Sightlines

A second story about the pilots in Galactica's Red Squadron.
This story takes place about a week after "Red Squadron," and about two 
weeks after the episode "Fire in Space."

By Tice Leonard

     The Galactica's officers' lounge was packed.
     Dietra set her mug of warm ambrosa down and leaned across the 
table toward Brie.  "Look at them.  They've been joined at the hip ever 
since he crashed his Viper."
     Brie started to turn, but Dietra grabbed her hand.
     "Don't look!"
     "But you just said-" started Brie.
     "I didn't mean now," said Dietra.  "That would be staring."
     "And what have you been doing all night?"  Brie asked.
     Dietra leaned back and grabbed her mug.  "I'm just watching out 
for Marsh.  I hear Rigel's a real heartbreaker."
     "That sweet girl?"  Brie asked.
     "Yes," said Dietra.  "I heard she and Greenbean went out for 
nearly half a yahren, and she just dumped him."
     "Well, you know Greenbean," said Brie.
     "Yeah, but she didn't even say good bye.  She just dumped him," 
said Dietra.
     "Well, I'm happy for them," said Brie.  She turned and looked.  
"They are good together."
     "I wish he'd take it slow.  I smell trouble."
     "Are you jealous?"  Brie asked.
     "No," said Dietra.  "I'm just looking out for the kid.  He's not 
quite all there sometimes."
     "That 'kid' is older than you," said Brie.
     "What about you?"  Dietra asked.  "I've seen you making eyes at 
him once or twice."
     "That was a long time ago," said Brie.  "And besides, I wouldn't 
want to date someone I fly with.  That would be too awkward."
     "Tell me about it."
     "I hope they do get together," said Brie.  "I haven't been to a 
good sealing since . . . well, it's been a while."
     The two women shared a moment of silence, then a good drink in 
remembrance of their fellow pilot, Serina, who had died from wounds she 
had gotten during the Cylon attack on Kobol.  Dietra set her drink back 
down and watched Marsh and Rigel sit at the bar and laugh.  Rigel kept 
staring up at the tall and well-built Sergeant Marsh.  She looked 
different with him than with Greenbean.  She looked . . . happy.
     Maybe this was the real thing.

     The internal power in Lieutenant Det's Viper flickered.  He ran a 
quick check of all systems.  They were fine.
     "What was that?"  his wingman, Ensign Cree asked.
     "I don't know," said Det.  But that answered one question.  If 
Cree had it too, then it was something they flew through, not a problem 
with his fighter.
     "Let's go back and check it out," Det said as he turned his ship 
back toward the spot where the strange malfunction had happened.
     This time, with his scanners set to maximum gain, he found a thin 
stream of energy running like a string right across their flight path.  
It ran from beyond scanning range on one side, toward a planet in the 
nearby star system on the other.  Captain Apollo and his patrol had 
checked out the star system earlier, but had found nothing.
     It was strange that an energy beam would be focused there.
     "Is it natural?"  Cree asked.
     "I've never seen anything like it," said Det.  "Let's take a 
second look at that system."
     "Right behind you, Lieutenant," answered Cree.

     "Now what are you going to do?"  Brie asked as Marsh left the 
lounge with Rigel on his arm.  "Gossip about Starbuck and Cassiopeia?"
     "I think I'll turn in," Dietra said.  "It's getting late."

     The sun was very old, even by stellar standards.  The red giant 
had swelled to several times its original diameter.  If there had been 
more than three planets in its system, they had been absorbed into the 
hot fire millennia ago.  
     Of the outer three planets, only one was habitable, that being the 
furthest out.  It spun on a slightly elliptical orbit, accompanied by 
two tiny moons.  And just as Det had expected, it was the terminus of 
the energy beam.
     "Should we go in and have a look?"  Cree asked.
     "Not yet," answered Det.  He scanned the planet a second time with 
his Viper's limited equipment.  He got no reading.  Why was somebody 
sending a tightly focused energy beam to a dead world?
     Det was reading no life, but there were traces of a very faint 
power source.  He checked his scanners a third time, and the reading was 
the same.
     "Cree, I've got a fix on something," said Det.  "Stay with me, but 
if I give the order, we're getting out fast."
     Cree nodded without saying a word.
     They eased the ships into the planet's atmosphere.  In space, the 
fighters were free to maneuver with only their own mass as the limiting 
factor.  But, in an atmosphere, even one as thin as this, they were 
privy to more rudimentary limitations, such as drag, weight, and even 
friction against the skin of the craft.  Faint fire trails lit the edges 
of Det's wing surfaces as he dropped lower toward the planet.
     He leveled off at about one hundred meters and held his throttle 
open.
     "What's with the altitude, Lieutenant?"  Cree asked.  "I've got no 
room to move."
     "Somebody went through a lot of trouble to hide here," said Det.  
"It's a fair bet they don't want to be found."
     "Good thinking," responded Cree.  He held his Viper down, now just 
skimming above the ground.  They were at thirty meters.
     "No vegetation to speak of," said Det.  "Just some kind of grass."
     "And not a lot of it," said Cree.  "Is that a road?"
     On the horizon, just a thin black line cut through the gray 
landscape.  It wound with the terrain, but it was not a river bed.  If 
it wasn't a road, it still wasn't natural.
     "We'll follow it," said Det.  "But keep your speed up."
     "I'm out of here in a micron," said Cree.
     They sped along the winding path for only a centon or two when 
they found a huge burned spot on the ground.  It looked like a mighty 
city had stood here, and been wiped from the face of the planet by a 
huge fiery hand.  Det spun his Viper around for a second pass.
     "Hades Hole," said Cree.
     "You may be right on that," said Det.  "Let's put down and see 
what we've found."

     The Galactica's corridors were quiet.  For the first time in a 
quarton there was not a single repair person carrying some huge new 
piece up or down the hall.  There was no noise from the repair machines, 
nor banging on the bulkheads.  It was very peaceful.
     Rigel and Marsh stopped just outside her quarters.
     "Rigel," started Marsh.  He looked down at the floor.  "I just 
wanted to say thanks, again."
     "For what?"  she asked.  She lifted his head back up with her 
forefinger on his chin.
     "For the last few days..."
     "It's been fun," she said.
     "I mean you listening to me talk, and just being with me.  I 
haven't felt that way in...a while."
     Rigel knew what he meant.  His wife of six yahrens had been lost 
during the final assault on the Colonies.  He had told her all about how 
they met, hated each other, fell in love, hated each other, got married, 
and fell in love again.
     "Are you ready to try again?"  Rigel asked.
     Marsh stammered at what his mind was thinking.  He rocovered and 
asked, "You mean coordinating the fleet?  At core systems?" 
     "No," she said.
     Marsh knew he was blushing.
     "I sent my roommate out for the night,"  Rigel said as she stepped 
into her quarters.
     Marsh followed her into her room.

     "The power source is over here," said Det.  He stepped through a 
pile of incinerated rock.  Whatever had happened here was more 
destructive than anything he had ever experienced.  Glass had been 
formed all along the surface of the once expansive city.
     "Look at this," said Cree.  He lifted a large piece of stone from 
a pile near what had been a street.  Below was a hole.
     "A bunker?"  Det suggested.
     "Only one way to find out," said Cree.
     They both drew their blasters and jumped down.
     Det's eyes adjusted to the blackness.  It was not completely dark.  
Lit by tiny cracks in the street, the underground maze was littered with 
rubble and burned bodies.
     One lay face down on a mound near Cree's feet.  He holstered his 
blaster and carefully turned the body over.  Though badly mutilated and 
disfigured, it was clear what he had been.
     "Delphian," said Det.
     "Cain said they were defeated," said Cree.
     "And I bet some one told the Delphians we were defeated," said 
Det.
     "What now?"  Cree asked.
     "We go back and tell the commander," said Det.  "Somebody bombed 
this city to the ground and somebody knows were here."
     "What about the power source?"  Cree asked.
     "We'll have to worry about that later," said Det.  "There isn't 
time now."

     Morning is a relative term on a spaceship.  It is usually just 
defined as when the chronometers on the ship read a time that correlates 
to morning on the home world of those aboard her.  So it was on the 
Galactica.
     Marsh awoke, in Rigel's bed.  She was long gone.  No doubt hard at 
work on the bridge.  
     Marsh was still on medical leave, suffering through the last 
vestiges of injuries he had received when he had crash landed his 
wounded Viper six days ago.  He would be due on the bridge later, part 
of his "light duty" was working with Core Systems as a Viper Flight 
Specialist.  He had a few centaurs, though.
     He fumbled for his clothes, got dressed, and went to the officers' 
shower area.  He washed up, found his last clean uniform, and wandered 
back toward his bed in the pilots' bunker.  Tacked to the wall beside 
his bed, was a likeness of his departed wife, Juna.  He stared at it for 
a while, then wandered back out of the quiet room.
     Enlisted personnel aboard the Galactica were not permitted, as a 
general rule, in the officers' lounge.  The exceptions were the core 
persons who had trained specially as pilots.  They were given access to 
anywhere an academy pilot could go.
     As a flight sergeant, Marsh was free to spend his leisure time 
with the commissioned warriors, should he choose.  This time, he did 
not.  He descended several decks, toward the bowels of the battlestar.
     He was equally entitled to join the crews in the enlisted men's 
lounge.  He had not been there in a while, but he needed a change.  He 
slowly held back at the threshold of the doorway, peering in to see who 
was there.
     "Marsh, my boy, as I live and breathe, what brings you here among 
the borays of the crew?" came a voice from inside.
     Marsh had hoped to find him here.
     He stepped in, and found his way to a quiet table where three 
older coremen were sharing a discussion.
     "Too quiet up in Viperland?"  one of the three asked.
     "Too loud," said Marsh as he took a seat.
     "Then you're in the wrong place," said the man.  "We're about to 
cut loose and pick a fight with the support staff."
     Mot was older - fifty-nine yahrens, and was bald on top.  White 
hair surrounded his ears.  His nose was pointy, and made him look 
something like an elf.  He was just a touch shorter than Marsh, but 
stronger than a man in his 20's.  He pushed a drink toward Marsh and 
asked, "Something on your mind, Kid?"
     "I just want to talk," said Marsh.
     "Sounds serious," said Mot.
     "Hey, I'll check the inventory for those parts," said one of the 
other men.
     "Let me go with you," said the other.  They stood and left 
together.
     "What is it, Kid," Mot asked.
     "I met...someone," said Marsh.
     "You mean 'met' or MET?"  Mot asked.
     Marsh gave him a blank stare.
     "Oh," said Mot.  He was just a hair uncomfortable now.  He scanned 
the room, and then looked back to Marsh.  "Do you want to go somewhere 
even more quiet and talk?"
     "Yes, I would," said Marsh.
     "I know just the place," said Mot.  He stood and placed his hand 
on Marsh's back.  They said nothing as they made their way out.

     "I don't see how we missed THAT," said Apollo.
     He faced Colonel Tigh on the bridge as Det gave his report.
     "We never would have seen it if it wasn't for the energy beam," 
said Det.  "It lead us straight to that city."
     "Could it be a monitoring beam?"  Tigh asked.
     "Or a trip wire?"  suggested Apollo.
     "Trip wire?" asked Det.
     "I know in the past that some remote outposts were connected to 
larger bases by an energy beam that would be broken if a ship passed 
through it.  The break would be detected at both ends," said Apollo.
     "We broke it four times," said Det.
     "Then someone knows you were there," said Tigh.
     "Maybe we should change course," suggested Apollo.
     Tigh nodded.  "Perhaps the attackers are monitoring the site.  To 
see if anyone returns to the city."
     "Then they might think we're a lost tribe of Delphi," said Apollo.
     "Omega, bring us around on this course," Tigh pointed to the clear 
tactical display.  "Bring us up to maximum fleet speed.  I'll need to 
inform the commander."

     The old observation deck was abandoned.  All flight control 
functions were handled from the bridge, so a manual watch was no longer 
required.  The room was about five by fifty meters, with a bay window 
facing backwards.  From here, the battlestar's entire underbelly from 
the center back was visible.  Both landing bays were in full view.  Mot 
stood in the bay, looking out at the fleet as it followed.  He could 
hear the Galactica coming up to speed.  He glanced back at his baby, the 
huge engine array.
     He turned back to Marsh, his son-in-law.  Each was the only family 
the other had left.  He stepped back up to the distraught warrior and 
slapped his shoulders.  "I guess you mean you found a woman?"
     Marsh nodded.
     Mot leaned against a hand rail near the window.  Marsh joined him, 
and stared back into space.  It was a quiet moment.
     "That's good," said Mot.
     "Everyone says we're all starting over," said Marsh.
     "What do you say?"  Mot asked.
     "I don't know."
     Mot scratched his ear.  "Juna is gone, you know."  Saying these 
words ripped at his heart.  His only daughter was dead.  Her widowed 
husband was finding love with another woman.  Strangely, that hurt, too.
     "I know."
     Mot looked straight back, his voice was even, and his jaw was set.  
"I never believed much in the afterlife.  At least until Juna died."
     Marsh was stone cold.
     "She's still out there, still wild and free.  Kicking it up where 
ever she is."  His voice cracked.  "She loved you very much."
     There was another moment of silence as the man regathered his 
thoughts.
     "Your happiness was hers.  She told me that."  Mot turned and 
leaned his back against the rail.  He draped his arms over the rail, and 
tapped the window with his fingers.  "She wants you to be happy."
     "But why do I feel so bad?"  Marsh asked.
     Mot knew the implication.  He had more than 'met' someone.
     "I guess I never told you how much I wanted a son,"  Mot said.
     He looked to the warrior for any indication that he was listening.
     "I always wanted a boy I could mold into a model of me.  Someone 
to carry on the family line."
     Marsh stood, unphased.
     "When Juna married you, I had it all.  My little girl was happy, 
and you were that son.  You still are."
     Marsh looked to Mot.  His eyes were red, maybe with grief, maybe 
with stress, and maybe with a touch of guilt.  No doubt the last one had 
driven him to seek out the old man's advise.  Maybe Marsh thought of Mot 
in the same way that Mot felt about him.
     "You are my son now, like it or not, Kid," said Mot.  
     "I loved her," said Marsh.
     "I know you did," said Mot.  "You still do.  So do I.  But it's 
okay to get on with your life.  It's okay to love again."
     Even as he said it, Mot could feel the words sticking to his 
throat.  He had fought in battles where he had seen men blown in 
quarters.  That had been hard.  This was worse.
     "You're not going to hurt Juna," said Mot.  "She's above that 
now."
     Marsh slumped over the rail.  Mot shook him, gently, and turned 
back to the magnificent view beyond.  He draped his arm around Marsh's 
neck.  "If she makes you happy, I think you should follow it."
     "I think so," said Marsh.  "I was afraid you..."
     "I'm not a child," said Mot.  "I don't expect you to live alone 
just because my daughter has left us."
     "Thank you," said Marsh.
     Mot nodded.  He felt a bit of the weight lifted, it would be 
strange to see Marsh with another woman, but he would adjust.  Marsh was 
a good man.
     "Is she pretty?"  Mot asked.
     "Yes," said Marsh.
     "Good," said Mot.  "Smart?"
     "Very," said Marsh.
     "I like her already," said Mot.
     Marsh smiled.  Mot gave Marsh a hug and patted his back again.  
"You'll be fine, Kid."

     Adama's face was dignified, but his tone was concerned.  "You did 
the right thing, Tigh.  If the level of destruction Lt. Det found is any 
indication of their power, we must avoid contact with these forces at 
all costs."
     Tigh nodded slightly.  "Perhaps we should consider a short 
retreat?"
     I would like to oblige that," said Adama.  "But we have been free 
of the Cylons for two sectons now, and our escape depends on us putting 
some distance between us and them."
     "I quite agree, Commander."  Tigh was thoughtful for a moment, the 
added.  "Apollo suggested that the energy beam the patrol encountered 
may have been a trip wire of sorts."
     Adama nodded.  "A logical possibility."
     "My concern is that the Galactica or one of our ships might trip 
another beam if we turn blindly and head further into this sector," said 
Tigh.
     The possibility of a crawlon web of trip wire beams was a dreadful 
one.  
     "We'll have to send out Viper patrols with their forward scanners 
set to maximum," said Adama.  "They will have to fly in front of us and 
clear a path for us."
     "I'll see to it," said Tigh.

     "I'm back," said Det as he sat down in the cockpit of the Recon 
Viper.
     "Det," said CORA.  "It's been soooo long."
     "Only a secton," said Det.
     "Only a secton," CORA responded.  "You try sitting here cooped up 
for a secton with nothing to do."
     "You've been switched off," said Det.
     "Exactly," said CORA.
     Det donned his helmet and closed the canopy.
     "Core Command has transferred the vectors," said CORA.  "Scanning 
for energy beams?  Is that what I'm resigned to?"
     "Right now that's the most important thing," said Det.  He glanced 
down the row of parked Vipers.  Red Squadron was ready.
     "Core Command transferring control to escort craft," came Marsh's 
voice.  "Good luck and launch when ready."
     Det revved up and blasted down the launch tube.
     It had been a while since Galactica had launched so many fighters 
at once.  Twelve Vipers from Red Squadron alone were scrambled.  Blue 
had a further twenty, and Silver Spar sixteen.  There were just enough 
left in reserve should the fleet need them for defense.
     Red flew the left oblique position, sixty degrees off the 
Galactica's bow, moving outward in a line abreast formation.  Det was 
the furthest left, since CORA's scanners were the most effective.  The 
Recon Viper was linked directly to the Galactica's scanners, feeding the 
battlestar vital information in real time.
     Det couldn't help but glance off to port.  That was the direction 
from which the energy beam had come.  That was where the attack was 
liable to come from.  He adjusted CORA's scanners slightly to the left.
     "What are you doing?"  CORA asked.
     "It's a hunch," said Det.  "Who ever is transmitting the search 
beam is over there."
     "Would you like me to do that for you?"  CORA asked as Det fiddled 
with the tracking.
     "Go ahead," said Det as he threw his hands up.
     "Done," said CORA with a note of sarcasm.  "Nothing there.  Just a 
dying star and three dead planets."
     "Keep an eye on it," said Det.
     "Eyes are blind," said CORA.  "My scanners are MUCH more 
effective."
     "Good," said Det.  "Just keep scanning."
     "Don't get testy," said CORA.  
     The forty-eight Viper long line plowed ahead, slowly leaving the 
fleet behind.  Space ahead was clear, at least as far as the scanners 
could tell.  It was a boring ride.  Det let his eyes wonder just to 
break the monotony.

     "Fuel check," said Cree after what seemed like three centars' 
time.
     "Go," said Det.
     "I'm at sixty percent," said Cree.
     "That's the signal then," said Det.
     To keep the line from being broken when the Vipers ran out of 
fuel, Tigh had ordered that the squadrons would rotate back to the 
Galactica in turn and be replaced by fresh crews as fuel ran low.  The 
first rotation would happen early, so as to get the squadrons "out of 
sync" with each other.  At sixty percent fuel load, Red Squadron was to 
return, and refuel.  Blue would retire at fifty percent, and Silver Spar 
at thirty.  After that, all squadrons would retire when they reached 
twenty percent, but the differing fuel levels would be staggered by the 
early changes done now.
     "Red Leader to Captain Apollo," said Det.  "Red Squadron is 
retiring."
     "Very well," said Apollo.  "Blue Squadron, spread out."
     As Det's fighters turned back, Apollo's ships took up a wider 
spacing.  Even so they could not cover the area that the forty-eight 
Vipers had.  The fleet behind them would have to close up so as to fit 
through the smaller space.
     "CORA, maximize scan to starboard," Det said as he completed his 
turn.  He throttled back to slow down.  
     "Scanners are set," said CORA.  There was a pause.  CORA was 
usually quite chattery when it came to changes in the plan.  What was 
she thinking.
     The Viper's war book activated, then stopped.  Then it activated 
again.
     "What are you doing?"  Det asked.
     "Quiet, please," said CORA tersely.  "I am scanning."
     Det slowed his fighter.
     "Cree to Det," said Cree's voice.  "What's happening?"
     "Quiet, she's scanning," said Det.
     Cree backed off his power and eased back beside Det.
     "I've got him!" said CORA.
     "What?"  Det asked.
     "A blackship hiding just beyond scanning range," said CORA.
     Blackship.  That was a term that Det had heard before.  During his 
academy days he had been part of a war game exercise to determine 
tactics against a tricked-out Cylon stealth craft.  The "BlackShip" as 
it had been called was never actually seen in combat, but had been 
spotted on more than one patrol.
     It was based on the theory that a Viper's scanner could not see 
what it could not scan.  Coated in an energy absorbing material and 
hiding all electronic emissions, it showed up only as a black hole in 
space.  There was no sensor reading on it.  Only a moving gap in the 
readings of background radiation and visible light.
     The exercise had been a failure.  They had never determined how to 
beat a blackship in combat.
     "Do you have a positive track?"  Det asked.
     "Interpolation only," said CORA.
     "Good enough," said Det.
     "Are you going to investigate?"  CORA asked.
     "You bet I am," said Det.
     "May I suggest you let me have control?"  CORA asked.  "I CAN 
track him better than your eyes can."
     Det mulled it over for a micron, then relinquished control.
     "Det..." said Cree.
     "Follow me," said Det.  "We've got something."  He switched 
channels and called Apollo.  "Possible contact, Captain.  Cree and I are 
going to investigate."
     CORA fed the coordinates to Galactica's bridge as she kicked in 
the thrusters.  Cree was tight on his tail.  They pulled out far to the 
left wing of the fleet.
     
     Colonel Tigh leaned over Athena's console, staring at the screen.
     "Display the feed from the Recon Viper," Tigh said.
     "This is the feed," said Athena.
     Tigh looked again.  The upper corner of the screen was tagged
RCV-1, the Recon Viper's signature.  It showed only Det and Cree's ships.
There was no third ship anywhere.
     "Is the link working?"  Tigh asked.
     "All systems are functioning," said Athena.  "But we're not seeing 
anything."
     "What's he doing?"  Tigh asked.

     Apollo couldn't help but look over his shoulder.  His own scanners 
were clear, but his combat Viper could not match the Recon ship for 
scanning ability.  Maybe, he hoped, CORA had developed a glitch, and was 
chasing a scanner echo.
     That was the only way they were going to get away cleanly.

     Det was pulling ever further away from Cree.  The Recon Viper's 
extra pulse generators were working overtime to blast it onward.  Det's 
eyes were fixed forward.
     "Begging your pardon, Lieutenant," said Cree.  "What are we 
chasing?"
     "I don't know yet," said Det.  "CORA, can you get more speed?"
     "Sorry," said CORA.  "Even with my great speed, this one is just 
too fast."
     "What kind of propulsion are they using, anyway?"  Det asked off-
the-cuff.
     CORA's secondary scanners lit up at the question.  In three 
microns, she had processed the answer and displayed it on the display 
screen.
     "Tylium?"  Det asked.
     "And he must be burning a gotham of it to be leaving US behind," 
said CORA.
     Suddenly, CORA jinked hard to the right.  They were headed for the 
red giant system.
     "Is he going home?"  Det asked.
     "My God!" said Cree from way back.  "I SEE it!"
     "What do you see?"  Det asked.
     "It looks like a missile," answered Cree. "I got a glance as it 
passed in front of the star."
     "Can you tell the size?"  Det asked.
     "No, not really," said Cree.  "Maybe about the size of a shuttle."
     "Lords be praised," said Det.  "We've got him."
     "How do you figure?"  Cree asked.
     "If he's our size, moving that fast, burning tylium like a stellar 
flare, he'll run out of fuel before we will."
     "Target is slowing," said CORA.  "He's turning for the far side of 
the star."
     "Don't let him get away," said Det.
     "Not on your life," said CORA.  She whipped around, cutting back 
toward the original course.  Cree was struggling just to stay in 
scanning range.
     Det never slowed, despite the fact that the blackship had.  As a 
result, he was closing fast.  The closer he got, the more detail Det 
could make out on the mystery ship.
     It was a touch longer than a Viper, seemingly with two engines 
melded gracefully into either side of the arrow like design.  The ship 
was a dark gray, and it appeared that the entire pointed nose was clear 
for combat visibility.  Bulbs on the front of each engine casing 
appeared to be gun mounts.  It seemed to sport three blaster cannons on 
each side.
     "I'm going to check it out," said Det.  "Let's get back and warn 
the Galactica."
     Det slowed to enter a tight turn.
     "Det," said CORA.  "I am scanning multiple targets."
     "Where?" asked Det.
     Even as he asked, Det began to see them.  Dozens of the gray dots 
littered the empty space between his Viper and Apollo's patrol line.  
They came at him in a diagonally staggered wall, like the crosses on a 
chain like fence.
     "Det to Galactica," he said into the Unicom.  "Galactica, come 
in."
     "They're jamming us, Honey," said CORA.  "I could do and end run 
to the right, and then force my way through.  While they are turning to 
engage, we could be half way home."
     "What about Cree?"  Det asked.
     CORA was unusually silent.
     "Slow to surrender," he relayed the order to Cree.
     It seemed to take forever as the swarm of ships moved in.  They 
surrounded the two Vipers and took up a formation like an eggshell 
around them.  Cree flew just a few fighter widths from Det.  Both pilots 
were silent as they were escorted away from the star system, toward open 
space.

     "I've analyzed the scanner feed from Recon Viper 1," said Athena, 
"and I think I know what he was chasing."
     "What is it?"  Tigh asked.  He was still leaning over the console.
     "Here," she pointed.  "This."
     There was nothing more than a small flicker.  It wasn't really at 
the location to which she pointed, but it blotted out radiation and 
stellar emissions to points behind it.
     "Can they jam or scanners?"  Tigh asked.
     "More likely absorb them," said Adama as he strode over to the 
spot.  "The Cylons experimented with such a ship, but abandoned the 
project.  It interfered with their command and control procedures.  
Communication between ships was difficult."
     "Perhaps they found a way to fix it," suggested Tigh.
     "No," said Adama.  "If they had proceeded with the project, surely 
they wouldn't be sneaking around us like this.  Baltar would have thrown 
them at us in mass."
     "Colonel," said Athena.  She was white as a ghost.
     Tigh glanced back down to the console.  Now that he knew what he 
was looking for, he saw it too.  "Rigel, get the readings from this 
console and send them to Captain Apollo.  Order him to intercept."
     Rigel's hands flashed across her console.  Marsh watched, and 
tried to keep up mentally.  There was a flicker moving from the right 
side of the Galactica's bow toward the left, where Det and Cree had 
disappeared.  The flicker was BEHIND the fighter line.  
     As the attack vectors were transferred, he saw Apollo's ship swing 
back and increase sped.  

     "I don't see a thing," said Starbuck.
     "Just follow the Galactica's vectors," said Apollo.  "If they 
wiped out that planet the way Det said they did, they may be able to 
mask their ships from our scanners."
     "And just how are we supposed to find it?"  Starbuck asked.     
     "We'll worry about that when we get there," said Apollo grimly.
     "I see it," said Boomer.  His fighter shot past Apollo's, as he 
took the point.  The captain acquiesced and let Boomer lead.  The three 
ships swept first left, then right.
     "What are you doing, Buddy?"  Starbuck asked.
     "Chasing the FASTEST ship I've ever seen," Boomer responded.  
"Frak, he's gone."
     "Rigel's still feeding us attack vectors," said Starbuck.  "Maybe 
the Galactica's scanner's gone loopy?"
     "Follow the vectors," Apollo said, though he suspected Starbuck 
was right.
     "Daggit gre-!" started Boomer as he pulled his Viper hard to the 
left.  The blackship shot between his craft and Apollo's.
     "What in Hades Hole?"  Starbuck stammered.
     Apollo was already turning around.  It wasn't a scanner fluke.  
This thing was fast, and maneuverable.
     "This is Captain Apollo of the Battlestar Galactica, slow and 
surrender!"
     The ship cruised on.  Now that Apollo had seen it, his eyes could 
find it, even if his scanners could not.  He blasted toward it with his 
turbos.
     The ship banked toward the right, and the Galactica.
     Starbuck was on it in a flash.
     It was slower now than it had been.  At full turbos, Starbuck was 
able to gain on it.  He got a good look.
     "I've never seen anything quite like that," he said.
     "He's coming around again!" said Boomer.  He positioned his 
fighter right in the ship's line of flight.
     They traded laser volleys.  Orange fire lit the sky as the blasts 
passed.  The blackship missed.  Boomer did not.
     With one of her sleek engines blown off, the ship spun.  It limped 
into a sloppy turn, and made a second run on the fighter line.
     Starbuck dropped in behind the craft and fired.  It was a warning 
shot, meant to emphasize Apollo's surrender command.
     The ship dropped dead.  Starbuck shot past him, and was late to 
turn around.  In a dazzling display, the fighter broke up, then 
exploded.
     "I swear, I never touched him!"  Starbuck said.
     "I know," said Apollo.  "Self destruct.  To avoid capture."
     "So we still don't know who he was," said Starbuck.
     Sometimes he had a real gift for the obvious.
     "Well, there's really little point in scanning for trip wires 
now," said Boomer.
     "No doubt the entire quadrant knows we're here," said Apollo.  
"Let's get back aboard the Galactica and see what Det and Cree have 
found."

     "You look tired," commented Rigel.  She sat nestled close to Marsh 
in the officers' lounge.
     "I am," said Marsh.
     "I'm sure Det and Cree are okay," lied Rigel.
     Marsh took a big gulp from his ambrosa.  He stared at the table 
top, his eyes glazing over.
     "Hey," Rigel said.  "Come back to me."
     Marsh shook it off.  "Sorry.  I just can't help thinking."
     "I know," she answered.  "I know."
     "Did you know that when I first came aboard the Galactica I was 
assigned as propulsion crew?"  Marsh asked.
     "No," said Rigel.  "I thought you were a squadron pilot."
     "I was, but after the Destruction I was redesignated to 
engineering."
     "Why?"
     "I was awaiting tribunal."
     Rigel recoiled at the statement.  "Court-martial?"
     Marsh nodded.  
     Rigel had not realized how far away from Marsh she had pulled 
until she saw the sad look in his eyes.
     "For what?"  Rigel asked.  Slowly, she leaned back in until her 
elbow just touched his.
     "Disorderly conduct.  Seems I had some words with a lieutenant who 
thought I wasn't quite worthy of being in his squadron.  I...punched him 
in the face."
     "Oh," said Rigel.  She looked down at the table with Marsh.
     "After I got to the Galactica, I was put in with the engineering 
crew, since that was my first designation."
     "So how did you wind up in Red Squadron?"  Rigel asked.
     "Lt. Det," said Marsh.  "He reviewed my service record, and 
thought I should get another chance."
     "How did he get you out of engineering?"
     "He pulled some strings," Marsh answered.  "After all, he's only 
four steps away from the command of the Galactica."
     Rigel nodded and faced Marsh.  "I'm glad he helped you."
     "I owe him a lot."
     Rigel rested her head on his shoulder.

     Det was bleeding from below his left eye.  His hands were bound 
behind his back and he could not wipe the hot fluid from his face.  He 
was reduced to licking the trickle as it reached his lips.
     Cree was nowhere to be found.  Det hoped he was better off than he 
was.  
     Det was kicked to the floor by one of the body-armored men who had 
met him as he exited his Viper.  Det wished he could see the man's face 
so he could spit in it.  His face hit the grated floor hard.
     Ooo, that hurt.
     "Plathhr grewq jh klinb u iop j^tgs," said the man.  He pointed to 
Det, and activated a field between them.  Det worked his way to his 
feet, and looked around.  He was in a cell.
     Barely two meters square, it was cramped even by prison cell 
standards.
     Det was starting to feel tired.  It was blood loss, he suspected.  
He could feel sleep creeping up on him.  He wanted to sleep.  He was 
dizzy as he tried to stand.  
     He eased himself down to the floor.  There he sat, quietly, 
reciting old nursery rhymes to stay awake.
     Then Cree was forced into the corridor in front of him.
     He looked as bad as Det felt.  In much the same way Det had been 
forced into his cell, Cree was forced into the cell beside him.
     The guard left them without even a vague acknowledgment that they 
were alive.
     "I liked it better when I was captured by the Cylons," said Cree.
     "Who are these guys?"  Det asked.
     "I don't know," said Cree.  He took several deep breath and 
coughed.  "They're all wearing face masks."
     "I don't recognize the language," said Det.
     "If it's not Gemonese, I don't know it either," joked Cree.  He 
coughed again.
     "Are you alright?"  Det asked.
     "I'll live," said Cree.  "And it's a fair bet I'll take a few of 
those guys out."
     Det seconded that sentiment.

     The fleet crawled along.  They had pulled further to the right, 
away from the red giant system.  The trip wire seemed to terminate 
there, like that was the end of the border.
     Adama stood poised on the Galactica's main scanner turret.  It was 
centons past his watch.  He could not pull himself away until after he 
knew his people were out of danger.

     "I want you to meet someone," said Marsh.  He took Rigel's hand 
and lead her from the lounge.
     "Where are we going?" Rigel asked.
     "To meet my father," said Marsh.  "Well, not really my father, 
just the closest thing I ever had."
     "Okay," shrugged Rigel.
     He lead her through the maze of Galactica's winding corridors 
toward a spot near the battlestar's main crew deck.  The officers' were 
billeted higher up, nearer the bridge.  Enlisted personnel, save the 
Viper squadron flight sergeants, were housed much more near the 
Galactica's vital systems.
     Mot's was a fairly large billet sort of in the middle.
     Marsh buzzed the door once, then said, "He wants to meet you."
     Rigel just smiled.
     Mot answered the door a moment later.  He was pleased to see 
Marsh, and surprised to see Rigel.  He fumbled with a greeting, and 
showed them in.
     Marsh suddenly wondered if this was such a good idea.  He had 
hoped that bringing his new love to meet the man he revered would 
relieve the stress that was eating him.  Somehow, it was supposed to 
have stopped his guilt.
     He now felt like he was driving a stake through Mot's chest.
     "I was just heating some dinner," said Mot.  He indicated a make 
shift stove and kitchen area he had fashioned from the steam vents on 
his far wall.  "Have you eaten yet?"
     "No," said Marsh.
     "Then please stay and try an old man's cooking."
     "I'd love to," said Rigel.  Marsh could sense that she felt it 
too.  Mot was good at keeping up a front.  He was still feeling the 
uneasiness.
     "Is he Juna's father?"  Rigel whispered.
     Marsh nodded.
     Rigel took a step away as Mot stirred something in a large cooking 
pot.  "Maybe I should come back later."
     "No," said Marsh.  "I think we should just get this over with."
     "I agree," said Mot from the far end of the room.  "I want to meet 
the woman who's turned my boy's life upside down."
     Rigel blushed.
     Mot picked the pot up off the stove and carried it to a little 
table in the corner.  With his free hand, he pushed a pile of papers 
into a box on the floor, and shoved the box under a chair with his foot.  
He sat the pot down in the center of the table, and pulled a group of 
plates from a cabinet.
     "Marsh has told me some about you, but not very much," said Mot.  
He wiped his hand on the side of his pants, and stepped toward the 
woman.  "My name is Mot.  I've been sort of a friend to this kid ever 
since he joined the Colonial military."  He extended his hand for Rigel.
     Rigel took it, and shook.  Mot had strong hands.  His palm was 
calloused from years of work on ships of war. 
     "I'm Rigel," she said.  "Galactica's Core Operations Specialist."
     "I am glad to make your acquaintance," said Mot.  "Please, take a 
seat, while I find something to drink."
     Marsh escorted Rigel to the table, and held her chair for her.  
Rigel sat and brushed her hand against Marsh's as she sat.
     "So what's this falger...Sorry.  I mean talk I've been hearing 
about an invisible ship our fighters chased today?"  Mot asked.
     "Commander Adama thinks it was a blackship," said Rigel.  "A 
fighter that can absorb our scans and seem invisible to our defenses."
     "Two of our pilots found a blown out planet in a nearby system, 
and a planetary sensor trap," said Marsh. "We think whoever was flying 
that blackship is responsible for the destruction of the planet."
     "I see," said Mot.  His face turned grave as he sat three 
mismatched glasses on the table.  "Peckmellon juice okay?"
     "Great," said Rigel.
     Marsh nodded.
     "And what about your squadron leader?"  Mot asked as he poured 
drinks for first Rigel, then Marsh.  "Has he returned yet?"
     "No," said Marsh.
     "Too bad," said Mot.  "I really liked him."  He poured a glass of 
juice for himself and sat the pitcher on the table.  "I was working with 
him to get a whole slew of replacement parts for that Viper 23 of yours.  
That thing is a mess!"
     Marsh chuckled.
     Rigel looked confused.
     "They have a Viper down their in Beta section that we just can't 
get right," explained Mot.  "If we fix the lasers, the engines break 
down.  If we fix the engines, the computer skips.  If we fix the 
computer, the batteries drain."
     "Sounds like we need to scrap it for parts," suggested Rigel.
     "I'd love to," said Mot.  "But I'm afraid that if we start handing 
23's parts out to the rest of our Vipers, all of them will start 
malfunctioning."
     Mot folded his hands across his lap and bowed his head.  Marsh did 
the same automatically.
     Rigel, respectfully, bowed her head while Mot said a quick prayer 
of thanks.
     Mot then scooped up a hearty portion of his vegetable stew onto 
Rigel's plate.  Marsh took the scoop, and got his own.  Mot served 
himself last.
     "Det had this idea, and I think it might work," started Mot.  "We 
build a second one of those blasted CORA jobs into her and let the damn-
" he quickly glanced an apology to Rigel, "the computer figure out 
what's wrong with the ship."
     "A second CORA?"  Rigel asked.
     "Sure," said Mot.  "Now that we've got one to build from.  We 
already know a bunch of design shortcuts and innovations we'd like in 
the next one.  We may even be able to build her with guns.  She could 
fly herself on patrol or in combat!"
     "Be careful," said Marsh, "you're working me out of a job."
     "Not you, Kid," said Mot.  "I bet they'll give you the job of 
supervising the production of all the CORA ships.  I'd be a far sight 
safer than sending our boys out chasing Cylons and who knows what all 
the time."
     Mot regretted that the moment he had said it.  Det and the other 
pilot were still unaccounted for.  Mentioning the dangers of stellar 
combat had been in pour taste.  Rather than dwell on it.  Mot shoveled a 
big bite of stew into his mouth and chewed it quickly.
     "You maintain the engines?"  Rigel asked.
     "No," said Mot, grateful that she had changed the subject.  "Not 
anymore, I am chief of supply for the whole military branch of the 
fleet.  The Galactica, the Celestra, the Viper squadrons and the 
shuttles."
     "You work with the industrial ship, then?"  she asked.
     "All the time," Mot bragged.
     "Then you know my cousin, Branna?"
     "Of course," said Mot.  "He's chief engineer for the whole fleet.  
He's the one who got that whole deal with the skybus fixed."
     "How is that now?"  Marsh asked.
     "Well, you know they got it patched back together," said Mot.  
"And thank the Lords they got those people off the landing bay.  They 
were beginning to wander into the supply areas.  Branna says they will 
have the ship back together better than she was when we left the 
colonies in about a secton."
     "That's great," remarked Rigel as she took a small bite of the 
stew.
     "I imagine that with Core Operations you are familiar with all the 
ins and outs of each ship?"  Mot asked.
     "I have to be," said Rigel.  "Or we could not keep a fleet this 
size in a formation."
     Mot nodded.  
     "I mean with several slow ships like the Leon Schooner and the 
Freight Lift Exide just barely able to keep up with a crawl speed, it is 
a trick sometimes."
     Marsh took a fairly large bite.  This was working out better than 
he had feared.  They were getting along splendidly.
     Mot took a sip of his juice, and coughed.  "Oh,  this is spoiled."  
He stood, and took the pitcher off the table.  "Let me find something 
more suitable."
     Marsh leaned over and rubbed his finger on Rigel's arm.  "He likes 
you."
     "He's a sweet man," she answered.
     Marsh nodded.
     Mot returned with a dusty bottle.  "I'm sorry about this," he 
said.  "Looks like all I have is this old bottle of ale."
     "That's fine," said Marsh.  He drained his glass and presented it 
to Mot.
     "Ladies first," said Mot.
     "Oh, I'm fine," said Rigel of her Peckmellon juice.
     "Don't drink that," said Mot.  Quickly, he took the glass and 
replaced it with a fresh one.  "This is much better."
     Rigel politely thanked him.  He was quite the host.  Perhaps not 
as formal or refined as, say the commander, but this was a more genuine 
feel than she had had since her last meal with her mother.
     Oh, that had gone well.  All those questions about why she had to 
go off on a battlestar for quartons on end when she could take a job at 
the Caprican defense base near her home.
     A sense of sadness washed over her like she hadn't known in a long 
time.  Maybe never.
     "Thank you," Rigel said again.
     "You're welcome," said Mot.  "Maybe your manners will wash off on 
this kid."  He pointed to Marsh.
     "I'm sorry," said Rigel.  "I'm not very hungry."
     Mot looked to Marsh for a explanation.  Had he done something 
wrong?
     "You've hardly touched your stew," said Marsh.
     She swallowed hard, and spoke through the side of her mouth.  "I 
need to go.  I'm sorry."  With little more than a glance, she was up, 
and slowly making for the exit.
     Mot sat the bottle down and raced after her.  Marsh slipped an arm 
around her back and gently guided her onward.
     "Are you okay?"  Marsh asked.
     "I just need to lie down," she said.  "I'll be alright."
     She looked up at Marsh with a serine look that defied the illness 
she was feeling.
     Mot was confused.
     "It was certainly nice meeting you," Rigel said as she stood by 
the door.  "I am sorry I can't stay longer.  I would like to do it 
again."
     "Of course," Mot said.  He feigned a cordial smile and opened the 
door for them.
     "I'm sorry," said Marsh.
     "Don't worry, Kid," said Mot.  "My cooking's made more than one 
woman sick in my lifetime."
     "Thank you for meeting her," said Marsh.
     "My pleasure," said Mot.  "She is beautiful."  He patted Marsh on 
the back, and whispered to him.  "Go on.  Be happy."
     Marsh nodded as he led Rigel back up toward the officers' living 
area.

     "Don't fall asleep," Cree yelled at Det.  "Fight it."
     "I'm just going to close my eyes for a micron..."
     "No," Cree continued.  "Where do you think were are?  You're the 
big shot academy man, you tell me who occupied territory this far out."
     "We don't know," said Det. "Once we left our own galaxy we were 
pretty much flying blind."
     "Sunspots, Lieutenant," said Cree.  "We lived 7000 yahren in the 
colonies and you expect me to believe that no one ever made it this far 
out?"
     "Most of our ancient navigation was lost," stammered Det.  He 
rested his head against the wall.  There was a rivet or something right 
where he leaned.  He had not the strength to move.
     "Think, man," insisted Cree.  "From your primary education."
     "The Luxors were out this way, as were the Malgos, and the 
Delphians."
     "Those were Delphian bodies back there on the planet," said Cree.  
"Who were the Delphians' enemies?"
     "Just the Cylons," said Cree.  "They fought with us for..."
     "Come on," urged Cree.
     "...almost two hundred yahrens."
     "Good."
     "They were knocked out of the war just about fifty yahrens ago," 
said Det.
     "Knocked out?"  Cree prodded.
     "They couldn't keep up the offensive," droned Det.  "They switched 
to a defensive role.  We offered them a measure of..."
     Cree waited for the next word.  'Come on, Friend.  You can do it.'
     "...protection.  Last I heard about them was the Battle of 
Molocay."
     "Where the Fifth Fleet was destroyed."
     "Yes," said Det.  His left eye was crusted over with sweat and 
dried blood.  He could not wipe it.
     "Did the Delphians have any enemies BEFORE the war?"  Cree asked.
     "No, I..."
     "Think harder," Cree insisted.
     "I don't..."
     "The Gaa?"  Cree suggested.
     "Gaa!" sputtered Det.  "But we don't know anything about them."
     "Maybe we do now," said Cree.  He leaned against the wall,  he had 
worked one of his hands nearly free of the binding that held him.
     "They slaughtered thousands of Delphians during the fifth 
millennium," continued Det.  "Then they just withdrew into space."
     "Maybe they're back," said Cree as his hand fell free of the bond.  
He rubbed his wrist with his other hand.  It was a simple matter of 
untying the chord now.
     Cree looked around the cell for anything that he might use as a 
weapon.  It was sparse.  There was not even a bench built into the wall.  
All the rivets used to seal the room were securely fastened.  There were 
no loose objects.  There was really nothing to take.
     "Talk to me, Lieutenant," said Cree.
     Silence.
     "DET!"
     "I'm here.  I'm just so tired."
     "I know," said Cree.  "Hold on."
     Silence again.
     "I know this is an unpleasant subject," said Cree as he looked 
harder around the room.  "But what are they planning?"
     "They captured us," said Det.  "They want information."
     "The location of the fleet?"
     "No," said Det.  "They already know that.  We ran into their 
patrol, remember?"
     Of course Cree did.  He had thrown out the question to keep Det's 
mind occupied.  If the roles were reversed, Det would do everything in 
his power to keep Cree alive.  If that meant Cree had to act like a 
child to stir Det's protective nature, well Cree was not above that.  
     Loyalty worked both ways.
     The clatter of footsteps announced the arrival of a cell guard.
     Det's heart rolled over at the thought of another beating.  He was 
glad Cree had been spared most of that.  Or was it his turn now?
     "Gfas Bv wety Hfdu bxJq*?"  the guard asked.
     Det looked at him stupidly through his one eye.  The guard stepped 
on to the next cell.  Cree sat, with his hands held behind him.  The 
guard nodded for someone else who was in the corridor to proceed.
     This man was not wearing the full body armor that the guard wore.  
He was dressed in a crimson jumpsuit type uniform and a black cape.  His 
face was exposed.
     "You're Delphian," Det muttered.
     "And you are human," came a translation from a small box the man 
held.  "I am Vort, Commander of this vessel."
     "Lieutenant Det," he said trying to climb the wall.  "That is 
Ensign Cree."
     "You fly the vessels of a dead race," Vort said.  "The colonies 
were destroyed."
     "A few survivors took to the stars," said Det.  "With the 
Battlestar Galactica."
     "We know of the Galactica," said Vort.  "We know of her capture at 
Carillon.  We know of the traitors who serve the Cylons as slaves in 
exchange for life."
     "No," said Det.  "We escaped the Cylons at Carillon.  We destroyed 
a baseship and the Imperious Leader."
     What a sham.  He was telling Starbuck's great story.
     "Your people sued for peace with the Cylons while we were yet 
fighting.  We were alone and unprotected," said Vort.
     "The Cylons asked for peace, but it was a ploy," Det retold as he 
fell back to the floor.  "They betrayed an slaughtered us."
     "You attacked our colony on Benday?"  Vort asked.
     "I'm not familiar with Benday," said Det.
     "That is odd," said Vort.  "Since two of your fighters were 
spotted near the planet so soon after the attack, and now we find your 
Battlestar Galactica approaching."
     "The red giant system?"  Cree asked.
     Vort turned his gaze to Cree, then back to Det.  He was not 
content to speak with an underling.
     "We found your trip line," said Det.  "We went to investigate.  It 
was destroyed before we got there."
     "A feeble story," said Vort.
     "But the truth," Det said.
     Vort raised his head so as to look down the skin on his cheeks at 
the warrior.  He spoke to the guard in their language, and turned to 
leave.
     The guard deactivated the field that sealed Det in his cell, and 
gently lifted him to his feet.  Carefully, he leaned Det against the 
wall, and opened Cree's cell.  His small blaster pistol was aimed at 
Cree's chest, as he motioned Cree out of the cell.
     Cree put an arm out and allowed Det to lean on his shoulder as 
they were prodded out of the holding area.  He had given away the fact 
that he had broken his bonds, but right now he didn't care.

     "I am so sorry," said Rigel.  "I just suddenly got sick."
     "It's okay," said Marsh.  He gently patted her head with a cold 
cloth.
     "I hope Mot won't be mad," she said.
     "Don't worry," said Marsh.  "He's been around enough to know.  He 
likes you."
     It hurt to smile. "I like him, too."
     "Why don't you lay down," said Marsh.
     "I think I'd better," said Rigel.
     Marsh all but carried her to her bed.  He laid her down and pulled 
the covers up around her tight.  Slowly, he leaned down and kissed her 
lips.
     "Good night," he said as he turned to go.
     "Good night," Rigel called after him.
     Marsh showed himself out.  As soon as he was gone, Rigel sprang to 
her feet and ran to the turboflush with her right hand covering her 
mouth.

     Dietra had never been to a mission briefing as a squadron 
commander.  She had taken the point on a few occasions, including one 
over Kobol, where she and Brie and Serina had blown the pogees out of a 
dozen Cylon ships.  She missed Det already.
     "These are the scans we chased."  Apollo set a technical readout 
in here hand.  It was very sketchy.  Dietra looked up at the captain 
like it was a joke.  "I know it's not much."
     "It's hardly anything," said Dietra.  "A general guess at a top 
speed, a theoretical armament, and no information on what they want."
     Dietra nodded.  Apollo was right.  The prospect was horrifying.  
She had perused the recording of the bombed out city from Det's tapes.  
They had military power to spare.  Anyone who could do that to a city 
could do unspeakable horrors to an unarmed fleet.
     "We know they're around," said Apollo.  "They know we're here.  
They could choose to attack us at a time of their own choosing."
     "How do we know they mean to attack us?"  Sheba asked.
     "They fired on Boomer," said Starbuck.  "They didn't seem that 
friendly."
     "He was chasing the ship when it fired," retorted Sheba.  "I might 
have done the same had it been me."
     "So noted," said Apollo.  "But we can't take the chance."
     They had learned a lesson from the Cylons.  It seemed the whole 
universe was out to get them.
     "Your orders are to try and establish contact," said Apollo.  "No 
sense whirling up a stingers' nest if we don't have to.  But defend 
yourselves at all costs.  Get all the scans you can.  Any information is 
valuable at this time."
     A universal acknowledgment went up from the gathered warriors.

     In what seemed to be his office, Vort was more cordial.  The guard 
stepped back and the door closed behind him.  The Delphian indicated 
that Det and Cree should take seats in cushioned chairs near his couch.  
Vort lay back and began to speak.
     "I must apologize for your treatment when you were brought 
aboard," he said.  "Our people still harbor some resentment toward 
yours.  I trust there is no ill will?"
     "No," said Det.  He was thankful to have his face washed and 
bandaged.  His eye still burned from the dried blood that had held it 
shut so long.
     "Have you ever heard the story of the Delphian Outcasts?"  Vort 
asked.
     "I have not," said Det.
     "We were forced out of the Empire nearly a hundred yahrens ago," 
began Vort.  "Tired of war, we retreated to these back water worlds to 
start a new, simple life.  We lived for decades without any death due to 
hatred or racial strife."
     Cree adjusted in his seat.
     "Free of the Empire, we could develop our own ideas, and ways.  We 
raised ourselves to a level no Delphian has ever achieved.
     "Then, we were attacked by forces we didn't know.  We built up out 
defenses, mostly using old freighters and the like, but ultimately, we 
built warships like this one."
     Det nodded.
     "Off and on through the yahrens, we were attacked by these 
raiders.  They would slip in and annihilate one of our planets like they 
did on Benday.  We set up our 'trip wire' defenses to track them.  If 
one of our outposts was attacked, we had a sightline directly to it.  
Like a crawlon's web.  We could dispatch a force to defend the planet, 
or to pursue the attackers if we were too late."
     "Have you ever caught them?"  Det asked.
     "No," Vort reported.  "The trip wires have only been tripped 
twice.  Once, we lost our largest city, and once was Benday."
     "That's a long time between raids," mused Det.
     "It is," said Vort.  "We guess that they might be a marauding band 
in a massive fleet moving at high speed from outpost to outpost stealing 
fuel, food, and whatever they need."
     "So, when you saw our fleet..."
     "A natural assumption, don't you think?" said Vort suggestively.
     "We are in a similar situation," said Det.  "We're hounded by the 
Cylons very hard.  We need precious supplies, but we don't have the 
time, nor the resources to stage a raid like the one on that planet."
     Vort did not respond.
     Det looked to Cree, then back to the Delphian.  "How can we 
convince you?"
     "That will be difficult.  One of our patrol ships was destroyed by 
your fighters."
     Det's heart sank.  Once blood was shed, a diplomatic solution was 
usually very difficult.  "It could only be a misunderstanding..."
     Vort was thoughtful.  "Take us to your fleet.  We will speak with 
your people and learn your true intentions in our space."
     Det felt a twinge of discomfort.  Ordinarily, that would have been 
unacceptable, to lead a military force such as this straight to the 
Galactica.  This was different, though.  Vort and the Delphians already 
knew the location of the fleet.
     "Agreed," answered Det.
     Cree was visibly shaken by the response, but had nothing better to 
suggest.
     "Good," said Vort.  "We will leave immediately.  I have taken the 
liberty of refueling your ships.  One was disarmed, for your own safety.  
The other appeared to have no weapons."
     Det bit the inside of his cheek.  Of course he had expected a 
military power to examine a new breed of alien fighter craft, but he had 
not expected them to fool with its inner systems.  What else had they 
done?  Was CORA still active?
     "We are at your disposal," said Det.

     Athena had been so caught up in her side scans for more blackships 
that she had let her attention lapse toward the rear.  It was not until 
a series of automatic relays warned her that the scanners had made 
contact with an object that she even checked.
     "Colonel," she said as she reversed most of the Galactica's 
scanner dishes, "we are tracking multiple targets aft."
     Omega switched his monitor to display the image.
     "A basestar," sighed Tigh.  "Just what we needed now.  Scramble 
Blue and Silver Spar Squadrons."
     The alert klaxon sounded, bringing the fleet to action.  The whole 
fleet had been on edge ever since the first blackship had appeared, so 
the sudden adrenaline rush was some what of a let down.
     It was a scant ninety microns later that Rigel and Marsh reported 
to the bridge.  She took her seat from the second core specialist and 
updated the ship's readings.
     A moment later, she reported both squadrons away.

     Blue squadron blasted into space and pulled into a tight sweep 
that would carry them behind the fleet, where the attackers lay.
     "Apollo," came Starbuck's voice.
     But Apollo had already seen it.  The Recon Viper and Red 2 were 
coming in from the left flank.  A fleet of the blackships were trailing 
them.  Surely, this was not possible.
     
     Athena counted the ships behind Det's fighters to herself.  Adama 
stared coldly at the screen.  Tigh felt his heart sink.
     "Scans confirm forty ships in the unidentified force from the 
flank," said Omega, "and sixty-four raiders."
     "Launch Red squadron," Adama said grimly.  "Bring all ships to 
full emergency speed.  Bring them in close.  We can only hope to protect 
them if they stay together."
     Rigel began relaying the orders to the commanders.
     "Any word yet from out patrol?"  Adama asked.
     "I am barely getting telemetry from the Recon Viper," Athena 
responded.  Those ships must be jamming them."
     Tigh looked for a sign of hope from Adama.  The commander's face 
was hard, and set.  There was no hope forthcoming.
     "Positive shield now."

     "I can't get through to Galactica's bridge," muttered Det.
     "Those Delphians started jamming all transmissions the moment we 
launched," said CORA.  "If you like, I could jet ahead and be out of 
their jamming range in a micron."
     "And Cree would be at their mercy."
     "Yes, Cree," smirked CORA.  "I prefer to go on patrols alone from 
now on."
     "In this case, I agree with you."
     "Our escorts are arming weapons," said CORA.  
     "I'm sure," said Det.  "I have a bad feeling we are intended as 
bait."
     "That's funny," said CORA.  "I read almost seventy Vipers in 
space."
     "What?"  Det asked.
     "Yes, they appear to  be taking up defensive formations in two 
areas, one directly in front of us, and one further back, on the other 
side of the Galactica."
     "Concentrate scans further out," ordered Det.  "I want to know 
what they are defending from."
     "I may not be able to get a clear reading," said CORA.  "Even my 
impressive equipment can be effected by the jamming."
     Det resisted the urge to spar with CORA now.
     "There," said CORA.  "I read Cylons in our sector."
     "Just once I'd like things to be easy," said Det.
     Cree was no doubt reading the mass of Vipers, for he drifted up 
from his flanking position, and closed up alongside Det.  Det turned his 
head and pointed astern.  Cree smiled wickedly and nodded.
     Both pilots faced forward and prepared to fire their reverse 
thrusters.  Maybe, just maybe with the Delphians watching the 
Galactica's fighters and wondering why they were flying with a force of 
Cylons, they would take their eyes off the two captured Vipers.  It was 
a chance they were both willing to take.
     Det mashed his finger to the reverse thrust button, and he and 
Cree suddenly blasted back into the force of blackships.  After a four 
micron count, the shot forward.  The Delphian formation broke up.  The 
gimmick had worked.
     "Red leader to Galactica bridge," called Det.  Still jammed.  
Frak.
     The Cylons closed like a wall on the fleet.  Their fire raked 
through the unarmed civilian ships even as Silver Spar Squadron blew 
them from space.  Blue Squadron closed on the Delphians.  Det and Cree 
raced toward the battlestar, followed by a sea of Delphian fighters.
     Then, the Cylons withdrew.  Sheba pulled her squadron into a 
defensive holding pattern between the raiders and the fleet, while the 
Cylons circled at the edge of scanning range.
     This was a big surprise all around.
     The Delphian fleet held position just shy of the battlestar's gun 
range.  
     Blue Squadron circled between them and the Galactica, while Red 
held a spot top side of the war ship.  Det and Cree slipped through, and 
put down in Beta Bay.
     A group of armed men was their to meet the warriors as they 
landed.  They almost looked surprised to see Cree and Det as they popped 
out of their ships.
     It was a whirlwind of action as they were decontaminated on the 
fly between the landing bay and the bridge.  It was only three centons 
at best before Det stood on the bridge next to the commander.
     "Lt. Det," Adama said as he looked at the gash on Det's forehead.  
"What do you know of these blackships?"
     "Delphian Outcasts," Det answered.  "They fled their home worlds 
much like we did, Commander.  They think we are responsible for the 
destruction of that city back there."
     Adama nodded.  "I see."
     "They think we are Cylon slaves, raiding their colonies and 
stealing supplies for our own fleet," Det continued.
     "Surely you explained it to them,"  Tigh interjected.
     "I did," said Det, "but I doubt they believed us.  Did we destroy 
one of their ships?"
     Tigh started.  "It fired on one of our fighters, and was damaged.  
We continued to chase him and the ship self-destructed."
     "Oh, God." said Det as he turned to the scanner display.
     The Delphians continued to hang just beyond gun range, and the 
Cylons threatened from the other side.  
     "Omega," began Adama, "open a channel to the Delphians."
     "Go ahead, Commander," said Omega.
     Here was a sticky diplomatic position.  To engage the Cylons might 
would leave the fleet vulnerable to the Delphians.  Engaging the 
Delphians would bring the Cylons back on them.  Asking the Cylons for 
assistance was out of the question...
     "This is Commander Adama, Leader of the Council of Twelve and 
Commander of the Colonial Fleet.  I extend greetings to your people and 
hope you will be our guest aboard the Battlestar Galactica."
     The moment was tense.
     Athena tracked the Cylon force, which had received the message as 
well.  They narrowed their patrol circle, and ebbed closer to the fleet.
     "Commander Adama," came a response.  "My name is Vort, leader of 
the Delphian Outcasts.  I accept your gracious invitation, and will join 
you aboard your Galactica."
     Tension visibly lifted and the Cylon raiders began to move off.
     Det dropped his head to hide his huge grin.  Cree slapped him on 
the shoulder.
     "Rigel," said Adama, "relay landing coordinates to our new allies.  
Clear Alpha bay for their arrival.  Negative shield."
     "Yes, sir!"  Rigel said, sparkling.  Tears streamed down her face.
     Marsh touched her hand.
     Four of the blackships broke formation and swept for Galactica's 
landing bays.  Det rested his arm on Cree's shoulder, "Let's try to 
treat them better than they treated us."
     Cree bobbed his head playfully.
     "I'm going to go see Dr. Salik and get this looked at," he pointed 
at the wound on his head.
     "Need some help?"  Cree asked.
     "No thanks, Cree," Det answered.  "You  did enough."  Without his 
constant babbling back on the Delphian ship, he might have lapsed into a 
coma, or worse.  Cree had saved his life.

     "You'll live," said the doctor.  "But I would stay away from Triad 
for a few cycles."
     "Never play," replied Det.
     "Me neither," said Salik.  "These old bones just aren't cut out 
for it."
     Det stood to leave.  He pulled his tunic over his head, and 
straightened the tail.  As the door to Life Station opened, he turned 
instinctively to look.
     Marsh carried Rigel into the office.  He sat her down on a soft 
chair and tapped med-tech Cassiopeia on the arm.
     Cassie escorted Rigel to a bed, and laid her down for Salik to 
examine.
     Det felt like he was intruding, but Marsh moved toward him.
     "What's the matter?"  Det asked.
     "She's been sick for the last two days,"  Marsh answered.  "She 
hasn't eaten in centaurs."
     "Frak," mouthed Det.
     Salik drew a small vile of blood from Rigel's arm, and injected it 
into a gel-filled plastic sack.  Det couldn't help but watch the clear 
gel in the pack as it began to change colors.
     Det knew what he was looking at.  It was a pregnancy test.
     He REALLY felt like he was intruding now.
     Slowly, the gel turned a soft pink, then a bright red.
     Det felt Marsh tense up.
     "Congratulations, Rigel," said Salik.  His tone was neither happy, 
nor grim.  It was soft and compassionate, but showed no personal 
opinion.  "You're going to have a baby."
     Marsh was drawn to her.  He slipped his arms around her and held 
her.  She cried openly, and uncontrollably.
     Det had to turn away.
     "Are you okay, Lieutenant?"  Cassiopeia asked.
     "Yeah," said Det.  "It just makes you think.  Out here, God knows 
where, with everything going on...life continues."
     "It does, Lieutenant.  It does."
     Det took one last look at the couple before he left Life Station.

     "It's weird seeing that Delphian cruiser out there," said Dietra 
as she stared at the alien ship out the viewport.
     "It's so graceful," said Brie of the ship.
     "Those Cylons are in for a surprise if they attack us now," said 
Dietra.  "I heard they have promised to escort us to the edge of their 
space."
     "It feels good to have friends out here," said Brie.  
     Dietra nodded.  'It's those marauders they spoke of that have me 
scared,' she thought.
     "Get a drink?"  Brie asked.
     "No," said Dietra.  "I think I'll turn in."
     "I'll see you later then," Brie said as she turned and left.
     Dietra felt a peace.  It was comforting.  All that had gone before 
felt so far away.  She would sleep soundly for the first time in ages.
     Unless she dreamt of the marauders.

This story is a work of fan fiction, and is not intended to infringe on 
the copyrights of Universal, ABC, Glen Larson Studios, or any other 
corporations involved with Battlestar Galactica. It is intended solely 
for distribution on the Internet, and the enjoyment of those BSG fans 
who read it.  Please direct feedback to me at TiCeL@aol.com
I hope you enjoyed it.