Your name is
Boxey, correct?"
     "Uh huh..."
     "Good," Apollo said.  "I've been looking all over for you.  You
know, you should've made contact with the commander.  We're very short on
pilots."
     The boy looked quizzical.  Apollo could remember teasing Zac and
obtaining a similar response.
     "I'm too little to be a pilot," Boxey said.
     "Oh sure, right now.  But how long do you think it takes to become a
full Colonial Warrior?"
     "I dunno."
     "You have to start when you're very small, or you won't get these
until you have gray hair."
     Apollo pointed to the Captain's bars on his shoulder.  Interested,
Boxey lifted his head to stare at the shiny emblems.
     "You like them?" Apollo asked.
     Boxey seemed to respond enthusiastically, but the interest vanished
as quickly as it had come, and he put his head back on his pillow.
     "I want Muffit," the child said.
     Tears came to Serina's eyes, and she wondered if she should back out
of the small quarters, stay out of sight in the hallway until the captain
was through or had given up.
     "I don't know," Apollo said. "There's not much room for a daggit in
a fighter plane."
     "He's gone.  He ran away."
     "Did he?  Hmmm.  Maybe we can find one of Muffit's friends."
     "I asked.  They say there are no daggits."
     Apollo glanced back at Serina.  His face seemed less severe in the
dim light.  She didn't know what to say.
     "Well," Apollo said to Boxey, "I'll tell you what.  Here, you take
one of these..." He removed one of the bars from his shoulder and placed
it above the pocket of the boy's tunic.  "---you take this until I
furnish you the proper emblem.  Now, as a Colonial Warrior First Level,
you are entitled to the first daggit that comes along."
     He rose and started for the door, where he hesitated, then said:
     "But only on the condition you get your rest, eat all of your
primaries, and stop chasing girls.  Good night, officer."
     He saluted and went out.  Serina followed but could not resist one
peek backward.  She saw Boxey looking down at the bar that Apollo had
pinned on him.  In the corridor, Apollo waited for her.
     "Thank you," she said. "See, I was right---you are good with kids. 
You and your brother must be very close."
     "We were."
     "I'm sorry!  The war?"
     "I suppose."
     "Look, if you'd rather not get involved..."
     "Don't be silly.  I've already lost the big one, I can stand a few
little ones to win."
     "That's not a little one in there, Captain.  You win that one,
you've accomplished something."
     "Sure.  I cheered up a six-yahren-old.  I'm afraid that's not."
     "I'm afraid it is, whether you want to admit it or not."
     A hint of a smile appeared again on Apollo's face.  A potentially
handsome smile, Serina was careful to note.
     "I'm sorry, but I do have to go now," Apollo said.  "Have to check
out the elite level."
     "I hope your reaction to it is similar to mine."
     "I don't understand."
     "You will."
     He gave her a half-salute and strode down the companionway.  Serina
noted, with a wry interest, that the captain no longer seemed so aloof
and detatched in her eyes.

*****     

     Apollo found an elevator that went directly to the elite level of
the Rising Star.  As soon as its doors closed in front of him, devices
were activated that had originally been designed to prepare the
holidaymaker for his stay in the elite quarters of the luxury spaceliner. 
Subtle perfumes drifted out of the air vent; they suggested food or sex
depending on which direction the elevator rider was facing.  A bizarre
style of music---quite, soothing, intricately melodic---emerged from
speakers positioned strategically all around the elevator car.  In an
odd, subliminal way the music seemed to suggest romantic joys to come. 
Apollo recognized the insipid melody as a series of variation on a
Leonese chant.  That was to be expected, since Sire Zalto was from Leo. 
What struck Apollo as odd about the music was that the song was
originally an agricultural chant celebrating the wonders of the harvest. 
The elevator version had changed the simple tune into a ridiculously
complex and unrhythmic love melody.
     A golden light switched on suddenly above the doorway to signal that
the elevator was stopping at the primary elite level.  The perfumes faded
and the music diminished as the doors slid open.  Apollo's eyes hurt form
the amount of gilt ornamentation that he now faced.  As he stepped into
the reception area, he noticed with annoyance that an absurd gilt sign
spelled CLUB ELITE over the doorway leading to the level's inner
sanctums.  Apollo had traveled on a luxury liner a couple of times, when
there were no sensible accommodations available, and he did not recall
from either rof those trips anything approaching the ugly embellishments
that decorated the reception area.
     As Apollo's eyes became accustomed to the ornate glare, he was
startled by Boomer's voice resounding through the small chamber.
     "Officer!  I will ask you only once more to step aside.
     "Sir," the guard said in a bored voice, as if he was used to
discouraging other passengers of the liner from gate-crashing the luxury
quarters, "this is a private accommodation secured by Sire Zalto and his
party."
     "I don't care if it's the tomb of the Ninth Lord of Kobol!"
     "I might remind you, sir, that Sire Zalto is a newly elected member
of the Fleet Council.  He has ordered me to see that he is in no way
disturbed by intruders."
     "How's this for an intrusion, daggit-waste?"
     Boomer's "intrusion" was with his sidearm, whose barrel was now
pointing at the guard's left nostril.  The guard looked surprised, but
not really scared.  Boomer might be causing more trouble than was
necessary, Apollo thought, might be better to proceed by the book.
     "What's going on, Boomer?" he said, striding forward.
     "The  fella here doesn't seem to want to let us into the club area."
     "Is that true, officer?"
     "Well, uh, yessir.  Sire Zalto said..."
     "Do you recognize me, officer?"
     "Yes, Captain Apollo."
     "Do you know I have complete authority to check out all levels of
all ships by fleet order?"
     "Uh, yes sir!"
     Apollo smiled at Boomer, as the guard obsequiously ushered them
through the doorway.  Sometimes there were being advantages to being the
commander's son, after all.
     As they walked down a corridor just as over-decorated as the club
lobby, Boomer muttered, "When I think of those starving people, I..."
     "Don't even say it, Boomer.  I hate this just as much as you do."
     The liner's grand ballroom had been transmogrified into what looked,
to Apollo, suspiciously like a throne room.  A series of tapestries
depicting what he recognized as a famous hunting cycle from the planet
Tauron hung along one wall.  Other walls displayed paintings, sculptures,
holoviews that Apollo was certain were confiscated from all over the
Colonies.  Zalto and his cohorts must have grabbed every art work they
could rescue from the dying planets, looting museums and galleries while
innocent people died all around them.  Before the Cylon invasion, Zalto
had been famous throughout the Colonies as a political manipulator of
some skill.
     For a moment, it was difficult to located Zalto amid the impressive
artwork, the luxurious furniture, and the milling crowd, most of whom
appeared to be elder statestmen and their courteseans.  Almost everyone
in the room was gathered around arrangements of food, shoveling victuals
into their mouths with an obscene eagerness.  Zalto lounged behind one
the largest food tables, almost obscured by a high pile of exotically
colored fruit.  He was still as clownish as Apollo remembered him and did
not seem to have aged much at all, except for his new beard. His graying
hair was  concealed by an oversized green turban, his bulging
stomach----likely results of the present orgy----covered from collar to
hem in jewel-studded green robes.  How such a dismal madcap like Zalto
could have been so popular all over the planet Leo was beyond Apollo.  On
Zalto's left arm, there hung a bizarre cybernetic doll that bore an
uncanny resemblance to its owner.  To Zalto's right was a scantily-clad
young woman whose bland beauty was marred only by the food stains around
her mouth.
     Apollo drew his sidearm and gestured to Boomer to do the same.  As
the revelers noticed the guns, the sounds of merriment diminished.  When
Apollo and Boomer walked slowly toward Sire Zalto, glaze-eyed people
along their route drew back.  Apollo stopped at Zalto's table.  The man
looked up at him with wide, lunatic eyes. 
     "Welcome to our humble celebration, warriors," the dummy said, both
of its electronic eyes flashing green in time with each word.  
     "Welcome, my foot!" Zalto said angrily to the dummy without looking
at it.  "I trust you've got an explanation for this intrusion?" he said.
     "Thass right," said the girl beside him.
     Apollo pushed her away from the buritician and motioned for Zalto to
put his doll down and stand up.  Zalto was about a mili-metron shorter
than Apollo and he tried to make up for this disadvantage of height
difference by assuming an imperious tone of voice:
     "Well?  Are either of you two simpletons going to tell me what this
is all about?"
     Apollo stared scornfully at the eccentric buritician.  
     "Would you like to make a statement before I arrest you, Sire
Zalto?"
     "Quiet everybody!" shouted the doll.  And all activity that still
proceeded ceased.  Even the musician stopped playing abruptly.
     "I'm glad you know my name, warrior," Sire Zalto said.  "Oh, how you
are going to wish you had died at childbirth when I'm done with you,
m'boy."
     "Drop the corny rhetoric, Sire Zalto.  You're going to follow me to
my shuttle----minus your stupid little helper!"
     "Don't let him separate us, Zalto!" the doll said in a tone that was
a mixture of pleading and mockery.  "You wouldn't want me to be all
alone, would you?"
     "Going with you!  I don't think so, mister.  Besides, you don't have
any jurisdiction aboard the Rising Star!"
     "I have all the jurisdiction I need. I can take this garbage scow
and appropriate it for the fleet if I so wish.  Better yet, if you choose
not to accompany me back to the Galactica, I'll just turn the six levels
of starving passengers beneath you loose.  You can take your chances with
them!"
     Apollo gestured toward the overladen food table, and Zalto
understood his message.
     "Captain," he said, "I'll admit this may seem a
little---um---excessive.  But, hey, I can't help it if I'm a
little---overenthusiastic."
     "Excessive?  All this?  I'd say obscene."
     "Now, now, young man.  Me and my friends were just enjoying a
little, well-deserved celebration, you might call it our prayer of
gratitude for deliverance. We've a right to..."
     "You have no right, no privilege of the Lords, for this kind
of----of celebration!  In case it's eluded you, Councilor, some hundred
people have died since our deliverance from the Cylons."
     "I wasn't aware of any cases of starvation, Captain."
     "Maybe not.  It may be that hunger hasn't taken a life.  Not yet
anyway.  But it's only a matter of time if we don't strictly follow the
rationing plan my father's sent out to all fleet ships."
     "Your father?"
     "Yes."
     "I do believe," said the doll, "that Commander Adama's son is with
us tonight."
     "Yes," Zalto said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.  "Captain Apollo,
isn't it?  I didn't recognize you, I'm very, very sorry.  No wonder
then."
     "I don't understand, Sire Zalto."
     He glanced toward the immediate audience.  Obviously what he was
going to say next would be played to the crowd.
     "I mean, Captain, that it's no wonder that you're making this
ill-timed power play."  He turned toward the audience.  "You see, my
friends, this young man is an emissary from his father, the exalted,
high-and-mighty commander.  When he mentions appropriating this ship,
he's means what he says, and we're not allowed to argue with the
commander's son, after all."
     "What're you saying?"
     "That you'll jump at any excuse to appropriate ships.  To siphon off
fuel for the Galactica, maybe.  Isn't that the reason you're throwing
your weight around?  You don't give a meteor's throw about any hungry
passengers.  I recognize a political ploy when I see it, and you can just
tell Adama to go to..."
     "Can it, Sire Zalto!  With all due respect, Boomer, notifiy Core
Command that we've located some stores which we will distribute as far as
they go."
     The doll spoke up yet again.  "Now you go too far, son of Adama!"
     Zalto's face suddenly turned red with anger.  
     "You bet he does, Friend.  This is a violation of proper procedure,
mister.  And I won't stand for it!"
     "You don't have that choice.  I remind you you're under arrest."
     Zalto took a deep breath before speaking again.
     "It's mine, you got that!  Mine!  I had it brought from my own
estate, and it belongs to me and my guests.  The law hasn't been written
yet to confiscate personal property without a presidential order."
     Some of the guests clearly agreed with Zalto's aristocratic views,
although Apollo could see that others were looking somewhat embarrassed
and ashamed.  The drunken young woman at Zalto's side snuggled closer to
him and made a dramatically meaningful hand gesture in Apollo's
direction.  He wished he could arrest her and all the revelers who
endorsed Zalto's view.
     "Does your wife share your feelings about denying your food to
others?" Apollo asked, with a meaningful glance toward Zalto's doxy.
     "M'wife?" Zalto said weakly.
     "Siress Zalto. I don't see her."
     Zalto could not maintain eye contact with Apollo and he suddenly
looked toward the thickly carpeted floor.  Apollo remembered Siress Zalto
as a plump gentle woman, whose main job in life had been discovering ways
to rescue her harebrained husband from potentially dangerous situations. 
She had been kind to him and Zac when they visited her during their
childhood.
     "Alas, Siress Zalto is gone," Zalto said.  "Unfortunately, she
didn't arrive at the Rising Star in time to be resuced with the rest of
us."
     "My sympathies," Apollo said. "I share your bereavement.  Siress
Zalto was an outstanding woman."
     Zalto's head remained bowed.  Dutifiully, it seemed.
     "Yes," he said.
     "Yes," the doll said.
     "I'm sure she'd be moved by your period of mourning and the style in
which you choose to honor her memory.  Boomer?"
     "Yo!"
     "Have Jolly send a team up here to collect and distribute the food
throughout the ship."
     "Sir, shouldn't we check with Core Command?"
     "Now!"
     He grabbed Zalto by the arm and rushed him out of the room.  The
doll remained silent.  The young woman, on the other hand, remained
attached to the buritician's arm for a few steps before falling into a
drunken, glutted stupor onto the thick, red carpet.
     While they awaited Jolly and his men, Boomer whispered to Apollo.
     "Without being critical, Captain---is there a chance you overplayed
out hand a tad, considering Sire Zalto is on the new council?"
     "This isn't a game of pyramid, Boomer, not one of yours and
Starbuck's two-bit cons.  Those people down there are starving, dammit!"
     "Take it easy, Apollo. I'm on your side."
     "Are you?"
     "Captain..."
     "Sorry, Boomer. I'm easily irritated these days.  You must've
noticed."
     "Well, now that you mention it, yeah."
     The elevator arrived and Jolly's large form seemed to fill the
entire doorway.
     "Let's get to it," Apollo said.  "Collect every scrap of food you
can find here and get it to the people."
     The look of  hatred from Sire Zalto as two of Jolly's men took him
into the elevator sent a chill up and down Apollo's spine.

*****     

     Working gently, Dr. Squires positioned Cassiopeia's broken arm
inside a transparent cylindrical tubing which was connected to a larger,
more impressive set of medical machinery.  The arm felt numb now, and
none of the doctor's touching of it gave her any pain.  With the arm in
place, Squires drew out what looked like a trio of gunbarrels from inside
a cavity of one of the machines.  After each gunbarrel had been pointed
at a  different area of her arm within the tube, the doctor pressed a
series of buttons and faint, laserlike beams came out of the gunbarrels. 
After the beams had penetrated the transparent surface of the tubing,
they were diffused, entering her arm at several joints.  The numbness
immediately left her arm and sharp tingling sensations replaced it. 
Abruptly, Squires pressed the buttons again, and the gunbarrels retreated
back into the machine.  As he removed her arm from the transparent
tubing, Squires said:
     "How does it feel?"
     Cassiopeia stretched her arm, then folded it.  Even the tingling
sensation was fading now.  
     "It feels like it hadn't even been broken," she said.
     "The bone has been fused whole," Squires said, in a friendly
professional voice.  "It's probably even stronger than before."
     "It's wonderful.  Damn wonderful.  Thanks, doc."
     "With equipment like this I'm just a mechanic.  A talented mechanic,
to be sure, but just a mechanic.  Anything else I can do for you,
Cassiopeia?"
     The offer seemed to mean more than mere medical attention.  As a
socialator she was used to even such an oblique approach and it was easy
for her to demur politely.
     In the corridor outside the Life Station, Starbuck leaned
laconically against a wall, still clad in his flight gear.  She smiled,
glad to see the brash young officer again.  Then she frowned, realizing
why he might be waiting for her.
     "You're going to take me back, aren't you?" she said.
     "Sorry, but we don't take passengers here," he said.
     She turned away from him.  She felt the blood drain out of her face.
     "I dread returning to that ship."
     She did not like to admit it, but she was afraid of the stupidity of
the passengers aboard the Rising Star.  She sympathized with their
plight, their hunger and their disorientation, but on the other hand she
didn't care to offer herself as a sacrifice for their frustrations. 
Starbuck seemed to undersand, for he said, "Look, maybe I can check
around, see if there's anyplace you can stay.  Ther're better ships,
might even be space aboard the Galactica."
     Gods!  If there was anything this young officer wasn't it was shy.
     "What's the matter?" Starbuck asked.
     "I sense a price tage.  Would you be doing this if I weren't a
socialator?"
     "I might.  Then again, I might not."
     "Please don't joke.  I'm...I'm a little weak, I mean, I..."
     "Okay, okay.  Let's forget the jokes for a while.  Look, really,  I
just want to help you. It's nothing personal."
     "Nothing personal?"
     "All right, something personal.  But I'll still locate quarters for
you.  And that's all.  You can break my arm if I'm lying. "Course, it
might be worth a broken arm..."
     "Okay, okay!"
     "It's a deal, then?"
     "I think you've made a terrible dea, but all right."
     Starbuck smiled genially as he took Cassiopiea's arm, the one that
had just been repaired at the Life Station, and led her down the
corridor.

*****

     Adama, coming onto the bridge, discovered Colonel Tigh smiling
broadly, clutching the latest reports to his chest s if they were love
letters.
     "What is it, Tigh?" Adama said.
     "Long-range patrols've reported in.  Their scanners find no sign of
pursuit from the Cylons.  All vectors are looking good.  The camouflage
shielding that Apollo devised seems to be holding steady. Except for that
one flyby some time ago, not a Cylon flight team has been anywhere near
us."
     "So long as we remain hidden in space like this, it's highly
unlikely they'll find us.  Pray the camouflage continues to hold, Tigh." 

     "I do that every waking mili-centon, Sir.  Finding us now would be
disasterous.  We're not able to mount any heavy battle, Sir, not right
now."
     "I'm aware of that, Tigh.  Painfully aware."
     "What do we do next?"
     "That question I propose to leave to other voices."
     Tigh looked shocked and angered simultaneously.
     "You're going to go through with that resignation plan then?"
     "I'm submitting it to the council this..."
     "Commander, we'd better talk."
     "Of course, old friend, but my mind is made up."
     "With fuel and food running so low, you can't resign now.  If we
ever needed leadership..."
     "The fleet is filled with good men.  You included, Tigh.  The
council will decide."
     "Commander..."
     "Yes, Tigh?"
     Tigh paused, obviously reluctant to speak his mind.
     "Go ahead, old friend," Adama said. "Say it."
     "If you resign now, it will look exactly the same as your act of
pulling the Galactica out of battle with the Cylons. I'm sorry, but..."
     "And I'm sorry you think that.  Perhaps the two events are related. 
And perhaps they merely support my decision that it's time for me to step
down."
     "No, you can't!"
     "I've made my decision."
     "I can see that, dammit!"
     "Will you accompany me to the council chamber?"
     "I'd rather not, if you don't mind."
     Adama started to say that he did mind, but instead whirled around
and left the bridge.  Behind him, as he went out the hatchway, he heard a
loud thump.  Undoubtedly Colonel Tigh was hitting something metallic with
his fists.  Adama did not look back to verify that speculation.
     The newly-appointed Council of Twelve, a temporary assemblage that
would govern until a proper Quorum could be elected, started voicing
their anger immediately before Adama could even finish his resignation
speech.  Some of them sprang to their feet, shouting:
     "No!  We won't have it!"
     "Unacceptable!"
     "You can't resign!  You especially!"
     Sire Gant silnced the surge of protests with a sweeping gesture. 
Gant had some time ago been an aide-de-camp to President Arcon.  A
hawk-faced, emaciated, old-line politico from Scorpia, he was craft, but
Adama had always perceived him as trustworthy and intelligent.
     "Adama," Gant said, rising to his feet, "you have led us wisely and
well.  That's why we can't accept your resignation.  Things are too grave
now."
     "Pardon me for disagreeing with you, Gant," bellowed Sire Zalto,
who, fortunately, had the good sense to keep his talking doll out of this
Council meeting.  Adama had known that, if there were to be any serious
opportunity to any sensible plan, it would originate with the
respresentative of the Leon survivors.  Tainted as he was with scandal,
his people had nevertheless given him a vote of confidence to continue on
the council.
     "I think dear old Adama is the one best qualified to judge his own
capacity to lead," Zalto said.
     Adama glanced at Apollo, who was sitting with the newswoman Serina
in the gallery in front of the Council table.  His son appeared to be
furious, and the pretty young woman had her hands on his arm, apparently
to convince him to remain seated.  Adama liked what he had seen of the
Caprican newswoman, and liked the fact that she appeared to show interest
in his son.  Apollo, so unhappy over the deaths of Zac and his mother,
needed such a compassionate friend.  He turned his attention back to
Zalto.
     "Let's face it, my brothers," he was saying, "I personally don't
think the commander has led us all that wisely, all that well.  Are the
Cylons really to blame for our present predicament?  No.  I say it's the
result of poor planning."
     "Zalto, without Adama, none of us would've survived this Holocaust,"
Gant shouted.
     "I suppose so," Zalto said, "but I still hold the commander
responsible for the troubles we've got now.  Poor judgment in choosing
food and fuel lots now leave on the brink of tragedy."
     "Sire Zalto,"Gant said, "you have a lot of nerve casting accusations
about food shortages when you have been brought up on charges of hoarding
in the face of starvation."
     "Are your hands so clean, Gant?  What about..."
     "Gentlemen," Adama interrupted. "Gentlemen, please.  This squabbling
is not in our best interests.  Zalto is not entirely incorrect aboug the
state we are in now, nor is he unjustified in blaming me.  The problem
is, and has been, that there are too many of us.  Too many people, too
many ships.  We would have had troubles even if our food supply had not
been contaminated, even if so many of our ships had not proved to be in
such unstable condition.  If we had time---ah, but that's the real source
of our disturbances.  We must obtain fuel and food, that's our only
solution.  Otherwise, we all perish---slowly and gradually, as our
supplies run out.  We have to convert our ships to hyperspace capability
and leave behind those that can't be converted."
     "That would mean crowding ourselves together even more," Zalto said. 
"As if things weren't bad enough already."
     "Yes, Zalto, it would," Adama replied.  "That's why I've intended to
propose that we pool our stock of fuel and send the Galactica and the
most capable ships of our improvised fleet on ahead in order to obtain
fuel and supplies for the rest of us."
     "Leave ships behind?" Zalto shouted.  "Adama, just how many ships do
you propose we send on this fool---I mean---this foraging mission."
     "Captain Apollo has the hard figures on that, Sire Zalto."
     Apollo stood and spoke brusquely, obviously holding in his temper.
     "About one third of the present fleet.  There's just that amount of
fuel to spread around, and that's a bit of thin spreading, gentlemen."
     "Yeah, it's thin spreading, all right!" Zalto said.  "I think this
is just a ploy for you and your chosen few to escape the rest of us,
leave us here, without fuel, to die slowly.  That's..."
     "Sir," Apollo interrupted. "As things stand now, there isn't
sufficient fuel to get the entire fleet anywhere.  We must let those few
who can seek out a solution to do so."
     "Aw, you're daddy's little boy, all right," Zalto sneered.  "I'm
sure you're not lying to us in tandem."
     "That is uncalled for!" Gant shouted.  "You know better than that,
Zalto!"
     "Who's side are you on anyway, Gant?"
     "Gentlemen, please," Adama said. "Hear me out."
     "For a leader who'se just resigned, you sound pretty damn high and
mighty," Zalto said.
     "I am merely advising," Adama said.
     "Then, by Kobol, tell us your advice and get it over with,
Commander."
     Adama cleared his voice to buy time.  He wished he could make Zalto
disappear.  It was bad enough having to cope with ignorant opposition in
a meeting like this; it was worse to know your opponent was merely a
boastful crook who would never listen to reason, anyway.
     "I propose," Adama said, "that we send our best ships to Carillon's
Lot for the purpose of obtaining food and fuel."
     "Carillon's Lot?" Zalto asked, a curious sarcasm in his voice.  "Why
that gods-forsaken rockpile?"
     "Carillon's Lot was once the object of a mining expedition from the
Colonies.  Rich sources of Tylium."
     "But, if I remember right, it was abandoned as impossible to mine."
     Zalto was obviously prepared.  His spies must have obtained Adama's
plan before the meeting.
     "It was abandoned," Adama said, "only because there was no local
labor, and it was too far from the Colonies to make shipping a very
practical operation.  However, the demands of trade needn't concern us
now.
     "I don't believe Carillon's Lot is a proper solution.  The same
problems do exist.  I mean, Carillon's Lot, that's just too far away. 
Too many disasters could occur to our ships and people left behind."
     "It's the only solution, Zalto."
     "Why not go to Arrakis instead?  It's closer, and we know everything
we need is there.  Food, water, fuel."
     Many of the councilors clearly agreed with Zalto's proposal.  How
could they be so dim, so unaware, Adama thought.
     "And there's undoubtedly a Cylon task force there," Adama said. "It
could be fatal to let down our camouflage shield and attempt a landing on
Arrakis, or Dune, as it is sometimes known."
     "Possibly fatal!" Zalto shouted.  "To me, it seems definitely fatal
to use Carillon's Lot as a destination."
     "Carillon's Lot is our only hope," Adama said.  He noted, by a quick
count of the nodding heads around the half-circle of the council table,
that more than half of the group seemed to be on his side now. 
"Gentlemen, you must understand that the situation has reached a critical
level much sooner than we'd anticipated.  Rations have already been cut
by two-thirds.  We can't afford to squabble any longer.  We must act, and
we must be able to present our plan of action to our people unanimously."
     "Unanimity means just being your echo," Zalto said bitterly, but he
sat down.  He was the last holdout to the plan.  When the final vote
came, Zalto voted for the plan only after the council had agreed to
accept Adama's resignation as president, and after they had agreed that
Zalto's ship, the Rising Star, would be one of the vehicles chosen for
the hyperspace jump to Carillon's Lot.

*****

     After the Council meeting, Apollo felt relieved that a positive
action would finally be taken, but unhappy that his father had chosen to
resign.  He also felt deep anger at the insult Zalto had thrown his way
during the meeting.  The bastard was just getting back at Apollo for
arresting him.  A lot of good the arrest did, anyway.  Zalto had
manipulated the situation to his advantage and become leader of the
factions opposed to his father.
     "You look so sad," Serina said softly.  She had been standing
silently at his side for some time.
     "Forget it.  I wanted to ask you, did you bring Boxey with you over
here?"
     "Just as you ordered, Captain.  I stowed him away in that lovely
compartment you provided for us.  Thanks, by the way."
     "Think nothing of it.  Let's go get Boxey."
     Apollo strode through the labyrinthine corridors with a fierce
determination.  Serina, although she was long-legged and near his height,
had trouble keeping up with him.
     "How's the boy doing?" Apollo asked just before they stopped in
front of the door to Boxey's quarters.
     "Still won't eat, doesn't sleep."
     "I think we may have something that'll interest him."
     "Right now?"
     "Yes."
     "But there's so much for you to do, preparing for the trip to
Carillon's Lot and all.  Shouldn't you be getting your rest?"
     "I thought I might sleep better after we solve Boxey's problem."
     "That's a tall order!"
     "You haven't seen me in action, lady."
     Boxey, lying on the lower level of a double bunk, appeared as
listless as ever.  Apollo ordered him to get up and come with them.  The
child asked if he had to. Apollo said it was orders, and the boy
reluctantly took his proffered hand.  They traced a circuitous route to
an area of the ship that Apollo had only visited two or three times in
his entire tour of duty aboard the Galactica.
     Stopping at a door marked DROID-MANT-4, Apollo said, "This is it." 
He smiled at the confusion on Serina's face as he ushered her and Boxey
into the lab.  Immediately in front of them was a row of droids, propped
up against a wall, all of them obviously turned off.  Some of them had
been opened up and various wires dangled from the regions of their heads,
chests, and legs.
     "What are these?" Serina said.
     "Droids.  Mechanical constructs deisgned to simulate human or
animal..."
     "I know what droids are.  I thought they were illegal."
     "On Caprica, they were.  See, we Capricans didn't believe in using
mechanical substitutes for human effort.  A noble but foolish philosophy,
if you want my opinion."
     "I don't know about philosophy, but I do know, in the few
experiences I've had with droids, I'm uncomfortable percieing human
traits in something that turns out not to be human at all."
     "I think you're wrong, but under the circumstances it's not a
worthwhile discussion to pursue.  Let me just say that droids have become
a necessity for spacecraft. They can tuck themselves into niches that
bulkier humans can't reach and they can perform minor repair jobs on the
surface of the ship or in atmospheres we can't breathe."
     A stocky, middle-aged man in a lab coat came through a door.  There
was a certain mechanical look to his movements and Serina wondered if he
was a droid, too.  The way his face lit up when he recognized Apollo
proved him to be human after all.
     "Ah, Captain Apollo.  Right on time.  We've been expecting you.  Is
this the young officer who's been put in charge of the new project?"
     Boxey, surprised at the attention from this stranger, star ted to
hide behind Apollo's legs.
     "Well, Dr. Wilkder, I haven't had time to fully discuss the project
with him.  It's our hope he'll accept."
     Boxey pulled on Apollo's leg.  Apollo looked down at the befuddled
young boy.  
     "I want to go back," Boxey whispered.
     "Boxey, this is a military order.  We have to at least hear the
doctor out.  Tell us more about the project, doctor."
     Dr. Wilker assumed a professorial manner and addressed most of his
next speech to Boxey.
     "Well, you see, we'll soon be landing on various alien planets, no
telling what we'll find there.  It's important that we be safe. 
Ordinarily, we'd have trained daggits to stand watch at night when our
warriors are asleep in their encampments, but we don't have any daggits. 
So, we've had to see what we could come up with.  We'll call the first
one----Muffit Two."
     Boxey looked sideways at Apollo.
     "What'd he say?"
     Apollo shrugged.
     "I didn't really get it at all, Dr. Wilker.  Maybe you'd better show
us."
     "Right.  Oh, Phesch"
     The call to his assistant was as exaggerated a cue as any found in
ancient melodrama.  Phesch, a young, bespectacled man, held what appeared
to be a small bundle of fur in his arms.  Apollo knew the short-haired
fur was fake, implanted on the droid body, but he would have taken the
construct for a real daggit if he hadn't known better.  Phesch put the
daggit-droid down on the floor, and it immediately began to bark in a
high-pitched, compellingly friendly tone.  Moving to Boxey, it stuck out
its tongue and began to pant.  The wagging of its tail was natural and
convincing, unless you looked up close and could see that the tail
protruded through a square hole at the back of the droid.
     "Naturally," Dr. Wilker said, "the first one will hae to be looked
after very carefully."
     Boxey, incredulous, backed a couple of steps away from the eager
daggit droid.
     "That's not Muffit, Boxey said. "It's not even a real daggit."
     "No," said Wilker softly, but it can learn to be like a real one. 
It's very smart. If you'd help us, he'll be even smarter."
     Boxey couldn't take his eyes off the daggit.  The panting replica of
an animal seemed to have a similar fascination for the boy.  With the
first hint of a smile in several days, Boxey took several careful steps
backward from the daggit, who stopped panting and looked up quizzically. 
The boy started to turn and the daggit ran toward him.  Looking back over
his shoulder, Boxey started to cross the room.  The droid, appearing
quite content, stayed at the boy's heels.
     "We used the image of Boxey you gave us to train the droid to
respond to him," Wilker whispered to Apollo and Serina.
     Boxey stopped walking and turned to look down at the daggit.  Slowly
he opened his arms.  The droid moved forwad, sat up on its hind legs and
put its paws on the boy's chest.  The trying-out period was over.  Boxey
hugged the daggit and smiled back at the three watching adults.
     Apollo smiled toward Wilker, and said, "That's one I owe you, Doc."
     "Anytime," Wilker said.
     As they followed Boxey and his new pet into the corridor, Serina
whispered to Apollo:
     "That's one I owe you, Apollo."
     "Anytime."
     "You look quite smug, you know that?"
     "If you say so."
     "But I'll kiss you anyway."

*****

From the Adama Journals:

     One day, when there was a lull in the war and we were off doing
convoy duty for some ships carrying supplies to a fueling station under
construction, I noticed Starbuck running down a corridor, muttering to
himself and making furious entries in a little notebook.  Now, when it
came to military matters, Starbuck was the proverbial innocent
ensign---if you could take a peep at them, you'd've expected his diapers
to be as green as he was.  But when it came to money maters, especially
when the money could be wagered, Starbuck had been born adult.  In his
first week on the Galactica,  he had maneuvered so many people into so
many corners that everybody was walking around round-shouldered.  By this
particular time I thought I was on to the shrewd young man, so I decided
to see what he was up to.  I figured if I could catch him in the act of
some illegal enterprise, I could apply a little discipline and get him to
confine his sinning to the proper designated areas.
     He moved fast and I had a hard time tailing him, since it's hard to
be a very good shadow when you're the ship's commander, but I could soon
see he was making for the Life Station.  Sure enough, when I caught up
with him, he was in an empty ward.  A bunch of the medics were gathered
around him, hollering dates at him, and passing him little slips of paper
along with what appeared to be a good amount of money.  Starbuck was very
busy, somehow managing to write things in the notebook and take the money
and the slips.
     "What's going on here, ensign?" I hollered in my best authoritarian
voice.  "Some off-centons gambling?"
     Starbuck began to look very sheepish, very much the green ensign.
     "I'm sorry, skipper," he said in a soft voice.  The diabolical louse
knew I hated to be called skipper, but I ignored that.
     "And what's the subject of your little swindle this time, Starbuck?"
     All the medics began to look apprehensive and I thought Ensign
Stabuck might sink through the metal floor.
     "Well, sir, we're betting on---uh, we're betting on..."
     "Out with it, ensign.  I want to know what this is all about before
I confiscate everything for the ship's pension fund."
     "Sire, we're getting together this little bet on, well, on the day
you'll die, sir."
     I have to admit I was taken aback by that reply, and couldn't speak
for a moment.
     "You're---you're all betting on---on the date of my death!?" He
nodded.  I sputtered a bit more on the subject, then demanded that
Starbuck turn over the betting money to me.  It began to dawn on me that
the money in his hand was fake, the kind of lead cubit used by
non-wagerers in card games.
     "Just as well I got caught," Starbuck said to the medics. 
"Skipper's right; it's a swindle.  The fix was in."
     I felt a little unsettled in my stomach.  
     "Fix?" I said, choking a bit on the word.
     "Yes," Starbuck smiled.  "I was gonna win.  No doubt."
     "You were going to win?  You know the date of my death?"
     "Yep."
     As he stood before me and smiled smugly, I felt like strangling him.
     "All right, Starbuck.  Tell me your winning bet. I'm especially
interested in the part about the fix.  When am I going to die?"
     Smilng, he handed me a betting slip that he'd been holding.
     "My prediction," he announced.
     I opened it up.  It said, "Never."  Then Starbuck started laughing
and handed me a neat pile of fake cubits.
     "Never," he said.
     I'd been suckered.  Standing in the middle of an enormous empty Life
Station ward, I was backed into a corner.  I joined in the laughter and
ignored the insubordinate character of the whole episode.  Starbuck
showed me all the slips.  They all said, never.  I never tried to catch
Starbuck out again.

*****

CHAPTER SIX: CARILLON'S LOT

     Starbuck stole a fumarello from Boomer and slipped away from the
work party to his special hideaway---by his ship in the Galactica's
launching bay.  Fitting himself into a dark wall nich, he lit the cigar
and leaned his head back against the metal wall.  Almost immediately he
felt himself dozing off and a cautious part of his mind wondered if he
should do something about the fumarello.  Then he couldn't think
straight.  What fumarello? he almost said aloud.  Visions of a starving
mob coming in and out of light initated a dream that never developed into
a full-fledged nightmare because the sound of Cassiopeia's voice startled
him awake.
     "Starbuck!" she said.  "What're you doing, crouched in that hole?"
     He realized that the fumarello was about to fall out of his hand,
and he tightened his grip on it.  Moving out of the niche, he put the
fumarello to his mouth and took a long drag.  The smoke that lingered in
his nostrils had a faintly narcotic feeling to it, the result no doubt of
one of Boomer's extra-special blends.  Cassiopiea had bathed and put on
fresh clothes---a one-piece clinging outfit that threatened to become
transparent in the right light---since Starbuck had left her at the
nurses' quarters.  By all conventional measurements of beauty, she was
quite stunning now, but Starbuck briefly wondered if he did not prefer
the look of her in her previous smudged and disheveled state.  There'd
been a vulnerability about her then, a need to be helped that he had
enjoyed responding to.  Now she stood before him, tall and attractive and
strong.  Another strong woman, like Athena.  He always sfound himself
attracted to strong women, but there were times---moments of false
nostalgia---when he almost wished for one of the weak, submissive maidens
of intergalactic legend.  A foolish thought, maybe---he knew he would be
bored by such a maiden in less than a day, and the only real benefit
obtained for someone like Starbuck would be a much needed rest.
     "How'd you find me?" he asked.
     "Followed you partway.  Lost you here, then I saw the light of that
sweet-smelling fumarello.  Can I have a puff?"
     "Sure."
     She took a heavy drag on the slim fumarello and appeared to savor
its taste.
     "Ooooooh, thank you!  That joystick's been efficiently doctored."
     "My friend's an expert at the chemical alteration of cell
composition."
     "My compliments to the botanist, then."
     She took a couple of steps backward and looked up at Starbuck's
ship.  Jenny and the rest of Starbuck's flight crew had done an excellent
job of repair work on it, replacing the parts that had been estroyed by
his crash landing and generally tuning up all its systems.  As always,
they had superbly polished its surface and the pinpoints of light that
seemed to spring out from its high gloss save the impression that the
Viper ship was performing its own strange abstract little dance. 
Cassiopeia stared at it a long time before speaking again.
     "It's somehow beautiful, suspended up there like it's in permanent
flight.  A perfect machine, born to dance with you, curve in and out of
constellations!"
     "Nice way of putting it," Starbuck said, biting down on the
fumarello.
     Cassiopeia's eyebrows raised.
     "But you don't buy it?"
     "Too poetic; it leaves out the way the metal stinks when there's a
fuel foulup, the pain all over your skin when something shorts and starts
sending sparks up your sleeves.  Still, I get your drift, lady.  I'd
rather be in the cockpit of that junkheap and flying some boring duty
than any other job I can imagine."
     A headache was developing in what felt like spreading lines behind
Starbuck's right eye.  He squinted his eye and rubbed at his right
temple.  
     "You look overworked," Cassiopeia said, sympathetically.
     "Me? Overworked?  Nah.  I overwork myself just to get away from
being overworked.  Still, it's been something of a strain these last  few
days, the work and the starving people and..."
     "And Captain Apollo?  I noticed he's been pushing you guys like a
martinet.  I almost expected some kind of mutiny."
     Starbuck laughed.
     "Mutiny? I doubt that.  Not against the captain anyway.  Too much
trouble around anyway without playing revolution.  No, I feel for Apollo.
He's going through hell."
     "Well, you're all suffering.  I don't see why he should be singled
out for..."
     "No, I didn't mean that.  Didn't mean the ordinary misery that's
facing everybodoy.  Apollo lost his brother in the Cylon attack and he's
pretty broken up about it.  That's where his irritability comes from."
     "Oh, I didn't know."
     "Certain kinds of scuttlebutt we don't allow to filter down to the
civilian levels."
     "You guys protect each other.  I like that.  Back home, we always
felt that spacer pilots thought too much of themselves."
     "It's nothing----protecting each other, like you say, that is.  You
got to protect a piece of a guy's private life just like he's gonna
protect you when you got a pair of Cylon fighters blasting at your tail. 
Same thing, really."
     "Do you love me?"
     The abruptness of the question startled Starbuck.  He did want to
make love to her, but he didn't want to ask her the question.
     "What's the matter?" she said.
     "Is that the way you go about it, changing the subject and aiming
right at the old target?"
     "No, it's not.  If we were back on my planet, and you were accepted
by the proper segment of our society, and you had given me the signal
that you loved me, even then I would not be able to ask the question.  I
don't want to love you as a socialator.  I'm not one anymore, not really. 
I think the job's just a part of history now.  I'm unemployed.  I want to
make love to you.  That's all it is.  Not as a socialator, not as a
refugee.  Just as me, okay?"
     "I'll think about it."
     They stood and stared at each other for a very long time.  Finally,
Cassiopeia said, "Have you thought about it?"
     "I'm inclined favorably."
     "Do you ever take that smoldering weed out of your mouth?"
     He removed the fumarello and tossed it onto the launching bay floor. 
It landed lit-end first and sent sparks flying.
     After they'd kissed, Starbuck said, "If I'da know that was the
prize, I'da prepared a speech."
     "I've heard all the speeches."
     "Would you mind if we didn't spend much more time in this laulnching
bay?"
     "Can you think of anyplace more pleasant?"
     "Come to think of it, I can't think of anyplace pleasant in this
whole fleet."
     "What's in there?"
     "That's the launching tube.  You don't want to go in there."
     Cassiopeia had already walked into the tube through a circular side
opening.  Her hand gestured toward him.  He looked all around the
launching bay, even up at the ceiling.
     "Lord," he said, "I'll do anything you ask tomorrow.  Just don't
call an alert tonight."

*****

     Athena had a strong hunch something was wrong.  Starbuck had not
been where he was supposed to be.  When Starbuck was not in the proper
place, he was up to something.  That was an axiom among everyone who knew
the brash young lieutenant.  She had glimpsed him earlier, giving more
than the usual attention to a bedraggled woman who, from a distance,
appeared to be sexy despite her scraggly condition.  As she strolled onto
the bridge of the Galactica and saw that it was deserted except for the
ever-vigilant Colonel Tigh, she wondered if her weariness were not just
making her overly suspicious of Starbuck.
     "You seem tired," Tigh said. "Why don't you steal a nap?"
     "There's just so much to do, preparing for this hyperspace jump,
educating the people.  Some of them think we're just skipping out on
them."
     "No way you can help that, Athena. They won't really believe us
until we gring them back the fuel and supplies."
     "You're more confident than I feel."
     "No point in not being confident, I always say."
     "Have you seen Lieutenant Starbuck?"
     "You always take a while getting to what's really on your mind."
     "Have you seen him?"
     "No, I don't think I---wait, I did see him on one of the monitors
earlier, just before we shut down the flight deck.  He was near his
viper.  I think he was checking it out."
     "That'd make sense, I guess."
     "That was a while ago.  I'm sure he's long gone by now.  Getting a
good night's sleep before the jump.  Like I say, you should do the same. 
There'll be enough work from now on for all of us."
     She nodded.  Touching her briefly on the arm, he said good night and
left the bridge.  As soon as he had disappeared out the hatchway, Athena
strode to the launch control console and stared for a long time at its
monitor screens.  Then, with an almost casual movement of her hand, she
reached down and flipped a switch.  On one of the monitor screens, she
watched lights go on all over the fighter bay.  No people were in
evidence anywhere.  Her finger eased over to another switch marked
"launch tubes."  As the monitor lit up, Athena's face flushed crimson
with anger as she recognized Starbuck and the tall woman she'd seen him
with earlier.  
     "That little snake," she said aloud.  Her finger quickly proceeded
to another button.  This one was marked, STEAM PURGE.
     She tried to laulgh but could not as she watched the monitor screen
in which the two stood amidst a rising cloud of steam.  Starbuck screamed
and, flinging the woman before him, vacated the launch tube in all
expedient speed.
     Athena switched the monitor off quickly, but sat staring at if for a
long time.  When she ran a check on the launching bay later, neither
Starbuck or the woman was in evidence.  In her mind she made promises 
which, even though she might never keep them, were delightful to
contemplate.

*****

     When Marron had developed her interstellar drive centuries ago,
replacing the earlier more cumbersome systems, there had been more than
enough Tylium available on the discovered planets to keep all of the
human spacecraft going, and the expense of extracting the fuel from its
geological sources to convert it into its volatile liquid form seemed
quite economical.  However, human colony expansion followed by the
thousand-yahren-war had depleted the supply of the only fuel source that
could power the highly complicated Marron drive.  In the time preceeding
the Cylon ambush, the price of Tylium had skyrocketed to new levels due
to the controls exerted by war profiteers like Count Baltar (who, Adama
had perceived, always seemed to have sufficient amounts of the fuel to
fulfill any request).  There had been a question of whether the Fleet
might have to cut down severely on Tylium use.  In fact, Adama felt, the
Tylium crisis had been at least partially responsible for the fussy
buriticians, anxious to cut a budge whererever even a small rip could be
detected along a margin, rushing so eagerly into the Cylon peace trap.
     Now that they, the Galactica and the few other ships able to make
the jump through hyperspace, had arrived in the sector containing the
planet Carillon's Lot, Adama devoutly hoped that the old rumors of this
place as a prime black-market source of the elusive fuel base were true. 
If not, he had left behind thousands of people in thousands of ships who
would futilely watch for their return.  
     Almost as soon as they had materialized in the solar system
containing Carillon's Lot, the bridge scanner announced an obstacle for
which they had not planned.  Immediately, the commander called in his
three best fighter pilots----Boomer, Starbuck, and Apolllo---to brief
them on their unexpected mission.
     "It appears," he told them, "that the skies around Carillon's Lot
are heavily mined."
     "Mined?" Apollo said. "But who would do such a thing?"
     "For the moment, Captain, that's an irrelevant consideration.  The
point is that we cannot pass in order to get into position to accept
supplies.  Certainly the Galactica and our other larger ships can't make
it through as things stand now.  It's possible that a path through the
mines can be found---I don't think the planet has been sealed off.  The
mines are clearly protective.  We need to discover that path.  And that
will be the job of you three."
     He paused to let the order sink in.
     "All right, we don't have time for elaborate searches.  You'll have
to navigate by scanner and sweep everything out of your path with
turbolasers.  Any questions?"
     "It's my bio-pulse line, Sir," Starbuck said. "Bad time for me to be
cooped up in a cockpit.  Would this be an appropriate time for me to take
my sick leave?"
     Adama smiled.  The three pilots laughed nervously.
     "It would," Adama said, "but request denied.  I didn't arrive at you
three to lead us through without a great deal of anguish." Apollo's eyes
narrowed at his father's words.  "You three control our fate.  The rest
of us will sit in anticipation of your skill."
     "Or lack thereof," Starbuck said, and Adama nodded.
     Apollo stayed behind after dismissal.  Touching his father's arm, he
said:
     "Thanks."
     "For what?  For selecting you for a dangerous mission?  Apollo, if I
could've excused you, I would have."
     "No, it's not that at all."
     "What is it, then?"
     Apollo lowered his gaze to the bridge floor, a bit embarrassed.
     "Well, father, it's just---well, lately I've been getting a lot of
felgercarb.  That bearded blunder Zalto insulting me during council,
accusing me of being in league with you to deceive everybody.  I mean, I
think I've proven myself, but there're still people around here who
attribute my rise through the ranks as well as executed nepotism.  When I
arrested Zalto, he accused me of a political ploy, threatening to
appropriate the Rising Star simply to collect fuel for the Galactica. 
And there there are the dissidents..."
     "Stop it there.  I shouldn't let you go on about it.  There are many
things we can talk about, not in this place, at this time.  Maybe later." 
He tried to say somethimg more, but could just repeat, "maybe later."
     "Sure.  I'll work up a list of complaints."
     "Apollo, if it's any consolation, there's one thing I've observed
about this damn minefield."
     "What?"
     "Every mined satellite is firmly in orbit.  No sign of a decaying
orbit anywhere.  The implication is strong that the minefield is
maintained on a regular basis and that there has to be somebody down
there on Carillon's Lot's surface."
     "And it's a good chance they're mining Tylium, is that it?"
     "Correct.  They've got to be doing something sinister to bother with
all this protection."
     "Thanks for mentioning that," Apollo said.  He looked at his
chronometer.  "Well, I've got to hotfoot it now, and check on my ship."

*****

     As he watched Apollo stride out of the room, Adama felt pleased at
the clues to a renewed confidence in his son.  Perhaps all the new
troubles had forced the memory of Zac's death to the back of his mind. 
Continuing troubles had a way of doing that.  He wondered, too, if the
improvement he perceived in Apollo was at all attributable to the charms
of that lovely newswoman, Serina, or the way she had directed his
attention to the troubled boy, Boxey.
     Athena sprang into the room as if she'd been crouching by the
doorway, awaiting Apollo's exit.  She had a copy of the three pilots'
orders clutched in her fist.
     "Father," she said, "I can't believe you're doing this.  Why
couldn't you have listened to the others, gone to Dune instead of this 
filthy, dangerous place?"
     For a moment Adama felt terribly confused.  It was difficult to
shift his concentration from the satisfaction over his son's confidence
to this new disturbance from his other child.  
     "What is it, Athena?"
     "You're taking such an awful chance with their lives."
     "Of course.  They know that.  They could back out without blame, you
know that."
     "Ah, damn, Starbuck's too much of a fool to back out of a dangerous
mission."
     Adama was beginning to understand the source of her rage.
     "It's Starbuck you're worrying about, is it?"
     Her shoulders sagged suddenly, as all the rage seemed to go out of
her in a rush.
     "It's not just that, Father.  I'm worried about Apollo, too---you
know that.  And Boomer.  It's just that----I don't know what it is."
     "You love Starbuck and you're naturally..."
     "I hate that..."
     Another surprise.  Adama took Athena in his arms and asked her what
was wrong.  Holding back her tears, she told him about the discovery of
Starbuck and Cassiopeia making love in the launching tubes.
     "So you have to fight for your young man," Adama said.  "That's not
so hard.  You're a fighter.  I'm proud of your courage and your..."
     "Oh, shut up, Father.  That's not what I want to hear.  I'm just, I
don't know, very disturbed, and I don't know what to think.  I used to
think I could cure myself of Starbuck, get a pill out of Life Station or
something and forget about him.  But, I don't know, it's this war and the
destruction of the Coloines and this desperate voyage to a place where we
don't know what we'll find.  Everything's in a different perspective now. 
Hopeless.  Everything's been hopeless since---if they survive this, if
any of us survive, what next?  Will we find this Earth you claim isn't
myth?"
     "Perhaps not."
     "I was thinking that.  We could grow old waiting.  I mean we may
never have the chance, the chance to...to..."
     "To form permanent relationships, have children and a home?"
     "Yes."
     "You know, I think it's a bit early for you to be worrying about
your prime of life.  I, on the other hand, should give a great deal of
thought to this voyage.  When we reassemble the fleet and my resignation
as president of the council takes effect finally, then I..."
     "Get that idea right out of your head.  You're not going to resign. 
You have to lead them.  You're all that's left."
     "We're rehashing an old argument, which is not to the point right
now."
     Athena hugged her father.  She had not done that so spontaneously in
some time, and he was happy to feel the tension between them alleviate.
     "Thanks for consoling me," she said.
     "Just returning the favor.  Remember when you had to console your
old Father."
     "I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn."
     "You're allowed it."
     After Athena had left, Adama sat alone for a long time, thinking
about the conversations with Apollo and Athena, satisfied that---whatever
their arguments with him---at least they were on his side.

*****

     As Starbuck waited for launch signal, his ship vibrated under him,
as eager to get into action as he was.  In his mind he went over Tigh's
final briefing.  All they had been able to discern through the scanners
was that there were at least three types of mines in the field.  There
was the normal explosive type, which could blast to smithereens any ship
that came into contact with it, plus any other craft within a micron's
radius.  A second kind seemed more instrumsent than weapon.  It had
electronic equipment all over its surface, and nobody aboard the
Galactica had ever seen any mine like it, if indeed it was a mine.  The
third type created the most trouble.  Rather than exploding, it sent off
flashes of light whose intensity was so concentrated they would blind
anyone unlucky enough to set it off.  Because of that danger, the three
pilots had to fly the mission with their cockpits darkened and treated
with a chemical to ward off the ray.  Fine, Starbuck thought, if that had
been the only kind of mine.  But the chemical protection that opaque the
cockpit made it necessary for them to fly blind against all the mines,
relying on their scanners to locate targets.  In combat Starbuck liked
this kind of seat-of-the-pants flying, but not in a suicidal
mine-detecting mission.
     Tigh's voice came over the communicator, asking his pilots if they
were ready.
     "Ready," Boomer's sturdy voice said.
     "I'm ready," came the cool sound of Apollo.  "What about you,
Starbuck?"
     "I'm not ready. But let's get it over with anyway."
     A short, tense pause,then the launch light came on and the three
ships catapulted into space.  Forming a neat triangular formation, they
headed for the minefield.  In the short interval lof time it took to
reach the field, Starbuck said a silent prayer to the goddess Luck,
wishing her continued good health and a return of the favor.
     "I'm going in for preliminary scouting," Apollo said.  
     "Good luck," said Boomer and Starbuck simultaneously.  
     "Don't jinx me with good wishes," Apollo said, laughter in his
voice.  "All right, I'm going to make a sweep by the nearest
thingama---oh my God!"
     "Apollo!" Starbuck yelled. "What's wrong?"
     There was an agonizing wait for an answer.
     "I found out what the mysterious mines were.  They're not mines at
all, not really.  They're electronic jammers.  Soon as I got near that
one, everything in this bird started going haywire, including the
controls.  I was able to wrest back command of the controls and jerk the
Viper out of its range, otherwise, I think I'd've been sucked in and
then, I don't know, probably then it explodes.  Come in carefully, you
guys."
     Starbuck flew in slowly, keeping most of his attention on the
scanner, so he cold avoid the jamming mines.  Boomer came in directly
behind him.
     "Hey, Boomer," Starbuck said, "don't slipstream me."
     "Shows how much you know.  There is no slipstream capability in
spacecraft, which..."
     "I know, I know.  We got to stop you memorizing those manuals in
your bunk.  I was just using a figure of speech and you gave me Academy
lectures.  I mean, get out on your own."
     "I'm just trying to cash in on your luck, Bucko."
     "My luck has decidedly changed lately."
     On the scanner one of the light mines was activated near the form of
Apollo's starfighter.
     "You all right, Apollo?" Starbuck said.
     "I'm fine.  They were right about darkening the cockpit, though. 
I'd be blind now.  Though I feel like I'm blind as it is.  I can't see
much.  My scanner's doing an irregular skip.  And it's getting hot, very
hot.  I'm veering off.  Anybody make out anything else on their scanner
about this field?"
     "Negative," Starbuck said. "My scanner's burning out."
     "Mine's history," Boomer said.
     "I was afraid of that.  The jamming's playing havoc with our
instruments.  We shoulda stayed in bed."
     "A little late for that, I'd say," Starbuck said. "What do we do?"
     "Only one thing I can think of, fellas, and it's not exactly the
best Academy procedure.  Seems to me we've gone by the book as long as
it's feasible.  Our only chance is to haul off, hold positions and blast
away."
     "You mean run a path right thorugh the minefield?" Starbuck said. 
"With our scanners out of whack and our cockpits dark?"
     "Does it sound difficult to you, Starbuck?"
     "Oh, no.  Duck soup.  The nuts.  Easy as pie."
     "What if we miss a mine?" Boomer said.
     "One of us'll be the first to know it. You with me?"
     "I'm with you,' Boomer said.
     "I'm with you, too," Starbuck ssaid.
     "Let's fly!" Apollo said.

*****

     On the bridge of the Galactica, Adama and Tigh listened to the
communications among the three ships avidly.  When Apollo proposed
running a path through the minefield, Tigh looked panicked.
     "Shall I tell them to abort the mission, sir?" he asked Adama.
     "We can't.  Apollo has full authority."
     "But we've got to stop him.  This is too reckless a..."
     "Colonel, there's no way we can stoop him.  Not only is it essential
that we get our ships through the minefield, Apollo has a great deal to
prove."
     "What does he prove by killing himself?"
     Adamas shrugged, resigning from the argument.  The truth was two
painful to admit.  Apollo might just like to kill himself in the middle
of a bold heroic exploit; it would at least prove to others that he was
not, after all, the vassal to his father's tyrant-king, doing Adama's
bidding in a vast plot to deceive everybody.
     Everybody watched the massive screen at the top of the console
silently as the three sleek, delta-winged ships angled through the
minefield, which was now brightly lit by two activated light-mines.  The
three pilots were firing everything they had, and with stunning accuracy. 
Mine after mine exploded and disappeared.  Suddenly, when it became clear
that Apollo's foolhardy plan was going to work, a cheer went up among the
bridge crew. 
     "I don't know what to say, Commander," Tigh said.  "They're clearing
the path!"
     "Now that's precision flying," Athena said from her post, smiling at
her father.  It was one of his phrases, and she meant it affectionately. 
Starbuck's voice came over the communicator:
     "I can't see a blessed thing.  Are we hitting anything?"
     "Be hanged if I know," Apollo said.  "But it's cooling off.  I do
believe we made it."
     "Yaaaaaaahooooooo!" screamed Boomer.
     Then all their voices chattered together, and the exuberance of
their three young heroes buoyed up the spirits of everyone on the
Galactica.

*****

     Since the fleet of human survivors had disappeared, activity aboard
the Cylon base ships had declined, leaving Imperious Leader more time for
speculation about the minor failures within his otherwise enormously
successful plan.  He knew there could not be many human ships left, yet
where were they?  If the Cylon culture had had any inclination toward
proverbs, they might have felt they were looking for a needle in a
haystack---although haystacks were nonexistent on Cylon worlds, where
grotesque livestock were fed blocks of nutritive substances through an
osmotic process, and where needles had no point, literally and
figuratively.
     Had the humans worked up some kind of force-field camouflage? 
Imperious Leader's spy network had discovered clues that they had such a
capability, and he had ordered his experts to develop anti-camouflage
devices.  He had not had a transmission from them since.
     The leader was not so much disturbed by the technology causing the
humans' disappearance as by the fact that they continued to keep out of
sight.  Baltar had recently told him that a human was never so confident
as when he had his back to the wall.  A pompous outcry of arrogance, of
course, no more than could be expected from the smug human traitor, but
still a troublesome concept.  The image, especially, bothered the leader. 
A Cylon arranged matters so that his back was never against a wall.  He
either plunged forward to his death or emerged victorious.  There was
little middle ground.  But humans were always finding middle grounds. 
Curious.
     A message came along the network from an executive officer.  Some
explosions had been registered near Carillon's Lot.  Evidently some mines
set in the protective field around the planet had been set off or had
malfunctioned.  On occasion that minefield caught and eliminated space
pirates who had heard rumors about Carillon's Lot.  Whether the humans
had anything to do with the present series of explosions was debatable. 
However, the Leader ordered intense surveillance, because of the
importance of the Tylium mining complex there.  In all the years of the
war the humans had not discovered that Carillon's Lot was a prime source
of fuel supply for their enemy.  Nevertheless, a sneak trip to Carillon's
Lot might be exactly what the devious Adama might be attempting now.
     This war with the humans must end once and for all, the Leader
thought.  It had gone on too long, used up too much of Cylon resources. 
He wished to get back to the proper business of his leadership---to seek
out the cracks and flaws in the unity and organization of his own race,
to make the concepts of peace and order the synonyms they should be. 
Even now, in some Cylon worlds, the human practice of monogamy had been
communicated to certain sectors of the population, and they were busy
practicing it.  Monogamy went against the basic concepts of the network
of Cylon civilization, where it was vital that every Cylon attempt and
complete as many forms or degrees of contact as possible.  Monogamy
contained in its disagreeable structure too many forms and degrees of
limited contact, a state Imperious Leader could not abide, and he vowed
to severely punish those Cylons practicing it when he could afford to
devote attention to domestic matters again.
     He ordered his executive officers to keep him well-informed with any
clue that might suggest the invisible fleet's whereabouts.  There would
be no more middle grounds---not with the surviving humans.

***** 

     After preliminary scanning by a scouting patrol of Red Squadron
Vipers, the livery ships were cleared to land.  It was considered
essential to provide the animals with some grazing and eating room.  The
livery ship officers had reported an increased listlessness in their
animals, one which seemed to be caused by somethimg ore than just the
limited rations available to feed them.
     The farming ships landed soon after, and took immediate advantage of
Carillon's Lot's fertile soil, whose texture and mineral content
indicated a fine medium for the planting of accelerated-growth
foodstuffs.  At the same time, the agro-workers collected as much grazing
material from the Carillon's Lot surface as they could and transplanted
it to the meadows inside the livery ships.
     While Carillon's Lot was proving exceptionally fruitful for
livestock and farming, it didn't impress some of its human visitors. 
Especially Boomer and Starbuck, who had been dispatched to the dark side
of the planet to investigate mining possibilities.
     "I'll be sure to come here on my next furlong," Boomer commented. 
"I just adore monotonous landscapes."
     "Yes, it's lovely," Starbuck said. "Can't imagine why it isn't
overpopulated."
     A pilot on a Viper flyby informed them that his scanners read life
forms in an area a short distance from where Boomer and Starbuck were
driving in their landram.  Boomer broadcast the specified time check to
the main expeditionary  force, and announced they would investigate the
life-form report.  Starbuck accelerated the landarm and headed for the
area its pilot had indicated.
     "If this place is so bloomin' rich in resources, how come it was
abandoned in the first place?"
     Starbuck shrugged.
     "Legend has it the mining and colonization groups both got spooked
and pulled out.  By who, or what, no one knows.  Probably that's just a
story, though. Looks to me like the planet was just too drab.  In those
days sources of supply were plentiful, plus it's off the normal space
lanes, to I suppose Carillon's Lot was just written off as a bad
investment."
     "Then why's the old man think it's such a good investment now?"
     "It's the only investment, Boomer, that's what he'd tell you."
     "Yeah, he does have a talent for finality, the commander does."
     "Yes---hey, will you look at that?  That glow over the hill?  Any
idea what it is?"
     "Nope.  'Fraid we'll have to investigate, good buddy.  That's what
were were sent over here for."
     Starbuck coaxed extra speed out of the landram as they headed toward
the aurora framing the hill ahead of them.

*****     

     Not far from Boomer and Starbuck, the main body of the Galactica's
survey team were coordinating their detection equipment to search for the
fabled Lost Tylium Mine of Carillon's Lot.  From the point of view of a
quartet of rather large humanoid males who were spying on the Galactica's
force from a nearby mountain, the humans looked like small
insects----organized and disciplined small insects.  Each of these spies
was about five metrons tall, with hairless gray-white skin, two eyes that
glowed an eerie neon green, foreheads that ended in thick, bony beetle
brows, and huge pointed ears.  All four men---if one could truly call
them that---were busy with either two-triggered weapons or several-lensed
cameras.
     One of the humanoids took aim at the formidable target of Lieutenant
Jolly, but another one pushed the barrel of the weapon down.  Bar-lo, a
leader of the race called the Ubbo-Sathlas by the few star voyagers
unlucky enough to encounter them, had for the moment decided not to kill
any of the invaders.  At leat, not until he reported back to his queen. 
He gesturted his soldiers back, took the camera from the Ubbo-Sathla who
held it, and in the soft, monosyllabic language of his race ordered them
away from the spying post.  At a nod from Bar-Lo another Ubbo-Sathla used
his hands to turn in different directions and at different speeds a
couple of wheels concealed underneath a rock.  With just an audible
whine, an opening appeared in the ground and the Ubbo-Sathla disappeared
into it.
     Riding on an pod whose soft, leathery wings sheltered them totally,
the four Ubbo-Sathla progressed through a long, descending subterranean
passageway to a cell where the pod opened and they stepped out of it. 
The tunnel they now traveled through was walled with cell-like panels
from which amber light glowed.  They emerged from the passageway into an
immense underground cavern.  The giant, multi-celled chamber when deeper
into the ground than Bar-lo's inhumanly powerful eyes could see, and
ascended almost as high.  There were countless levels, each one ringed
with compartments shaped like coffins.  Within the compartments
Ubbo-Sathla workers poked at walls, extracted nuggets of amber-colored
ore, and placed them in small, multi-wheeled vehicles which other workers
continuously drew in and out of the compartments and sent on through dark
intervening corridors.  To an outsider, this large-chambered mine might
have looked quite nightmarish---but to Bar-Lo, something of an aesthete
among his people, it had an artistic coherence that exited him each time
he stepped into it.  Today, however, there was little time for aesthetic
satisfaction; he had to continue his mission.
     He crossed a horrifying bridge that seemed to have been put
assembled out of bones extracted from the corpses of beings from all over
the galaxy, a latticework of spines, skulls, femurs and arm and leg bones
that stretched across the wide chamber.  At the guarded archway to Nor's
chamber, Bar-Lo spoke the proper ritual password and he was admitted to
his queen's presence.
     The luxury of Nor's throne room contrasted strongly with the
austerity of the mine.  Finely woven, elaborately patterned cloth
decorated the walls and ceiling.  Nor herself lounged on a cushioned
floor, surrounded by her bejeweled retinue of slaves. One slave played a
gentle tune utilizing the Ubbo-Sathla three-note scale artistically,
discovering intriguing variants on her restricted melodic theme.  Another
slave held a long tube from which the queen occasionally drank a thick
crimson substance, the "life-nectar" upon which all Ubbo-Sathla fed upon
to give them eternal life.  When Nor acknowledged Bar-Lo, she requested
her report.
     "They have come," Bar-Lo said, his voice soft and pleasant.
     Nor's even more musical voice replied:
     "Do not disturb them.  It will only stir them up.  Remember, they
are harmless unless angered or frightened."
     "As it is with all our victim races, highness."
     "Well said, my faithful one."
     Bar-Lo bowed and withdrew, leaving Nor to pull another draught on
the long tube.

*****     

     Apollo felt extremely comfortable at the controls of the landram he
had commandeered for his own particular search of the Carillon's Lot
surface.  He liked the feel of a landram as it rode the air currents with
surprising smoothness, adjusting to surface peculiarities with barely
noticeable shifts to right and left, up and down.  
     He also felt comfortable with the presence of Serina beside him in
the co-driver's seat.  He had been impressed with the way she had picked
up the skills of driving a landram without ever having been inside one
before.  In the back seat of the landram, Boxey played quietly with
Muffit Two.
     "That was some show you and your friends performed up there," Serina
said suddenly.  "You seemed to be trying to prove something.  I wondered
if it had anything to do with your brother."
     The comment evaporated the feeling of being comfortable.
     "I get it," he said irritably, "you're saying I'm being reckless to
make up for leaving Zac behind."
     "Or proving your courage for his ghost."
     "How did you find out so much about Zac and me?"
     "I asked around."
     "I don't appreciate that."
     "Sorry.  I was a newswoman on Caprica, remember?  I can't get out of
the habit.  Change the subject, why don't you?  Or I will.  Tell me about
the agriculture project.  I was especially impressed with it.  How long
before things start to grow?" 
     "Oh, say, morning. I think we'll see quite a few sprouts and stuff
by morning.  Then, by the end of the day tomorrow, we'll have a whole
crop of fresh food---which, you must admit, will be a welcome substitute
for the comrations.  They'll taste better. And you be sure to eat them,
you hear, Boxey?"
     "I guess so."
     In spite of Muffit Two, the boy had still been showing signs of
moodiness.
     "Say, Boxey," Apollo said, "time for your part of the mission.  What
I want you to do is keep your eye on that readout.  If the indicator gets
up into this colored area, it means we're right on top of a rich Tylium
deposit."
     "Yes, sir."
     The job assignment seemed to pick up the boy's spirits.
     "You sure don't mid working with such a green crew?" Serina said.
     "I chose you, didn't I?"
     "I'd think, with your connections, you'd do better, that
you'd----I'm sorry, didn't mean to touch a sore spot.  You're upset your
father resigned the presidency, correct?"
     "Stop being a newswoman, and let's concentrate on the mission. 
We've got a lot done in a short time.  We don't dare stop on any one
planet for too long." 
     "Why'd we have to leave home at all?" Boxey asked.  "Why'd those
people want to hurt us?"
     "I'm not sure, Boxey.  Some say it has to do with very complicated
things, political things.  Others say the Cylons just like war, and will
attack anybody who interferes with their part of space.  I don't
know...sometimes I think it just boils down to who's different.  There're
always life forms who cannot accept anything they don't understand.  Some
humans are like that, too; they can't accept anything different."
     "What do you mean different?"
     Apollo sighed, not knowing how to explain complex matters to a
child.  He remember yahrens ago, trying to have complicated conversations
with Zac, who was then much older than Boxey was now, and then
discovering that the answer Zac sought for was much simpler than Apollo
expected.  Other times, Apollo's answers were too simp;le and Zac prodded
him until he had not only extracted the more complex ideas but
successfully argued against them.  But what should he tell a
six-yahren-old whose main concern was the welfare of an animal about the
subject of racism?
     "Well, Boxey, just about anything at all can make one species
different from another.  The shape of your eyes, the number of lims, the
color of the outer layer of your skin, even thoughts and ideas.  Maybe
our enemies just aren't equipped to deal with the difference."
     "You mean they're stupid?"
     "Yeah, in a way.  I mean, in some ways they've got it all over us,
in certain matters of science and technology, in certain methods of
warfare.  But, yeah, they're stupid, too.  It's stupid to kill what you
don't understand."
     "Why don't we just kill them back?"
     In Boxey's belligerent question, Apollo could hear, almost like a
ghost-echo, the sound of Zac's voice.  Zac sometimes showed a positively
bloodthirsty desire for violent solutions.  In that sort of mood he would
never listen to the calmer voices of his brother or his father.  For that
matter, there were times when Adama's humanistic theories of war proved
too much for Apollo, who still had sharp pangs of doubt about the
Galactica's leaving the scene of battle.
     "Boxey, if we just killed mindlessly, the way the Cylons seem to do,
then we'd be changing what we are.  We'd become like them.  Although
we're quite skilled at war, we are not basically a warlike race, at least
I don't believe we are.  We were pushed into this war, had no other
choice.  In fact, perhaps what we're doing now, searching for someplace
else, away from our enemies, is the better thing to do.  Fighting them no
their own terms has not certainly..."
     "What if they come after us?"
     Why did Boxey have to ask the hard questions.
     "Then we might have to protect ourselves."  
     "You mean kill them?"
     "If we have to."
     "Then we'd be like them."
     Apollo smiled.
     "You know, Boxey, I think you're getting glimpses of just how
complicated life is.  Yes, we don't believe in war---but the opposite of
war isn't necessarily peace.  No, what we want is freedom.  Just that,
freedom.  The right to be left alone.  It's a right we humans have always
tried to protect and preserve.  But there's always a chance someone will
come along and spoil everything."
     He could see in the boy's questioning eyes that Boxey was not
following this part of the discussion.
     "So you kill them?" Boxey said.
     "No.  What it is, you try to establish, ah, penalties, something
that'll make spoiling others' way of life unrewarding."
     "You kill them."
     "Boxey, you've a way of reducing everything to very simple terms."
     "I'm just a kid."
     "Right.  Sometimes I forget you're only six."
     "Almost seven."
     "Almost seven.  I don't know, though.  Maybe you're right.  No
matter how you slice it, what words you use, in the end we're talking
about life and death.  Life is precious.  No one has the right to tamper
with another's life, without the risk of forfeiting his own.  Ah, I sound
like one of the classes in war games I used to teach back at the
Academy---and I think getting a bit deep for a boy your age."
     "Why?" You can die at any age, can't you?"
     "Yes, Boxey, you can.  Keep an eye on that readout, okay?"
     "Sure.  C'mon, Muffy, looka that."
     Muffit Two barked and nuzzled closer to the boy.

*****

     Starbuck stood at the rim of the hill and stared down at the
evidence of genuine life forms that had been registering on the scanners. 
He called to Boomer, who was just climbing out of the landram.
     "Boomer..."
     "Yo!"
     "You're not going to believe this..."
     "Feeling is believing.  I just busted a finger on..."
     "No, I mean really..."
     Boomer looked down.  His mouth fell open.
     "I don't believe it!"
     In contrast to the eerie landscape aroud them, the carnival of color
an dlight and glass in the meadow in front of them was a dazzling
spectacle.  Surrouding glass-walled spherical buildings was a
meticulously landscaped garden of greenery and exotic plants.  Waterfalls
slipped gracefully between what seemed an artistic arrangement of rocks. 
Sounds of laughter drifted upwared.  Songs were being played and sung in
the distance.  A few people, talking gaily, emerged from a building and
began to chase each other, with obvious amourous intentions, through the
neatly sculpted garden paths.
     Starbuck looked overa t Boomer, who appeared just as confused as he
was.
     "What is it?" Boomer asked.
     "I don't know," said Starbuck.  Drawing his sidearm, he started to
make his way along the narrow pathway that zigzagged down the hill
leading to the bizarre complex of spherical buildings and lush gardens.
     "You sure you need that?" Boomer said, pointing to Starbuck's
sidearm.
     "Whenever I'm not sure, that's when I need it."
     Nobody in the gardens seemed to notice the two men.  If anything,
the happy noises of celebration and song grew louder as they approached
the garden.  They stood at the beginning of a path for a  long time, just
watching the myriad colors and shifting lihts that kept changing the
appearance of the garden and the buildings.  
     "It sure is pretty," Starbuck said, some awe in his voice.  "And it
sure sounds friendly."
     Starbuck started down the path.  Boomer following, staying close. 
As they came to a fork in the path, a sudden scream made both of them
jump.  Starbuck whirled around, his sidearm pointed in the direction of
the scream.
     A woman stood trembling in the center of the path.  Her wide staring
eyes only emphasized the look of beauty in her face.  Starbuck was
impressed with her voluptuous figure, round in all the right places.  She
wore a red gown that clung appropriately.
     "Don't shoot!" she said. "What do you want?"
     Starbuck, red-faced, glanced down at the weapon in his hand, made a
show of putting it in its holster.
     "I mean no harm," he said.
     "I usually go on the assumption that men with guns just might mean
harm, the woman said.
     "You're from Tauron," Starbuck said.
     "Yes," the woman said, obviously surprised at the shift in topic. 
"I'm a Taurus.  How'd you know that?"
     "The dialect.  Always can tell.  What're you doing here?"
     "What am I doing here?  What are you doing here?"  Why are Colonial
warriors sneaking around a resort with their weapons drawn?  Everything
here's perfectly legal."
     Starbuck and Boomer, both just as bewildered as the woman, exchanged
mystified looks.
     "Isn't it?" the woman said.
     "Would you mind telling us how you got here?" Starbuck said, trying
to sound as official as he could under the circumstances.
     "On the bus."
     The incongruity of her answer startled both men.
     "Gotta be a vasilizine addict," Boomer muttered.
     "Um, would you tell us about this bus?" Starbuck asked.
     "Sure.  It was all handled by my travelator.  This place is
fabulous!  I just can't believe they give you all this for so little
money!"  She opened a red-sequined purse that had been dangling from her
wrist.  "Look, I won over a thousand cubits."
     Some of the cubits spilled over the edge of the purse onto the path. 
The woman made no effort to retrieve them.  Starbuck, always responsive
to the glow of gold, became excited.
     "You won those cubits here?"
     "In there, sure."  The woman pointed toward the complex of
varicolored glass buildings.  "Look, they said it was all legal so if it
isn't, you'd better take on the whole star system, because everyone is
doing it.  I'd like to stand here and discuss this all this with you, but
I'm late for a moonlight cruise.  Two moons, how can you go wrong?  And
talk about meeting people, the brochures weren't kidding about that.  I
never had it so good.  See you in church, fellas."
     The woman giggled and hurried off down the path.  Boomer started
after her, while Starbuck picked up the fallen cubits.
     "I don't get it," Boomer said.  "How cut off can these people be? 
She didn't act like she'd even heard about the destruction of the
Colonies."
     ""Yeah," Starbuck said thoughtfully.  "I wonder if they have. 
Something else is peculiar about all this.  If it's such a big deal, like
she said, how come we haven't heard about this place?"
     "I suppose you know every gambling chancery in our star system?"
     "You got a problem with it if I do?"
     "No, forget what I said.  If there's a game going on, good old
Starbuck knows about it."
     Starbuck resumed wlaking along the path, heading toward the nearest
lavish sphere.
     "But this isn't back-room cards!" he said.  "This is the biggest
splash I've seen outside of Orion."
     "But who'd want to set up a gambling resort on an outpost planet? 
Why put something like this together and keep it a secret?"
     "That puzzles me, too.  If you don't tell anybody about a place like
this, you don't do any business."
     As they made their way through the verdant garden and into the lobby
of the spherical building, they could see no evidence of security guards
to interfere with them.  In fact, all they could see were clusters of
people having a good time.  And not only humans, as they found when they
looked more closely.  There seemed to be representatives of every
sentient and civilized alien race so far discovered in the universe. 
Except, of course, for Cylons---although even their unlikely presence
wouldn't have surprised Starbuck.  The Cylon sense of oder and austerity
would not have permitted them to participate in gambling and the various
wonderful forms of self-indulgence that were evident in this resort. 
Across a massive archway, in several languages, were variations of the
phrase, Phoenix of Paradise, apparently the name of the resort.
     'Shall we investigate further?" Boomer asked.
     "By all means, Boom-Boom, by all possible means."
     Accustomed to seeing aliens only on occasion, Starbuck and Boomer
eyed with some fascination the various examples of inhuman and humanoid
life.  There were tentacles lizards, furry octopoids, a grotesque
sexpartite set of connected individuals from a species that the two men
had heard of only in galactic legend, bulky, hard-surprsed oddities that
could be mistaken for rocks if they hadn't spoken and moved----creatures
of all varieties and shapes.  However, the majority was humanoid,
sometimes oddly so.  As Starbuck and Boomer entered a magnificent
chancery, a feline cocktail waitress, modestly attired in a clinging
dress revealing her four (!) shapely breasts, asked them if they'd like
anything to drink.  When they declined, she smiled and walked away, her
furry tail removing a dirty glass from a gilt railing.  Starbuck could
not take his eyes off her.
     "Did you notice her---uh--"
     "I sure did."
     At a nearby gaming table, one of hundreds spead through the ornate
cavernous room, a  scream of victory went up.  Checking it out, Starbuck
saw a chubby humanoid raking in cubits with a horselike paw.  Another
winner's cry erupted at an adjacent table."
     "My God!" Starbuck cried.  "Boomer, what kind of odds do they have
in this place? The patrons here are winning unbelievable fortunes. Look
at them!"
     After further investigation, Boomer spotted rows of food tables, on
which delectable items were being snatched at greedily by the
gameplayers.
     "Yes, and they're obviously well fed here, too," he said.  "Let's
get a hold of whoever's in charge and see about getting some food back up
to the fleet."
     "Whoa, there, you old space pirate.  Cool your turbos a micron.  The
last thing these people may want to find is a battlestar sitting on their
front doorstep."
     "Then you think this setup is illegal?"
     "Is a Cylon sickening?  Yeah, I think it's illegal.  Last time I
looked, it wasn't exactly listed in the Colonial Visitors' Guide."
     "And we're standing here in full uniform.  They may not be too happy
when they notice that.  Let's get our astrums outta here."
     "Wait, wait.  Let's not look a gift horse in the eye, especially
when it's dressed in gold.  I've never seen a crooked gambling den that
didn't depend on military paychecks to keep keep its doors open.  Let's
see what this guy's got to say."
     A human in a stylish black tuxedo came toward them, his mouth spread
in a wide smile.
     "Welcome to the Phoenix of Paradise, gentlemen.  I am Straker, your
host," he said.  "Is that an emblem of the Colonial Fleet I see?"
     Boomer looked scared, but Starbuck  answered confidently:
     "That's what it is, all right."
     "I didn't realize they were in the area."
     "As a matter of fact, we're kind of here on our own."
     "A long way from home, aren't you?"
     "Secret mission," Boomer said, getting into the spirit of the
deception.
     Starbuck slapped him on the back and said jokingly:  
     "He likes to be dramatic.  Just a reconnaissance flight.  See that
the armistice is being observed."
     They all three stood around silently for a long moment.  Was
Straker's grin directed at their naïve lie, Starbuck wondered, of was it
just a reflection of the genuine hospitality of the chancery.
     "How worthy," Straker said.  Starbuck couldn't tell whether or not
the man intended the observation sarcastically.  "And how fortunate to
have you with us.  Consider yourselves guests of the establishment. Food
and drink on the house."
     Straker snapped his spidery fingers and Starbuck and Boomer found
their hands full of food and drink, supplied by short siminioid waiters
who moved like lightning through the crowd.  Starbuck took a sip from his
glass.  The drink turned out to be a Sagitarian straight-arrow.  He took
a bite of the pastry in his other hand, an Aquarian chocolate cake.
     "These are my favorites, my favorite drink, my favorite dessert,"
Starbuck said. "How'd you know what to give me."
     "They knew," Straker said, pointing to the siminoid waiters who were
now supplying a creature who looked like a sculpture of plastic, slightly
melted.  "They're primitive types, the waiters, but they're mildly
telepathic, at least in matters of food and drink.  Enjoy yourselves."
     Straker smiled and walked of.  Starbuck stuffed more Aquarian cake
into his mouth.  Moist crumbs clung to his lips.
     "Okay," Boomer said sardonicall, "how do you feel now, sport?  Here
we have the run of the place while our people are out the re starving and
scrabbling for crops and grazing land?"
     "What did you expect me to do, ask this guy Straker for enough food
for a ragtag fleet when he thinks we're just a couple of straggler pilots
on a reconnaissance flight?"
     "Maybe we should just tell him the truth."
     "Sure, he looks a swell sort, Boomer.  Look, until we know who these
people are, just keep in mind that it'd only take one informer to have
the whole Cylon war machine on its way."
     "So what do we do?  We've got to find ways to get fuel and food back
to the ships."
     "First thing, we'll try to find out who's behind this place.  How
many cubits you have with you?"
     "Cubits?  Starbuck, you disgust me, you know that?  Pepole in our
fleet are half-starved and you're going to gamble?"
     "You expect me to be a miniature Commander Adama, you got another
think coming.  Besides, this time it's in the line of duty.  We've got to
start asking some questions, digging out some information---but
carefully, very carefully."
     Boomer seemed reluctant to hand Starbuck the money.
     "Oh, all right, but you'd better make it this last.  That's all I've
got on me."
     Boomer dropped three cubits into Starbuck's outstretched hand.
     "Boomer, my man, cubits don't mean much just now, no matter how you
measure it."
     Starbuck's active eyes sought the source of the best action.  He
decided on the Def-Ice table, since Def-Ice was a game at which he could
make a quick turnover of his limited funs before seeking out a big-stakes
game.  Three people, all humans, sat around the table.  An open chair
beckoned.  Starbuck sat beside an attractive woman who, he thought, might
have been an absolute stunner if she would drop just a few laxars from
her pleasingly plump figure.  The other players were men, both cheerful,
both quite obese.  As he sat, the woman, obviously liking what she saw,
gave Starbuck the eye.
     "Well!" she said. "The fleet's in.  Sit down, Lieutenant.  You've
come to a lucky table."
     "Is that a fact?"
     "Yep.  Not sure what I mean, though.  Whether it's lucky because
I've been cleaning up, or because you chose to sit here.
     Starbuck assumed his best appealing grin, and signaled to be dealt
in.  The nonhuman dealer, with a  friendly smile, began tossing out the
next round of cards with an elegant flick of his triple-jointed,
gray-green wrist.

*****     

     Apollo ran a check on the other branches of the survey team.  Ensign
Greenbean got on the line and reported a disturbance.
     "What is it, Greenbean?" Apollo said.
     "It's Jolly, sir.  We seem to have lost him."
     "How could you lose anybody his size?"
     "Beats me, sir, but he's lost."
     "Send out a search party and report back to me."
     "Yes, sir."
     Apollo leaned back against the bucket seat.
     "The man probably just wandered off," Serina said.
     "Maybe."
     He was hoping to say more when the Tylium detector started beeping. 
The beeping caused Boxey's daggit-droid to bark.
     "Quiet, Muffit.  I see it, Captain---Tylium!"
     Apollo slowed the landram and checked the indicator.  It seemed to
display a Tylium lode, all right, a large one.  He brought the vehicle to
a slow stop.  As soon as it stopped, Muffit leaped out the window.
     "Muffit!" Boxey cried. "Wait!  I'll bring him back."
     Before anybody could stop him, Boxey had followed the daggit-droid
out the landram window.
     "Shouldn't we go after him?" Serina asked in a nervous tone of
voice.
     "He's in sight for the moment.  Let him run free a little."
     "You're right.  I may be keeping too tight a leash on the boy. 
Thank you, by the way."
     "For what?"
     "For saving his life."
     "Yahrens?" asked Judy.
     "You're getting things a little out of proportion.  Anyway, maybe I
should be thanking you."
     "Now it's my turn to ask for what?"
     "For helping me to..."
     He stopped talking, leaning forward to squint out the window on
Serina's side.
     "What is it?" she said.
     "Boxey.  He was there a moment ago."
     "Maybe he just ran over a hill."
     "Perhaps, but we'd better take a look.  C'mon."
     Serina became frightened by the agitated way Apollo scrambled out of
the landram and onto the Carillon's Lot surface.

*****

     Bar-Lo emerged from his ground concealment and, in one rapid move,
swept Boxey and Muffit into his powerful arms. Before the boy could
scream or the animal could emit one of his disgusting sounds, Bar-Lo had
carried them back to the camouflaged ground entrance and onto a pod which
he immediately activated to descend into the ground to the Tylium mine
below.  In the corridor leading to the queen's chamber, the boy struggled
fiercely.  As Bar-Lo tried to improve his hold on him, the animal leaped
out of his right arm and ran a short way down the corridor.
     "Muffy!" the boy cried.  "Darn you daggit.  Come back here."
     Immediately the animal obeyed.  Bar-Lo, unaccustomed to domesticated
animals or their droid substitutes, was impressed with Muffit's quick
obedience.  He picked it up again, and both animal and boy were serene
until they had been carried into Nor's throne room, where Muffit again
scrambled out of Bar-Lo's right arm, this time to run to the throne.  It
barked furiously.  
     A slave hissed, growled and bared his fangs at the droid animal, as
if preparing to kill it, but Nor, amused by the sight of it, shooed him
away.  Boxey squirmed out of Bar-Lo's left arm and ran to his animal. 
The other human in the room took a couple of steps forward, and Boxey
looked up at him.
     "Lieutenant Jolly!" Boxey cried. "What're you doing here?"
     "I'm not paying a social call, kid," Jolly said.  He glanced toward
Nor lounging on her throne.  "I left all my calling cards in my formal
jumpsuit, your highness."
     Nor didn't understand the sarcastic humor in the fat man's remarks. 
Bar-Lo was about to seize Boxey again, but Nor gestured him away, saying: 

     "Let him be."
     Muffy licking his face, Boxey looked up a the queen from a crouch. 
Nor raised herself from her thorne. Jolly couldn't help but admire the
surreal beauty of the alien queen upon standing to her full height, the
strong green glow of her eyes, the suppleness of her body, her powerful,
shapely legs.
     Nor pointed to the child, the fat flyer, and the droid.
     "A most unusual group," she said. "But they will do quite nicely. 
Bar-Lo, arrange that they be taken care of and prepare for the others as
soon as possible."
     Bar-Lo nodded approval and walked to the captured humans.  Jolly
edged over to Boxey and put his arm around the boy.  Bar-lo was amused by
the fat human's obvious fear.  He observed even his own race with a
cynical eye.  He had always liked what he was, but now who he was---or,
for that matter, who anybody else was.  Even his love for his queen felt
incomplete, no matter how much worship he attempted.  It could not be
complete unless the queen would love him back, a possibility not even
within the scope of Ubbo-Sathla reasoning.  Bar-Lo, his hands making a
couple of elegant gestures, guided Boxey and Jolly out the entrance,
Muffit trotting happily behind.  On the throne, Nor began to laugh
mysteriously.  Bar-Lo never knew the meaning of his queen's laughter.

*****

     Apollo and Serina searched the immediate area around their vehicile
to no avail.  Serina held back tears, muttered to herself that she should
never have let the child get away from her.  Back at the landram, Apollo
got on the communicator to Greenbean, who reported no sign yet of Jolly.
     "What is it?" Serina said.  "What's happening on this planet?"
     "Don't panic.  We'll find him."
     Apollo wished he could be as sure of that as he sounded.  For a
moment all he wanted to do was fold this beautiful, auburn-haired,
green-eyed woman into his arms and soothe her, tell her everhthing would
be all right.  The trouble was, he couldn't feel that everything was
going to be all right.
     "This planet is scary. With this darkness and the two moons
it's---what is it, Apollo?"
     Apollo had drawn his sidearm and pointed it toward an area beyond
the landram.  Serina followed his look, then screamed.  There were two
Ubbo-Sathla warriors emergeing from a hole in the ground, a hole that had
not been there a second ago.  Their weapons were aimed at Apollo and
Serina.

*****

From the Adama Journals:

     My father told me as a sort of valedictory when he handed me command
of the Galactica that the best advice he could give me was that, when
everything appeaered to be in place and everything was placid, it was
time to consider what was absent.  The questioning of the apparent
reality, and the ability to add the absent to the visible, was a prime
requisite for any commander.  I didn't think much of the advice at the
time.  Later, when I had to study a star map and plot out dangers before
sending in attack craft, I knew exactly what the old man meant.  When I
delt with apparently docile friendly creatures, I learned it was
imperative to listen for what was not being said.  At the time when peace
was a most tempting reality, it was necessary for me to question the
absence of the most important parties to the agreement.  I can't even
look at a painting without wondering what the artist eliminated from the
original landscape or model.  It seems that, except at that rarep oint
when an act or set of events reaches a definite conclusion, I'm always at
odds with what I see, with the apparent reality, and am nervously looking
for something to fill in the parts I can't yet see.

*****     

CHAPTER SEVEN: TOO OPTIMISTIC

     The two Ubbo-Sathla warriors forced Apollo and Serina down long,
sloping, labyrinthine corridors.  After the suffocating closelness of the
pod in which they had travled to these underground levels, the blasts of
cold, damp air seemed refreshing.  When they emerged into the massive
chamber of the mine, Apollo caught his breath in surprise.  Serina, too,
was astonished at the seemingly limitless heights and depths of the main
chamber, and the furiously active work going on in all its cells.
     "What is it?" she asked Apollo.
     "Incredible!  This may be the largest underground Tylium mine
anywhere.  Father was right about there being enough Tylium here. 
There's enough here just in sight to fuel all our ships, run them half
across the universe.  But..."
     "But what?"
     "I don't know exactly.  For something like this to exist here
without us knowing that it had been reactivated, it's bizarre.  Who uses
all this energy, and for what?"
     An Ubbo-Sathla gave them a shove, guiding them toward the gruesome
bone bridge that crossed the large chamber.  
     "Where could Boxey be?" Serina said.  "I'm so worried about him."
     "Me too.  If they've done anything to him, I'll..."
     "Don't say it.  I'm scared enough already."
     The guards stopped at Nor's throne room and beckoned the two humans
inside.  Apollo and Serina entered the queen's chamber.
     At first Nor didn't notice them---or, in queenly fashion, waited a
royal mili-centon to recognize them.  In the meantime, Serina was
fascinated by the layers of blood-red cloth that decorated the room, the
scurrying slaves performing all kinds of odd duties, the musicians
playing some tune that didn't sound at all musical but rather more like
an out-of-whack energizer.  Finally, the queen looked up from her perch
upon a high pile or red velvet cushions.
     "Captain Apollo of the battlestar Galactica, I presume?" she asked. 
Her voice, although low-pitched, had a scratchy sound to it.  Both Apollo
and Serina would have been astonished if they had known that, to the
Ubbo-Sathlas, Nor's voice was considered ethereally musical.
     "Yes," Apollo responded. 
     "On behalf of my people, I bid you welcome to Carillon's Lot.  I
assume you are impressed."
     "Outraged might be the better word.  Where is the boy?"
     The gray-skinned, surreally beautiful humanoid formed a smile on her
black lips.
     "Would you care to join him, Captain?"
     "You bet I would, and if anything's happened to him, you'll answer
to the Colonies!"
     Nor smiled again, nodded her head noncommittally and rose from her
plush cushions.  Serina, already accustomed to the uniform shortness of
the Ubbo-Sathlas she had seen thus far, was astonished by the queen's
height.  She towered over the other Ubbo-Sathlas.  With a feline,
seductive walk, Nor led the way out of the royal chamber.  Serina noted
that their guards fell easily into step behind them as she and Apollo
followed the queen out.  As they made their way down the narrow corridor,
Serina leaned toward Apollo and whispered, "Did you see that wicked smile
on her face?  Apollo, that woman knows the Colonies don't exist anymore!"
     "I suspect as much," Apollo whispered back.  "But let's not point
any accusing fingers just yet, okay?"
     Nor led them into a small chamber and brought them to a halt.  She
gestured toward one of the guards who sealed off the entranceway. 
Immediately, they could feel the floor beneath them move.  
     "What's happening?"
     "This must be their version of a turbo-lift, except it moves
sideways as well as up."
     When the moving chamber had stopped, Nor ordered the guard to open
the door.  Apollo and Serina, exchanging wary looks, allowed themselves
to be guided through the doorway.  There were not at all prepared for
what confronted them now, a large banquet room teeming with movement,
reverberating with loud discordant music.  Some Ubbo-Sathlas near them
danced, their arms twisting in rather graceful gestures.  There was a
troup of jugglers.  Serina had never imagined what intricate juggling
just two ordinary-looking human arms could accomplish.  Banquet tables,
enormous and overflowing, displayed succulent-looking food that seemed to
represent the best of Colonial cuisine.  It smelled wonderful and
reminded her of how hungry she had been for so long.
     "Captain!"
     Starbuck came toward Apollo, his hands held out in welcome.  Other
eaters turned around to look.  Jolly held a drumstick of something
clutched tightly in his chubby fingers.
     "Boxey!" Serina called and was answered immediately.  The boy jumped
off Boomer's knees and ran to Serina, embraced her.
     "Good fortune is smiling on us," Starbuck said, lifting in toast a
flat, blue, hexagonally-shaped fruit.
     "It's like nothing we could've dreamed of,"Jolly declared, the signs
of his joy foodstained all over his tunic.  "They've got everything we
need and lots of it."
     "And they're happy to share," Boomer said.
     "It sounds like paradise," Serina said, her voice not as sure as her
words.  Her hugging of Boxey was composed of equal parts of joy and
protection.
     "Yes, it does," Apollo said, his wary eyes inspecting the lavishness
of the room.
     Nor stepped forward and addressed her human guests.
     "We are a communal order from birth.  We all work.  We all share. 
There is no competition, no jealousy, no conflict.  Only peace and
order."
     "Perpetual happiness," Apollo observed.  He wasn't sure whether Nor
perceived the irony of his inflection.
     "Happiness is the goal of an immature species.  All pursue it.  Few
have it.  None can sustain it.  The Ubbo-Sathla is content.  Our way is
better."
     Serina could see a doubt in Apollo's eyes that was a match for her
own feelings.
     "It seems to work for you," she said to the queen.
     "For millenniums it has been so.  Now, join us.  Be our guests.  Be
well fed, well entertained.  What you need, merely ask for it.  Be
content."
     'She's not just a-kidding," Starbuck said. "You think this banquet's
a hum-dinger, wait'll you get a look at the gambling chancery a couple
levels above."
     "Gambling chancery?" Apollo said.
     "Yep.  I'm on my way back there as soon as I get sustenance."
     "Lieutenant Starbuck, there are people starving back on the fleet!"
     "I know, I know, Captain.  Ease off.  These people're assembling
food for us right now.  And fuel.  Our problems are solved."
     "It sounds good, Starbuck, but..."
     "But nothing, Captain.  C'mon, have you ever tried this orange wine? 
Take a sip."
     "I'll pass for the moment."
     Nor, watching their conversation, smiled at the humans benignly.  To
Apollo and Serina, the queen's smile seemed to contain just as much
mystery as ever.  There seemed to be more meaning fin it than she was
willing to exhibit.  Apollo had sensed a tone of command in her
invocations to enjoyment.  Serina was not sure what she sensed, but
whatever it was, was cloying.  She desperately wanted to return
aboveground, to be in the comforting, though spare, confines of the
Galactica.

*****

     The centurions around Imperious Leader's pedestal transmitted
nothing but trivialites through their communications webs.  At
first-brain level, a Cylon hated inactivity.  By the time he achieved a
second-brain, the Cylon hated confusion.  Third-brain Cylons despised
both inactivity and confusion, but even more they hated triviality.  The
centurion that he had dispatched to the planet Carillon's Lot to
rendezvous with their Ubbo-Sathla allies and to check out the rumors
about human ships in that sector had not yet reported in.  The leader
felt dispised, as if he might decay if nothing important happened soon.
     His mind was burdened with inconsequentialities that he didn't even
have to correlate.  He kept finding himself making random connections
which, though accurate, were meaningless.
     He remembered a conversation he had once had with a human prisoner. 
The man had been a scientists, a short, someone plump fellow who fancied
long sideburns to conunter his thinning hair.  Suspecting the man might
be a fit conversationalist for a Cylon, the leader had made some attempts
in that direction.  While they talked theory and technology, their
communication level remained higher than that of the average inaction
between Cylon and human.  However, the scientist had grown lethargic
after several days, and had begun to provide answers in a monotone.
     When the Leader asked the reason for the scientist's change in mood,
the man tried to explain the concept of boredom to the Cylon.  It was a
concept that was so loathsome to the leader that he refused to accept it. 
He became quite incensed with rage.  The man copied the Cylon's mood and
spoke back angrily, defending boredom as a common, even acceptable, human
trait.  Nobody liked to be bored, the man said stridently, but it was a
necessary part of human life that often led to the kind of contemplation
which eventually resulted in revolutionary insights.  Boredom could even
be beneficial for humanity, the man said.  The Leader commented that,
since starting the discussion of boredom, the man seemed much less bored,
therefore talking about boredom must not be boring.  The man screamed
that he was more bored than ever, that the Leader and all the rest of the
Cylons were such smug hypocrites with such infinitesimal variance in
attitude or personality that any sensible human could not help but be
bored after a few days  in their company.  Although the leader did not
believe in boredom as a useful or even genuine state, he resented the
man's claim of boredom in Cylon company, and he banished the scientis
from his presence forever.  He had probably put the man to death,
although that was a piece of information that he would not have bothered
to preserve in any of his brains.
     Now he wondered if such accumulations of trivial data as that under
which he presently suffered were roughly comparable to what that
scientist had called boredom.  He did not have to consider this offensive
proposition for long, sinc esome important new information suddenly came
through.  The centurion on Carillon's Lot had finally transmitted a
message.  He had entranched himself in an underground cavern of the
planet, and was in communication with their Ubbo-Sathla allies.  They had
told him that the humans had definitely arrived in the Carillon's Lot
sector.  Some of them were already in Ubbo-Sathla sway, others hovered in
orbit around the planet on the battlestar Galactica and a few other
ships.  Their fighter ships had destroyed large sections of the minefield
which the Cylons, by treaty arrangement with the Ubbo-Sathla, had
encircled the planet to protect the secret fuel supply which had been at
Cylon disposal ever since since they had originally enslaved the
Ubbo-Sathla and transported them to the uninhabited planet.  The Leader,
satisified to be back in real action again, transmitted the order that a
large fleet of Cylon fighers on the planet Arrakis be put in readiness to
travel to Carillon's Lot sector.  Then he relaxed, satisfied that what he
felt now---the waves of important information---was not in any way the
quality humanity endured under the name of boredom.

*****

     In the viewer by Adama's desk, the image of the planet Carillon's
Lot appeared benign.  The figures on the report in his hand confirmed the
wisdom of his decision to come here.  Not only could they replenish food
and supplies easily, but they would obtain enough Tylium to power then
entire ragtag fleet for some time.  Activating his private comline, he
began recording his log:
     "The Ubbo-Sathla people have extended to the survivors of the
Colonies ever measure of goodness and support we might have hoped for. 
It is now possible to forsee the entire fleet able to resume our voyage
soon, within a...
     There was a knock on the door.  Adama shut off the comline and
hollered, "Enter."
     Colonel Tigh entered the room, looking troubled.  Tigh was always
finding something to worry about, especially if the worriment could be
written up in a report.
     "Nothing can be as bad as you look, Tigh.  What's happened?"
     "It's this report, sir, from the surface."
     "It's a very optimistic report, Colonel."
     "It's too optimistic.  Zalto has everyone in the fleet breaking in
the bulkheads to get down to the surface, and none of them're
volunterring for the work details, either."
     Adama had a mental picture of Zalto, doll tucked under his arm,
addressing the weary people left aboard the Galactica.  The buritician
had a way of using his madcap charm with a political sense of strategy. 
With the food stores so desperately low, it was no wonder they would
respond to Zalto's suggestions.
     "Well," he said, "perhaps Zalto has a point.  Perhaps we could allow
some of our people to visit the surface.  In small numbers, an orderly
rotation.  What's wrong, Tigh?"
     Tigh cleared his throat before speaking again.
     "I'm afraid it's too late for cautios plans, sir.  Zalto's already
authorized visitor permits to half our population."
     "Half the population!  Countermand those orders immediately!"
     "I'm afraid we can't.  As a member of the Council, Zalto has the
right to make certain nonmilitary decisions.  If you'd stayed on as
president..."
     "Don't rub it in, Colonel."  The commander sighed.  "All right, do
what you can to stem the tides.  How are the work parties coming?"
     "Very well.  Livestock're being well-fed and the first agricultural
growths have sprouted."
     "All right, Colonel, carry on."
     Adama considered what Tigh had told him.  Zalto could not be allowed
so much political license, and it was dangerous to send so many people
down to the surface.  Contingency plans would have to be devised.  As he
picked up the electronic recording stylus to begin making notes, there
was another knock on his cabin door.  He shouted, "Enter!"  It was
Athena.
     "Request permission to travel planetside," she said.
     "Why are you asking me?" Adama asked. "I thought Sire Zalto was
handing out permits like Yuletime gifts."
     Athena reacted with surprise to her father's hostility, but said, "I
wouldn't go down there with his blessing on a bet, Father.  And I won't
go if you say no."
     He was about to reject her request, but something sad in her eyes
made him say, "It's all right.  You might as well go.  You need the
relaxation more than most, you've been working so hard."
     "It's not relaxation I'm after."
     "Oh?  Starbuck again, is it?"
     "Maybe."
     "I know he's down there, and that he discovered that chancery.  With
Starbuck, a chancery must have seemed his rightful gift from the gods.  I
thought you were mad at him."
     "I am."
     "But---I think I can guess.  That woman you caught him with.  She's
in one of Zalto's visitor parties, isn't she?"
     "Maybe."
     "Well, give her hades."
     "Is that to be interpreted as an order, Sir?"
     "Give both of them hades, ensign."
     "Yes, Sir!"
     He smiled at the brisk way she turned on her heels and exited the
room.
     As he took up the stylus again, his communicator buzzed.  It was
Tigh.
     "Fuel has begun to arrive by tanker-shuttles from the Ubbo-Sathla
Tylium mines, Sir."
     "Why do I detect disturbance in your voice, Colonel?"
     "The supplies are smaller than Captain Apollo arranged for.  The
Ubbo-Sathla leader sent up some sort of flimsy excuse that they were't
prepared for such a large order just now.  Yet, from the reports we've
had from Apollo and the others, that excuse doesn't seem justified."
     "I see. Well, stay on top of it, Colonel."
     The moment Tigh had signed off, Adama raised the stylus and began
writing furiously into the recording log.  He felt the need for
precautionary measures even more.  Extraordinary measures.
     When he had finished outlining his contingeny procedures, he buzzed
Tigh.
     "Yes, Sir?"
     "Prepare my shuttle.  I'm going down to the surface. I want to see
this paradise for myself."
     "Sir, are you sure?"
     "Are you suggesting I should get permission from Sire Zalto?"
     "No, Sir! The shuttle will be ready."
     Adama swiveled around in his chair, pleased at the tingling
sensation in his fingers, the feeling of blood pulsing through his veins. 
He had not felt this ready for action in some time.

*****

From the Adama Journals:

     I used to imagine paradise when I was a kid.  While I don't remember
very many details of my image of the place, I know there were a lot of
toy airplanes and most everything was blue.  My more adult visions of
paradise put me in the center with all I wished for available on call. 
Athena says she imagines paradise as her very own battlestar to command. 
Tigh's is one where no paper exists.  Our paradises tend to be
solipsistic dreams in which there is either more of everything we think
we love and need, or we are awarded gifts of all that's usually denied
us.  Seems to me the point is that, in all our paradises, we don't pay
heed to the slaves who are the rest of the population in our imaginary
lands.  A paradise, which should suggest expansion of human potential, is
usually a reduction, generally to the state of inertia. People lounge in
paradise a lot more than they do in life, or even want to do.  The
Carillon's Lot paradise was in reality a trap, as false as the peace
offer of the Cylons or the pleasant words of Count Baltar.  We humans
have an unfortunate tendency to welcome traps if we can find some way to
call them paradises.  Be content, the Ubbo-Sathla queen Nor said.  And we
can be content if we don't have ot think of the slaves or the inertia, so
long as there are plenty of toy airplanes and everything is blue.

*****

CHAPTER EIGHT: PROPOSAL 

     Adama had visited Tylium mines before, but the Ubbo-Sathla one
resembled no other mining operation he'd ever seen, especially when one
viewed it form the mammoth underground cavern and contemplated the
seemingly infinite depths.  Its network of cells was an eerie phenomenon
to anyone familiar with only deep-sunk tunnels and shafts.  Adama felt
uneasy.  The workers, live beings after all, moved like machines.  The
Ubbo-Sathla guards stood too near them as if overseeing every action.  It
all had the smell of slave labor about it, and he didn't like it.
     During the tour, Nor's soft but raspy voice had supplied the kind of
statistics that generally awed visiting committees.  She finished off by
describing her operation as the most efficient Tylium mine anywhere.
     "It's proof of communal order," Sire Zalto said obsequiously.
     "It certainly is," supplied his doll.
     "I thank you,"Nor replied.  "Now allow me to show you some of the
finer points of Ubbo-Sathla existence.
     She led them to the banquet room, where the enormous feast had been
replenished.  The buriticians crowded the table like men starved for some
time---which, of course, they were. Although Adama had also suffered the
rigors of privation, he was not quite so eager to accept Ubbo-Sathla
hospitality, and he held back from the banquet.  The vigorous music being
played on a host of stringed instruments agitated his nerves.
     "Yum, yum, sire," said the doll, plastic eyes flashing green.
     "You said it Friend," Zalto said, slivers of food dripping from the
corners of his mouth.  "This is just too much to expect."
     "We have plenty," Nor said.  "We wish to aid you.  As many of your
people who desire it are invited to be our guests."
     Zalto, triumphant, whirled on Adama.
     "And to think that you, Commander, wanted to deny our people such a
kind and generous invitation!"
     "Shame, shame, shame," added Zalto's doll.
     Adama felt uncomfortable under the piercing gaze of man and doll. 
For the moment all the cards were in Zalto's hand, and Adama could only
reply, "I suggested only a small rotation and not a mass descent upon
this planet."
     "I thought you said time was our greatest consideration," Zalto
countered, talking in between sips of a purplish liquid.  "The more
people we bring down here at once, the sooner we can be on our way, get
back to the others.  Y'know, you'd be wise to consider, once all the
ships are refueled and converted to hyperspace, bringing them all here to
enjoy the hospitality of this planet.  In fact, with a little work, we
could even settle down here."
     "Hey," the doll spoke up, "that's the best idea you've had in a long
time, Zalto."
     "Yes," said Zalto.  "I must consider it."
     Zalto's proposal, clearly a political one, drew a murmured approval
from the other members of the council on the tour, even from Gant, who
was usually not quick to agree to anything.  Adama decided not to reply
to the challenge in Zalto's voice.  It was never wise to argue with a
buritician  well on his way to inebriation.  And, back on the sober decks
of the Galactica, the others would see that his proposal was nonsensical.
     Adama turned to Nor and said, "May I ask how our request for Tylium
is being received?"
     "We have already prepared and processed the first shipment for you,
have we not?" Nor said, her voice sounding way too political for Adama's
comfort.  Trying to interpret a possibly calulcated move of an alien
seemed too much to ask of himself after just enduring Zalto's insidious
strategies.
     "Yes, we boarded the first load of liquefied Tylium," he said.
"However, I understand there's to be a delay in obtaining more."
     The lower part of the queen's beautiful face twisted into a pout.
     "Our processing procedures are antiquted," she said. "It takes time
to process the ore, and we were not prepared for such a large order.  You
did come upon us as something of a surprise, after all.  Generally, we
are not called upon to process the ore into liquid state for an entire
space fleet."
     "Oh?  What purpose do you usually process it for?  Or should ask ask
whom you process it for."
     "Our records are not for the perusal of our clients, Commander.  We
are industrious, but we are also small, and we have every reason to fear
any intruder, especially those who blast their way thorugh our protective
layers.  However, we appreciate the scope of your order, and are also
appreciative of the profits for us in a transaction of this nature.  But
we must take time and you must have patience."
     Nor's smile, intended to be ingratiating, was so false it gave Adama
a pain in the pit of his stomach.
     "Hey, let's not press our luck, Commander," Zalto said, his fingers
working frantically at what seemed to be a piece of bluish meat.  "Don't
be rude in the face of these people's hospitality."
     "Please enjoy yourselves," Nor said. "Be our guests.  Be well fed,
entertained.  Be content."
     The queen strolled backward toward the arched entranceway, giving
the appearance more of a loyal slvae than a regent.  Adama stopped her
movement by saying:
     "You aren't joining us?"
     She glanced back at the food table without much interest.  A strange
smile crossed her face.
     "No, I'm afraid not."
     With a graceful bow, she swept out of the room.
     "Well," said Zalto, edging toward the commander while peeling a
lumpy lavender fruit, "I don't think there can be any doubt as to our
decision.  It'll take time to obtain the Tylium, so we'll give every
person an opportunity to share in our bounty down here on Carillon's
Lot."
     "Zalto, be..."
     "Be what, Adama?"
     All the members of the council were looking at Adama with intense
interest.
     "Never mind."
     Adama sensed their unanimity of opinion.  They all nodded their
agreement with Zalto while stuffing their mouths with all manner of
foodstuffs.  A nauseous feeling growing in his stomach, Adama couldn't
force himself to go near the banquet, and he sat instead in a plushy
upholstered chair by the doorway.  They were his fellow humans, but, at
least for a moment, they looked spookier to him than any of the
Ubbo-Salaths did.

*****     

     Joining his queen in the corridor outside the banquet rooms, Bar-Lo
fell in step with her as she set a brisk pace down the passageway to the
concealed pod elevator. Before descending to the throne-room level, she
surveyed the tunnel in front of the elevator, clearly making sure there
were no spying humans.  Beckoning to Bar-Lo to accompany her, she entered
the elevator and went down to the throne room.  As the queen walked out
of the elevator in front of her, Bar-Lo felt a surge of desire for her.
     Nor approached the throne but, instead of sitting on it, dropped to
a mast graceful and regal curtsey in front of it.  Bar-Lo became aware of
the tall Cylon centurion sitting on the throne.
     "By your command," Nor said. It annoyed Bar-Lo to watch his beloved
queen act so subserviently to a Cylon.  Bar-Lo hated these helmeted
arrogant creatures even more than humans and resented their hold over the
Ubbo-Salath.  Worse, he was afraid of them.
     "Many of the humans are here now, but their commander has allowed a
few of his warriors to land.  The rest stand alert on the battlestar."
     "That will change as they grow secure in your hospitality."
     "Of course, centurion," Nor said.  "We live to serve you."
     "And serve us you will.  Our Leader intends to eradicate every human
left in this sector of space.  Except those useful to your people."
     "As you wish."
     "We will attack and ambush the Galactica when we are sure human
forces are lulled.  Our leader appreciates your cooperation and pledges
to continue his protection of the Ubbo-Sathla as part of our glorious
Alliance."
     "We are pleased, centurion."
     Nor bowed and nudged Bar-Lo to bow with her.  Even though the act
disgusted him, Barl-Lo obeyed his queen's bidding.

*****

     When Greenbean reported in tht the Galactica's agricultural project
on Carillon's Lot was now being harvested, Apollo realized that he had
lost all sense of time.  No wonder his father had seemed testy with him
when he had shuttled up to the Galactica to provide reports on all the
activities of the humans on Carillon's Lot, including the rest and
recuperation in the chancery and food rooms.  His father had, Tigh told
Apollo, been particularly disturbed by his own visit to the Ubbo-Sathla
mine and the recreation area.  Adama had not seemed interested in the
statistics, nor in Apollo's overall conclusion that their mission was not
only proceeding ahead of schedule, it was overwhelmingly successful. 
When Adama said he felt disturbed by something he could not put his
finger on, Apollo told him that he had felt the same way at first, but
the obviously happiness of their people during their visits to the
surface had quelled his apprehensions.  Adama said that was exactly what
was wrong, exactly what he couldn't put his finger on.  The discussion
with his father had left Apollo feeling even more disoriented.
     Tonight he would forget all that, he decided.  Tonight he would
snatch pieces of the fun that everybody else had been enjoying for the
better part of two Carillon's Lot days.  Serina had agreed to accompany
him to the chancery, and who knew to what else, and he was going to enjoy
himself for a change.  Only the lure of the lovely Caprican newswoman
could have coaxed him into his dress blues for any occasion, and he felt
quite joyful as they entered the chancery.  Serina, holding onto his arm,
had changed to a long-skirted flowing, lavender dress, and she looked
gorgeous, so much so that even the more fanatical of the gambers glanced
up from their games to take a look at her.  Those people who were not
engaged in the gambling activities could not get their fill of the
substances on the food tables.  The gambling itself was more raucous and
joyous than any betting or playing activities Apollo had ever seen
before.  He got the impression that everyone was winning.  Perhaps
Starbuck's luck was rubbing off on everybody.
     "It's a circus," Serina said, "a wonderland."
     "It sure is," Apollo said, "but at least it's giving a lot of people
the kind of relief break they needed so desperately."
     "I'm glad that you've found time to take a break for yourself.  I've
never seen anybody push himself as much as you have."
     "All in the line of duty, ma'am."
     "I'm happy to see you cheerful, and I'm so glad to see them all
happy.  That woman there at the table---"
     She pointed to a middle-aged matronly woman who was so involved in
dice play that her blond wig was on the verge of falling off her head.
     "What about her?"
     "I watched her husband die in her arms only a few days ago.  Don't
look at me so strangely.  I'll try to have fun.  It's not easy, making
the transfer.  I'm exhausted. So much has happened.  I think it's all
catching up with me."
     "I could take you to the guest quarters the Ubbo-Salthla have
assigned us."
     Was the young captain finally making his move, Serina wondered.  She
didn't know whether she hoped so or not.  Not long ago she had believed
that she could not accept an emotional relationship with a man, at least
not until the human suffering had stopped.  She looked around her. 
Nobody seemed to be suffering.  She wasn't sure what was holding her
back.  Some little detail out of place, som color that was wrong in the
room, soothing.  She told herself to relax, she wasn't even officially a
newswoman anymore and did not have to act like one.
     "Let's stay here for a while," she said to Apollo, who nodded
without any apparent disappointment.  "I'm going to have fun, too.  I
want to sit right here at one of the tables."
     Apollo smiled.
     "Why don't we win a fortune?"
     "Why don't we, my captain?"
     They took a seat at a roulette table and bought some chips from the
green-skinned scaly humanoid who was the croupier.

*****

     In the far corner of the chancery, near an entertainment lounge,
Starbuck was riding a winning streak that was like nothing he had
experienced since the day his gambling dad had flipped his first pack of
cards into his eager, waiting fingers.  A tall pile of golden cubits
stood in front of him as he tossed another winning hand back onto the
center of the table.  Touching the cubit pile, he hollered ecstatically,
"Let 'em ride!"
     He won another pot and leaned back in his chair.  The chatter of the
throng watching his streak nearly drowned out the raucous m usic coming
from the lounge.  He glanced up at the gallery and directly into the
staring eyes of Athena, who stood by the empty chair next to him.
     "This seat taken?" she asked.
     "Uhhhhh, well..." He said, squirming in his own chair.  Cassiopeia
had been sitting beside him until just a few moments ago and had abruptly
gone off, saying she'd just gotten a good idea.  Since he had no idea
what constituted a good idea for the Gemonese socialator, he had no idea
when, or even whether, she would be returning.
     Athena slid into the chair and leaned toward him, saying, "I think I
owe you an apology."
     "You do?"
     "I haven't had the nerve to tell you until now.  You know how I've
always told you it was wrong for a commander's daughter to get involved
with a combat warrior."
     "I vaguely recall you saying that."
     "Come on, this paradise is the perfect opportunity for us all to be
honest with each other.  Let loose even the psychological inhibitions.  I
hurt you, admit it."
     Starbuck, feeling it would be better to go along with her until he
could figure out what she was getting at, nodded and tried to work some
pain into his face.  Athena went on eagerly.
     "Didn't you say that I was the only woman you really cared about?"
     So that was it!  Jealousy!  She knew about Cassiopeia then.  But
what exactly did she know?
     Athena's look hardened as she said, "Well, did you say that?"
     "Oh.  Oh, sure.  It's just that, with all the misery and everything,
I've shut all those feelings out.  To avoid the pain, you see."
     Her eyes narrowed.
     "I don't believe you.  Look, I'll forget your little peccadillo with
the socialator."
     Starbuck's eyes widened in shock.
     "It was you.  You turned on the bloody steam!  I should..."
     "Should what?  Didn't you deserve it?"
     "No, of course I didn't deserve it."
     "Oh, you can hop into a launching tube with any socialator that
comes along."
     "That's pretty bigoted.  You know better.  A socialator's not a
common..."
     "I don't care if she's an uncommon anything.  All right, I'm not
the----not the warmest person around, especially when there's work to be
done.  For that matter, I practically forced you into that socialator's
arms."
     "She had interesting arms."
     "Starbuck!"
     He cursed himself for letting that remark slip.  He didn't really
want to hurt Athena, but that socialator comment had been unthinking and
a bit callous.  He was not used to callousness from Athena.
     "All right, I'm sorry, but we're not going to work this out with a
simple..."
     "I believe you're occupying my seat," said Cassiopeia, who now stood
behind the chair Athena had coopted.
     No!  Starbuck thought, what miserable timing.  He could feel the
sweat begin to pour out of his skin.  This was worse than angling toward
a tilted deck for a crash landing!  He hardly noticed that he had just
won another pot.  Perhaps if he crawled under the table...
     Athena turned slowly, with a studied deliberation, toward
Cassiopeia.
     "Your chair?" she said elegantly.
     "Maturity doesn't become you, child," Cassiopeia said, then turned
toward the redfaced Starbuck.  She held up her hand.  In her long thin
fingers dangled a glistening golden key.
     "Good news, flyboy!  I got us the Royal Suite!"
     In space-fleet parlance, such a turn of events was known politely as
the moment that the Cylon hit the fan.  Athena appeared livid with rage. 
She looked from the victoriously grinning Cassiopeia to the pained face
of Starbuck.  The lieutenant decided he should look pious, but he had no
idea how even to feign that, it was so far from his normal behavior.  He
swallowed hard and figured his best maneuver was to say nothing.  Athena
and Cassiopeia were both fighters, let them work out a solution.  He sat
back in the chair, taking a brief moment to signal the dealer to let his
current bet ride.
     Athena, with a sly smile, reached up and snatched the key from
Cassiopeia's fingers.
     "Thank you!" Athena said. "We do appreciate it!"
     She looked toward Starbuck and took his arm, trying to nudge him
from his chair.
     "Let's get out of here," Athena said. "To the Royal Suite,
Starbuck!"
     He looked up at Cassiopeia, then back at Athena.  A weak grin broke
up the panic in his face.
     "Uh," he said, "look, I'm right in the middle of a hot streak here."
     "Honey," Cassiopeia said, "your streak isn't that godforsaken
gold-dust pile on the table.  Your streak is here, with me, and you've
just gone cold."
     "That's right, you tell him! " Athena said.
     "Hey!" Starbuck said.
     "Forget it, Lieutenant," Cassiopeia said, "even an ex-socialator had
a notion of when to bow out."
     "Smart lady," Athena said.
     "Don't get overconfident, child," Cassiopeia said.  "I didn't say
I'd quit for good."
     "You little..."
     "Don't say it.  I've heard it somewhere anyway."
     Cassiopeia angrily pushed her way through the crowd.
     "About the Royal Suite," Athena said.  
     "Yeah," Starbuck said.
     "Forget it!"
     She threw the key down on the card table, pushed the chair over, and
followed in Cassiopeia's wake.  Starbuck let out a long-held breath and
started collecting his cubits, while the dealer pushed his newest
winnings toward him.  Boomer tapped him on the shoulder, and said:
     "We'd better talk."
     There was an urgency in Boomer's voice that Starbuck could not
ignore.
     Boomer led Starbuck away from the gambling tables and into the
chancery's entertainment lounge.  As they swiveled and sidestepped their
way thorugh the crowded room, Starbuck's attention was gradually drawn to
the stage, where a trio of humanoid female singers was currently
performing a song that bore no realation to any kind of music he'd ever
heard.  They sang in a high-pitched and racous fashion, but not without a
certain sweetness in a deeper timbre undercutting the melody.  Starbuck
was quite charmged by their act and could not take his eyes off them even
when he and Boomer had been seated at a table along a side wall.
     "What do you know about the entertainment?" Starbuck asked.
     Boomer glanced toward the stage, said in a bored voice, "Caladans."
     "That the name of their group or their species?"
     "They come from the planet Caladan."
     "Never heard of it.  Interesting sound, though, and sort of
attractive in an odd way."
     "Very odd."
     "What do you mean by that?"
     "Look closely."
     Starbuck looked closely.  He saw suddenly what Boomer meant.  Each
of the Caladan women had two mouths, and all of the mouths were engaged
in the song.  No wonder they were capable of such a bizarre sound!"
     "Hard for any of those damn Ubbo-Sathlas to overhear us or read lips
in here," Boomer said.
     "Lips?" Starbuck said. "Oh, you mean, our lips.  Look, are you sure
you aren't jamming your scanner, imagining things?  Why would anybody
wanta read our lips?"'
     "I'm not sure, but somebody's up to something around this place."
     Starbuck dumped a lot of cubits onto the table, inserted one in a
small pedestal at the center.  A cup materialized full of brownish
liquid.
     "Where'd you get all those cubits?" Boomer asked.
     "Gambling!  You can't lose.  The cards are falling my way."
     "That's what I'm talking about.  Everybody's winning."
     "Boomer, one thing this place isn't, is crooked."
     "You ever been in a place where you can't lose your money?"
     "No, but then I've never been here either.  Say, will you listen to
those singers?"
     "Starbuck, nobody else I know of's ever been here before either.  I
know this place is a little out of the way, but..."
     "A little out of the way?  We almost starved to death getting here!"
     "Yeah, because of fuel problems, because we spent a lot of time
under lightspeed.  Look, half the people here are from our home
planets----Caprica, Tauron, Sagitaria.  They were transported here before
the Cylon invasion, even.  They don't even know about it.  No
communication's been going in or out.  I tried to tell one of these
clowns what'd happened.  He thought I was joking."
     "Understandable.  Not a very credible story when you're sitting in a
joint like this."
     "And another thing.  We've never heard of this so-called resort,
never even encountered Ubbo-Sathlas before, right?  I took a quick poll. 
Nobody got a word of publicity about the most efficient gambling den in
this place."
     "Maybe it's like a secret club."
     "Nothing's that secret.  How is it they all come here but never came
back home and told everybody about it?"
     "Would you tell everybody you found a gold mine?  I mean, who knows
how long they're gonna keep this up?  It may be some kind of introductory
offer.  Hey, those girls are great!"
     "Forget the girls.  Talk to me.  What information've you picked up
around here?"
     Starbuck continued to stare at the singers despite Boomer's
protests.
     "Like what?" Starbuck said.
     "Like why everyone eats so much in this place, maybe?"
     "Why not?  The food's practically free, and sensational,
like----hey, would you listen to that!  They're amazing!"
     One of the singers had moved downstage for what sounded like a riff
solo, while the others provided a complex harmony.  Starbuck was
beginning to be surprised that it took only six mo uths to perform such
musical wonders.  Then he noticed that the soloist was only using her
upper mouth at that moment in order to carry the viciously sweet melody.
     "We could make a fortune if we could put those girls on the star
circuit," Starbucky yelled.  "I mean, big money, Boomer."
     Boomer raised frustrated eyebrows.
     "I really don't believe you.  Every creature in the universe may be
out to exterminate us you want to hire a vocal group!"
     "Oh, have a little vision, willya?  Who knows how much longer this
stupid war's gonna last---I mean, the way things are, it might be over
now and we just don't know abou tit.  Whatever, eventually we're no
longer of any use to anybody and get mustered out and dumped.  Then
what'll we be?  Antiquated, burned-out war daggits."
     "Seems to me optimistic to plan on being burned out.  Stop counting
your pension money, Bucko!  We may be lucky if we last till tomorrow
morning."
     "What do you mean?"
     "People are disappearing."
     "Who's disappearing?"
     "I'm not sure, but I've picked up some talk, some weird stuff about
guests who just drop out of sight."
     "The tour you mean?  Boomer, it's a big place hand they have some
kind of tour a lot of people are going on before leaving for home."
     "Home?  What home?  I just told you, nobody heard of anybody going
home!  And what home're they going to go to now?"
     "You ask too many questions."
     "And you're not acting like yourself.  Something's gotten to you,
Starbuck.  I'm telling you.  Something's not right around here."
     "Well they are.  Listen to them."
     The trio was building to their big finish.  The two Caladans singing
harmony hit a sustained chord, while the soloist's voice rose and rose
and rose.  Then, just at the final beat, the singer's lower mouth came
open and emitted a resounding note that not only put a sensational capper
on the piece of music but smashed the glass in Starbuck's hand to pieces. 
The audience broke into tumultuous applause.  Flabbergasted, Starbuck
rose from his seat, shouting:
     "I gotta talk to them."
     Boomer started pounding the surface of the table, hollering.
     "I don't believe it!  I don't believe it!"
     Starbuck rushed toward the stage, trying to catch the attention of
the Calandana singers.

*****

     The unpleasant sweetness of the air, the slightly repulsive richness
of the food, and the raucous noise of the chancery all affected Apollo,
while Serina seemed to revel in it.
     "I've spent too much of my life on my career," she said. "Fought too
many petty battles with too many venal people just to get a picture
center right, a news item reported correctly.  I don't know how to relax. 
I'm trying to learn.  Will you help me?"
     "I've got some ideas," Apollo said. "Let's try the garden."
     "You're on, Captain."
     The centerpiece of the casino garden was a founding from which
purple wine seemed to emerge as tiny waterfalls from between foliage. 
People scooped out portions of the liquid into golden goblets with broad
handles.  Then they held the goblets over the tiny fires that encircled
the fountain.  The result, as Apollo and Serina soon found out, was a
tantalizing concoction which seemed to mix hot and cold in delicious
bursts of taste.  The Galactica's crew, who had been among the first to
sample the mixture, had nicknamed it "grog."  It was not only delicious,
it seemed to have some aphrodisiac effect, as the couples who sneaked off
into the surrounding foliage indicated.
     After taking a sip, Apollo found it difficult not to suggest a
little trip into the trees to Serina.  He was jarred out of his romantic
mood, by the ugly voice of Sire Zalto who, a few feet away, doll under
his right arm, was talking with one of the other council members...Zelar,
the representative from Piscera.
     "I had a long talk with what's-her-name, their queen," Zalto was
saying.  
     "He had a long talk," his dummy supplied.
     "She's very kind, generous and absolutely gorgeous.  She said she
was happy we seemed to like it here so."
     "I'll say," Zelar said.  "Zalto, have you seen the guest
accommodations?  They're as opulent as sa king's palace and endless. 
Endless.  If this planet could fly, it could see us to our destination in
style."
     "Who said it needs to fly?"
     Zalto kissed a pretty young woman at his side.  Apollo thought it
was a different pretty young woman than the one who had clung to him at
the time of the arrest.  A shudder ran up Apollo's spine as he listened
to the two buriticians and their drunken rhetorice.  Zalto continued.
     "That's just my point, Zelar.  Just what I talked to the queen
about.  Hey, if a man were to visualize an environment for his complete
fulfillment, he couldn't do better than this.  There's the food, all the
necessities to feed our people, and the Ubbo-Sathlas can mass-produce it. 
And,with the Ubbo-Sathlas, we've got the support of a culture quite  
content to be subservient to our needs.  When I asked the queen if we
could stay here, she said they would be happy to welcome us."
     "Yes, happy," said the doll.  "But there's just one catch."
     Zelar asked Zalto what his doll was talking about.
     "Our weapons scare the poggies out of 'em," Zalto continued.  "Comes
with being a peaceable race, y'know.  And I'll tell you something right
now:  I don't blame 'em.  Not at all.  I mean, how would you like it if a
superior race dropped down from the skies and threatened us with superior
weaponry?  You see their point?  Well, anyway, here we are so far from
the Cylons that we don't pose a threat to them.  At least, we shouldn't
pose a threat, that is, and we wouldn't, if we calm the Ubbo-Sathla's
fears by giving up our weaponry, our awesome war machines."
     It was not that Zalto had spoken so preposterously that surprised
Apollo; it was the idea that people all around him were nodding assent to
the idea.
     "Do you realize what you're saying, Sire Zalto?" Apollo said,
stepping forward into the center of the buritician's group.  Serina
stayed at the edge of the group, sipping at her grog and trying to focus
her eyes on the scene before her.
     "Aha!" Zalto's doll piped, "Our young warrior hero!"
     "Actually," Zalto told the doll, "he's more like a savior.  The son
of our godlike commander.  Don't jump down my throat too hard, Captain. 
I was just pointing out that this planet offers us a marvelous
opportunity."
     "Sounds to me like an opportunity to be murdered for good and all by
the Cylons."
     "If they even bothered with us, which they won't."
     "Sire Zalto, they destroyed our worlds!"
     "Reality check, Captain Apollo," screeched the doll, eyes seeming to
flash even brighter than they normally did.  "The Cylons attacked us
because we threatened their order."
     "Exactly right," Zalto amended.  "Isolated from them on this planet
we won't threaten them.  Especially if we disposed of our ships and
weapons.  What do you think of my proposal, young warrior?"
     "I'd hope it's the grog."
     "He hopes it's the grog," the doll mocked.
     "All right," he said, "maybe tonight it's the grog, but tomorrow..."
     Apollo whirled and walked out of the center of the circle.  Taking
Serina's arm, he led her along a garden path back toward the chancery. 
Looking back, it seemed to Serina that Sire Zalto stared after her
somewhat lecherously.
     "Don't let him ruin this wonderful glow," Serina said, a bit
woozily.  "No one could take that proposal seriously."
     "I don't know.  A lot of people were nodding right along with what
he said."
     "I'm about to nod out."
     "In that case, would you like to hear my proposal?  It's a bit more
personal."
     "Captain, I"ve been considering it for long before you ever get
around to asking it.  But I'm not sure abou tit.  Not while my head is
spinning, anyway.  Would you mind if we discussed this again after we
visit the guest quarters?"
     "Which brings me right back to my proposal:  I want to take you
there."
     "This time I want to go there to make sure Boxey's all right.  And
after that, let's hear no more proposals you can't live up to when the
grog wears off."
     A sign in the chancery elevator informed them that all guest
accommodations were on the first three levels going down.  Serina touched
the plate for level two, where she had deposited a sleepy Boxey earlier
in the evening.
     "I wonder what's on those other levels further down," Serina said,
pointing to the array of buttons on the panel.  
     "Want to have a look?" Apollo said.
     "Why not?  I'm a snoop from way back, you know.  Let's start at the
bottom and work our way up."
     She touched the plate for the bottom level. Immediately a soft voice
floated down at them from the ceiling.
     "I'm sorry, but you have indicated an incorrect stopo.  Guest
accommodations are limited to the first three levels.  All others are for
kitchen, mining, and support personnel only.  Thank you."
     Serina smiled.
     "Off limits, I think they say in your profession, Captain," she
said.
     "How very odd," Apollo muttered.
     The elevator came to a stop at level two.  A quick check of Boxey's
room showed that the boy was sleeping quite peacefully.  His arm was
curled around Muffit Two, who maintained a droid alertness, even giving
Apollo and Serina a fast once-over when they entered the room.  Apollo
pulled Serina to a dark coner and kissed her.  At first her response to
the kiss was tentative, but, in a moment, she returned his kiss.
     "Now, about my proposal..." Apollo said.
     "Let's dispense with ritual.  My room's next door.
Mmmmmm...whatever's in that grog, I'm considering taking it with me when
we leave this place."
     Arm in arm, they left Boxey's room. Muffit Two's head settled back
on a pillow, it's eyes staying open, keeping a steady watch on the
doorway.

*****

From the Adama Journals:

     I've tried many times to make entries in this journal about Baltar's
treason, but somehow I can't deal with the subject without seeing the
man's puffy egotistical face floating between me, ghostlike, and feeling
excruciating waves of hatred go through my body.  I become tense and
can't think of words.  Trying to put his treason into words would give it
a set of perimeters whose very limitations would diminish the pure an
unalterably selfish evil of the act.  And I'm not about to rationalize a
treason of such dimensions.  The acts of aliens like the Cylons or
Ubbo-Sathla are at least understandable to me as manifestations of ideas
that belong to different, perhaps ultimately incomprehensible, cultures. 
With Baltar, I can understand the ideas he spouted, and I can even
imagine the awesome selfishness that led him to sell out his own people
for rewards that seem trivial in perspective---but that doesn't bring me
any closer to a clear conception of the man himself.  It's all I can do
to make the ghost-face of him fade away.  In his evil he is alien to me,
more alien than any multi-limbed or multi-eyed creature from a different
part of the universe.

*****

CHAPTER NINE: TRAPS AND SECRETS

     On the Cylon base ship, Imperious Leader contemplated the latest
report from his centurion on Carillon's Lot.  The plan was proceeding
efficiently; more and more humans were falling prey to the lure of
Ubbo-Sathla contentment.  Nor had managed to doctor the food of several
of the human leaders (except, unfortunately, for Adama) with a drug that
helped her to sway their minds toward foolish decisions.  "I have been
successful," she'd said, "with planting the idea of unilateral
disarmament into several buriticians' minds.  Also, I have been
successful in holding back on the shipments of Tylium to the fleet in the
skies above my planet, supplying them enough of the liquid form of the
fuel to lull any suspicions they may have developed."  But the Leader
wondered if the wily Adama could really be fooled so easily.  All signs
pointed to that conclusion, but one fact that had emerged in the Leader's
many battles with Adama was trhe man's unpredictability.  If a conclusion
about him seemed obvious, then it must be questioned.
     Nevertheless, the time to act was now.
     He sent out the order that the Supreme Star Force stationed at
Arrakis be immediately launched and set on a course for Carillon's Lot
with the mission of annihilating human survivors and their spacecraft. 
This time Adama's foces would be rendered impotent, even if a few humans
did manage one of their miraculous escapeds.
     Another message came to the Leader a few moments later.  The rest of
the human fleet, the ships left behind by Adama that were traveling
toward Carillon's Lot at sublight speed, had been located.  A malfunction
in their camouflage had given their coordinates away.  The Leader
resisted an impulse to send out a force to destroy this group of wretched
and battered remnants of the human fleet.  The better strategy was,
clearly, merely to maintain surveillance on these ships.  They were
powerless and indefensible, obviously low on Tylium and supploies.  No,
the logical move was to save their destruction for later.  Adama was no
doubt in contact with the ships he had left behind.  Attacking them now
might alert a rescue fleet, and that could not be allowed.  Yes, the
waiting game seemed best for now.  It was a strategy he had learned from
the humans.
     Cylon victory was certain, the Leader told himself.  The Supreme
Star Force's larger numbers would easily overwhelm the weakened human
fleet, he told himself.  The ships left behind could be toyed with and
blasted to pieces, he told himself.  He would have Adama's head as a war
trophy, he told himself.  Nevertheless, a certain uneasiness, an
uncharacteristic tension, troubled his thoughts.

*****

     On the bridge of the Galactica, Adama paced his usual path along the
starflied.  Frequently, he made a fist out of his right hand, pounded it
into the palm of his left.
     "Fools!" he muttered once.  "Give them something to eat and all
judgment flies out of their minds.  Is there any way I can stop this
council meeting they're planning, Tigh?"
     "Nothing in the regs gives you any authority with the Council except
in regard to military affairs.  Only then can you countermand them."
     "They speak of universal disarmament.  That's  a military matter, is
it not?"
     "Technically, no.  Such decisions have always been in civilian
hands, sir.  Many believe this to be proper and logical."
     "I know, I know.  I've a firm grasp on the theories behind the
separation of military and civilan responsibility.  I even approve of it. 
In theory at least.  It's just that this group of muddleheads seem
possessed, Tigh.  I just want to go into the council room and knock
heads."
     Tigh smiled slyly and said:
     "May I remind you, sir, in all due respect, that if you had not
resigned as president of the Council you would have the privilege of
going into that council room and knocking heads."
     "I am all too aware of that, Colonel.  All too painfully aware."
     In the meeting room, the buriticians eyed Adama's entrance with
apprehensive caution.  To Adama, they looked curious, as if they had been
physically transformed into total strangers.
     Before taking his seat, which had been placed to one side to denote
his present lack of status on the Council, Adama said, "What, may I ask,
is the purpose of this special council?
     Gant, the new president, gestured at the chair and replied.
     "Adama, please respect the order of business until called upon by
this chair."
     Adama sat, his anger growing.  Even Gant, who'd once been his ally,
seemed odd now.  The emaciated old buritician called the meeting to
order.
     "It is the growing consensus of every man, woman, and child in this
body that to set forth into uncharted space is utter madness," Gant said.
     "Hear, hear," said the rest of the buriticians, almost in unison. 
The mutere agreement sound like a chant, orchestrated, of course, by Sire
Zalto.
     "The question is," Gant continued," what do we do about the Cylons. 
Obviously to remain here is to run the risk of discovery.  Sire Zalto has
a measure to propose. Zalto?"
     Zalto rose to his feet, surveyed the council with a smile that
displayed his smugness for all.
     "Brothers, brothers, lend me all your ears," he said unctuously.  "A
hasty attempt to outrun the Cylons spawned in the nighttime of
desperation seems foolish in broad daylight."
     Nighttime of desperation, indeed! Adama thought.  How quickly these
oily buritricians could reduce the circumstances of tragedy to a cliché. 
Did Zalto not remember the suffering, the panic, the Cylon fighters
killing our people and reducing our cities to rubble?  Did he not even
remember the joy, however momentary, he must've felt when, safe in the
plush compartments of his own luxury liner, he knew he was still alive,
one of the few survivors?  Or were men like Zalto empty of all feeling,
alive only to satisfy some instinctual greed or lust that moved them
through their shabby existences like microprocessor chips inside a droid? 
Perhaps, Adama thought, he was just seeking rational excuses for what was
in reality madness.
     "I propose," Zalto continued, with a significant glance toward
Adama, "that, instead of rushing off on a doomed mythical quest, we now
attempt to appeal for justice and mercy."
     Adama could hold back his rage no longer.  He rose to his feet,
shouting:
     "Justice from the Cylons?  Mercy?  Did you actually say that?"
     "Easy, Adama, easy," Zalto said.  His voice had dropped almost to a
whisper.  What really bothered Adama was that the other councilors had
appeared annoyed with him when he spoke and then had nodded at Zalto's
soothing imprecation.  "I know you're unhappy with us, Commander, and I
understand how you feel.  But you're a man of war, in case you've
forgotten, and to people like you gestures toward peace almost always
appear senseless.  And that's my point.  The spoils of enslaving us so
far from their base of power hardly seems worth the effort for the
Cylons."
     "Enslaving?  Base of power?" Adama, still unable to control the
anger in his voice, shouted, "Gentlemen, it's you who do you not
understand!  The kind of reason you're trying to employ might be sensible
if we were dealing with other humans, with any species whose system of
values was parallel to our own.  But these are the Cylons, gentlemen! 
They said they would not stop until every human had been exterminated. 
Not enslaved, mind you---exterminated!  We have not even had the
priviledge of dealing with their leaders openly.  All we know of them is
by interference and observation.  Why should they change their own
methods?  For that matter, why should they believe we are now willing to
accept that which we always found unacceptable?  To live under Cylon
rule?  We have always been just as adamant about that as they have been
in their avowed desire to exterminate us."
     Many of ther brows around the council table gradually began to
frown.  Perhaps, Adama thought, he was getting through the muddle.
     "Commander," Zalto said, with an obvious sense of theatrical timing,
"the Ubbo-Sathla queen Nor has observed the Cylons up close, and in much
more peaceable circumstances.  Her race has been at peace with the Cylons
for a millennium, and she assures me that victory is the Cylons' only
goal.  It's a matter of satisfying their codes of order.  If any
individual enemy or group of enemies still roam the universe, then they
feel it's their duty to exterminate them---to wipe out the flaw in their
sense of order, I suppose.  But we can remove that flaw."
     "How?" Adama asked, even though part of him didn't really want to
know.
     "By destroying our arms to proved we're willing to live in peace."
     "Destroy our only means of defense!"
     "Or attack.  As you recall, brothers, we were once at peace with the
Cylons.  We didn't have conflict with them until we intervened in their
relations with other nations."
     Adama struggled to keep from coming to blows with Zalto.  He
wondered briefly whether, if Adama sprung upon him suddenly, the man
would refuse to fight back.
     ""Yes," Adama said, "you are right.  We didn't come into conflict
with the Cylons until we defended our neighbors whom the Cylons wished to
enslave.  And, until we helped the Sobrams get back their nation, which
was taken by force by the Cylons."
     "That's right," Zalto said.  "Which only serves to prove my point. 
All we have to do is mind our own business, and the Cylons'll leave us
alone.  It's just that simple."
     Again the other buriticians, satisfied with Zalto's rhetorical
flourish, murmured approval.  Adama could see there was no point in
trying to get through to them with anything resembling logic.  He had
made his contingency plans.  It ws now time to put them into effect.  He
addressed the council in a quiet but tense voice.
     "Gentlemen, if we have come to this table to turn our backs on the
principles of hluman reason and compassion, the principles of our fathers
and the Lords of Kobol, from whom our Twelve Colonies evolved, we do so
with my utter contempt!"
     He turned and strode quickly from the room.  After he had left, many
of the buriticians squirmed in their seats.  Zalto turned to them and
spoke.
     "These warriors!  They're always the last to recognize the
inevitability of change.  The Commander's always been fond of telling us
we don't have a choic, which always means to endorse his ideas slavishly. 
Fortunately, we've got a choice:  life or death."
     "I supbmit that an issue this grave should be decided by the
people," Sire Zelar said.
     "The military will be difficult to convince," Gant said.  "How do
you propose we present so delicate a matter?"
     After an uneasy pause, Zalto said:
     "How about we do so at a celebration? People are always easier to
deal with at a celebration.  Let's hold a celebration to decorate those
three brave youngsters who, at the risk of their lives, opened the
Carillon's Lot minefield for us.  Without them, we'd still be on the
other side, starving.  One of the pilots was Adama's son, Captain Apollo,
that right?"
     Some members of the council cheered their support of Zalto, happy
that some solution had been found.  Others applauded, impressed by
Zalto's clever stratagem of including Apollo in the celebration.
     "That's a brilliant suggestion, Zalto," Gant said.  "Why, that's
just the tonic our people need at this moment---some old-fashioned,
honest-to-goodness heroes!"
     "You took the words right out of my mouth," Zalto said, his smile a
bit more malicioius than usual.

*****

     Starbuck had spent a great deal of time trying to convince the lead
singer of the Caladana group that he could hurl them from this dinky
little engagement in an outworld chancery into a full-fledged big-time
career.  The singer had not responded to Starbuck's pleadings.  She had
merely sat nervously, a fat fumarello in her lower mouth, looking around
the chancery as if she expected to see spies everywhere.  Starbuck had
gone as far as to offer them a seventy-thirty split, with him picking up
transportation costs.  But the singer had merely said she didn't think it
would work out, and that she couldn't talk about it anyway.  When he had
tried to press her on the subject, she had only become more nervous. 
Leaving her dressing room, he noticed that her apparent fear of spies was
justified.  An Ubbo-Sathla jumped behind a nearby stage curtain.
     The next day, as Starbuck sprawled in his room in the guest
quarters, his head throbbing with a hangover, Boomer rushed into the room
and sat on the bed so heavily that the bounce sent waves of pain through
Starbuck's head.
     "Out of the bunk, Starbuck.  Captain Apollo's sent out a muster
call, and he asked especially for you."
     "Boomer, I've been lying her thinking, about what you said last
night.  I'm beginning to agree with you.  Something's going on around
her.  Something----bad." 
     "Well, whatever it is'll have to wait.  We're going to have to go
back to the Galactica."
     "What for?"
     "Our dress uniforms."
     "Dress uniforms? Look, Boomer, I hate dress uniforms and I've got a
head that won't go through one of those tight collars.  I'll pass, thank
you very much."
     "Starbuck, one does not accept our people's highest honor, the
Golden Cluster, in battle dress."
     Boomer's information made Starbuck sit up.  Too soon, as it
happened, for his head seemed to explode.  No matter.  He was too amazed.
     "A star cluster?  You're kidding!"
     "You got it.  For that matter, me too.  All three of us who went
into that minefield blind.  Apollo, too."
     Starbuck smiled.
     "Hey," he said, "that's all right.  Doesn't some kind of pay raise
go with that?"
     Boomer laughed, while shaking his head in disbelief.  
     "You're hopeless," he muttered, "absolutely hopeless."

*****

     Serina walked Apollo to the shuttle that was to take him back to the
Galactica to get ready for the awarding of the star cluster and to
respond to a request from his father for a meeting.  Boxey and Muffit Two
trailed along behind them.
     "It was a wonderful night," she whispered to Apollo.
     "For me, too," he said. "And thanks for letting me get all of that
stuff out of my system about Zac.  I feel better.  It'll take a while for
the guilt to evaporate, as you suggest, but at least I feel better about
myself."
     "You should.  You're very valuable, Captain Apollo.  A walking lode
of Tylium, one might say."
     "And just as dangerous?"
     "Well, it depends on what state you're in, doesn't it, just like
Tylium?"
     "You may have a point there."
     At the shuttle gangway, he kissed her goodbye, to the obvious
delight of the young lieutenants, Starbuck and Boomer, who awaited him at
the vehcile's airlock.  After Apollo had entered the shuttle and the
gangway had retracted and she had been ordered back to a safe area,
Serina held Boxey's hand and watched the shuttle take off.  Walking back
to the casino entrance, she felt quite pleasant, content that some order
seemed to be edging its way back into her life.  Into all their lives, if
what some people said was true.  In front of her, Boxey frolicked with
Muffy.  The boy was steadily improving, too.
     An Ubbo-Sathla stood in the chancery entranceway.  When he saw
Serina approach, she started back into the building.  Serina called to
her to wait, and the Ubbo-Sathla waited, dutifully.
     "Your name is Bar-Lo, right?" Serina said.  "You conducted us on
that brief tour of the mining facility."
     "That is correct," Bar-Lo said.  "How may I serve you?"
     "Oh, you might just satisfy a former newswoman's curiosity, that's
all."
     "What is 'newswoman?'"
     Serina had extreme difficulty explaining to the alien what a
newswoman was.  Bar-Lo seemed to think reporting the activies of others a
bit sinful, however newsworthy.
     "I was fascinated," Serina said, "by the, well, the order of your
society and I certainly couldn't help but be impressed by your industry,
your complete dedication.  I've never seen anything like it.  I mean, one
gest the impression that those people in the mines work until they simply
drop."
     She wondered if she was sounding too naïve.  Bar-Lo's answer,
however, was noncommittal.
     "It's just that we know no other way."
     "Well then," Serina said, edging close to her real question, "what
about family institutions?  I somehow sense that something is mission." 
Bar-Lo appeared a bit ruffled.  Both of his hands were in motion
expansively as he spoke.
     "We are very complete."
     "What about children?"
     "Children..."
     Bar-Lo seemed uncomfortable with the subject.
     "I---I don't mean to pry," Serina said, even though prying was
exactly her intention, "but I couldn't help but notice the lack of child
and teenage Ubbo-Sathlas.  Surely there must be children someplace. 
Who's going to take over all this when you and your queen grow old and
die?  Perhaps you keep your children at home..."
     "There are no children." 
     Bar-Lo's high pitched tone became harsh and authoritarian.  
     "I beg your pardon?"
     The Ubbo-Sathla glared at her malevolently with his inhuman
neon-green eyes.  "There never have been children."
     "That's impossible!  How do you..."
     "That is none of your business. Please drop the subject, lest you
risk my wrath."
     Serina sighed, and lowered her head, as if in shame.  "I'm sorry.  I
guess there are, well, some things about your people that just aren't
worth looking into."
     She wanled away from Bar-Lo, wondering why he had become so agitated
at the mention of children.  Sometimes a newswoman's instincts had its
drawbacks. 

*****

     Apollo was surprised to see only a token crew manning the bridge of
the Galactica.  His father, engaged in a routine check of equipment with
Colonel Tigh, turned to greet his son warmly.  Apollo felt happy that he
could be comfortable with his father again.
     "Tigh was just briefing me on current operations," Adama said.  "he
wants to be at the celebration planetside.  I offered to relieve him for
the night.  Strictly as a favor."
     "You don't feel like seeing your son getting a star cluster, then?"
Apollo asked, puzzled.
     Adama smiled.
     "It's well deserved, Apollo.  But there's more to this, this award
ceremony than just honoring you and Starbuck and Boomer.  My presence
would somehow verify Zalto's strategy, and that's all this ceremony is,
just one of his ploys."
     "Ploy?  That seems strange---saluting his greatest rivals son as a
ploy."
     "That's exactly what it is, though.  He'll propose destroying our
arms at the celebration.  He's hoping for a cascade of emotion that'll do
the damage before anyone realizes what they've done."
     Apollo cursed his own stupidity----of course, anything that Zalto
had set up should've been suspect from the very beginning.  After
observing Zalto the previoius night by the grog fountain, Apollo
should've known the man was plotting something.  
     "But you can stop him!" Apollo said to Adama.
     "Not any more, I'm afreaid.  Haven't you heard the talk?  The
gossip?  I'm the villain, at least to most of the population, who are
willing to believe anything the zany Zalto tells them.  I got us into
this predicament, according to him."
     "How couldn't anybody believe that.  Surely not the majority of our
people."
     "The majority, at last for the present, stand with Zalto.  You must
remember, Apollo, what they've been through."
     "I'm compassionate, Father.  I inherited that from you.  But this
isn't the time, it's---Father, you've got to speak out, to the people."  
     Adama took a deep breath before responding to Apollo's plea.
     "I'm retired, Apollo.  Except for running this ship and certain
phases of the total operation, I'm out of the game."
     "I don't believe you're saying that!  This isn't you.  What's
happened?  Help me understand."
     It was all he could do for Adama to maintain an aloof stance, when
he wanted to embrace his son.
     "You'll understand, son.  In time, you'll understand."
     Apollo started to speak, then thought better of it, and walked away
from the bridge.
     Tigh came to Adama's side.
     "That wasn't easy for you, not telling him," Tigh said.
     "I need him down there at the ceremony. If I told him, he'd insist
on staying at my side.  The gamble is mine. If I win, we all win."
     "But, if you're wrong, Zalto will have your head on a platter."
     Adama looked out at the starfield.  He felt confidence returning to
him for the first time since he had assembled the ragtag fleet.  
     "I am not wrong," he said. "The Cylons lured me into their malicious
deception once."  His eyes narrowed, and he looked like the old Adama of
galactic legend. "Never again!"
     He turned to Tigh, his eyes glowing with eagerness to act. 
     "Report.  The livestock."
     "All being lifted off the surface of the planet now.  No
interference."
     "Report.  The agricultural project."
     "Everything harvested, sir.  The project will be completed soon."
     "Report.  The fuel."
     "Another token load just arrived.  Barely.  Darn near exploded when
the pilot set it down on the deck a bit too heavily.  Other loads seem
ready to be launched from the surface, but the Ubbo-Sathlas are
stalling."
     "Don't make them suspicious.  But get as much Tylium from them as
you can."
     "Yes, sir."
     "Hop to it, Colonel!"
     Tigh was already in action.  As usual.  Around them, the crew seemed
to respond to the commander's newfound and boisterous energy.  Adama
remembered some story from his childhood about a sleeping giant
awakening.

*****

     Apollo, waiting with Serina for the guest elevator to take them to
the casino, could not stop thinking of his father's refusal to bring his
case to the people.  Something had to be done about Zalto, or they would
suddenly discover that the eccentric buritician had eased himself into a
position of absolute power.
     "Write me a poem!' Serina said suddenly, clearly to break him out of
his mood.
     "I couldn't," Apollo said, stirred out of his reverie.  "You don't
know what you're asking."
     "Oh, but I do.  It'd mean a lot to me."
     She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek, muttering, "I'll do
better in private."
     "Why not?" Edgar growled.
     Apollo was about to suggest something even more specific for their
later privacy, when he was distracted by a passing man who wore the dress
uniform of the Galactica. The man, whose collar was clearly too large for
his neck and whose sleeves seemed to hang down past his knuckles, seemed
a shade too old for combat duty.  Apollo's scrutiny was so obvious that
the man noticed.  He turned away uncomfortably and headed for the nearest
corridor, as if to escape.
     "What's the matter?" Serina asked.
     "The man's insignia is Blue Squadron.  I thought I knew everyone in
it.  I don't recall ever seeing him before."
     "Maybe he transferred in from one of the other units."
     "I know most of them also.  And did you see the fit of the uniform?"
     "How often do you guys get to wear your dress blues?  He probably
bought it when he was a couple of sizes larger and hasn't worn it for
yahrens."
     "I hadn't thought of that."
     "In any case, the guest of honor fits into his uniform quite
neatly---and looks delicious, I might add."
     He squeezed her hand.  But, in spite of her glowing smile, he
couldn't get the sight of the officer in the oversized uniform out of his
head.

*****

     The Ubbo-Sathlas, as anxious to serve as ever, had rearranged the
whole chancery for the award ceremony.  Colored lights had been arranged
in flower-like patterns to add to the festive atmosphere.  Acrobats and
entertainers of many species peformed their acts at one end of the
massive room. The men in full military dress uniform completed the
decorative picture.
     Starbuck could not get his shoulders to relax.  As he and Boomer
waited by the podium for the celebration to begin, he couldn't stop
fidgeting.  Boomer appeared to be equally uncomfortable.
     "Have I ever told you how lovely I think you are in a dress
uniform?" Boomer said, in a strained attempt to be cheerful.
     "Just get me out of here," Starbuck said irritably.  "Warriors don't
mix with all this pomp and..."
     "Careful.  Guests of honor don't curse.  It's not etiquette."
     It came from the doll tucked underneath Sire Zalto's left arm.  The
latter swaggered up to them.
     "Where's Captain Apollo?" Zalto said.
     "Business aboard the Galactica," Starbuck said. "He'll be along."
     Zalto regarded the roomful of people, which was dominated by the
Galactica's dress blues.
     "From the uniforms, I'd deduce that most of our warriors are here,"
Zalto said.  
     "What a shame Captain Apollo's not," said the doll.
     "Well, Sire Zalto," Starbuck said, "I'm always a big draw."
     Zalto, not certain how to take Starbuck's sarcasm, strode away,
seeking another detail to attend to.  Boomer pulled at Starbuck's sleeve.
     "Don't spoil the crease," Starbuck said. "What is it?"
     "Those three guys over there, watching the acrobats, can you tell me
who they are?"
     Starbuck studied the three men, all of whom wore ill-fitting
Colonial Fleet uniforms.
     "Nope, Boomer.  Darned if I kow.  Sure have lousy tailors, or else
all the fun and games down here's tiring them out."
     "Starbuck, you should know them!"
     "Why in Hades should I know them?"
     "They're wearing insignia from our squadron."
     Starbuck peered at the oddly attired trio.  Suddenly he started
walking toward them, shouting back to Boomer, "Don't let them start the
festivities without me."
     One of the three men saw Starbuck coming, and he pointed to him for
the benefit of the other two.  Immediately the three began to walk toward
the elevators.  Starbuck picked up his pace, trying to close in on them.

*****

     Getting off the elevator, Apollo was bumped roughly by a man in a
Galactica uniform.  He was about to dress the violator down but the
elevator doors closed in his face.  There had been something odd about
the man and his companions. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned to Boxey
and said:
     "The Ubbo-Sathlas've really fixed up this place attractively,
haven't they?"
     "I don't like them," the boy said laconically.
     Serina whispered to Apollo, "Boxey's a little miffed because some
Ubbo-Sathla tried to prevent him from bringing Muffit to the
celebration."
     "I see he won the dispute."
     Apollo gestured toward the daggit-droid in the boy's arms.
     "Of course he did," Serina said. "He's in training to be an officer
of the Galactica, isn't he?"
     Starbuck came running up to Apollo, saying, "Captain, those men that
just got on the elevator..."
     "Yes, I have a strong tactile impression of one of them, but what's
it all about?"
     "Something's going on around here, and I don't like the feel of it
at all," Starbuck said. "I think those three were imposters.  Somebody
else wearing our uniforms, or duplicates of our uniforms.  Can we talk?"
     "Of course, Serina, will you excuse me?"
     "Sure, but not for long, okay?  I'll take Boxey and get something to
eat."
     Muffit Two sprang out of the boy's arms and ran into the main room
of the chancery, Boxey running after him.
     "Gotta go," Serina said. "But you two, don't be long.  You don't
want to miss your own honors ceremony."
     As she walked off, Starbuck took Apollo to a quiet corner.
     "Now, what's this about imposters," Apollo said, remembering the man
in the ill-fitting uniform he had spotted near the elevator.
     "I don't know," Starbuck said. "I've been running into people all
night who aren't from our squadron.  But they're wearing our squadron's
colors."
     "Yes, I saw one of them myself.  We'd better find out what's going
on."
     The elevator door slid open and the two men rushed into it.

*****

     It took a long time for Cassiopeia to find a dark place where she
could get away from the crowd of people.  A dark place for her dark mood. 
When she had arrived at the chancery, Starbuck had been distant with her,
and she didn't care for the young lieutenant's mercurial moods.  Then the
wretched and lecherous Sire Zalto had made about twenty indiscreet
proposals to her, following her around while she denied him his every
wish until he finally gave up, muttering that no damn socialator should
dark to insult him like that.  Finally, the festive atmosphere had
depressed her more, and she knew she needed to sulk for a while, work
some of the sadness out of her system.
     What she found was a plush chair which had been placed behind an
ornate screen.  She flopped down onto it and shut her eyes.  The darkness
did not enclose her as it should have, as it usually did when she
employed the meditation techniques she had acquired in her training as a
socialator.  Too many other scenes intruded.
     Her winning of the highest academic honors and the awarding of the
golden fringe which she was allowed to wear along the neck and hem lines
of her street-robe.  The award required Gemonese males to treat her with
a special dignity.
     Her selection as a socialator officer and its accompanying privilege
of teaching the young.  
     Her long intermittent love affair with a Gemonese artist, his
kindess to her, the way she had felt when he had not turned up among the
refugees.
     Her one disastrous night with Starbuck, the only man who had treated
her with an extra kindness in a long time.  Why couldn't he...
     An Ubbo-Sathla, apparently stepping out of the wall, interrupted her
thoughts.  Before she could say anything, the alien had placed a hand on
Cassiopeia's mouth and started dragging her to a concealed pod-elevator
in the wall.

*****

     Serina responded to Sire Zalto's gesture to approach the podium.  He
asked her where Captain Apollo was.
     "He'll be here in a moment," she said, "I'm sure."
     Zalto looked toward Boomer, the only one of the three awardees on
the platform.
     "Find your two friends and tell them we're going to begin," Zalto
said, "with or with them."
     Boomer snapped to and jumped off the podium, a weak smile on his
face.
     "I'd like to speak with you later," Zalto whispered to Serina,
"Alone."
     "Drown yourself in the grog fountain," Serina said sweetly and moved
off.

*****

     Bar-Lo could not figure out why he was disturbed about the operation
that seemed to be progressing in the chancery and within the several
levels of the Ubbo-Sathla colony.  The Colonial warriors, most of them,
had been assembled for the award celebration.  They would be easy targets
when the proper time came.  His troops were successfully abducting humans
who wandered away from the main body and taking them to the lower levels. 
Everything he had been ordered to see to had been done.  Still, he felt
troubled.
     The Cylon centurion walked arrogantly into the throne room and both
he and his queen automatically bowed.
     "By your command," Nor said.
     "Speak," said the centurion.
     "The humans are in full attendance."
     "How many warriors?"
     "We have counted more than two hundred."
     "My reports indicate that number as very near the full compliment. 
A very good effort, Nor."
     The centurion's condescending compliment sent a shiver of distaste
through Bar-Lo's body.
     "We are, but to serve," Nor said in her soft deep voice.
     "You have served well.  See that the humans remain entertained until
the end."
     "How will we know..."
     "When the Galactica is destroyed, the night will be as bright as a
thousand suns, for a quick moment, then there will be darkness.  Eternal
darkness for the humans.  And their remnants will be yours, for your
lower chambers."
     "We are very grateful, centurion."
     "Acknowledged."
     Nor and Bar-Lo bowed and backed out of the throne room.

*****

     Apollo and Starbuck could find no trace of the three strange men in
Galactica uniforms on the guest accommodation levels.
     "They've got to be down here someplace," Starbuck muttered in
frustration.  "If they aren't here, they must've reached another level."
     "The other levels aren't accessible to humans."
     "They are to Ubbo-Sathlas.  Maybe somebody gave them a free trip. 
You know, I've been wondering; just how inaccessible are the other
levels?"
     "That speculation's crossed my mind, too.  Shall we try?"
     "After you, Captain."
     They returned to the elevator.  Inside the car, Apollo drew his
weapon, aimed it at the control panel and fired.  The thin red beam
pierced the metal of the panel and, in an near-perfect circle, a section
of the control panel above the selection touchplates was severed, falling
to the floor.  Inside the panel, several wires were cut by the beam from
Apollo's sidearm.  
     Staring at the dangling wires, Starbuck commented, "You realize
that's private property."
     Apollo smiled.
     "I think we owe it to them to try to put it back together," he said.
"Any suggestions?"
     "Yes, sir.  I'd suggest you try tapping those little critters there
together."
     Apollo connected a pair of the wires.  As soon as they touched, the
elevator car came to life again and began moving downward.
     "You're a gambler," Apollo said. "Pick a level."
     "I say we take a look at what's farthest from the guest rooms."
     "Agreed."
     Apollo pressed the touchplate for the lowest level.  No soft
forbidding voice intruded and criticized this time.

*****

     Her abductor carried Cassiopeia down several levels to a dark,
cavernous chamber.  She struggled all the way, and the Ubbo-Sathla had to
call in reinforcements in a high-pitched but ominous voice.  The group of
Ubbo-Sathlas flung her onto a massive table and, before she could squirm
off, a large canopylike cover came rapidly down form the ceiling and
sealed off her escape.  Tubing leading into the canopy started pumping in
a dark reddish gas.  Cassiopeia tried to hold her breath but, looking
down at her arm, she saw that the gas penetrated her skin.  Her mind told
her to scream, but her body was beginning to feel extremely comfortable,
extremely contaent.  As the tension rushed out of her, she looked out the
transparent canopy.  The Ubbo-Sathlas were opening what appeared to be
large pods.  In a trio of other pods three men in Galactica dress uniform
were nestled snugly, calm expressions on their faces.  Cassiopeia smiled
at them and managed a weak wave.  She was dimly aware of some human
voices moaning in the distance.

*****

     Moaning was the first sound Apollo noticed as he and Starbuck
stepped in the oppressive atmosphere of the lower level corridor. 
Drawing his sidearm, he gestured to Starbuck to follow him in the
direction of the sound.
     "You're the leader," Starbuck whispered.
     Right after they turned into a corridor, they heard a chattering
noise behind them.  Recognizing the sound as the Ubbo-Sathla language,
Apollo whirled around ready to fire.  However, the Ubbo-Sathlas were
gathered around the elevator, examining the damage Apollo and Starbuck
had caused, and arguing among themselves.  Their queen, Nor, swept up and
examined the damaged car control.  Her excited chatter sent the other
Ubbo-Sathlas scurrying in all directions.
     "They're gonna be looking for us," Apollo whispered.  "Let's move."
     As he started running forward, he thought he heard the sound of a
daggit barking ahead of him.

*****     

     Serina finally located Boxey on the other side of the massive
chancery.  He was, as usual, chasing after Muffit Two.  The daggit-droid
was sniffing around a decorated screen that blocked off a small part of
the room.  As if picking up a trail, Muffit scampered behind the screen.
     "Come back here, you daggit!" Boxey hollered, and ran after the pet.
     Serina smiled. It was time to herd in Boxey and Muffy, get them both
something to eat.  She went behind the screen, and saw an overturned
chair.  And nothing else.  Boxey and his daggit were not there.
     All right, don't panic, she told herself, somehow they got back into
the chancery.  She rushed back into the main room.  On the podium, Sire
Zalto had made some excuses for the missing guests of honor and was
launching into a speech about rebirth, about wiping the slate clean of
animosities, of displaying peace to their former enemies.
     People were applauding.  There was a madness in the room, she
thought.  Where was Boxey?  Where was Apollo?  Why were there so many
Ubbo-Sathlas slowly gathering, as if in ranks, near the exits of the
chancery?
     She started walking fast, looking for somebody she could trust, and
finding no one.

*****

     Apollo and Starbuck leaned against a corridor wall, out of breath.  
     "I'm beginning to think you're right," Apollo said.
     "About what?"
     "Your suspicions.  About something being wrong here."
     "But what? What's the connection between the chancery and the luxury
quarters, and all of this?"
     "I suggest we get out of here, then figure that one out."
     Ubbo-Sathla chattering plus the sound of barking up aheahed brought
Apollo away from the wall.  He began to run down the corridor toward the
sounds, Starbuck following close behind.  The agitated growling of the
daggit-droid was the equivalent of a guidance system.  They turned a
corner and saw Muffit Two, snapping at an Ubbo-Sathla who seemed puzzled
by the animal automaton.  The Ubbo-Sathla kept reaching for Muffit, and
then springing back when the daggit leaped toward him, steel teeth
gleaming.  Boxey came out of a nearby corridor, hollering, "Muffit? 
Muffit?" The Ubbo-Sathla moved toward the boy, drawing a small but
sharp-looking thin-bladed knife from her belt.  Boxey cowered backward as
the Ubbo-Sathla raised the weapon.
     "Run, Boxey!" Apollo shouted.
     The boy ran toward Apollo.  The Ubbo-Sathla whirled around. Starbuck
emerged into the dim light and sent a beam of laser fire through the
alien, who seemed to collapse inward as he fell to the ground.
     "Let's get out of here," Apollo said, sweeping Boxey into his arms.
     "The elevator," Starbuck shouted.
     "Muffy!" Boxey yelled.  The daggit yelped and followed after them. 
They stoopped at at the corridor archway leading to the lobby in front of
the elevator bank.  Apollo peered around the corner.
     "Oh, God, no!" he muttered, springing back against the wall.
     "What?" Starbuck whispered.
     "There's a crowd of Cylons collecting there.  A whole regiment, it
looks like."
     "Cylons!  But how'd they get here?"
     "They must be able to key a path through the minefield.  Either
that, or..."
     "Or what, Apollo?"
     "Or the Galactica's under attack.  Dammit!  That's why the award
ceremony.  To get us down here while the Cylon's sneak-attacked us. 
Father's up there with just a skeleton crew.  He's probably..."
     Muffit Two, peeking out of the archway, began to bark. Apollo
looked. Several Cylons were looking toward the archway, light beaming out
from their helmets.  When they saw Muffit and Apollo looking out, an
officer pointed toward them, and a platoon started running their way.
     "Let's get out of here!" Apollo screamed, and they broke into a run. 
The daggiti-droid held ground for a mo ment, yelping at the Cylons, then
scampered after the retreating humans.

*****

     The leathery leaves of the pod were gently wrapped around
Cassiopeia's body.  They felt soft and velvety.  Ubbo-Sathlas picked up
the pod and carried her out of the chamber.  She began to feel dizzy. 
The feeling of peace seemed to be wearing off.  The pod leaves were
wrapped too tightly about her. She could not move her arms or legs.  Her
entire body was becoming numb.  She opened her mouth to scream, but no
sound could be forced out.
     They arrived at another large cavern.  Lying around its floor,
filling almost the entire surface, were many pods.  Flowing down the wall
at the far end of the room were what appeared to be a series of black
treacles, neither solid nor transparent.  Upon touching ground, they
actually flowed like big black pools of liquid toward each pod.  Then
they reared up, stood on what appeared to be their two feet and assumed
the unmistakable forms  of Ubbo-Sathlas upon reaching their full height.
     Most of the pods, Cassiopeia could now see, contained human beings,
but, if you squinted at them, you could see that they were quite dead. 
Squinting her eyes even more, she could clearly make out what the cause
of that was----two puncture wounds on the neck!  The Ubbo-Sathlas
appearently were fedding on the guests, biting into their necks and
drinking their blood dry!  
     Cassiopeia's voice returned in a sudden, piercing scream.

*****

From the Adama Journals:

     On the day when his petition to run for a minor political office on
his home planet of Sagitara was granted, Arcon came to visit us on
Caprica.  I was home on furlong at the time, during one of those lulls
that seemed to occur when the Cylons withdrew fror a time from the fray.
Ila was always happy to have Arco visit (at a much later time she asked
me never to allow him into the house again) and the two of them had a
great time chatting about the kind of literacy and cultural matters that
they enjoyed so much.  I was content to listen to them and watch the
antics of my two-yahren-old son, Apollo.  (Athena and Zac were yahrens in
the future).  We had a tiny pet then, a rascally daggit whose main
purpose in life was to trip up intruding human feet, and Apolloused to
love to charge at the animal, hear it yip, run away, and then turn
waiting for Apollo to charge at it again.  He loved that daggit and was
terribly broken up three yahrens later from some mysterious daggit
disease.  Ila and I had a bad time convincing him that his pet's death
was not in any way his fault.
     Anyway, Arcon could not hold in his good cheer during that visit. 
He bubbled over with happiness and optimistic hopes for the future.  I
don't remember much of what he said, but I suppose his main message was
the one he used to much sinister purpose later---that he planned to push
this business of the war to its finale.  He felt the war was bogged down
by the corruption of the buriticians running it (I was glad, at least,
that he didn't blame the military, as I'd just taken over the helm of the
Galactica at the time and was quite sensitive about its record).  The
main goal had to be peace, he must have said. I don't actually remember
what he did say.  All I really recall was his joy and his enthusiasm. 
They rubbed off on both of us, Ila and me.  Anyway, he was half in love
with Ila and she was half in love with him.
     On the day he left to go back and run his campaign, we joined hands,
the three of us, and made a lot of foolish vows, none of which I wish to
record here.  All I care to remember is the touch of their hands, his and
Ila's and the smiles that we couldn't wipe off our faces.  That we should
hold hands and smile was, at the time, so normal, so steeped in the
tradition of our friendships and loves, that we never suspected it was
the last time the three of us would be together like that.  Oh, we were
together again a number of times, but Arcon always brought a feeling of
strategy to those visits, a sense that our times together in the past
were part of a storybook whose tales were not particularly readable for
him any more.
     After Arcon left, Ila hugged me for a long time.  She seemed sad.  I
never did know why, though I asked the question often enough at the time. 
She said she just felt sad.  Then the daggit, with Apollo after him, ran
between my legs, and I fell to the ground.  As Ila laughed and helped me
up, she said she'd forgotten to ready anything for lunch and would I
accept leftovers.  I said, "What are you laughing at?  Of course I'll
accept leftovers."  She said I looked absurd falling to the ground and
would I fix us a couple of cocktails.  I hugged her again.  To this day I
can feel vividly the way her body nestled against mine.

*****

CHAPTER TEN: THE BATTLE 

     Adama kept a constant surveillance of the Carillon's Lot work
activities.  Shuttles from the agricultural project hastened toward the
Galactica and other ships, with a harvest beyond original predictions of
crop yield.  The last request for a new Tylium load had been met with the
usual Ubbo-Sathla polite phrasings that more would be sent soon, after
they had corrected a malfunction in their processing machinery.  Tigh,
angry, complained that a number of tankers sat on the surface.  Scanners
showed them filled with Tylium in its volatile liquid form.  Adama told
his negotiators to keep trying.  He was pleased to learn that one of the
tankers had been dispatched, and he personally oversaw the meticulous
landing of the battered-looking ship on one of the Galactica's decks.  An
officer reported on the successful boarding of the food stores, and Adama
ordered all agricultural personnel to be shuttled off the planet.  With
the livery and agricultural workers returned, that left only the people
collected in the chancery for the awards ceremony still on the planet. 
His sense of timing suggested he wait a few moments before sending out a
recall order.  He would have liked to bring up Apollo immediately, but
that was impossible.  However, he put Tigh on alert, reacting to the
Colonel's report that a group of Ubbo-Sathlas in the chancery were acting
strangely.
     Athena, who had been manning the scanners directed planetside,
reported an unusual number of aircraft and a lot of ground movement on
Carillon's Lot.  The exceptional darkness of the planet made it difficult
to specifiy, she said, exactly what was going on.  At least one aircraft
appeared to have emerged from the cloud cover now hanging over a large
portion of the night hemisphere.  The trajectory seemed to indicate the
rather large aircraft had emerged from the dense center of the minefield.
     "Is that possible?" she asked her father.
     "Yes, if..."
     "If what?"
     "If they're in possession of information allowing them to pass
through the minefield with safety."
     "But such a large ship."
     "Were you able to get a good outline of it for scanning?"
     "Negative on that one, Father.  The darkness and the cloud cover and
the gathering precipitation made it impossible."
     "Yes, I see.  Very good, Athena."
     "You have a suspicion about the ship, don't you, Father?"
     Adama considered whether there was any danger in telling her.  The
time seemed to have rrived to employ Athena's strategic acumen.
     "I think it just might be a troop carrier."
     It took a moment for the information to sink in, then Athena said,
"Cylons?"
     "Possibly."
     She returned to her duty.  On the scanner screens, movements which
had seemd strange to her previously now began to take on a military
aspect.
     A bridge officer turned away from a scanner console, and reported.
     "Picking up a large body of objects closing toward us rapidly.  They
seem to have come out of nowhere."
     "From behind an ambush screen, no doubt," Adama muttered.
     "What was that, sir?"
     "Nothing.  Scan the objects for life forms."
     "Yes, sir."
     Athena glanced away from the consle, into his daughter's concerned
eyes.  Obviously she had heard his muttering.

*****     

     Before her father had alerted her to danger, Athena had been
wallowing in self-pity about being left behind aboard the Galactica.  Her
mind had been filled with pictures of Starbuck chasing after that
socialator.  She wished she had not reacted so rashly, throwing the key
down like that.  If she had had any sense, she would have lured Starbuck
to the guest quarters, used all her abilities to make him forget the
Gemonese woman.  It did not seem to her that men developed permanent
relationshisp with socialators, and that comforted her for a while, until
she recalled that Cassiopeia could not really be considered a socialator
anymore.  She was an ex-socialator, able to use her considerable trainng
within new social systems.
     Now, however, there was no room for jealousy.  If her growing
suspicions were correct, and what was happening on the planet below and
space above was another Cylon secret assault, then ther was no time for
petty emotions.  Why didn't her father order up the warriors, rather than
leaving them in the chancery?  The odds were already against them, and
the time wasted in lifting the warriors off Carillon's Lot might make all
the difference between defeat and victory.  She was not used to her
father being hesitant in his command role.  On the other hands, she had
not been prepared for his resignation from the council, an act that
seemed to indicated emotional disturbance.  Was it possible that her
father was cracking up, that under the tough surface pressure was
building toward an explosion of madness?  She shook her head, not wanting
to even consider that.
     Switching on the comline to Tigh, who had left his transponder open,
she asked him for a report.  
     The Ubbo-Sathlas're collecting in droves," he said.  "We might have
to make a move very soon.  If we can get this stupid crowd moving..."
     "What do you mean?"
     "They're buying up every word Zalto says.  How can they?  Listen,
I'll turn up the transmitter, and you can hear..."
     Zalto was speaking."
     "...to use this occasion to invoke a rebirth in all of us.  A wiping
the slate clean of animosities and prejudices against any living
creatures, whether a former friend or enemy..."
     The cheer that went up almost deafened Athena.  The man's speech was
effective, all right.  How could their people be so gullible?  She
remembered her father saying once, panaceas were a cubit a dozen but
solutions cost much, much more.
     "Athena?" Tigh came back on the line.
     "Yes?"
     "Tell your father I can't keep the lid on here much longer."
     "Righto, whatever that means."
     "You'll know soon enough."
     Athena's fright seemed to have doubled as she turned away from the
scanning console.

*****

     For the moment, Starbuck and Apollo had outdistanced their Cylon
pursuers.  Cylons were not known for ground speed.  Unfortunately, their
last turn had led them into a dead end.
     "How do we get out of here?" Starbuck asked.
     "I don't know."
     "Am I correct in assuming that, in addition to finding ourselves in
a cul-de-sac, we are also hoplessly lost?"
     "That's correct, Lieutenant."
     "I always like to know the odds.  Especially when they're a thousand
to one against me."
     "You can't always measure life in gambling odds, Starbuck."
     "Is that so?  Do you suggest an alternative measurement?"
     "Starbuck, those Cylons'll located us at any micron.  This is no
time to..."
     "Yeah, yeah.  But what do we do?  Go shoulder to shoulder, run out
there blasting away like we did that minefield?  And what about Boxey and
that growling machine of his, what about..."
     "Muffy's not a machine!" Boxey protested.
     Muffit perhaps felt the insult, too, for he started barking.
     "Quiet, you daggit!" Boxey said.
     The daggit started running away from them.  He ran a few steps, then
ran back.
     "What's he doing?" Starbuck said.
     "He wants us to follow him," Boxey said.  "C'mon..."
     "Boxey, I don't think now's the time to..." Apollo said, but before
he could finish Boxey had leaped out of his arms and begun to follow the
running daggit down the corridor.
     Apollo and Starbuck rushed after them.  When they had almost caught
up with the boy, the daggit turned into a  dark area in the wall that
looked like a shadow.  Boxey followed him into it.  Starbuck and Apollo
changed glances.  Closer examination showed the dark shadow to be a small
tunnel that ran between the corridor and what proved to be, when the two
men had crawled through the tunnel, a large cavern.  At first Apollo
thought it was just one of the mining areas until he looked closely at
the ground.
     "What're those?" he said to Starbuck.
     "Looks like some kind of funeral parlor to me but..."
     "My God!"
     They simultaneously perceived the humans inside the pods.  Starbuck
crouched down by a nearby pod and touched the plumpish young woman bound
inside it.
     "I think----I think I was playing Def-Ice with this woman that first
day I found the chancery.  Her name was---was---aw, I forgot it already."
     "Is she alive?" Apollo.
     "Just barely.  She's got a pulse, though.  Let me see if I
can...ulp!"
     "What is it?"
     "Her body.  It's like she's dying, but somehow not really dying. 
Something's bitten her on the neck.  I see two puncture wounds there
and----Apollo, this woman's blood is being sucked right out of her veins! 
We've gotta----"
     "We can't help her now, Starbuck.  C'mon, let's get outta here."
     "But this woman.  The others.  We can't just leave them, we..."
     "And we can't sort out who's salvageable.  We'll send a team back. 
Right now there's the Cylons.  C'mon.  Follow Muffit, he seems to know
where he's going."
     They crossed the chamber, carefully stepping over the pods, trying
not to look at their grim contents.
     Ahead of them, a group of Ubbo-Sathlas entered the cavern, carrying
four new pods.  Apollo grabbed Muffy and crouched behind the nearest pod. 
Starbuck and Boxey fell to the ground beside Apollo.
     "What's going on there?" Starbuck whispered.
     "I think they've been siphoning off people from the chancery,
bringing them down here.  That's' the reason for the chancery, the reason
they keep everybody winning and happy and fat."
     "But why?"
     "I think that should be obvious, Starbuck.  The Ubbo-Sathlas are a
race of vampiroids.  They're drinking our blood."
     "Vamp...Apollo, vampiroids are a myth, tales to frighten immature
adults.  They don't exist."
     "I guess somebody forget to tell them that."
     "Do you realize what you're saying?"
     "You saw the neck wounds on that poor woman back there.  How else do
you explain them?"
     "But if all they want is our blood, why fatten us up like cattle."
     "I'd say it's because the fatter we are, the more blood there is for
them to drink.  Hey!  Those first pods they just brought in, the men in
them look familiar."
     Starbuck squinted at the pods, which were being delicately held up
horizontally, while one of the Ubbo-Sathlas, a female, opened her mouth
as wide as she could.  The blond lieutenant nearly gagged on his own bile
as he beheld the woman's hideous fangs.  He watched in horror as she
began to sink them into the man's neck.  
     Suddenly, Starbuck said, "They're the three men we were looking
for!"
     "I thought so.  Even from here the uniforms look like bad fits."
     "And the other one----Oh no!  It's Cassiopeia!"
     Starbuck had stood up and began to run before Apollo could stop him. 
He rushed toward the pod carriers like a competitive runner, leaping over
the pods underfoot as if they were hurdles.  With a last running jump
Starbuck hurled himself on one of the Ubbo-Sathlas who had just propped
up the pod containing Cassiopeia, making ready to dine on her.
     Starbuck's move seemed to activate Muffit Two, who ran after him. 
Naturally, Boxey followed the daggit.  Apollo, still crouching behind the
pod, muttered, "Damn!" then started crawling toward Starbuck, around and
over the pods.

*****

     Bar-Lo, alerted to the disturbance by a messenger, rushed into the
pod chamber.  From another entranceway came Nor, aaccompanied by the tall
Cylon centurion.
     One of the humans, the brash young man called Starbuck, was
struggling in the grip of tow Ubbo-Sathla warriors.  As Nor approached,
she heard him say:
     "What kind of sick heathens are you?  You can't---drink her blood!"
     "Oh, but we can, Colonist," Bar-Lo said.  "It would do no good for
me to explain our origins to you, as I judge your mind too primitive to
understand our history, or even the dark powers we once served until the
Cylons conquered us. "
     Starbuck appeared to be sick.
     "You're right," he said. "I probably wouldn't understand why you do
what you do.  I don't think I'd want to understand."
     Bar-Lo showed no reaction to his remark as he continued.  
     "We Ubbo-Sathlas drink your blood because it provides us with all
that is best in your race in order to sustain our immortality.  And other
races, for that matter.  Minerals, antibodies, plasma, calcium for our
bones.  We can even extract knowledge from your RNA, improve our DNA by
using your own.  We are not vampiroids for nothing, you see."
     Bar-Lo laughed harshly.
     "You should be flattered, Colonist.  We find your blood useful,
unlike our Cylon masters, who..."
     Barking and yelling distracted Bar-Lo's attention.  The young human
boy waws pulling at the uniform on the leg of one of his warriors, while
his detestable pet was biting at the Ubbo-Sathla's leg.  The queen,
clearly amused by the situation, walked to the scene, and pulled the boy
away from the warrior.
     "I have special plans for this child," she said to the warrior, who
had drawn a weapon.  "He's mine.  But, if you wish, you may dispose of
the droid."
     The Ubbo-Sathla coolly pointed the weapon at Muffit Two, who was now
leaping in anger.  Squeezing its trigger, he shot the daggit at the high
point of a leap.  Sparks flew from Muffit's hide as it fell to the ground
in a crumpled, inert heap.
     "Muffy!  Muffy!" Boxey shouted.
     "Why, you..." Starbuck shouted.  Twisting his body violently, he
pulled out of the grasp of the two Ubbo-Sathla guards.  Leaping up
suddenly to Bar-Lo's left, Apollo fired at the Ubbo-Sathla who had shot
the daggit, sending a killing beam through his neck.  Starbuck, in
reaction, rolled to his left and came up shooting.  His aim was true, as
he sliced the Cylon's helmet in two.  Suddenly the two men were blasting
away, and an Ubbo-Sathla warrior seemed to fall with each shot.  Bar-Lo
ran recklessly through the fire toward Nor, to protect her.  Nor held the
child, who was now crying fiercly as he looked down at his fallen pet,
tightly in her arms.
     The firing behind her stoopped.  Looking back, he saw that all of
his warriors had been killed by the two humans.  Starbuck was now
advancing toward her and Nor.
     "Stop right there, you damn she-monster!" he cried.
     Bar-Lo moved sideways, placing himself deliberately between the two
men's weapons and his queen.  Whatever else happened, Nor must be
protected.  It would be final proof of Bar-Lo's love of his queen to die
for her.
     "Starbuck, stop!" Apollo shouted.
     "I want to kill both of them!"
     "You might kill Boxey, too."
     Apollo's cautionary message seemed to make Nor hold the boy all the
more tightly.  
     "Disarm them, Bar-Lo!" Nor screamed, her voice shrill.  Conditioned
to respond automatically to an order from his queen, Bar-Lo jumped at
Starbuck.  The warrior, surprised at the Ubbo-Sathla's lunge,
nevertheless got off a shot at at him which burned through his left arm. 
He finished his leap and knocked Starbuck off balance.  Bar-Lo grabbed at
his arm to try to wrest the warrior's sidearm from his fingers.  The move
jostled Starbuck's arm, made the warrior accidentally fire the weapon.  A
high pitched scream behind him ended in a gurgle.  Bar-Lo turned to see
Nor falling, her head half-severed from her neck by the chance shot. 
Bar-Lo's scream took up where Nor's left off, and he ran to his fallen
queen.  Boxey, having been released from Nor's arms as they went limp,
ran to Muffit.  Starbuck aimed his weapon toward Bar-Lo's head.
     "No, Starbuck,' Apollo shouted. "We've done enough.  Take care of
Cassiopeia."
     Starbuck ran to the pod containing Cassiopeia as Apollo rushed to
the sobbing boy.
     As soon as Cassiopeia had been released from the pod, she fell into
Starbuck's arms, drugged, half-conscious, but alive.  He hugged her to
him briefly, then set her down while he released the three men in the
Galactican uniforms.  He was about to interrogate them, but he could tell
from their glazed eyes they were in no state to produce any explanations
at that moment.
     At first Apollo didn't know what to do about Boxey.  He figured that
the crumpled daggit-droid's body must remind Boxey of the death of the
real daggit back on Caprica.  Only this time nobody shielded the boy from
his pet's fallen form.  Would the boy be able to get over such a loss
again?  Or did it have to be a loss?  Perhaps not.
     "We have to go, Boxey.  We can't stay here."
     "I won't leave Muffy."
     "I know what you're thinking, but are you a Colonial Warrior First
Level or not?"
     "Yes, but..."
     "Then get moving, officer.  I'll bring Muffy, I promise you that. 
Now let's go or I'll have you court-martialed."
     Boxey, responding to the authority in Apollo's voice, sprang to his
feet.  Gently, Apollo picked up the daggit-droid.  A few wires inside it
hung out, frayed and burned.  Ordering Boxey to start moving, they
collected Starbuck, along with Cassiopeia and the three uniformed men,
all of whom could respond to orders in an android fashion.  They made,
Apollo thought, an odd-looking platoon as they trudged toward the
entranceway of the chamber.  Starbuck brought up the rear, looking back
with his weapon raised at the mourning Bar-Lo.  He took aim at him, but
Apollo said to leave him in sorrow.  He was no threat now.
     Bar-Lo, aware of their departure, maded no move to follow them. 
There seemed no point.  Nor was dead, the first death of an Ubbo-Sathla
queen in a million yahrens.  Soon the centuries would catch up with her
and her corpse would disintegrate into dust within centons.
     Without his queen, Bar-Lo was without function.  There was nothing
he could do to assuage his misery.  Wounded by Starbuck's shot, he could
only sit and allow the life to drain out of his body.  For a long while
he bent over the dead queen and muttered prolonged, high-pitched sounds
that were the Ubbo-Sathla version of keening.  Eventually,
unconsciousness relieved his misery and he fell forward across Nor's
body.

*****

     "I think I've got my bearings now," Starbuck announced, after they
had traveled some distance from the pod chamber.  "The elevator's that
way."
     "So's that bunch of centurions," Apollo shouted.
     "Hades' hole!"
     Pushing the dazed men in uniform against a wall and forcing one of
them to hold the inert form of Muffit Two, Apollo and Starbuck took cover
behind a pair of jutting wall-rocks as the Cylons opened fire.  Laser
fire blasted chunks of rock from the wall.  Starbuck and Apollo returned
the fire, and two centurions fell.
     "Do you have another weapon?" Cassiopeia, who had crawled up to
Starbuck, said blearily.  "I can handle a laser pistol.  One of my many
socialator's talents."
     Starbuck started to tell her to get back, she was still too drugged. 
Instead, he said, "See if one of these zombies has a pistol in his
holster."
     He pointed to the three uniformed men, then turned and shot at the
centurions blocking the corridor that led to the elevator.  His and
Apollo's shots kept finding targers, and soon there was a pile of Cylons
with nobody fighting back.
     "Hades!" Cassiopeia said, unsteadily pointing the pistol she'd
liberated down the corridor.  "It's a fake.  These guys are carrying fake
pistols!"
     "I'm not surprised.  Let't get out of here.  That shoothout's got to
draw some curious intruders."
     Before he waved the group on, he touched the wall beside him.  It
was illuiminated with a dim, but increasing glow.
     "Apollo!' Starbuck said. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
     "Yeah.  With all this Tylium starting to burn, this could grow into
a fire that could turn this whole bloody planet into a bomb."
     "Um, let's tiptoe out of here, huh?  This way, c'mon."
     "Are you sure?"
     "This is not time for a vote.  Let's move."
     A lone Cylon leaped out at them from behind the pile of corpses.  He
released one shot toward Starbuck which ignited more rock.  Starbuck
reacted quickly and killed the ambushing alien.
     Maneuvering around the corpses, they traveled down another short
corridor and into the lobby containing the elevator bank.
     "What'd I tell ya, Captain.  We're saved."
     The door to the elevator that Apollo and Starbuck had tampered with
opened suddenly, and a bemused-looking Boomer stepped out.  He smiled
broadly when he saw that Starbuck and Apollo were standing across the
lobby from him.
     "Hey, guys," he said.  "What's going on?  You guys hot-wire this
elevator?  I looked all over---"
     He was interrupted by laser fire emerging from the darkness of a
corridor to his left.  His weapon was immediately drawm and he went into
a crouch as he fired at the source of the attack.  Boomer's fire provided
a cover by which Apollo and Starbuck could lead Cassiopeia', Boxey, and
the three men across the open area.  When they reached the elevator and
herded their people in, Starbuck shouted, "We might get trapped in that
thing?"
     "Does it matter?" Apollo shouted back.  "If those fires combine and
spread and explode the Tylium, it doesn't matter where we are.  Get in. 
C'mon, Boomer!"
     Starbuck joined Boomer to allow him extra firepower in backing into
the elevator.  As Starbuck leaped into the elevator between the leading
edges of the closing doors, a centurion appeared just in front of the car
and took dead aim on the young lieutenant.  The doors closed just in time
but flamed briefly as the centurion's shot hit them dead center.

*****

     Serina had searched throughout the whole room for B oxey, and was
rapidly becoming frantic.  She tried to obtain Colonel Tigh's help, but
the commander's aide, intent on a small electronic device concealed in
his hand, waved her away.  She didn't know what to do.  If Apollo wold
only return, she thought, he would know what to do.
     On the podium, Zalto had brought the crowd to several cheers and a
couple of ovations.  He had reached the main point of his speech.
     "And so I ask you to join with me in the spirit of this great
communion and put your trust in me, just in me, and go to the Cylons. 
For I tell you, my countrymen, that this night will be remembered as the
foundation upon which the floor of peace was leid, to last forever.  I
give you the hope that----huh?"
     His speech was stopped abruptly by the charging of Apollo, Starbuck,
and Boomer from thje elevator.  Apollo pointed his gun toward the ceiling
and fired.  Everyone in the room turned toward him.
     "Oh, boy!  Him again," groaned Zalto's doll, which was, at present,
occupying a table a scant distance away from the podium.
     "Everyone begin to move quickly and orderely towards the exits. 
That's an order!"
     "Stay where you are!" Zalto shouted from the podium.  "I'm in charge
here!"
     Before Apollo could respond, a group of centurions had joined the
Ubbo-Sathla at the entranceway and began firing.  Everyone began
scrambling for cover.
     "Uh oh," Zalto's doll said flatly, green eyes flashing wildly, like
an alert claxon.
     "Listen to Apollo!" Zalto hollered. "Do what he says.  He's in
charge here!"
     Boomer and Starbuck wiped out the entire contingent of guards at one
doorway, and Zalto, collecting his doll from the seat of the table it had
been occupying, was the first to hightail it through to the outside.  The
rest of Red Squadron had produced weapons and laser fire crisscrossed in
all directions.  Voices screamed, and lights, hit by random shots, began
to flicker and die.
     Serina dodged around tables and fallen chairs toward the elevator
bank.
     "Boxey!  Boxey!" she hollered.
     She discovered the boy cowering behind Apollo.  She picked him up in
her arms.
     "Over that way!" Apollo cried.  "That entrance is clear now!"
     He led Serina and  Boxey through the archway.  Outside, rain stung
their faces.  Beams from Cylon helmets cut through the drkness.  Apollo
took Serina and Boxey to cover behind the grog fountain.
     All around and inside the chancery the battle raged.
     "We haven't enough firepower," Apollo said to Serina.  "There were
too many fake guns among that fake Blue Squadron."
     "What fake Blue Squadron?"
     Apollo explained about the strange imposters in the squadron's
uniforms.
     "I don't know what was in my father's mind when..."
     Over the hill near the fountain, a landram appeared, with Lieutenant
Jolly mounted on a gun turret.  The fat lieutenant started blasting away,
and a group of centurions began to fall.  Jolly had zeroed in on them by
the light of their helmet beams.
     Telling Serina to stay under cover, Apollo ran to the landram upon
which Jolly sat.  Another two landrams had appeared, and their gunners
were firing at centurions and Ubbo-Sathlas.  
     "Assemble squadron!" Apollo cried, as he reached the landram and
scrambled aboard.
     "Where in all that's holy did you come from, Jolly?"
     "We're here courtesy of Commander Adama, Captain."
     "But why----" 
     "He sent the landrams to cover for you guys in case any fighting
broke out in the chancery.  Clairvoyant your father is, Captain.  He also
ordered us to collect Red Squadron and shuttle them back to the
Galactica.  He's expecting a fight, he says."
     "Red?  Why just Red?"
     Jolly smiled as he fired off another round, dropping several of the
helmeted Cylons.
     "Blue squadron didn't get to go to the party, sir.  Except for
Boomer and Starbuck, who had to play hero with you down here at the
Sire's little celebration.  Guess all three of you had to go so Zalto
wouldn't get wise he didn't have all the military personnel at the
party."
     "If the Blues didn't go to the party, who were those oddballs
wearing our uniforms?"
     "Anyone the commander could find up in the fleet to fill the
uniforms.  You shoulda seen the guy who got mine."
     'I think I did, Jolly."
     Shooting suddenly stopped.  The Ubbo-Sathlas were scattering, while
the centurions were beating a retreat away from the chancery.
     "What are those damn Cylons up to now?" Apollo said.
     "I'm not sure.  Just before hell broke loose, I received a report
that air activity had been tracked by scanner on the Galactica.  They
thought it might be Cylon fighters.  Those guys might be returning to
their ships."
     "Then we'd better get to ours and damn fast!"
     Apollo jumped off the landram.  From the main entranceway, the rest
of the guests----civilians, warriors, and civilians in warrior
uniforms---scrambled out toward the landrams.  The authentic warriors
were being assembled by Starbuck and Boomer.  Apollo joined them,
explained as succinctly as he could what Jolly had told him.
     "Red Squadron's got to go on ahead in the first landram.  We may not
have m uch time.  Starbuck, you and Boomer take care of the civilians. 
Round them up and get them to the shuttles.
     "But Captain," Starbuck complained.  "I want to get to my ship,
too."
     "Do what you're orderd, bucko.  Get up there fast enough and I'll
see if I can save you a couple of Cylon stragglers for target practice."
     "Thanks a bunch, Captain."
     Apollo gestured for the Red Squadron to follow him to the first
landram.  Boomer and Starbuck began, with Cassiopeia's help, to calm the
panicking civilians and get them organized.  Tigh joined Red Squadron. 
He was holding his left arm, which hung limp at his side.
     "Are you all right?" Apollo asked. "A Cylon stray shot?"
     "Yeah, but I took out at least five of them."
     Serina, Boxey at her side, waited by the landram.  
     "They'll take you to the shuttles," Apollo said. "I'm sorry, but..."
     "We'll be fine," Serina said.  "Get going."

*****

     Athena had noticed that the token force left on the bridge had grown
to a full crew since the alert had gone out, but she had been too busy to
wonder about it.
     "Form scan positive," she announced as the information came up on
her screen.  "Multiple three-passenger vehicles."
     "Raiders, then," Adama said.  "Athena nodded.
     "So they spring their trap.  Recall our personnel from Carillon's
Lot."
     "Evacuation activity has already begun," said a communications
officer.  "I just received a report.  They had some kind of set-to down
there, and Plan R is in effect."  He listened for a moment longer.  "Tigh
reports that Red Squadron has reached the shuttle and taken off."
     "Good."
     Athena, puzzled, looked toward her father.
     "You knew the Cylon attack craft would be here?" she asked.
     "Yes.  Call General Quarters."
     The claxon sounded immediately, as if an officer's finger had been
placed on the alarm button awaiting the order.  The screen showing the
pilot's ready room switched on, showing countless warriors scrambling
away from card games, reading, and sleeping.
     "Father," Athena cried, amazed. "Where are all the warriors coming
from?  A full squadron is answering the call.  There aren't that many
pilots left onboard."
     "There are.  I couldn't let you in on it, couldn't tell anyone who
was not integral to the plan.  Sorry, Athena."
     On the launch board, squares of light flashed on, indicating each
ship warming up in launch cribs.  When all the lights had flashed on,
Adama bellowed, "Launch when ready!"
     "I see," Athena said. "You keep some pilots back.  An entire
squadron?"
     "Yes."
     "Exactly what I would have done!"
     Adama smiled affectionately.
     "I'm sure," he said.
     They watched the launch through the starfield.  The Vipers, flying
in pre-battle formation, were an awesome sight, and Adama felt confidence
rise up in him.  Each of the vipers peeled off and, as ordered, flew
through the flight corridor the three heroes had formed with their
exploit, and went out single file to confront the approaching enemy.  A
bridge officer reported that the Cylon task force was overwhelming, three
entire flights. 
     "Our squadron won't stand a chance," Athena protested.  
     "They won't be alone for long," Adama said.  "The others are on
their way and, using the contingency battle plan, they'll be joining the
first squadron."
     "It may be too late.  Where the hades are they?"
     "Shuttle approaching landing deck," a bridge officer said.
     "That soon enough for you, Athena?" Adama remarked. 
     But Athena was too busy staring at the screens showing the launching
bay, and the pilots getting into battle gear on the run, to listen
closely to what her father had said.

*****     

     The rain was falling harder in the fields where the shuttles sat. 
Boomer and Starbuck hustled the panicky people off the landrams and up
the gangways to each ready ship.  A cold breeze drove the rain
uncomfortably into their faces.
     "I hate milk runs," Starbuck shouted.
     "Look," Boomer cautioned, "each job's important, okay?"
     "Ah, that sounds like one of the commander's lectures."
     Cassiopeia, who had been helping people off the last landram,
reported that everybody was off the vehicles.  Her eyes showed she was
alert now.  Starbuck hollered at the last stragglers to get a move on.
     "Boomer," he said, "soon as we dock these shuttles, we head for the
launch cribs.  I want a piece of the action."
     The rain lessened abruptly and Starbuck's attention was caught by a
ship sitting on the slope of a nearby hill.
     "What's that?" he said, pointing toward the ship.
     Boomer looked.
     "That's one of the Ubbo-Sathla Tylium freighters."
     "Is it carrying a full load?"
     "Yeah, it must be.  Why?"
     "I'm taking it up."
     "But that stuff's lethal.  One attack and they could blow you out of
the sky."
     "Great.  That's the way I always wanted to go.  You take care of the
shuttles, I'll..."
     "I want to go with you."
     "You've got your job, Boomer.  Do it."
     "But what do you know about flying an Ubbo-Sathla ship?"
     "I can fly anything, Boom-Boom."
     "You can fly your head into the clouds, that's what you can do."
     "Goodbye, Boomer."
     Starbuck started toward the tanker.  Suddenly he was aware of
Cassiopeia running beside him.
     "What're you doing?" he roared.
     "I'm going with you."
     "But..."
     "You can used me.  I'll explain later."

*****

     Everybody on the bridge tensed as Athena announced, "First defense
wing about to make contact with the attack force."
     As the defense wing was revealed on the main console screen, Adama
was struck by how pitifully small they looked against the wall of the
Cylon armada.
     "By all that's holy..." One of the wing's pilots yelled over his
com.
     One of the lead Cylon ships went into a roll and fired as it flew by
a Viper.  The viper took the hit full on, and exploded.  Almost
concurrently two more Viper ships were wiped out by Cylons.  Greenbean's
voice resounded through the bridge. 
     "There's too many of them. Roll out, hit 'em from the sides!"
     The Colonial vipers peeled off, but they looked too thinly spread to
do much damage.
     "Where's the Red Squadron?" Greenbean hollered.
     Turning back to the screen, he saw two more vipers exploding.
     "So much for trying to hit 'em from the sides," he shouted angrily.
     "Where are they?" Adama said.
     Then his son's voice came through the comline.
     "Revved and ready for takeoff."
     The launch lights came on.
     "Your wing ready, Jolly?" Apollo said.
     "Ready, sir."
     "Let's go!"
     Apollo's Red Squadron streaked across the sky and into the minefield
corridoir. 
     "The shuttles are arriving, sir," a bridge officer said.  "Reports
show other ships rising up from the surface of Carillon's Lot."
     "More Cylons?"Athena said.
     "Running visual idents now."
     On the comline Greenbean shouted, "Yaaaaaahooooooo," as he observed
the arrival of Apollo's squadron.

*****     

     In the freighter's compartment, Cassiopeia made Starbuck's jaw drop
open.  The tall oung socialator obviously knew the robes when it came to
the bizaree technology of an Ubbo-Sathla tanker.  Devices that seemed
meaningless to Starbuck were duck soup for her.  She started throwing
levers and pressing buttons before she even settled herself in the
copilot's seat.
     "You been on one of these before, Cassy?" Starbuck asked.
     "My dad, for the brief times I was allowed to see him, piloted a
freighter.  And you call me Cassy again and I'll see to it personally
this ship blows up."
     The ship began to rumble all around them.
     "You want to take us up?" Starbuck said.  "You seem to..."
     "I'd do it, but I'm afrai I'll have to admit reluctantly that your
instincts would serve us better just now."
     Starbuck strapped himself into the pilot's seat and tried to get the
feel of the strange ship from its rattling vibrations.  
     "Okay to lift off?" he asked Cassiopeia.
     She smiled and raised an eyebrow.  Studying the the equipment, she
replied.
     "Okay.  Lift off!"
     Cassiopeia had done her part of the job so well that they took
flight just behind the shuttles.  But the tanker was slower and too
weighted down.  It could not keep up.  Starbuck watched the shuttles
disappear through the clouds, leaving a brief red glow on their ominous
black surfaces.  It was a product of his imagination, he knew, but he
thought he could sense the volatile liquid Tylium sloshing against the
sides of its heavy containers.  One good jarring shock and it was
goodbye, bucko.  Starbuck would be happy to deposit this payload upon the
deck of the Galactica where experts could tenderly transport it to safe
cargoholds.
     "Scanner shows Cylon craft approaching us just below the level of
the cloud cover," Starbuck said.
     "Are the shuttles in trouble?" Cassiopeia asked.
     "Nope.  They seemed to have gotton off in time, or else the Cylons
don't give a hoot about a pair of surface-to-air shuttlecrafts."
     "They seem to give a hoot about us."
     "I'll have to try evasion tactics.  Hold on!"
     Starbuck leveled off the tanker and headed it north, over the
Ubbo-Sathla gambling chancery and Tylium mine and underneath the Cylon
ships revealed by the scanner.  The Cylons did not alter their direction,
but instead started up through the clouds.  Starbuck looked below.  Some
Ubbo-Sathlas had emerged from the ground and were running around
frantically.  Starbuck wondered what their running amok was all about,
when he heard a deep rumble from the ground area.  It came through loud
and clear over the rattle of the tanker.
     "What's that?" Cassiopeia said.
     "An explosion!  In the mine.  Something's setting Tyliuim off.  We
have to get the blazes out of here!"
     Cassiopeia shrieked.
     Starbuck knew exactly what was going through her mind.  If the
tremors from the underground explosion rocked the tanker, the Tylium in
its holds would----he didn't want to think about it.  The planet itself
could go up.  He headed the tanker toward the clouds again.  If he got
away from Carillon, if he got away from the perimeters of the mine
explosions, if he successfully avoided pursers, if he didn't encounter
the attacking Cylon Star Force, if he could get through any fighters
attacking the Galactica, if he could execute the extremely difficult
landing of a tanker full of volatile fuel upon the deck of a besieged
battlestar...if he could do all that, everything else was easy.  All he
had to do then was climb in his viper and go off and join his buddies in
the suicidal battle against the Cylons.  Not to worry, he told himself,
everything was just hunky-dory.
     A second, more powerful explosion rocked the tanker.
     "Oh, no!" Cassiopeia yelled, looking out the side window.  Starbuck
could see fire reflections on the glass and he knew immediately that
something down on the Carillon's Lot surface, perhaps the mine itself,
was on fire, and perhaps setting off chain reactions all along the
surface of the planet.  He aimed the tanker for a particularly dark
cloud.  As he went into it, he passed a Cylon warship coming out.  He
could sene it swinging around to follow, even though he now could see
nothing but cloud outside any portal.

*****

     Apollo sliced a Cylon ship into ragged, burning fragments.  Glancing
to his left, he saw Jolly's plane in trouble.
     "Look out on your wing, Jolly," he cried.
     "Which one?" Jolly responded.  "They're coming in from all over the
place.  They're..."
     Jolly was interrupted by a hit on his tail.  His fighter started
rocking from side to side.
     "There's too many of 'em, Skpper," Greenbean shouted.
     "What do you mean, too many?" Jolly said.  "I'm here, aren't I? 
Watch out at three o'clock, skipper!"
     Apollo evaded the Cylon with a sweep left, a quarter turn and a spin
to the right.  Coming out of spin, he opened fire, cleaving his attacker
across the middle.  Both pieces started to go out of control and fall
toward Carillon's Lot.  Another Cylons fighter started tracking in his
wake and firing, and he put his viper into a reverse loop, coming down on
the Cylon from above and running a line of fire along the toop of the
entire aircraft.  A sudden explosion and the Cylon ship had been
instantly transfigured to debris.
     In the distance he could see one of the fighters of the Blue
Squadron shattering under the fire of eight Cylon attackers.  
     "Don't think we can hold out much longer, Captain," Jolly shouted. 
"Phon just bought it."
     "Do your best."
     "I'm doing miracles, sir, but it's not..."
     Jolly's sentence got cut off by a trio of swooping Cylons.  Apollo
couldn't wait around to see the outcome of the attack, because he was
abruptly faced by a dozen of the enemy trying to make him the spoke of
their pinwheel attack.

*****

     A bridge officer reported to Adama that four of the Cylon ships that
had sneaked onto the surface of Carillon's Lot were now emerging from the
cloud cover, apparently to join the alien attack armada and attack the
Galactica's squadron from behind.  However, they did not count on the
artillery on the Galactica and the luxury liner Rising Star.  Catching
the Cylon craft as they attempted a flyby, both large ships opened fire
with long-range beams.  The four ships exploded almost simultaneously. 
The crew on the Galactica bridge cheered.
     "Another unidentified vessel approaching," Tigh said.  " Looks
like---yes!----it's one of those Ubbo-Sathla freighters.  Could they be
launching an attack?  Might be trouble.  Should I order it fired on?"
     "NO!" screamed Athena from the communications console. "It's
Starbuck.  He just radioed.  He's bringing a Tylium load."
     "A Tylium load.  Here?  In the middle of combat?" Tigh said,
incredulous.
     Adama laughed, a bizarre sound to the crew around him, who had not
heard him laugh so heartily for some time.
     "That's Starbuck.  Prepare the landing deck.  Well, prepare it!"
     The bridge crew sprang into action.
     "Oh, no!" Athena screamed, as she stared at the scanner screen.  
     Just beyond the tanker a Cylon fighter had broken from the
Carillon's Lot cloud cover, heading directly for Starbuck's ship.
     "No, he can't be killed!" Athena yelled.
     From another corner of the screen a viper, just launched from the
Galactica, appeared.
     "That's Boomer's ship," Tigh cried.
     Boomer's viper raced on a course to intercept the Cylon that was
zeroing in on Starbuck.  On the Galactica's bridge, everybody held their
breaths simultaneously.  Just s it seemed the Cylon fighter would open
fire on the tanker, Boomer guided his ship to a position in between the
Cylon and the tanker, and opened fire.  In a second the Cylon ship was a
collection of specks that looked like momentary jamming interference on
the viewing screen.  Another cheer went up from the bridge crew.
     "Look at that, will you, Tigh?" Adama said, pointing to the screen. 
Then he gestured toward other screens showing Cylon aircraft being hit by
the smaller but more maneuverable Colonial Fleet vipers.  "We're doing
it.  This ship, it's, I don't know, it's..."
     "Coming back to life," Athena said, coming up beside her father.
     "That's exactly it, it's as if the Galactica' s been sick, tainted
by running away from the battle.  Now we're proving ourselves again,
we're..."
     "Wait!" Tigh said.  "Listen!"
     He turned up a volume switch.  Boomer's voice literally boomed
throughout the bridge.
     "Hey, you guys, move over.  Let me have some of this."  
     "Boomer!" Apollo said.  "Where have you been?"
     "You know damn well where I've been.  On your lousy milk run."
     On the screen Boomer's viper started blasting at a trio of Cylon
ships, all of which seemed to explode at the same time.
     "Boom...boom...boom," Boomer said.
     "Hey, Boomer," Apollo said. "Welcome home."
     Apollo's ship streaked into the picture.  His and Boomer's craft
seemed to touch wings as they headed toward a line of Cylon fighters.
     "Hey, guys," Jolly shouted, "we've got a fighting chance."
     "You know it!" Boomer shouted.  "In a mili-centon we're gonna be
filling this sky with fire!"
     Adama turned toward Tigh.
     "Jolly's right," he said. "We've got more than a chance.  Are all
our people back on board?"
     "When Starbuck gets here with the fuel freighter, that ought to be
everybody.  Nobody else reporting in from Carillon's Lot.  Things are bad
down there anyway.  Explosions."  Tigh paused.  "God, we lost a lot of
people down there."
     Adama nodded.
     "Yes," he said, "and all that I can think of to say is, we've seen
worse.  Not very comforting.  But we're turning it around now.  I can
feel it.  We'll get those slimy----the Galactica's alive again, do you
understand, Tigh, do you?"
     Tigh looked at his commander as if he thought him on the verge of
madness, but he nodded agreement anyway.
     On the screens Cylon ships were blowing up all over the sky, as the
human pests inside their vipers slipped in and out of the enemy's traps.
     Concentrating their attaention on a separate screen, Adama and
Athena watched Starbuck's approach to the landing deck.
     "Easy, boy," Adama muttered.
     "Don't blow it now, bucko, please, please don't blow it now," Athena
whispered.
     The tanker seemed too large, too bulky for a smooth landing,
especially under the present battle conditions.
     "He's going to make it, Father!" Athena cried.
     "You're right about that.  If he doesn't, there'll be a hole in the
side of this battlestar big enough to send it out of commission for a
good long time, maybe forever.  Watch it, Starbuck.  That's right.  Good. 
Easy, now."
     One miscue, one bad bounce on the Galactica's deck, and the tanker
was sure to explode.  And Starbuck was already notorious for flashy
landings.  Just before the ship made contact with the deck, both Adama
and Athena inhaled sharply and audibly.
     "C'mon, bucko," Tigh whispered.
     Starbuck eased the tanker onto the deck so smoothly, so delicately,
the fuel ship appeared weightless.  When it gently glided to a stop,
another unanimous cheer went up from the bridge crew.  Adama could not
help smiling.
     "Precision flying?" Athena said to him.
     "Exactly!' Adama shouted.
     Starbuck ran down the gangway as the crew began unloading the
tanker, rapidly but delicately.  Athena's jubilant mood was momentarily
diminished when she saw the tall socialator, looking quite
self-satisfied, follow Starbuck down the gangway.  But her anger was
brief.  At least Starbuck was alive.  That was what counted.

*****

     Starbuck joined the battle by paying back Boomer his favor.  One
after the other he wiped out four Cylon ships that had Boomer caught in a
pinwheel attack.
     "Anybody want to fly over and touch me for luck?" Starbuck yelled.
     "Starbuck..." Apollo said.
     "Yo!"
     "On your tail."
     He looked over his shoulder.  A Cylon fighter coming in from each
side.
     "Nothing to worry about," he said.  But a Cylon laser torpedo came
too close and the explosion sent Starbuck's ship rocking.  He banked it
over and away from the pair of Cylons, who continued pursit.
     "Boomer," Apollo said, "you give him a hand?"
     "Again?  Well, I'm trying."
     Boomer swung over and began firing.
     "Don't take too long, Boomer," Starbuck said.
     Another explosion shook Starbuck's ship.  Boomer got the attacker in
his sights and pulled the trigger with a vengeance.  The Cylon fighter
made a thousand beautiful little pieces.
     "C'mon, Starbuck, Boomer," Apollo yelled. "Let's triple-team 'em."
     The three fighters quickly formed a triangular formation much like
the one they'd used in blazing the path through the minefield, and they
swept down together on the wall of Cylon ships, shooting left and right,
up and down.  Cracks seemed to form in the Cylon ranks.  A series of
explosions joined many of the close-flying craft.  Apollo, Starbuck, and
Boomer all together went into a tight turn and fled the counterattack.
     "That's a few for the Atlantia," Starbuck said.
     "And one for Zac," Apollo said.
     Other Vipers from the Red and Blue squadrons came together and
blasted away at the Cylon spacecraft.  The wall of menace was quickly
becoming a wall of fire and shattered fighters, Starbuck thought, as he
swooped down on still another sitting duck target.
     
******

     On the bridge the reports came in so fast that they were difficult
to assimilate.  Adama felt at the center of a vast network of
communications.
     "Commander?  Scanner shows a series of mammoth explosions on the
surface of Carillon's Lot.  Half the planet is blowing up, it looks
like!"
     A screen displayed the large fires on the planet's surface.  Another
one showed many explosions occurring in the sky above the mine.
     "What're those?" Adama asked.
     "Not sure, be we think it's the rest of the Cylon war party that
sneak-attacked us down there.  Appears they all didn't take off before
the mine explosions started."
     "Commander," Tigh reported, "the Cylon Supreme Star Force seems to
be retreating, at least for the moment.  Should we give pursuit?  All our
pilots are begging to pursue."
     Adama wanted to give the order to pursue, but it was too dangerous
to let the vipers get too far away from the main fleet.  
     "No," he said, "we must conserve our resources.  There's too much to
do, yet."
     "Should I order the vipers to return to base?"
     "No, we better go out and meet them.  Contact the Rising Star and
the other ships.  Tell them we're all heading through the minefield
corridor.  We've got to get out of this trap, then set all ships for the
hyperspace jump back.  I don't know for sure what's going on down on
Carillon's Lot, but we can't afford to take chances----we've got to get
moving in case the whole planet blows up.  It gets any worse down there
and, what with a working minefield on one side and exploding planet on
the other, we'd be between the devil and the deep blue sea."
     "Yes, sir," Tigh said. "I'm on it."
     Adama raced around the bridge as they set their course for the
minefield corridor.  He barked orders, directing the assembling of the
fleet, the tricky flight through the minefield, and the subsequent
landing of the flight squadrons.

*****     

     The new crisis developed almost as soon as all the ships were
outside the minefield.  The Cylons had reassembled, rebuilt their
attacking wall, and were heading back toward the fleet.
     Adama turned to Apollo.
     "All right, Captain," he said, "what's our potential?  Can we give
them a good fight, Apollo?"
     Apollo punched out the information on the board below the main
scanner, examined the data that came up on the screen.
     "I'm afraid not, sir.  There's still too many of them.  In the long
run, they'd wear us down.  If we hadn't just been through a fight, we
might be able to do something, but just now..."
     "All right, all right.  After the last time, I hate like hades to
retreat from another battle.  I don't want the military record of the 
Galactica to be tainted again."
     "Sir, it's hardly taint when we're saving what's left of the human
race."
     "That's what I said the first time."
     "You have the knack of always being right."
     Apollo and Adama exchanged smiles.  Adama saw, over his son's
shoulders, that his daughter endorsed Apollo's words.
     "And anyway," Starbuck interjected, "you know the old maxim:  we're
not retreating, wer'e just advancing in another direction."
     "All right, then, we'll make the hyperspace jump in..."
     "Sir, there isn't time," Tigh said. "The Cylons'll close in on us
before we can all make the jump.  We have to set up a diversionary
action."
     "The Red Squadron'll take care of that," Apollo said, then waited
for Adama's response.  After a brief moment, the commander nodded
agreement.
     "All right," he said, "but the Galactica'll be the last ship to make
the jump.  Rest of the fleet'll go first.  Apollo, you take your squadron
out there and stall them, then get back here in time for the jump.  Those
are your orders."
     "Yes, sir!" Apollo began runnig to the elevators leading to the
bridge, shouting back to Starbuck at the communications console,
"Assemble Red!"
     "Jolly and Greenbean's gonna love this, muttered Starbuck as he set
the alert claxon ringing.
     There was a moment of quiet on the bridge as everybody watched the
pilots scrambling toward their launch cribs, and the fighters, now
refueled and made ready by the Galactica's efficient flight crews,
starting down the tubes.
     Suddenly, as if to add insult to injury, Tigh shouted out, "Oh, my
God!"
     "What is it, Tigh?"
     "This is terrible.  I just sent a message back through the secret
transmission channel to the rest of the fleet, the ships we left behind. 
They sent back this." He waved the report under Adama's nose.  "An attack
against them has just commenced.  A group of Cylon warships're
surrounding them and've begun firing."
     "Have they any chance?"
     "If they can hold off until we make the jump back there."
     Adama turned toward Starbuck.
     "Lieutenant?"
     "Yes, sir?"
     "Assemble the Blue Squadron.  I want it ready for a fight as soon as
we make the jump."
     "Yes, sir!"
     Starbuck, waving back at Athena, made his run to the elevators.
     For the next few microns, as the fleet made preparations for the
hyperspace jump, and Apollo's squadron blasted away at the Cylon
aggressors, and the Blue Squadron made ready then settled themselves into
gee-couches for the hyperspace jump, the bridge of the Galactica was
ablaze with activity.
     The timing had to be exact, and it was.  As Apollo's squadron
returned to the Galactica after their hit-and-run assault, the initial
prejump mechanisms were set.  After the returning pilots were safely
ensconced in gee-couches, the jump was made.
     A long moment passed, then suddenly the Galactica found itself in
the middle of the Cylon attack on the rest of the fleet ships.  Starbuck
and his squadron raced to their launch cribs, boarded their ships, and
catapulted themselves into the battle.  The Cylons, so adept at ambush,
seemed surprised at finding themselves under sudden and unexpected fire.

*****

     If the Cylon's Imperious Leader could have viewed the battle
activity aboard the Galactica, he would have been struck by the contrast
in his own ship.  Even the messages along his communication network had
dwindled since the humans had begun fighting back and winning.  The
losses on the Cylon side had no correspondence with any defeats in their
previous history.  Since his third-brain had more time than usual to
contemplate the nature of his defeat, he could trace his mistakes quite
far back.  It occurred to him that his supreme mistake seemed to be
dealing with humans in the first place.  However he tried to interpret
the meaning of the defeat, his mind returned to the havoc wrought by the
human pest.
     The universe had been in order until the humans had started
asserting themselves.  Even then, the Cylons had avoided actual
encounters for some time.  When they had tried to convince the humans to
leave those areas in space they had usurped, the humans had not listened
to reason.  There had been been no solution but war.  Althoug the Cylons
had made the first attack, it was in fact the humans who had precipitated
the war by their stubborn interference in Cylon affairs and their refusal
to give up their colonies and go back to whatever sector of the universe
they came from.
     The Leader tapped the memories of previous Imperious Leaders and
examined every dealing the Cylons had had with the enemy.  They were like
a disease, these humans.  Once they had infected an area with their
presence, ther was no cure; the disease spead until it touched all life
forms.  In that way they had infected the Cylons and had brought them to
this low point in their history.
     The defeat of both Cylon task forces by the small contingent of
human fighters had shocked the leader, especially the way his ships had
fallen prey to the diversionary action of Captain Apollo and his crew. 
Embarrassing.  The Leader felt a pang of anger when he thought of
Apollo---the man was, after all, the son of the hated Commander Adama,
the prime source of all the human victories.  Who would have expected,
for example, that he would return to his near-derilect ships traveling
slowly through space and ambush the Cylon attackers...the final
horrendous defeat that Imperious Leader now had to consider.  The whole
campaign might have been salvaged if it had not been for those two men,
Apollo and Adama.  It was the Leader's keenest desire now to rid space of
these two reckless humans.  He would experience great pleasure if he
could personally torture the two men, father and son.
     Well, he still had a chance at ki lling Apollo and Adama.
     But, not, it was wrong to think such hateful, vengeful thoughts.  It
was unworthy of the possessor of a third-brain.  He should not be
brooding over the series of defeats, he should be planning the new
strategies of attack.
     Gradually, the truth of his position dawned on him.  Any other
Imperious Leader, realizing the import of the defeats he had suffered,
would have resigned the position immediately and ordered his own death. 
It was the only logical thing to do.  His death should be the price for
allowing the humans to survive when their annihilation had been certain. 
But he could not do that.  No, he must survive.  It was essential.  He
must pursue the hateful Adama and Apollo, and the rest of their verminous
race, to whatever part of the universe they would now travel to, with
their renewed strength and their supplies of new fuel.  All reports
indicated that, after the defeat of the Cylons, they had taken their
hyperspace and hyperspace-converted craft and vanished from their
formerly camouflaged pocket of space.  They had not been located since. 
Well, he would locate them.  And he would go after them again.  And he
would slaughter them.  He could not die until that final annihilation had
taken place.  He could not allow himself the questionable privilege of
suicide as an historical failure.
     It occurred to him that other Leaders would not have had these
qualms about giving up the position and dying.  They would not have
hated, they would not have desired revenge so obsessively.  Why was he
driven so, he wondered.  And suddenly he knew why.  He had been dealing
with the humans so long, thinking like a human so long, that he had
become like a human.  His desire for revenge was quite humanlike.  That
was the final defeat, perhaps that he had become like his enemy.  So be
it.  He would destroy what had become human within him by destroying the
humans themselves.  Adama, he would kill personally.  For now, he must
wait.

*****

     Adama raised his silver goblet to signal a toast.  All around the
table that formed a circle in the middle of the bridge, the crew,
civilians, and council became quiet.  He took a moment to gaze at them,
then past the gathering at the starfield portal beyond them.  It seemed
as if the stars in this part of space glittered more than any he had ever
seen.  He felt optimistic and hopeful.
     "I toast our victories and the achievement of our goals," he began.
     "Hear, hear," said Sire Gant, who was sitting to Adama's right.
     "And I ask you to remember for a moment the various men and women
who died in the Cylon invastion of the Twelve Colonies and the subsequent
events in which the members of the Galactica fleet acted so valiantly."
     During the moment of silence many of the assemblage bowed their
heads in prayer.  Adama resumed his speech.  
     "I hope that out of this----all this tragedy---will come some good. 
I am sure we have not seen the end of treachery, either human like Count
Baltar, or alien like the Cylons."
     He glanced toward Sire Zalto, who slide down a bit in his seat,
secretly glad not to be included on the commander's list of villains. 
Perhaps his resignation from the council had soothed Adama's anger toward
him.
     "I wish to take this occasion," Adama continued, "to officially
announce my acceptance of the job as president of the Council, and thank
you for electing me."
     "We didn't elect you," Sire Gant interjected. "We merely took back
and tore up your resignation."
     "Be that as it may, I thank you.  Now we go seeking a place for our
race, a place to settle our people in peace.  A place in the universe
where we can test our potentials again.  Perhaps we may find it on the
planet our mythology calls Earth.  I see no one scoffs when I mention
Earth this time.  Perhaps now you believe that our little ragtag fleet
can do it, can perform this lonely quest as we flee from the Cylon
tyranny, discover anew the shining planet Earth.  Ladies and gentlemen,
as a toast I give you...hope."
     They all drank and the meal, a simple feast prepared from food grown
in their agricultural project during their brief stay on Carillon's Lot,
commenced.  Many in the company marveled at how much better this simpler
fare was than the exotic delicacies fed them by the Ubbo-Sathlas.  The
buriticians, especially, agreed.  Squires, through blood analysis, had
established that Nor had drugged the council members' foods, making them
sucsceptible to ideas they would not otherwise have entertained.  
     Serina, seated two places away from Adama, leaned his way and spoke.
     "You really do believe we can find this place, this Earth, don't
you, Commander?"
     "Yes, I do.  I realize what you're implying with your journalistic
question, Serina----that we are chasing a dream.  Sometimes dreams are
worth the chasing.  Along the way, who can say what we may find, what we
may learn."
     "Don't mistake me, Commander.  I am on your side."
     "I appreciate your saying that.  There have been times recently when
I was not entirely sure who was on my side, including some who were quite
close to me."
     Athena put a consoling hand on her father's arm, and Apollo nodded.
     "But let's not, while everything is tranquil and our needs are being
adequately supplied, dwell on such matters.  It is a time for joy."
     "I'm all for that," Starbuck said.
     "Yes, aren't you?" Athena said, with a meaningful glance toward
Cassiopeia, who was seated across from her.
     "I am at peace with you," Cassiopeia said.
     "See that you stay that way."
     "No."
     Athena glared at her, then broke out laughing.  
     "Okay," she said, "you're on."
     "You sound like me," Starbuck said.
     "Ten to one I don't," Athena said.
     "Hey, Starbuck," Boomer called from a seat farther down the table,
"when you going to pay me off for saving your life out there?"
     "But I saved your life right after that."
     "And I saved your life again right after that, bucko."
     "Swallow your fuel line, Boom-Boom."
     Starbuck and Boomer's performance added to the party's festive air.
     Apollo leaned toward Serina and whispered, "This is supposed to be a
celebration.  You look a bit down in the mouth."
     "Does it show?"
     "Yes, it does, and you're too pretty to look said."
     "Drop the military strategy, please.  You know I'm receptive to you
without it."
     "Sorry.  I can't easily get rid of my military instincts."
     "Try."
     Apollo smiled.  Serina could barely resist that smile.
     "Sure," he said. "But you haven't explained the sad look, Serina."
     She looked down at her plate of food, swirled an asparagus stalk
around with her fork.
     "Well, it's...it's Boxey.  You know how close I am to him, and,
well, I just can't be happy with him so miserable."
     "I noticed he didn't look so cheerful out in the hallway not long
ago.  What's wrong?"
     "It's Muffit Two.  Boxey's moping about losing him."
     Apollo hit his forehead with the palm of his hand.
     "I forgot!  How could I?  I promised him I would..."
     Serina touched Apollo's arm.
     "You couldn't be expected to do anything about it, not with battles
going on and..."
     "But I did do something.  Where's Wilker?  Wilker!  Where are you?"
     From far down the table the doctor yelled back, and stood up.
     "Did you bring it?" Apollo asked.
     "Of course," Wilker hollered back.  "Just waiting for you to tell me
what to do with it."
     Wilker held up a large leather case.
     "All right," Apollo said, and turned back to Serina. "Where's Boxey
now?"
     "I'll get him."
     Serina was gone only a short time.  She came back, dragging the
obviously reluctant boy by the arm.  Boxey appeared very downcast.
     "Hey cadet," Apollo said, "what's got you down?"
     As he addressed the boy, he signaled Wilker to come down the table.
     "I'm okay.  I wanta go back to my cubicle," Boxey said.
     "But you're invited to our victory feast," Apollo said.
     "I don't wany anything to eat. I'm not hungry."
     "Okay, we'll let Muffy take your place."
     "Apollo!" Serina hollered.
     "Doctor Wilker, you got the goods?"
     "Right here."
     "Open the case."
     The doctor opened the case, and Muffit Two hopped out, right onto a
plate of mashed potatoes.  Extricating his paws from the food, he leaped
into Boxey's waiting arms.  The boy's face was completely transformed;
his eyes glowed with happiness.
     "You were saying?" Apollo asked Serina.
     "What did you do?"
     "Easy.  Muffy's a droid, after all.  All Doctor Wilker here had to
do was straighten out a few wires, replace a few parts, patch on a new
bit of fur here and there...right, doc?"
     "It's a fairly easy repair job."
     "Yes, and the doctor here has a Humpty-Dumpty complex.  He makes
sure everything gets put back together.  The doctor's better than all the
king's men and all the..."
     "Oh shut up, Apollo, and let me hug you," Serina said.
     Boxey, still holding Muffy, squeezed in at the table between Serina
and Apollo.  He managed to shovel quite a few spoonsful of food into his
mouth.  Serina raised a glass to Apollo and her mouth formed the words,
thank you, my love.
     Adama smiled at the happy Serina.  She raised her glass again and
addressed the commander.
     "To Earth," she said. 

The End