GALACTICA SDF NETWORK by Davey Jones homyak@erols.com Version 2.0 Prologue The medicenter was quiet now, a startling contrast to the noise and fury of just centars ago. The multitudes of wounded had been treated. Those who could walk and care for themselves had been dismissed to rest in their own quarters. Those in more critical condition lay here in closely-ranked maintenance tubes. Only one had a visitor; most of those who were still well and healthy were now too tired to sit with those who would never notice the attention. A dark-haired man brooded beside one open tube, his whole bearing one of pure exhaustion, his helmet and flightsuit a carelessly-discarded pile at his feet. His hands were folded as though for prayer, his forehead braced wearily on them. Occasionally, his sleep-deprived limbs would jerk at some unseen impetus, reacting in the real world to the force of nightmares. His Father picked his way carefully across easily shifted rubble, blocks of steelite and stone from a civilization old before their own peoples had been born lying half-buried in the dust of ages, no longer standing proud and bright against the dark, starless night skies. She and he himself stumbled ahead of his Father, alone at first as an honor guard. His Father, still in shock at the revelations only he had been fortunate enought to see in the tomb of the last lord, said little, merely observing that if they had no means of leaving this dead mother world they were in even more trouble. She smiled in spite of the situation, the dust that streaked her uniform and face detracting not in the least from the quiet beauty that had first drawn his attention, and remarked that there would likely be something they could use. The sound of footsteps in the rubble, the hissed commands and crimson halogens, the groundforce warriors who had voluntarily waited for the return of their commander and the pilots, and their greeting and urgings, all were like fresh air after the cloying darkness and comparative silence. His Father seemed to come to life at their news, obeyed their quiet instructions without comment or complaint. He and She had been relegated to the inside circle, guarded like defenseless children, the assemblage moving hastily toward the glow of the burning camp. One guard spotted what the others had missed, his shout of warning drawing fire from the cylons that had for some unknown reason landed on this world. He fell without another sound, his partners' fire raking the stones and cubbyholes that concealed their enemy. Two guards risked their own lives to bear His Father to the ground, cover his body with their own; a heavy form struck him, pushed him to the ground, knelt beside him, firing her weapon deafeningly. And She, confused by the noise, uncertain of how to conduct herself in such an ambush, dodged when another marine attempted to pull her down to cover as well. Struggling, she did not see the cybot that reared from the dirt, dying under concentrated colonial fire even as it showed itself. That creation fired wildly, spinning, hitting nothing, turning-- --and she cried out softly, once, more in surprise than pain, and fell to the ground, her body limp, her hand centims from the weapon of a dead warrior, the guard throwing himself over her body, firing with pinpoint accuracy at the other targets that sought to destroy the humans. Time slowed to a crawl for Him. The attacking cybernetic aliens, the crash and roar of beam weapons, the shivering and groaning of the stonework around the humans, none of that mattered to him. All he could see was the small, brown-clad form, her dark hair trickling across the dirt, a darker pool in the dimness spreading slowly across the ground beneath her, her eyes open, staring sightlessly at Him-- He jerked, almost fell from his chair. His breathing was ragged, heavy. Merely at the memory his eyes burned again, not with exhaustion but with misery, and relief, and emotions so powerful he could think of nothing else. He carried Her small, still form to the waiting shuttle, finding an empty corner amid the chaos of the wounded and the dying, unable to do any more for her than wrap His shirt around her, and hold her tightly, and pray as He had not done since childhood. The already overworked doctors and nurses took her from him, and sent him away, and he raged and fought even though he knew they were right, and that he could do no more for her, no better than to leave her in the care of those who could help, struggled until his friends had physically pulled him away. The attacking aliens paid a heavy price for their aggression that day. Every pilot was needed, and so many had already died defending the retreat of the civilians from the surface of Kobol, and so many of those who survived had so much to repay, or to atone for. He found some solace in a black, level rage, flying in ways that He had never flown and would never again fly, striking with the fury of a berserker created by the enemy themselves. The succeeding days had been a living hell for Him. The sight of the human Fleet sliding into the darkness of the Void, away from the inappropriately- bright homeworld of humanity, would have been a beautiful sight under other circumstances. Now, it meant days of nerve-wracking alertness, of drugs that sharpened the senses and dulled the spirit, of non-stop attention and no rest and no escape from the nightmares that were so strong they sometimes blanked his sight --Her small, fair form, still in his arms, unresponsive to the endearments he whispered insistently, desperately, hoping and praying that she would awaken and smile the smile she reserved for Him, and that everything would be all right-- --hoping and praying that her dark eyes would open one last time, to look on him with quiet love and whisperingly return the words of love he spoke to her for the last time-- --the doctors leaning back from a still, small form, gently closing her eyes, drawing the covering over her peaceful face, turning away to leave her in silence and darkness-- --silence and darkness forever, no last touch, no last words of love-- He jerked again, sobbed softly, wiped hot tears from his eyes. Several deep, steadying breaths later, he raised his head, looked long and steady at the quiet form in the tube. His normally dark green eyes, now pale with weariness and fear, red with misery, softened as they rested on the long lashes so dark against colorless cheeks, the ebony hair like a fan beneath her head. His hand trembled as it touched the bare skin of her neck, traced the back of his fingers tenderly down her cheek. The doctors' words had been like a hammerblow to him as he staggered back into the medicenter, finally released from intercept after three endless days. What had happened, and what had been necessary, and what the ultimate cost would be. He knew others had come and gone through the past centars, checking on friends and loved ones who likewise rested quietly in this room. None had spoken to him. He had spoken to no one. His friends understood, left him to his emotions. This will never happen again. He no longer cared that she would be angry, that she would rage with the temper only she could display around him, that she might despise him for his concern. It might cost him her love, his marriage, the child he had come to care for as a son. It no longer mattered to him. If she wants to hate me, never wants to speak to me or see me again, well, I can live with that, perhaps win her back again somehow. Because at least she'll be alive to hate me. All we've had is a brief time together. I want more. We both deserve more. Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to leave her side, and go back to his life. He was needed there--his friends and his family needed his presence as much as he needed hers, they as a figure of authority and quiet power, she as someone to remind him that he was only human after all, with a man's weaknesses and a man's gifts. First he would have to find the child; the boy knew both his parents lived, but he knew little more. The man felt a pang of guilt that he had not permitted the child to remain with him during this bedside vigil. But the child deserved a childhood, not a sudden catapult into adulthood and the miseries that came with it. By the grace of Mother God, the child still had both parents. The man swore quietly to himself that the boy would continue to live with a complete family, no matter what he had to do to insure it. It ends here, and now, he promised silently, still gazing down at the woman in the bed. Never again. A woman entered the room with soft steps, saw that the man was the only healthy form present, and shook her head, smiling. Her touch on his shoulder startled him; he had not heard her approach. "The doctor says visiting time is over," the woman told him with the quiet friendliness of a family acquaintance. "Go get some rest. He's got you and most of the other pilots on sleep period for another day. You've spent one here already." He nodded, stood, gathered his flightsuit and helmet, never taking his eyes from the woman. The nurse smiled. "We'll take care of her, Apollo. Don't worry. She's out of danger now." He sighed hugely, nodded again, and shifted his cargo to lean over. He softly kissed the pink lips. "I love you, Serina," he whispered. He didn't take his eyes from her tube until the door of the chamber closed behind him. *** *** *** *** *** "What's on the schedule for today, then?" Zac asked her. "Anything interesting?" Serina took the knife away from Boxey, set it beside her own plate where the boy could, in theory at least, not reach it again. "More of the same, I imagine. The same dry reports, the same boring public service announcements, the same response to my requests for more latitude in programming." "Mother, I want some more juice," Boxey insisted sloppily. "Finish your toprogem first," she advised him evenly. "Who's gotta approve it before you can change the format?" Zac asked her. Serina's eyes frosted. "Adama." There was a wealth of feeling in that one cold word. "Mm-hmm," her brother-in-law responded, stroking his chin. "Yeah, Dad's an astrum sometimes, isn't he?" "Is he!" Serina shook her head in disgust. "I think it runs in the family. Boxey, eat the food, don't play with it." "Gee, thanks." "You know what I meant," Serina told him calmly. "Don't fish for compliments." Zac feigned a wounded look. "Me? Fish for compliments? Me?" He placed both hands theatrically on his chest. "Never. I get too many already." He looked over at his nephew and winked, much to the boy's delight. "Me and my man Boxey both, right kid?" "Right, Zac!" "When's your shuttle leave?" Zac continued. Serina consulted her chrono, then double-checked against the clock on the wall. "Not for another three decentons, but I have to go to Central Logistics and pick up today's batch of 'informational vids.'" She seldom bothered to disguise her disgust with the strictures placed on the Fleet's only telecom channel. "Probably more on 'Proper lubrication of the P-37 Armor Opening Device' and 'Proper Nutrition in the Field Environment.' "Don't forget 'Avoid VD, Killer of Love,'" Zac said with a straight face. "That one was real popular in the ready room the last three times it was on. You know, Greenbean and Cree are pretty good at lip synching to that one..." He shook his head. "Man, I bet Dad's actually coming up with this felgercarb, too. The stuff sounds like he wrote most of it." "They're just older vids," Serina automatically pointed out. "Older, boringer, been in service for jahron after jahron after jahron...yup. Sounds just like Dad." Zac grinned as Serina and Boxey had a brief scuffle that ended with the boy's mouth firmly wiped clean. "Have you tried to talk with Dad about it directly?" Serina shook her head. "What's the point? The first thing he's going to want to know is whether Apollo and I are back together again. When he finds out we're not, which he already knows, I won't be able to ask about freedom of programming. I'll get a two- or three-centar lecture on marital relationships." "Five or six centar, more like it," Zac pointed out considerately. "He's hyped on that recently. I even caught some of the corona loss. Whew!" "Why that subject? As if I didn't know," Serina observed. Zac shook his head. "Nah, you're just part of it. Athena dumped Starbuck for a friend of mine." "Dannel?" Serina asked. "I know. Athena came by that night and told me all about the man." "I believe it. Nah, Dad's riled because she dumped an officer for a non- com, never mind that the man's a flight sergeant." Zac tapped his finger on his temple, tocked his tongue. "These Battlestar Commanders are crazy." Serina began putting female paraphernalia back in her pouch. "Well, since agreeing with you would likely get me the grid barge for insurrection, and disagreeing means lying, all I can do is stop where I am. Are you going to take Boxey to daycare for me?" Zac didn't respond, staring at the wall behind her. "Zac? Did you hear me?" Zac jumped, glanced around guiltily. "Huh? Oh, yeah, sure." He looked around the crowded mess hall for a moment, grinned ferally. "Listen, Serina, can you excuse me for a centron?" "What? Zac, Boxey needs to--" "I'll be right back, promise," the young man told her, standing and weaving his way through the tables and personnel. Serina just watched him go, irritation on her face. She rolled her eyes, turned back to her son. "It's not just Adama," she muttered, "it is the whole bloodline." "Where'd Zac go, Mom?" Boxey demanded to know. "I don't know. Let's go. Mother's got to get to work." She stood, waiting for the child to worm his way around the table and chairs. She noticed Zac's shirt across the room, focused on that. Zac was leaning over talking earnestly--Serina could tell by how emphatic his hand gestures were getting-- to a dark-haired, still-flightsuited form. She recognized Athena's new boyfriend Dannel, lifted an eyebrow in curiosity when she noticed that the man's breakfast companion was a short, dark-haired girl in bright civilian clothing. I wonder if Athena knows about this bull-koshek? She shook her head, dismissed the thought. If she was going to make it to logistics in time to pick up today's lineup of 'approved programming,' she was going to have to hurry. The daycare that Boxey spent the day at was on the other side of the battlestar, toward the civilian sector. Zac, until now, barring duty, had been good about meeting the two of them for breakfast and taking charge of Boxey afterwards. Apollo could be doing this, too, a traitorous thought reminded her. He flies the same shift as Zac, and keeps logging offers to do it. Serina had not yet forgiven him for removing her from active duty. Part of her was still relieved that she would not have to face the cylons directly again--the sectons of recovery would be with her for a long time to come--but he had taken unto himself a choice she preferred, after a lifetime of independence, to make for herself. As though being her husband gave him any sort of Divine Right to make decisions in her life! She dismissed the thought with a shake of her dark head. She had not spoken to her husband for any reason since she had learned of her new, civilian-again status. She would not until he came to his senses and admitted that he was wrong. "Come on, Boxey, let's go," she repeated. This morning was promising to be less enjoyable than had any other in the past sectar. *** *** *** *** *** Serina's seat faced forward, her datapouch beside her. Preoccupied with her checklist of today's scheduled public information material, she did not notice Zac's approach until he lifted the carryall from the seat next to her. "Don't touch those--Zac!" She glanced past him, fixed him with an angry look. "What are you doing here?" "Ahh, I've got the day off," the young man told her. "If I stay around, they'll find some detail for me to do. Teaching newbies, maybe. Ugh." He fastened his restraint, wrapped his arms around his sister-in-law's tape pouch, and grinned. "Besides, there's a young lady working on the IFB ship I've been meaning to hook up with again. What better opportunity? Eh?" Serina smiled thinly, shook her head and returned to her ruminations. "Well, today's schedule is just as interesting as yesterday's, and last secton's, and..." She sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose. "I just know I'm going to get a headache. Before 0450, yet. Damn." Zac nodded sympathetically, patted her on the shoulder. "I don't suppose you've, uh, maybe, considered getting Apollo to--" "No." Serina glared at him. "And I don't intend to. What he did was completely uncalled for, and until he can admit he was wrong--" She broke off at Zac's upraised hands and suitably terrified expression. "Hey, hey, sorry," he protested. "Call off the daggits. You're preaching to the converted. I'm on your side, remember?" He grinned, winked. Her glare faded. Her lips drew to the side in dismay. "I know, Zac. I'm sorry." She pounded a fist against her reader. "It's just so frustrating, sometimes. Out here, running for our lives, never to stop anywhere, and a few people are making all the decisions that guide the lives of over a hundred and fifty thousand other people." She sighed heavily. "It goes against everything I always believed in. I could handle the restrictions, I think. Government was always trying to stifle free speech somehow. But when there isn't even an avenue of appeal against an injustice like that--" "Like the way Apollo took you off flight status, too, huh?" She glanced at him; his voice and eyes were sympathetic. She nodded. "Exactly like that. Unilaterally, without asking me or leaving me any option at all." "Well, you always liked broadcast work," Zac pointed out. "And he did put your name up when IFB went looking for a spokesman. Maybe he was thinking of that, and--" "He wasn't thinking of anything but the fact that he had the power to make a decision like that and so why not just do it?" Serina snapped back. "And what good has it done me? I was in broadcast work because I liked to help people, spread the news, inform people of their choices, of their right to choose freely, based on a complete informational picture. What am I doing now? I'm reading a script that's prepared by a semi-illiterate--" "Yup," Zac stage-muttered in agreement, "Dad must be involved." "--who has no idea how to get a story across." She twisted in her seat to face her brother-in-law. "A secton ago, when that doltonide leak happened on the Sofroniou, did they let us report it? Let us notify the ships that were in direct contact with the Sofroniou to take chemical precautions? No! Instead they moved in, took the ship over, moved the civilians back and forth like cattle, clumped around in protective gear, and generally terrified the population of that corner of the fleet, because no one knew what was going on." "But a panic--" "Happened this time," she informed him. "Of course, that didn't get reported, either. So how would it have been worse to risk informing them? The people were in no danger, thanks to the speed at which the decon teams got there, and we could have reported that as well, perhaps give a boost to the people's confidence in the military. Instead, the word came down to say absolutely nothing about what was going on." Her index finger poked Zac's chest. "You may call that 'responsibility in reporting.' I call it censorship. As though that were somehow an improvement over risking my life in a fighter." She was surprised to note how heavily she was breathing. The past few sectars had not dimmed her journalistic fire. "Look," Zac started, and stopped. "Serina, I--" and stopped again. He seemed to be struggling for the right words. Finally, he shrugged. "Look, I'm sorry I left you guys alone this morning at breakfast. I remembered something at the last centon that I needed to get done, so I had to ask a friend of mine to handle it for me." Serina lifted an eyebrow and allowed the subject change. "I noticed. Wasn't that Athena's new boyfriend?" Zac nodded. "I did notice that it wasn't Athena the man was breakfasting with. Does she know about this?" Serina and Athena were very good friends; the former newscaster tended to look after her younger sister-in-law. Her displeasure extended only to her husband and father-in-law. "Uh, yeah," Zac said hastily. He started to continue, and the overhead speakers came to life. "IFB ship," the pilot announced. "IFB ship. Three centon stop." The pair glanced out of the shuttle's port, both noting in surprise the walls of the broadcast vessel's hangar sliding to a stop around them. "Wow," Zac said, honestly surprised. "Time flies when you're having fun, I guess." Serina unfastened herself, stood up. Zac handed her the pouch with the day's hated programming cubes. "Aren't you coming aboard?" she asked him. "Oh, yeah," Zac assured her, "but I'm going somewhere else. I can meet you for lunch, if you like." He seemed nervous. This was not an unusual state for Zac, Serina knew, but she usually had some idea what he was up to. Her brows descended in sudden suspicion. She broke the seal on the pouch, looked quickly at the vid crystals. The labels all matched the titles on her official list, much to her regret--part of her wished that Zac had somehow switched the lifeless informational programming with more entertaining ones, wherever he might have gotten them from. "What's the matter?" Zac asked anxiously. "Lunch a bad idea?" "Lunch is fine, Zac," she said, rolling her eyes tiredly at his behavior and turning to leave. "I'll see you then." "Bye." Zac waited until his sister-in-law disappeared from sight before unfastening his own harness. "Now departing IFB ship," the speaker announced. "Next stop, the freighter Chorleywood, eta twelve centons." "Huh? Hey, wait a centon!" Zac pawed around in the cargo carrier over his seat, dragged a large package out. "I gotta get off!" The man at the hatch gave him a disgusted look as he stumbled up. "What the dobe took you so long?" he demanded. Zac trotted down the ramp. "Had to wait until my friend was out of sight. Thanks for the lift." He jogged off through the main entryway. The shuttle assistant shook his head. "Warriors." *** *** *** *** *** "Hey, Milla," Garkon's gravelly voice broke into her concentration, "y'gotta visitor." Milla brushed a lock of honey-blonde hair from her forehead, looked around. At the door a dark haired, bright eyed young man smiled broadly, waved as soon as he had her attention. "Make it quick," Milla's boss continued, irritation in his voice. "You got work to finish." She nodded hesitantly, wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the door. She stopped and faced him, smiled hesitantly but happily. "Hello, Zac. It's good to see you. What are you doing here?" Zac grinned hugely, and Milla laughed gently. "Well, you're not gonna believe this, but," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes shifting to cover everyone in sight suspiciously, "I came aboard to see you." She laughed delightedly. Zac smiled again; seeing this girl smile cheered him up immeasurably. "Oh, I wish it was true, Zac. Any new face would be welcome around here." "But especially mine, right?" he pressed, and she laughed again. "Listen, are you free right now?" Milla's eyes, so bright with delight at seeing him again, darkened, shifted nervously to the door of the rear storage rooms. Zac glanced that way, saw a swarthy, angry face disappear behind a pile of crates. "Who's that? Your boss?" Milla nodded, glanced away from him. "Yes, I--" She paused. "No, I'm not really free, not right now. I don't get off for another centar and a half." Zac looked back and forth between the girl and the door that so disturbed her. "That's a while to come. You don't have a break or anything?" "Not for a while..." she started, stopped. She poked her lip out. "Hang on a centon," she told him, patting his arm--he glowed at the touch--and trotted off to talk to an elderly woman sitting at a terminal busily inputting data. She spoke to the woman urgently, pointed back at Zac once, and said something in a pleading tone. The other woman glanced at Zac, who strove to look respectable, looked back at Milla and nodded, patting the girl's hand reassuringly. Milla trotted back to Zac, relief written on her face. "Natty's going to cover for me so I can take my break now. Come on, let's get out of here before Garkon comes out to find me." She took his arm, led him back out into the hall. "Where are we going?" she asked him, glancing up at him. "Any of you guys' mess halls open right now?" Zac asked her. She shook her head. "No. Not for another centar." She brightened. "But Luce works there. He'll let us in, anyway." "Good. I wanted to talk to you." In the broadcast ship's #3 dining hall, Zac sat with his back to the wall as Milla brought two cups of chai over. Zac took a moment to study her carefully as she sat tiredly down. The weary, coveralled girl, the former backup singer for the Caprican musical superstar Retlove and her supergroup Spheroids, had changed dramatically from the painted, overdressed, egotistical girl that he and Dan had pulled from the wreckage of their disintegrating skybus during the final centons of the evacuation of Caprica. Then, she had been distant, unapproachable, aware of her own status as a star, not knowing him from any of his companions in uniform, shocked and stunned as were all those around her at the collapse of her world. Milla's fingernails were not long and lacquered any more; her lashes were the bright gold of her hair, not the glowing, effervescent tones she had assumed during her act with the band. Her hair was a bit longer than it had been, caught sensibly back from her face. She seemed stronger, somehow, for the sectons of hard work that she and her former bandmates had been forced into by necessity. The Fleet had no need of singing groups; it needed strong backs and bodies and minds. Milla definitely seemed more tired, more withdrawn than she had the last two times that Zac had stopped in on whatever excuse he could cook up to see her. Risking her possible displeasure, he reached out and took her slender fingers, squeezed them, smiling as she looked up from her cup. "How are you doing, Milla?" She smiled, blinked. "Thanks for coming by, Zac. I appreciate it, I really do. It feels so good to get out of that storage area, if only for a few centons. Especially with..." She sighed, looked away again. "Why did you come by?" she asked him quietly. Zac squeezed her fingers again, felt elated when she squeezed back. "Believe it or not, you really are one of the reasons I came over here, Milla." "Why?" "Well, uh," Zac stammered, actually uncertain of how to proceed. The truth might be nice, his conscience told him; he paused to slap the tiny mental voice into silence. "I, uh, I wanted to see you again. Really. I just wanted to see how you were doing, see if I could help out in any way." "Not unless you can get me a job on another ship," she said bitterly, softly. Zac, remembering the unease she had shown him centons ago, felt his heart skip a beat. "Milla, this is me. Zac. Remember? I care, okay? Now," he said, moving around to sit next to her without letting go of her hand, "talk to me." "Don't you have something you have to do?" she asked him quietly. "Hey, you are part of why I can here." He bumped her with a shoulder, put a friendly tone in his voice. "C'mon, talk to Zac. What, is that guy you work for giving you a hard time or something?" Milla shook her head. "It's...I don't know. The only thing I ever see any more is the storage room, the cafeteria here at mealtimes, and my room and my roommates. Luce works here as a scrubber, and Kirgis is down cleaning decks in the engine room. I suppose I could be worse off. But I don't even know where any of my other friends are. I can't call off the ship, and when I asked about my friends, they told me that there isn't any way of finding single people out there in the fleet. I just feel so alone sometimes." "Hey, I'll start coming to see you as often as you'll let me," Zac offered hopefully. She smiled, not looking up. "And Garkon's just a little tin god there in the supply department. If you complain, then he gets you punished. And there aren't any better jobs aboard the ship, either. And Garkon--" Her voice cracked. "Whoever put him in charge was a lunatic! And the captain of the ship just supports him!" "What's he done, babe?" Zac asked softly. "There was a man, an older man, his wife and daughter were here too, and when Garkon decided he, he wanted the girl, he had the man transferred off the ship." Zac felt himself go pale. "Oh, man, Milla," he breathed. "Are you sure?" Milla nodded. "We were lucky. We managed to get the woman and her daughter moved updeck to the other mess hall. But that's the last transfer anyone's gotten. And Garkon's made our lives hell since then." She shivered. "And he wants me now." "What?!" She nodded again. "He's never actually tried to force me to do anything after...after once. But I don't want to be alone with him, and I'm just about out of excuses not to be. He scares me so, Zac." She sniffled. Zac felt his stomach twisting. This was not what he had come here to find out. "And there isn't anywhere else to go. There just isn't. I've heard the people on the broadcast deck talking sometimes, when they come down here to eat, and they say we're actually better off here than almost anywhere else in the Fleet." "Have you tried to get a job updeck, maybe with the broadcast people?" Zac asked her earnestly. "Surely you had some experience from the band--" Milla nodded again. "They told me they get requests all day, but they don't have any place to use anyone else. I guess they're having trouble with their jobs, too." She laughed softly, bitterly. "I'd still rather have their troubles than mine." "But..." Zac thought furiously. "There's gotta be some way of--" Milla shook her head. "No. And after they told me no, their supervisor reported it to Gorkon." She shuddered. Zac brushed her back with his hand, kneaded her neck. "I won't make that mistake again," she murmured softly. "I had two of those bruises for sectons..." "I'll kill him," Zac said, rare anger in his voice. Milla looked at him in panic. "Zac, no, please," she begged him, taking his hand in hers, holding it tightly. "That'll just make more trouble." Zac swallowed hard, feeling sick. "Milla, babe, I'm sorry. I never thought things were like this, that it'd turn out like this when I found you--" "It's all right, Zac," she laughed softly. "The chief engineer makes his own hooch. A lot of the time, Garkon's drunk and out of the way. Then, it isn't so bad. Most of the women in the storage deck are nice people. I'm learning a lot that I missed when all I did was sing and dance." She rested her chin in her hand. "But I still miss living without being afraid all the time, without having to sleep in shifts for fear Garkon will come in some night--" Zac impulsively put his arm around the girl, pulled her close. Milla buried her face against his shoulder, clutched him tightly. For a long centon she was just a tight bundle of misery. Then the wall came down. A young man who had wanted most to get close to this girl held her and rocked her as sectons of pent-up frustrations and fears and helpless anger came flowing forth in quiet tears and gulping sobs. *** *** *** *** *** Balabushka held one hand up to his headphone; the other raised, waited. Serina calmly split her attention between the closing credits of the informational vid just now concluding and his raised fingers. The vid ended; his fingers came down. "Hello again. This is the voice of IFB, InterFleet Broadcasting." She spoke the words with all the enthusiasm of a child speaking about his approaching bedtime, all the feeling of a robot. "That was the seventh in our series on Proper Maintenance of Trash Disposall Systems, certainly a vital topic in the Fleet today. we have a short feature to round out the centar coming up in just michrons. Be sure to stay tuned as we cover the ins and outs of Proper Gasket Sealing." Serina sat stiffly until Balab indicated that the vid was playing, then sagged in her chair. "Feeling okay today, Serina?" her engineer asked her sympathetically. "I can call the Galactica and ask Ariana to come in today after all, if you like." She shook her head without lifting it. "Death's too good for him," she muttered to her hand, unmoving. "Who?" "The whole family." "Gee, thanks, sister-in-law," Zac's voice came over the speaker. Serina looked up, saw him leaning over her studio man. "And here I came to give you a hand." "Give me a hand with what?" Serina asked in irritation. "Can I come in?" Zac asked. Serina's eyebrow rose. "As long as you keep quiet when my light's on, certainly. Let him in, Balab." "You're the boss." Zac came in, pulled the biggest, softest seat in the room over next to hers and flopped down in it. He carefully took the time to arrange his boots on her desk. "You're in my boss' seat," she advised him. "Ask me if I care," Zac replied darkly. The reporter glanced searchingly at him; anger was normally beyond this young pilot. "Goodness, you must've had a good time so far." Serina took the time to log the currently-running vid, then turned and faced her brother-in-law squarely. "I thought you had something you were going to do here." "I already did it," Zac said angrily. "Most of it, anyway. Got a little left before I'm done, but I'm looking forward to it a whole lot more now than I was a while ago." This was, of course, the clearest of mud to the mystified Serina. "What are you talking about?" Zac shook his head and pointed to her primary monitor, even now displaying the glories of proper airlock fittings. "How long 'til that felgercarb finishes?" "That?" Serina glanced at her clock. "Another three centons, about. After that we have Metallurgical Care of Internal Hulls part God alone knows what. Why? Are you planning on jumping ship before it starts?" "If I go I'm taking some company," he snapped. "Serina, do you get around this ship much?" The dark-haired woman shook her head. "Not really. I suppose I could, but I have to be here in case something goes wrong while the crystal's playing, and God bless it since I never will, this rotting player is the only system in the Fleet that hasn't broken down so far." Her newsman's instincts came to the fore; Zac with a mad on was unusual enough to warrant some attention. "Hang on a centon, Zac," she told him, tuned her monitor to darkness. Balab would cue her when to speak and when to stop, and until that time, she had precious little to do. "Now. Talk to me. What are you doing here?" "You know that girl I met when we were salvaging people back at Caprica?" Zac started without preamble. "The one on the skybus that Dan was holding together? You would've seen her while you and Boxey and Muffit were waiting to go back to the Rising Star. It was just before we left Caprica." Serina, who remembered the incident, and had a very good memory for faces besides, nodded. "Well, she's on this ship." Serina smiled with genuine cheerfulness for the first time in a long time. "Zac! Do I detect a note of affection?" She leaned forward. "Fine. Tell me about her." "You detect a note of disgust," he retorted. "Serina, I'm the one that got her on this ship in the first place! I figured if anywhere'd have a place for a bunch of former superstars it'd be a relay ship!" He sighed heavily. "I thought I was doing her a favor." Serina, who still had no idea what was being discussed here, skillfully led the conversation back around. "Well, technically, you did," she pointed out. "At least this ship is clean, and quiet, and close up the chain to the Galactica. She could have ended up in a number of worse situations. Why, I--" "Serina, they don't even let people here call any other ships," Zac insisted urgently, apropos of little. "She's got no idea if any of her friends are even still alive, whether any of her family survived or not." He glowered. "Granted, the chances are slim to none that any of her family actually made it, but they might've! And she had friends!" "Well--" "And your precious boss is her boss' boss," Zac growled, "and her dighting boss is a shendiflecking sludge that broke one family up already and keeps on annoying her and the other women in the storage bay!" "Oh, dear," Serina said, uncertain what to feel. Her friend was very upset; obviously this girl was something more than just a friend to him. She could think of nothing offhand that she might do to make the situation any better. "Zac, I wish I could help, truly I do, but I--" Zac waved his hand in dismissal. "Ah, she already tried to get a job up here. I think she'd've cleaned teef seats to get away from Garkon--" "Garkon?" "Her boss. The sludge. Anyway, they told her no way, and sent her packing. And when Garkon found out he--" Zac swallowed, pounded a fist on his leg. "I am gonna kill him, swear to God," he muttered. Serina was getting excited--here was a story with potential, encompassing everything from human caring to abuse of official authority. Her excitement drained away within michrons as she remembered that she would never be able to do anything with the story--not the way IFB was being run, in spite of her protests. And besides, this was not just some bystander from whom she was hearing a tale of woe; this was her brother-in-law, a friend in his own right, miserable at the situation his own friend was caught up in. "Zac, listen," she started. "I don't know what I can do, but--" "Serina," Balab called her from next door. "Two decentons to opening." Serina nodded to him, turned to face her panel. "Zac, hold on a minute. We'll continue as soon as I take care of this." She smiled. "At least now I know why you came over today. I'm proud of you," she finished, and meant it. Zac nodded tiredly. Serina glanced at her monitor, noted it was still tuned to black. Balab's fingers counted their way down to zero; no time to raise the picture back. Well, she had no desire to see yet another military training vid. "Hello again. This is the voice of IFB, InterFleet Broadcasting." She sensed rather than actually heard Zac stifling a snicker behind her. When she glanced sternly at him, his face was expressionless; she had little choice but to turn back to her script. "That was a technical memorandum on Proper Gasket Sealing, something everyone should bear in mind the next time they check their airlocks for full functionality." She swallowed hard; it would not do to retch in front of a live microphone. "And here now is the next in our series on FI-386 Engine Maintenance. Today's vid will cover the removal of the catalyst subsystem." Balab gave her a thumbs-up indicating that the recording was starting. "Stay tuned to IFB for the latest in technical updates." She snapped the mike off with a strength born of anger, laid her head on her crossed forearms. A muffled scream came from her sleeves. "Interesting job," Zac offered sympathetically. "Killing your father on camera would be more interesting," she told him, then regained her composure with an effort. "Sorry. That was uncalled for." "Not necessarily." She grinned thinly, leaned forward to pat him on the knee. "Now. Tell me all about your young lady friend. She was the reason why you came over today, wasn't she?" Zac nodded. "Part of it," he said, hedging zackishly. Serina grinned. "Why, Zac, I do believe you're embarrassed!" she laughed. Zac grinned sheepishly, shared her laugh. "So. Let's hear it. All of it. I seem to remember that she's blonde, blue eyes, fairly tall, medium build. She was in a band back home, right?" A thin scream drifted through the plex that separated the engineering room from Serina's chamber. She glanced around through the window. Balab was sitting back, his hands on his earphones, his eyes bulging, stark terror on his face. Suddenly concerned, Serina touched her own mike. "Balab! What's wrong?" The man choked, spat, got words out. "Your monitor! Look!" Serina frowned, dialed her monitor's picture and sound back up. "--ay's episode of Bast of the Colonial Patrol, Bast battles the evil Cylon Qosmic Qat!" Strident theme music rose to a fanfare as a stylized, cartoony picture of a koshek, garbed in a simplistic parody of a colonial warrior's uniform, leaped across the screen, ray blaster blowing gaping holes in all of its enemy, and most of the landscape, that stood between it and its target. For a moment Serina simply sat and watched, disbelieving, as the cartoon hero swooped and blasted, sang and danced its way to an even sillier looking cylon baseship. Balab's continued choking snapped her attention back to the real world. Her nimble fingers managed to hit three switches, none of them the ones she had wanted to hit, in the first three michrons. The cartoon continued to play. A thought occurred to her. She swiveled in her seat, glared at Zac. "You did this--" "Told'ja Milla was only part of why I came over today," Zac told her, grinning. "Welcome to broadcasting." The pilots in the ready room knew from the start of the shift that it was going to be a long, boring stretch of duty. It had once been that they could play music or games or watch vids while they were on call. Then IFB, such as it was, had begun serious operations, and no less a personage than the Commander himself had decreed that all monitors would remain permanently tuned to "the voice of the Fleet." Most of the time, one pilot selected at random would sacrifice his pillow to cover the screen. The pilots had long ago learned that they could disconnect the speakers without being caught, but the picture was part of a command monitor circuit. Two pilots were genially tussling, rolling across the deck in a boredom- inspired wrestling match, and knocked against the pole that held the shielding pillow propped into place. It fell to the floor, unnoticed at first in the excitement. Only after the fight had rolled downstairs did someone remember that the dread viewscreen had come uncovered. He glanced up at it. After long michrons, he lifted his voice in a scream. "Hey! Look!" Activity stopped as everyone first glanced at him, then at the screen his trembling finger pointed to. "Hey! That's Bast of the Space Patrol!" "Neat! This is one of the Qosmic Qat episodes!" "Man alive, I haven't seen this in jahren!" "Where'd it come from?" "Who gives a damn? Get the sound hooked up, quick!" "No, don't stop it yet," Serina shouted at her panicky assistant. "Get the next one ready first. We go off the air, we will have a panic!" "Wouldn't that be better than what Servoss is gonna do to us if he sees this going out?" Balab quavered. He, at least, had lost much of his fire and journalistic zeal in the past sectons. "NO!" Serina snapped. "The only time IFB's gone off the air has been right before cylon attacks. You let that thing play and you get the next vid ready, you hear me?" "It's--it's ready," Balab panted, slapping a crystal into the player. "Take it!" "I'm on it!" Serina next words were calmness incarnate. "Hello. This is the voice of InterFelinoid--Fleet Broadqat--casting!" She snapped her mike off, rattled as she had not been since her first personal broadcast almost eight jahren ago, angry that she was so off-balance. "We--we apologize for the technical difficulties. Here, back to our regularly scheduled programming!" Granted, her voice rose somewhat toward the end, but she was under stress, after all. The screen flickered, blanked, shifted into a starfield. Serina, beginning to relax, stiffened; that looked nothing like a government technical recording. Sure enough, across the starfield, a snow-covered planet--Sagitarra, from the looks of it--rolled, the camera angle panning down. Serina cringed; she knew what was coming. "Hey! What happened to Bast?" "Neat! Love's Blazing Sword! I haven't seen that in jahren!" "Wild! Look, this is one where Petresca and Montagu are still friends!" "Isn't that before he and Margali had to--" "Aw, I want to see how Bast comes out. See if you can reach the IFB ship and get 'em to finish the cartoon!" "Wait'll this finishes. Man, I wonder who spiked the chow on the broadcast ship?" "Who cares? I'd've done it myself if I'd had the chance!" "Shut up! Here comes one of the fight scenes!" Serina was certain her hair was graying as she sat there. She could just feel it happening. She remembered this serial; she had followed it for a long time when she was in secondary school. A friend of hers from Sagitarra had out-and-out scoffed at the series as nothing but trash, in no way representative of the real outworld of the system; that had not in any way prevented the show from becoming Caprica's number one televid series for almost a decade running. When all else fails, do whatever you still can. "ZAC!" "Don't look at me," the young man protested cheerfully. "I'm not the one settin' Montagu up for an ambush!" Serina did her level best to glare her brother-in-law into monatomic dust, then turned back to her panel. "Balab! Get one of the vids we showed this morning! Hurry!" "Won't work, boss," Balab gibbered. "Why the hell not?" Serina shouted. "We gotta have the codes from Logistics before the reader'll run 'em again," he pointed out. "Standard government access recordings, see?" He held up two in illustration. "All right then," Serina hissed, lowering output strength and quality without actually cutting the broadcast off. "Call Logistics on the Galactica. Tell them we need codes or we need replacement vids. Then call Ariana and tell her to get whatever logistics has ready over here right away!" "It's her day off, Serina," Balab had little enough wit to protest. "I'll apologize later!" Serina bellowed calmly. She could spare no time to consider the difficulty this would cause her friend and assistant; this was IFB's first full-blown crisis! "Just do it!" As Balab reached for his panel, one of the lights on it lit. He blanched as it told him his caller's identity. "Call for you," he said hastily. Serina slapped her phone. "Serina here. What is it?" "This is Servoss," her supervisor's voice blared over the speaker. "What the frack is--" "Not now!" Serina snapped, hanging up on the man before she realized what she was doing. Zac chortled. "He's not on the ship right now, if you want to know," the young man reassured her. "I checked." "Shut up! Zac, you--" "Serina, what do we do about this vid right now?" Balab called. Serina rounded on Zac. "How many of those tapes are actually what they're supposed to be?" she asked him, steel in every syllable. Zac carefully and unobtrusively wheeled his seat to put a desk between himself and the angry woman. "Well, uh, the ones you've shown so far," Zac got out. At her look he continued hastily. "We timed it so they'd finish about the time Zara would sign on. Then you'd be a hero and she'd look worse than ever. There's that Bast, and an episode of Love's Blazing Sword, a gemonese historical movie of some kind, a couple of comedies--dunno how well they'll go over, they're Aerian--and some documentaries on the strange animals of Taura." The serial continued reeling across the monitor, complete with commercial tags at the bottom of the screen from time to time, advertisements for products that had not been available now for sectars. "Blazes, Serina, we just--" "Shut up, Zac," she snarled. "I'll deal with you later. Balab! Let it run. The damage is done; we'll salvage what we can later. Make contact with the Galactica, see about getting some new access codes or some new cuts." Balab lifted a hand acknowledgement. She shook her head. "I can't just stop them. And God alone knows what we'll do while they aren't playing. I can't broadcast news I haven't got." Zac lit up. "Hey, Serina." He flinched at the look she turned on him, continued hesitantly. "I can solve that problem, too." "You? You did this to me in the first place, switched tapes on me and--" "Hey! I never touched those tapes!" Zac protested. "You knew this would happen though! You admitted it! And you didn't warn me!" "If I'd warned you would you have gone ahead and played 'em?" he challenged her. That stopped her for a moment. When she continued her voice was more under control. "Zac, I appreciate, in a way, what you tried to do here. The idea was good even if the execution is bad. But there are ways to go about doing anything, and this isn't one of them." She glared at him again. "What if something you gave me to show was considered pornography by some part of the Fleet?" "Oh, like Turboflush Maintenance Part Two Thousand Seven Hundred and Sixteen's not obscene by anyone's standards?" Zac shot back. That stopped Serina again. "Look, Serina, my--our intentions were good. You don't know that the situation's all that bad yet. And I swear, what I've got in mind to buy you some extra time's about as controllable as you could want." Serina kept glaring at him. "Give me a chance, huh?" he pleaded. "You had your chance," she snapped. "You used it up, too!" "All right!" he shouted. "Give me a chance to make up for it then!" Serina glanced at her engineer; Balab had one crystal in his panel, frantically trying to break the codes on it so that they could show it again, and he was talking rapidly to his headset mike. Serina shuddered in spite of herself; the thought of repeating one of those interminable vids, especially out of necessity-- "What have you got in mind?" she asked Zac quietly. As Zac explained, her face relaxed. She nodded, listening. Milla looked around the chamber half in wonder, half in trepidation. She was no stranger to recording studios, but this part of the ship had been forbidden territory since she had come aboard almost fifteen sectons ago. Then she spotted a familiar face. "Zac! What have you done? What's going on?" The pilot grinned hugely, moved to greet her at the door with a huge, heartfelt hug. "May've gotten you a new job. Or something." "Are you Milla?" Serina asked her. She nodded at the woman. "You were a member of Spheroids?" Milla nodded again. "Do you remember any of your songs?" "I think so." The girl turned confusedly to the pilot. "Zac--" Zac pushed her toward the newly opened seat. She sat hesitantly, watching him warily as he picked up a zithron and strummed a few generic chords. "Guess what, babe?" He grinned hugely. "You're about to give a Command Performance!" Milla shook her head. "Zac, what's going on? Two security guards came and got me at work, and Garkon is going to be mad when he finds out that I've been up here again--" Zac's expression darkened. "Garkon can go to hell. He's not gonna have anything to say to you any more." He grinned again. "We've got time to kill coming up, and we need a singer with a pretty voice." He leaned forward, whispered conspiratorially, "Pretty face, too." Milla looked at Serina, who nodded grimly. "But," the girl said, "I thought the only thing IFB broadcast was information vids." "It was," Serina said grimly. "It still is. Zac, are you two ready? You're sure you know how to play that thing?" "Who, me? Of course!" Zac was too excited to feign a wounded ego. "I could've been a concert player myself if I'd wanted to." Zac grinned at Milla. "You know lots of songs, right?" She nodded. "Fine. Just follow my leadins. We'll stick to well-known ones for now." Milla, eyes wide, nodded. "Show's finishing, Serina," Balab informed her, voice dead. On-screen one man stood over another, an impossibly ornate sword held high, ready for a killing blow to descend, as credits began to slide across the shot. Serina thought it singularly appropriate. "All right, Zac, you're on," she snapped. "Make this good, or I'll strangle you where you sit." "Hey, no problem!" Adama glanced up as his door chimed. "Enter," he said. Tigh strode in, his face working, glanced at the man at the desk, then at the wall viewer, that now was displaying nothing but Fleet Standard Time. "Tigh? What can I--" Tigh without comment touched the channel buttons, brought up IFB's standard nondescript ID screen. "--ere, live from the hit band Sphereoids, it's Milla na'Garr! Take a bow, Milla. We're here for the listening pleasure of you, the people of the Fleet, so let's get right to it." "That's Zac's voice," Adama protested, as if to convince himself that this was not happening. Tigh nodded, his lips trembling. "What the devil does he--" A four-chord riff drifted from the loudspeaker, increased in its fury for a moment, drifted back to a level of quiet accompaniment. There was no voice track. The chords continued for a few michrons longer, stopped. "C'mon, Milla, jump in. That was your intro!" "What are you playing, Zac?" a girl's voice asked. "Aw, c'mon, Milla. You mean to tell me you don't even know Light My Rockets? That's a classic!" "Not the way you played it." "Okay, okay. I'm easy. How about...mmm, Stairway to the Tombs?" Another four-chord riff came from the screen. It cut off after a much shorter time. "Zac, that sounds like the same thing you played for Light My Rockets," Serina's voice objected. "Huh? Of course not! That's a completely different song. Listen." He played the initial arrangement again. "Zac, how many chords do you know on that thing?" the first girl's voice asked. There was a long silence. "Well, just the four," the voice admitted. Tigh spluttered, struggled gamely to recover what composure he could as Zac's voice continued. "But shoot, only place I ever played was in the ready room, and most of the pilots don't know the tunes anyway, and--" "Zac, give me that," the first girl's voice said again. There was a brief unharmonic noise as the zithron changed hands, perhaps without Zac's approval. For a few michrons came the sound of chords and individual notes. Then the zithron started up, obviously under the control of someone who knew how to play it. After the intro, Milla began singing, a husky, romantic tone to her voice. "Zero-G Love! Zero-G Love! Four-three-two-one Zero-G Love!" "Tigh, get up!" Adama roared, trying to make himself heard over both the song from the monitor and his friend's loud brays of laughter. "Get me the IFB ship! On the double!" *** *** *** *** *** Adama's expression was thunderous, genuine helpless fury written all over his face. Before him, lined up as though for some bizarre inspection, stood Serina, Apollo and Zac. The two on the outside ends looked fairly guilty. Apollo, in the middle, merely looked confused. "--and then My Boyfriend is a Pilot?!" Adama roared. "I suppose the least objectionable of the songs she sang was Sunset Beach, but even that is--" "Uhm, father," Apollo said, lifting his hand. Adama fixed him with a steely glare. The young man faltered, pushed on. "Why am I here? I didn't do anything. I wasn't even there." "Fallout," his younger brother advised him knowledgeably. "You're related to both of the accused." "Thanks," the older brother responded drily. "That helps a lot." "Silence!" Adama thundered. The trio rocked in unison. "I want to know who was responsible for today's debacle. Who put that--that fluff into the system?" He glared alternately at Zac and Serina. There was a long silence. "Actually," Zac offered hesitantly, "Balab was the one who was popping the crystals into the--" "Zac!" Youngest Son shut up with remarkable speed. Adama turned to Serina. "How did those vids get broadcast?" Serina's own temper was on a short fuse right now, matching the Commander's degree for degree. "I don't know, Adama! The seal on the pouch was intact, the crystals were labeled properly when I opened it, they matched my manifest, and my assistant was broadcasting them in order." Adama turned his gaze back onto Zac. The young man held his hands up. "Hey, Dad, not me. Word of honor. I never touched those crystals. That pouch was sealed until they opened it." "How d'you know that?" Apollo asked his brother. Zac looked uncomfortable. "Uh, because Serina said they were." As Apollo's look of skepticism intensified, the young man flushed. "Listen, I went over to see a girl I know on the IFB ship," he insisted. "And you took your zithron with you? What were you going to do, serenade her?" Apollo pressed. "And why didn't you log out in the pass record before you took off?" Zac glared helplessly at him. "Listen, some of us are in charge for a living." "Adama, Zac told me he came to see that young lady, too," Serina revealed, "and he was with me when the first crystal went on. He told me he never touched them, either, and I believe him." Serina obviously had her own reasons for concealing Zac's possible guilt. "Well, if he didn't, and you didn't, then who did?" Adama growled. "Father, calm down," Apollo suggested comfortingly. "We'll get to the bottom of this." Adama's face darkened. "You will conduct yourself in a military manner, Captain," he ordered. The three young people looked each other up and down. "I don't see any uniforms," Zac offered. "You see any uniforms?" "I don't see any uniforms," Serina echoed. Both of them looked at Apollo. "You see any uniforms here?" they asked him in unison. Adama's face had reached a red generally unseen anywhere but the bottom of spectral charts. Apollo thought the whole affair was too silly to be believed. Until a couple of centons ago, he had thought the whole thing was someone's idea of a joke. Admittedly, he was still half-convinced that Zac was the ultimate source of all the mischief, but if the man was giving his word that he had never-- ding! "Wait a centon," he said, snapping his fingers. Adama glared at him. "Zac, you said you quote never touched those crystals unquote?" Zac nodded frantically. "Serina, you said you had nothing to do with it?" "Of course not." "Someone already confirmed with Logistics that they gave Serina the proper crystals, right?" Adama nodded jerkily. "All right, father, may I make a suggestion?" "By all means," the commander said sarcastically. Apollo caught Zac's eye, grinned thinly. "I suggest calling Flight Sergeant Dannel up here." Zac went deathly pale. "He ought to be able to shed some light on this situation." "Why would you think that?" the Commander asked with ill-grace. "Uh, Apollo, er, the man got off patrol the same time I did, and, uh, he's likely to be resting," Zac stammered. "It was a rough patrol." "Oh? What did you leave out of your report this time?" Apollo inquired politely. At Zac's angry glare he continued. "He was your wingman, right?" Zac nodded. "You're still up and about." He looked back at his sire. "Father, the one thing no one's asked Zac yet is whether he knows who did switch the crystals." Zac had the same brave expression on his face that a drowning man might wear. "And I'd think a psikin would have little difficulty getting into a security pouch. Especially," fixing a hard look at his younger brother, "if he was coached." Serina came to Zac's defense. "Adama, listen--" Adama rounded on her. "You will address me as Commander, Flight Sergeant!" This was the straw that broke the dromedon's back. "The devil I will!" she shot back, her own temper more than a match for his. "You forfeited that respect when you let him," pointing at her husband, suddenly looking just as uncomfortable as his younger brother, "pull me off the duty roster on a medical discharge." "Serina--" Adama started. Serina would have none of it. "You want me to call you commander, I'd better see your authorization under an order putting me back on flight status, Adama." She barely paused for breath; she had a lot of frustration saved up. Apollo and Zac, unrehearsed, began edging backward in unison. "This whole affair is your fault, too!" "Mine?" Adama sputtered. "What leads you to that conclusion?" "You're the one who doesn't think the Fleet can handle being cheered up, being distracted, being allowed to feel human every now and then," Serina blasted him mercilessly. "When was the last time you looked at the overall level of morale of the hundred-and-a-half thousand people cooped up in these ships? Eh? Tell me!" "Young lady," Adama glowered, "I believe that fifty jahren of military command allows me to judge--" Serina made a remarkably rude noise, stopping him short. "I beg your pardon?" "Adama, you don't know anything about civilian populations," Serina accused him. "The only people you've ever commanded have been military. Period. People who are in the military have a different mindset. They're used to doing without, or working on a minimum of information, or waiting for orders from up top. "But the people in the Fleet aren't in the military. For most of them, being cooped up in this Fleet may be the closest they've ever actually come to being military. They don't know that this is how warriors live, how they're treated more often than not. All they know is that they're locked down, kept shut up, seldom allowed out, and, worst of all, not even permitted to keep in touch with others in the same predicament!" She paused for breath, affording Adama a chance to get in a shot at an argument. "Serina, you're right," Adama conceded. "There are over a hundred thousand people cooped up in far too few ships in this Fleet. And that is precisely the reason why we cannot simply allow just anything to be broadcast over IFB. Do you have any idea of the trouble, of the potential for destruction that could erupt if something inflammatory were to get out--" "Inflammatory like what, Adama?" Serina shot back. "A chemical leak that was a lot less serious than the rumor mill ended up making it seem? Cylon attacks that are nothing but blank screens and no information whatsoever?" "You are out of line, young lady," Adama said sternly. "I'm only out of line if I'm talking to a commander," she snapped back. "Right now I'm talking to an old man on a power trip!" Adama blinked; so did Apollo. "She's right, you know," Zac whispered to his brother. Apollo shot the young man a dark glare, then looked thoughtful. "Explain yourself," Adama snapped. "Cheerfully! If we were allowed to broadcast Fleet news and events, don't you think that would help lower the levels of intercultural tensions that make up ninety percent of the calls made to security?" Serina challenged him. "If people know they aren't alone, they get less insular, less inclined to pull in on themselves and violently resist anyone else's presence. "If people have some place to turn to show them that there is still a world out there, outside their hulls and ships, don't you think that would make them feel more of a, a citizenship with the Fleet, and less with their old worlds?" "How does broadcasting a romance serial and a children's program and adult songs promote Fleet unity?" Adama disputed. "Most of these people haven't got access to the Galactica's libraries or entertainments or anything, Adama," Serina insisted. "For them, the sum total of their worlds are their ships, and their cabins, and the faces they see day after day. What did your instructors at the War College teach you about 'cabin fever'?" She challenged him. She gave him no opportunity to respond. "It's almost as deadly as actual combat, that's what they taught you! I should know; I've seen the coursebooks. "Adama, why do you think they put so many gaming fields and gamegrids and atheletic complexes in a warship? It was to keep the warriors sane during long periods of inactivity! Why do you think standard news and entertainment were broadcast every time the Galactica was in range of anywhere broadcasting? To keep them in touch with the world at large. To keep these people sane." Adama was now silent. "And you're trying to do exactly the opposite here. Adama, these people need some kind of release for their own 'cabin fever,' and you're denying them that." Serina smiled smugly. It was an unnerving sight under present circumstances. "Go ahead. Call any of your doctors, any of the psychologists. Ask them, since you don't want to believe a professional in public relations. Ask them what happens to people who are cooped up and separated from any form of human interaction! "Adama, when the Fleet's alert is down, the warriors get together and play all sorts of sports--spatball, volley, disks, triad. I know it's not possible to allow access to the Galactica to everyone in the Fleet, and it'll take a long time to put gyms aboard even most of the ships in the Fleet, assuming there's ever time or materials for it, but what if we set up cameras and broadcast some of the better games on the Galactica to the population? "We know those crystals today came from somewhere. I'll bet you anything you want to wager that there are crewmen who were getting crystals of popular broadcasts every time the Galactica came back home, or touched any human port. All we'd have to do is put out a general request. I'll bet some of the other, larger ships have their own vid libraries. "And news, Adama. The panic that came from the Sofroniou doltonide leak could have been avoided by showing how quickly the teams from the Galactica and Dolchon arrived on the scene. Instead, all those poor people got were rumors, rumors they had no way of dispelling because you won't let us broadcast news!" Apollo put his hands on the woman's shoulders to calm her; she was so furious she failed to notice. Zac saw, grinned slightly. "Father, she's right," Apollo offered. Zac and Serina both looked at him in astonishment. Apollo was the last person either had expected to support them. "If you'd back off on the restrictions, give these people a chance to do their jobs without looking over their shoulders, you'd raise Fleet morale to new levels." "How would you know about Fleet morale?" Adama challenged him. "I can't say that I know anything about that," Apollo retorted, "but I know my pilots and the pilots in Kamen's squadron. Father, until now I've never seen such ingenuity in getting the ready room screen blanked and silenced. And these are men who used to come up with new ways to get vids into the ready room when they were on call. That felgercarb you keep insisting they show--" Adama looked pained. Apollo grinned. "--and you can lose the hurt expression. There's no one here that doesn't know you do all the programming yourself--was boring when we had to watch it in beginning training. Insisting that grown men, professionals, and helpless civilians all watch nothing but that teef lining--" "Apollo, some control is necessary," Adama offered, some of his fire having been extinguished by the still-incensed Serina's impassioned outburst. "Can you picture the trouble that could erupt if those hundred thousand plus people were to panic, were to riot at the thought that we were somehow stranded or soon to be attacked, or that perhaps Earth were no longer reachable--" "You and that be-damned legend," Serina muttered. Apollo's hands tightened on her shoulders. "Father, that's happening anyway," Apollo offered. "These people are cooped up in small chambers on small ships, with no contact between themselves and other ships. You wondered the other day why the Census you ordered prepared is taking so long? How are they supposed to check figures when the people have no idea what's being done with the data?" "Apollo--" "Father, the Galactica could even be the basis for some kind of fleet- wide information network," Apollo offered. "We have more capacity than we use now. Picture the population with some kind of entertainment to help them relax, with some kind of library system to help them live life easier from day to day. All that's possible, and you're the only one who doesn't want to see it." "Apollo, before the three of you got here, I received no less than nine complaints from members of the Council," Adama protested. "Every one of them raised holy hell for having allowed the network to be usurped like that." "I'm not surprised," Apollo countered. "That bunch of button-pushers has a vested interest in keeping the population under control." Adama glared at this minor disrespect, however much he might secretly agree with it. "Do you seriously expect me to believe that something like what happened today could be beneficial to the Fleet?" Apollo grinned, took his hands from his wife's shoulder. He pulled his phone out, dialed a number. Serina and Zac exchanged puzzled looks. "Athena," his sister's voice answered, low and soft. Obviously she was expected a call from someone. "Hel-lo-o-o." "Hi, Athena. Apollo." "Oh." The warmth disappeared from the girl's voice. "What do you want?" Apollo's grin widened. "Listen, did you hear about the business with IFB tonight?" he asked her. "Apollo, did you have something to do with that?" Athena's voice was angry now. "I hope you're satisfied, you--" "No, I didn't do it," her brother assured her. He glanced at Zac. "I can point you to the ones who did, if you like." Zac grinned, a weak, sickly expression. Athena sounded ticked. "No, I'm here with father right now. We're discussing the matter. Have you kept any sort of count of the calls that have come in about it so far, maybe logged it in any way--?" Athena cut him off. "I can guess who did this. You tell Zac when I get to him--" She stopped, audibly composed herself. "We've gotten three calls, all from Council members, that were upset that the training film didn't get shown." Adama's face showed smug satisfaction. "You'd think they didn't have anything better to do that complain about IFB." Adama's brows descended. "Another thousand some odd were upset that Bast of the Space Patrol didn't get finished. Fifteen hundred seventy one so far mad that they didn't show more than one episode of Love's Flipping Damned Sword. More still want Milla as a replacement for 'whoever that is announcing those, ahem, training vids.'" Serina did a slow burn. "So far we've had three thousand, seven hundred and thirteen calls. I am going to kill Zac. He did this, didn't he?" Apollo's grin at his younger brother was purely predatory; Zac wilted visibly. Apollo winked at Serina. "I'll tell you some other time, Athena. Bye." He signed off before she could say anything else, looked at his commander. "I think we need to discuss some terms here, father," he suggested cheerfully. *** *** *** *** *** Balab glanced through the glass as his chief entered her chamber and took her seat. "Boss," he told her genially, "you look like hell. You've got to start getting more rest." Serina stared hard at him, then rubbed tiredly at her eyes and pulled her scarf self-consciously higher around her neck. "Married people don't have to go to bed early," she told him archly. He grinned at her. "Or go to sleep, anyway," he noted matter-of-factly. Serina glared at him, then shifted her attention to her panel. "Balab, my mike's still giving me feedback. Haven't you found the source yet?" "Not yet, boss, sorry," the man returned, not sounding all that repentant. "You may have to go with the headset this broadcast. Woops. Definitely go with the headset. Ariana's finishing up in ten michrons, eight, seven--" Serina gave a wordless shriek, snatched up her recently discarded headset, put it on and cleared her face. "Two, one, null, go!" "Welcome to IFB, InterFleet Broadcasting, the voice of humanity among the stars," Serina said levelly. "Tonight: a smuggling ring aboard the Diters Vach is put out of action, an engine malfunction aboard the Tempo Delta injures seventeen, and rationing of soap is scheduled to end soon. And in sports, Red three took the Galactica title away from Blue one today in Triad. "Hello. Serina here..." *** *** *** *** *** This story originally appeared in ANOMALY #20. GALACTICA SDF: NETWORK