Battlestar Galactica: Adventures Of A Space Casanova
                       by Eric Paddon and Seanchaidh

Based on the episodes "The Man With Nine Lives", written by
Donald Bellisario and "Murder On The Rising Star", written
by Terence McDonnell and Jim Carlson
            
                Battlestar Galactica: The Man With Nine Lives

                           From The Adama Journals

     Twelve sectans have now passed since the remarkable chain of
events that began with a missing patrol of vipers and an encounter with
an enigmatic figure who called himself Count Iblis.  In only a matter
of days we were witness to such incredible sights as the capture of
Baltar, the disappearance of the Cylon pursuit force, and the
intervention of those mysterious beings of light traveling faster than
the eye could comprehend. 
     Who in their boundless mercy gave us both deliverance from Count
Iblis and his evil plans, and coordinates that presumably will guide us
to the planet Earth.     
     No reference of time seems apparent in the curious directions. 
Quadrant Alpha, nineteen million sectars by Epsilon Vector 22 on a
circular reckoning course of 000.9. They are so general and ambiguous. 
I'm reminded of how when I was a young boy of eighteen, I traveled by
hovermobile from Caprica City to Laodicea on the other side of the
continent and got lost at one point.  When I stopped to ask for
directions, a local tavern owner told me to keep following Continental
Pathway #1, and eventually I'd get there.  He wouldn't tell me if it
would be in another five centars or five centons, but I'd know sooner
or later.  I somehow sense that same ambiguity in these coordinates. 
They tell us that the direction we are traveling is correct, but it is
impossible to know if we can expect to find Earth tomorrow, or many
yahrens from now.  Or even in this present generation.
      General surveys of the various planets we have passed have
provided some promising reassurances that this heading is indeed
correct, and that the coordinates that Apollo, Starbuck and Sheba
revealed to us were not the result of some space hallucination
following their mysterious last encounter with Count Iblis.  Our
archeological teams have discovered artifacts that date back more than
7000 yahrens and are clearly Kobollian in origin.  They are telltale
signs that the space ark that carried the Thirteenth Tribe to Earth
followed this same path long ago, and that we can be reassured that we
are getting closer.
     There has been no trace of our enemy since that day when Count
Iblis caused the pursuit force that had dogged us from the very
beginning of our flight from the Colonies, to disappear in the blink of
an eye.  It seems clear to me that the good grace of the Lords has not
allowed that task that Iblis performed with an ultimate evil purpose in
mind to be undone, and that we in all likelihood have reached that
important phase of our journey across the stars where the danger from
the Cylons has passed for good.  Because of this, an air of optimism
has taken hold of the Fleet.  Our people's expectations grow with each
passing day.  It has now reached a point where I feel comfortable
giving extended furlons to our weary combat pilots.  
     I noted with disappointment that Apollo seemed reluctant to take
advantage of this extra leisure time that his fellow pilots are
enjoying.  There seems to be something deep within Apollo's soul that
keeps him from loosening up and enjoying the few pleasures of living
that remain to us.  Perhaps what Athena once told me is true and that
the memory of Serina's death continues to haunt him.
     This morning, I decided to prod him in the right direction.   I
all but gave him a direct order to go with Blue Squadron to the Rising
Star and leave me and Athena to look after Boxey.  Hopefully his time
over there will lead to some new, more promising developments.  About
the only thing that worries me is whether or not Starbuck plans on
taking advantage of Apollo's lack of enthusiasm to win some high stakes
at the chancery tables.

Chapter One     

     It was like the days of old, when the warriors used to shuttle off
the Galactica to whichever port she was at, and have a few days' furlon
on the surface.  In those days, Starbuck used to live for those
furlons, anticipating the sights he'd see, whether they were the new
sights of a brand-new locale, or the familiar scenery of a favorite
getaway.  He would always have his friends in tow, looking for
adventure and amusement wherever they went, knowing that they'd have to
be back at their ship at certain point in the future.
     So much had changed since those fondly remembered days of
independence. Now, the old familiar furlon hunting grounds were gone,
long destroyed by the Cylons in their quest to destroy the human race. 
Any new planets the Galactica visited were more often than not for
missions, not furlons, though the odd one might occur here and there.
And even the furlons were few and far between, with the Cylons being a
threat that always loomed over the humans' shoulder, poising to strike
even if they hadn't made an appearance for sectons.
     It was with immense relief and joy that Starbuck received the news
that at long last, Commander Adama was putting the squadrons on furlon. 
They'd been on alert for too long, and everyone aboard the battlestar
knew it.  Tempers were growing short, and attention spans weren't as
good as they once were.  It was getting to the point where the warriors
needed to get away from their responsibilities and enjoy themselves
without needing to worry about alerts and combat.
     And so here they were, on a shuttle packed with warriors, headed
for the Rising Star.  Starbuck grinned as he pulled out one of his
fumarellos, his precious habit that was being threatened with the lack
of real tobaccon in the fleet.  Like many other things, tobaccon was a
commodity that didn't add to the well-being of the fleet, and the space
where it might be grown was better off being used to grow food. 
Knowing that, Starbuck didn't bother lighting it, especially since it
was forbidden aboard the shuttle.  It was more of a reflex action that
allowed him to relax, and remind him of the old days.  Besides, it was
the sign of confidence.
     He had a new system for Pyramid planned.
     And Apollo knew it, too.  It wasn't anything that had to be said;
it was more an observation gleaned from his friend's body language. 
Yahrens of being Starbuck's closest friend and wingmate enabled Apollo
to know things about Starbuck that took others some time to figure out. 
Starbuck and his enthusiasm for wagering were one of those things that
Apollo knew all too well.
     It was also one of the reasons why Apollo had been so reluctant to
join the rest of the squadron on the Star.  He knew his father
suspected that he had other reasons for evading the furlon's escapade
to the gaming ship, preferring to stay in his quarters and simply rest,
maybe spending time with Boxey.  Anything but be a hapless victim to
Starbuck's ploys.
     For a few microns, Apollo wondered how he might have his vengeance
on Adama, because if it weren't for his father's direct order, he
wouldn't be there on the shuttle.  He remembered a few pranks he had
pulled on his father as a child, and how little Adama had appreciated
them.  Apollo's personal favorite had been one winter evening at the
age of nine, when he had gone outside with a protective bag to scoop
snow into it.  He'd then snuck upstairs to his parents' bedroom, where
he had quietly slipped the bag underneath the covers next to Adama's
feet.  It had been worth the grounding he'd received to see his father
jump out of bed with a great screech, but after the stern lecture he'd
received, coupled with the threat of the strap, it was the last one
he'd ever played on his father.
     Glancing over at his friend, Apollo spotted the grin on Starbuck's
face, and quickly looked away.  He knew that Starbuck had something up
his sleeve, and it would involve a Pyramid table.  With a great sigh,
he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of his seat. 
He would need his strength to put up with whatever it was.
     "I wonder how much longer this shuttle ride's going to take?"
Starbuck wondered idly, hearing Apollo give another sigh as he tried to
get comfortable.  He looked about the shuttle's cabin, seeing the
familiar faces that surrounded them.  Lately, they'd been pinched with
fatigue, but now they were bright again with cheer and energy.  He
spotted Jolly and Boomer on the other side, both engaged in an animated
conversation.  The four of them would have been sitting together, but
by arriving late with the reluctant Apollo, they were forced to sit in
the only two vacant seats.
     "It takes about fifteen centons to get over," Apollo muttered,
finally in a comfortable position.  He folded his hands neatly in front
of him and forced himself to relax.  It felt good, though it was going
to make him feel sleepy, shown by the yawn that suddenly developed.  He
wondered if anyone would mind if he simply disappeared into one of the
suites available through the Rising Star's dining lounge to sleep. 
Boxey would be jealous, he thought as he smiled slightly, because he
would never wake up to a sitting dish of mushies in front of him.  "We
launched three centons ago."
     "Oh."  Starbuck twirled the fumarello in his fingers, then crossed
his arms before uncrossing them to rest on the armrests.  They were
what he liked to think of as his prechancery jitters.  "You know,
Apollo, I just can't wait to get to that gambling deck."
     Apollo gave an inward groan, but decided not to answer.
     "It's been so long since I last came to a chancery for more than a
few centars at time, you know," Starbuck continued.  "Not since
Carillon, and I've had all this time to mull over some ideas on what I
might do.  I think I've finally got a system that can't lose."
     This time, Apollo did respond.  He opened his eyes to give
Starbuck a sidelong glance, otherwise not moving.  "Can't lose?"
     "Nope."  Starbuck finally decided on holding onto his fumarello
with one hand, while his other arm stayed on the rest.
     "You'll have to excuse me if I get a sense of deja vu, but,"
Apollo paused, "those were the exact words you used at the gaming
chancery on Pineus."
     He closed his eyes again, knowing that he was missing out on a
great expression on Starbuck's face.  "That's not fair!"
     "It's funny that you should mention that, but I didn't think so,
either."  He gave Starbuck another hard look, remembering the evening
of their return to the Galactica as two very downtrodden warriors. 
"Especially since I lost a secton's pay betting on your last system."
     Starbuck shrugged, remembering the furlon as well.  It had been a
system he'd heard about from a warrior in Green Squadron, and after a
little bit of adapting and fine-tuning, Starbuck had been positive that
the system was fit for a trial at Pineus.  The planet was one of the
most famous leisure worlds known in the Colonies, and had been for
nearly two hundred yahrens.  It was also a world where many a traveler
had departed without his or her cubits.
     "I know what went wrong," he defended himself.  How was he
supposed to know that the system failed if the round in particular went
over three turns?
     "So do I!" Apollo shot back, as he pointed to himself.  "I lost a
secton's pay!"
     "It could have been worse," Starbuck replied truthfully.  "You
could have lost a sectar's pay, or even a yahren's."
     "If I had, I'd be incarcerated right now for terminating you,"
came Apollo's sweet comeback.  "It'll be a cold day in Hades when I
find myself back in a chancery with you at my side."
     Starbuck watched as his friend settled back into his seat, a
determined expression coming onto his face.  He hated it when Apollo
threw those little tantrums, because he knew that in the end, he never
succeeded in what he swore he wouldn't do.  All it took was a little
firm convincing from Starbuck to get him to follow.
     Besides, where would he be without Apollo's financial support?


     Coming toward the Rising Star in the opposite direction was the
civilian shuttle Canaris.  Although she really wasn't a shuttle, having
actually started her career as a private transport on the
Aquaria-Canceria-Caprica tourist route, she'd been one of the few ships
to be able to take an overcrowded load of people following the
Destruction.  Her status as a small ship that easily fit in the large
landing bays of several ships in the fleet immediately classified her
as a shuttle.
     Kerby had served aboard the Canaris in the two yahrens before the
Annihilation, and he knew every part of her better than anything else. 
The pilot who flew the ship had only been aboard her for a few sectars,
at the most, and Kerby had actually shown her most of the ropes.  She
had been a typical assignee from the Cancerian branch of the Star
Travels Agency, but her attitude changed as the pilot began to respect
the ship with Kerby's influence.
     The only problem with being assigned as a shuttle meant that the
ship was about tenth on the list when it came to spare parts.  Most of
the pieces that became available went to ships that really needed it,
like the actual ships that carried the remnants of humanity across the
stars.  Then came the bigger transports, then finally the smaller ships
like the Canaris.  Kerby made it his business to find the bigger parts
to keep the ship running.  It could be difficult, but so far, he'd come
up with enough to keep the Canaris in fair condition.
     Along with his ongoing quest to find good parts for the ship,
Kerby had a lot of other responsibilities, including acting as a kind
of steward on-board the ship while they were doing their runs between
ships.  He'd see how the passengers were doing, and he'd collect their
ducats.  It wasn't like the old days, when passengers had to pay for
their voyages from Colony to Colony.  Now they were used to make sure
that the person coming aboard the ship had the proper authorization to
voyage.
     That's what Kerby was doing at the centon.  The Canaris was on one
of her most popular routes, to the Rising Star, and most of the
passengers were from the Seniors ship, and two other passenger liners. 
He studied their faces as he walked down the aisle between the rows of
seats, pushing his ducat collector in front of them with his
near-mantra line of, "Ducats, please.  Your ducats, please."
     Most people followed without a second thought.  Others would
engage him a bit of small talk as he gathered the ducats, but mostly no
one could give the time of day. Today, the on-ship display was
featuring the InterFleet Broadcast, the network that had sprung up no
more than a sectar before, in an attempt to unify the
two-hundred-andtwenty ships into some form of civilization.  Unlike the
networks that had flourished on the Twelve Worlds, with the programs
available in the Colony's native language, the IFB's selection was
meager at best.
     At that micron, the tail end of the centarly news broadcast was
finishing.  There really wasn't much news in the fleet, and most of
what the two anchors, Zara and Zed, had to say dealt with boosting the
morale of the people in the fleet.  Kerby barely gave Zed, a
middle-aged man with graying brown hair that was stylishly coifed and a
fake smile, a second look as he continued with his duty.
     "The fact that the Cylons haven't been seen in nearly a five
sectars shows us that we seem to have evaded them for good," the anchor
was saying, finishing off each sentence with one of those dramatic
pauses that seemed too artificial for most people's taste.  "Word from
that Galactica that most of her squadrons are going on furlon seems to
support that observation.  Good news for a change.
     "Those are the top stories for the IFB news.  After this brief
message, we'll go to Zara's closing feature, the 'Warrior of the
Centar.'"
     The image changed to a shot of the Galactica's bridge, with the
facial shot of a bridge officer directly in the middle of the monitor. 
Behind him, other officers could be seen going about their duties. 
This, Kerby thought, was the epitome of propaganda, because that's what
it was.  Propaganda to encourage people to enlist into the Colonial
military.  He listened to it with half an ear as he went about
collecting more ducats.
     "The survival of our fleet depends on the dedication and quality
of our warriors, but we still need a few good men and women," the
officer was saying, and out of the corner of his eye, Kerby could see
the monitor showing images of Vipers both on patrol and in battle. 
They certainly made a romantic image to warm the hearts of the
adventurous, he noted.  "If you're between the ages of 16 and 46
yahrens, and not already serving in a highly critical civilian
position, you should consider becoming a Colonial Warrior.  If you want
to be become part of the team that's defending the fleet, request an
open channel to the Galactica's recruitment.  We need you."
     Kerby let out a sigh as he advanced to the next row of passenger
seats.  Maybe if he were a few yahrens younger, he'd consider it, even
with his position here on the Canaris.  Others could do this job as
well as he could.  Then again, ducats were one thing. Taking care of
the old Canaris was another.  No, there wasn't anyone else who could
take care of her like he could.
     The scene changed one more time back to the original studio, where
a younger woman with the same artificial look as Zed was sitting with
the huge letters "IFB" were displayed.  Kobol know where the IFB had
drudged up their anchors, but during the Canaris' travels, Kerby had
seen plenty who by far outclassed those two.  Orban had been the star
reporter for the TNV on Virgon, while Serina of Caprica's BNC had won
awards from across the Colonies for her stories.
     "Welcome!" she began, smiling at the monitor.  "Please join me in
welcoming Lieutenant Starbuck."
     The scene widened to include Zara's guest, a warrior that Kerby
had seen many times on the IFB during the semi-regular Triad games. 
Unlike the usually brash exterior the lieutenant displayed, Starbuck
was now visibly nervous at being interview up close, something
completely different from the Triad games.
     "Hello!" Zara greeted him, and was rewarded by a wan smile.
     "Uh, hi..."
     "Why don't we start with some background information?" she
suggested.  "How about your age?  How old are you, Lieutenant."
     Starbuck shrugged.  "I don't know."
     A trilling laugh came from Zara.  "I realize that you must be very
nervous at being interviewed, but surely you can remember how old you
are!"
     "That's the problem.  I don't know how old I am."  Starbuck leaned
back in his chair, the fingers of his right hand dancing slightly on
the armrest as he spoke.  "You see, I was orphaned back in 7322, when
the Cylons attacked the little agron community of Umbra on Caprica.  I
was found wandering in the Thorn Forest after the attack by some
Colonial Warriors, and they never could find out who my parents were. 
Almost all the records that were there were obliterated.  So I really
don't know how old I am, but to answer your question, I'm probably
about thirty-two yahrens old."
     Zara was leaning forward in her seat, her eyes wide with interest. 
To Kerby, she looked like she was anticipating something, as though
something had been placed before her, and she was about to pounce on
it.  "I'm sorry to hear that."
     "Actually, it's been good in some ways.  When the Cylons
annihilated the Colonies, almost everybody I know lost one or more
loved ones.  Not having a family to lose, I guess that I was just
lucky."
     There were only a few more rows to go, and Kerby glanced at his
wrist chrono. Only fifteen more centons before the Canaris was due to
dock at the Rising Star, so he was running a little behind.  He came
upon a row where an older man and woman were sitting, and with his
polite, "Your ducats, please," placed the collector in front of them.
The woman, an elegant siress with an ornate dress and tidily
pulled-back hair, placed her ducat in the slot, but the man held up his
hand to tell him to wait as he listened to Starbuck finish his
sentence.
     Glancing at the uncollected seats, Kerby ventured, "Sire, your
ducat, please."
     With a determined flick, the man turned the monitor off, and
turned to face him. Kerby found himself looking into two very
intelligent and bright blue eyes.  The man himself was dressed in a
neat suit, and he appeared to be at least ten yahrens older than his
companion.  With a shake of his head, the man said, "We're making a
mistake with that program."
     "Your ducat, please, sir.  We're only fifteen centons from
docking, and I still have to --"
     "Just look at the way Zara goes after the story, egging the poor
warrior on as he's petrified with nervousness," the man interrupted
him, disgust in his voice.  "I'm going to have to do something about it
the micron I return to the comtel ship."
     His companion looked at him with wide, admiring brown eyes that
told Kerby that they hadn't been together for very long.  "You run the
IFB, Chameleon?"
     He gave her smile, "No, my dear, not the entire IFB.  I just
direct the news and interviews.  We've seen too much of the warriors,
wouldn't you agree?  They're on the Triad games, and practically
everything else.  What we need is to see life from elsewhere in the
fleet, about people who do more than just fly ships and fight battles. 
We need more human interest stories."
     "Oh, I agree completely," the siress told him.
     "There are people in the fleet who have occupations who are at
least as interesting, even more so, than the warriors."  Chameleon's
blue eyes looked at the ducat collector to Kerby's face.  "How about
you, for example?  I'm sure that you have many more responsibilities
other than coming around here and asking for our ducats.  Am I right?"
     Kerby stood up straight and put on a smile.  "Oh, of course!  I'm
responsible for the Canaris's maintenance.  Finding enough hand-me-down
parts to keep her flying is a full-time job in itself!"
     Chameleon turned to his companion.  "See, Blassie?  Those are the
stories we should be hearing about on the IFB!  Stories about
determination and innovation and the will to fight against misfortune
and bad times.  People who serve without glory."
     Blassie nodded her agreement, and Chameleon, completely consumed
by his enthusiasm, turned to Kerby.  "By the Villium moons!  I just had
an idea!  Zara should interview you on the IFB!"
     "Me?"  Kerby was stunned.  "Well, I suppose..."
     "It could be called the 'Unsung Heroes of the Centar.'  I'm sure
people would find that a lot more interesting than about the same old
stories that warriors could tell." Chameleon scrutinized him carefully. 
"Would you be interested?"
     Kerby was just about beaming with pride at the turn in
conversation.  "Of course!"
     "Excellent!  As soon as you're off duty, report to the comtel
ship.  I want Zara to interview you for the first broadcast.  I'll
notify her once I get aboard the Rising Star."
     "Thank you, sir!"  Kerby could help smiling.  "I will, as soon as
I can.  Please excuse me, but I have to collect the rest of the ducats
before we dock."
     "Of course."  Chameleon's smile mirrored Kerby's.  "And thank
you."
     Still stunned but elated that he was going to be interviewed on
the IFB, even if by Zara, Kerby was about to ask the next row for their
ducats when he remembered that he hadn't gathered Chameleon's.  He
hurried back and placed the collector in front of the older sire.
     "Your ducat, sire?" he asked.
     He received a sympathetic smile.  "I gave you my ducat, remember?"
     He felt his cheeks redden, even though he could vaguely remember
it.  That's right, he thought.  The conversation with Chameleon must
have distracted him.  "Of course you did.  I'm sorry, sir."
     Kerby left the two alone to continue with the other rows, and
Chameleon settled back in his seat.  He exchanged a smile with Blassie,
who was giving him another one of those wide-eyed looks.  Reaching out,
he turned the IFB back on, where Starbuck was finishing a sentence
before Zara asked him another question.
     "Do you remember anything about your life before the attack?" Zara
asked, looking immensely interested.
     "Not really.  I was only a toddler when Umbra was destroyed, and
my parents both perished in the attack.  At least I think that's what
happened.  I mean, with the thousands of children who were orphaned,
lots of us probably got lost in the shuffle of bureauticians. Caprica
didn't exactly have the greatest social services system before Umbra,
and the extra burden placed on them bogged them down for yahrens to
come."
     Chameleon stared at the monitor for a few microns, his eyes losing
their focus as he looked, but didn't see, the images on the monitor. 
Memories of his own, of a wife and child lost for thirty yahrens, came
back to him, and he felt the feeling of loss that he had been sure he'd
never feel again return.  His journey into the past faded when Blassie
touched his arm.
     "Are you all right?"  Her brown eyes were looking at him in
concern.
     "Yes," he smiled.  "Yes, I'm fine.  Just looking forward to the
Rising Star.  It's been a while since I've been to any kind of leisure
ship, especially in the company of a lady such as yourself."
     She smiled, and Chameleon didn't return to the memory of his lost
family again. He had happier and more current things to think about.


     The Galactica's shuttle was the second ship to dock with the
Rising Star.  As soon as the pilots powered down the engines, the
warriors began to unfasten themselves from their seats.  Starbuck and
Apollo remained where they were until most of their fellow warriors had
exited, then they made their way out the hatch.  Boomer and Jolly were
already waiting for them in the brightly lit lounge at the entrance of
the bays.
     "So!" Jolly said in greeting.  "How was the ride over?  I thought
I heard the beginning of an argument between you two."
     "Argument, what argument?" Starbuck asked, playing innocent.  "We
were only having a discussion."
     "Sure," Boomer said, looking at Apollo.  "Let me guess.  He has a
new system to try out for Pyramid?"
     "How'd you guess?" the captain replied with a mirthless grin. 
"Now, I suggest that we make our way to the Astral Lounge.  I heard
that there's supposed to be some interesting entertainment lined up for
the duration of our furlon.  I thought that we could check that out
first.  We do have two days to play with, after all."
     "Sounds good to me!" Boomer chimed in.
           "Oh, the cultured sires," Starbuck teased.
     "Just because you're uneducated in the finer aspects of life
doesn't mean it's too late to learn," Apollo shot back, motioning to
the exit.  "Onwards."
     Putting his fumarello back into his mouth, Starbuck started to
follow his friends' lead when he happened to look up and see the
monitors placed next to the walls in the lounge.  To his embarrassment,
it was the interview with him and Zara.  He groaned as he heard his own
voice, tinny over the speakers, responding to something about the life
of a warrior.
     "I wish they'd turn that fracking thing off!" Starbuck groaned. 
"It's horrible.  I thought Zara was never going to ask an intelligent
question!  And I'm not even photogenic!"
     "You're more photogenic than the rest of us put together, Bucko,"
Boomer told him.  "And that's saying a lot."
     "Besides, you're in the wrong profession.  You should have picked
the designation of an actor," Jolly told him.  "You're great at playing
to the monitors."
     "Sure I am.  Just wait," he threatened good-naturedly.  "You're
going to get a communiqu‚ from Zara one of these days, requesting your
presence on the comtel ship for a mandatory interview, signed by the
Commander in the name of relations with the public."
     "You'll never find me on the IFB," Apollo said, shaking his head.
      "Oh?"
     "There are some benefits to being the squadron commander, after
all," he grinned. "After all, who do you think suggested you to the
IFB?"
     He headed out of the lounge with Jolly and Boomer, leaving
Starbuck to trail behind.  With his fumarello in his hand, he pointed
the unlit tip of it at Apollo's retreating back.  "Watch it, buddy,
those be fighting words!"
     He exited just as the Canaris finally docked, and her passengers
entered the lounge directly behind the warriors.  Chameleon and Blassie
were mixed in with them, and they walked toward the Astral Lounge.  The
ship had an atmosphere unlike any other in the fleet, that of fun and
of reminiscings.  This was a place where one could forget about the
fact that they were simply one more human running from the Cylons, and
that they only had a fraction of the life they once lived back at the
Colonies.  Here, on the Rising Star, everyone was someone new, and this
wasn't the place for worries or grief.
     In the hallway outside the Lounge, Chameleon suddenly stopped as
he checked his pockets, a worried look on his face.  Blassie looked at
him in concern.
     "Oh, dear..." he muttered.
     "What is it?" Blassie asked, pulling the two of them aside so the
others could pass by without any problems.  "Is there something wrong?"
     "I seem to have misplaced my wallet on the Canaris," he explained,
looking up at her.  "If you don't mind, I'll go back and fetch it.  If
it's not a bother, you can go in and reserve us a table.  Don't worry
about me, I'll be fine."
     "I'll do no such thing!" she informed him.  "The Canaris has
probably already left, and besides, you can always ask them later if
they've found it.  I'm sure they're very good about keeping lost items
in storage.  In the meantime, I have plenty of cubits, even some marks
and Orion cheques.  You can use some of them, if you wish."
     He shook his head firmly.  "I'm afraid that I can't possibly
accept money from a lady, especially a siress like yourself."
     "I insist."
     He blinked at her for a micron, then smiled slightly.  "If you
insist, because it's even ruder to deny a lady's wishes.  However, I
must insist that when the evening is finished, we return to my billet
this very night so that I may repay you."
     "It would be my pleasure to have the Director of  the IFB's news
and interviews join me for an evening of amusement."  Blassie's eyes
were sparkling as she looked Chameleon in the eye.  "And if you feel
that strongly about it, naturally I shall accept.  So you can... repay
me?"
     Chameleon gave her a large smile and offered his arm to her.  "Of
course.  Thank you, Blassie.  Now, shall we go in?"
     With a smile of her own, Blassie put her hand on her companion's
arm, and together, they entered the lounge.  She was positive that
there wasn't another couple on the entire ship who could match them.

Chapter Two

     "I've been looking forward to this day for the last six sectars." 
Jolly was bursting with the enthusiasm of a six-yahren-old child as he
and Boomer reached the entrance to the Astral Lounge ahead of Apollo
and Starbuck, who were still locked into their conversation over both
the IFB and gambling.  "At long last, the chance for some food other
than that Mess Hall slop on the Galactica."
     "Lucky for you, you've had to wait six sectars, Jolly," Boomer
said dryly.  "You'd never be able to fit into your viper cockpit
again."
     "And you wouldn't either.  Admit it," the corpulent lieutenant
retorted good-naturedly.   
     "Maybe," he conceded with a half-smile as the doors to the Lounge
slid open.
     Inside, the Lounge was almost packed to its maximum capacity of
two hundred people.  Most of the two dozen tables strategically placed
about the performing stage were occupied, leaving only standing room at
the back of the lounge.  The music was loud, the decorations were
bright, and the room was permeated with abandonment.
     Most of the warriors in the room had their eyes fixated on the
stage, were a group of dancers were performing something that Boomer
could vaguely identify as coming from Piscon.  The performers were
dressed in tight-fitting costumes that left no details to the
imagination, and their bodies were completely covered except for their
faces.  They looked almost spectral, in that the area around their eyes
were painted with bright makeup that gave them the edge of
otherworldliness that seemed to be desired.
     "What have we here?" Jolly asked, stopping dead in his tracks as
his brown eyes widened to take in the sight.  A grin appeared on his
face as he watched the lead dancer, a lithe woman who danced around her
fellow performers, twirled and twisted and kicked her legs.  The
expression on her face was of pure concentration.  "It looks like
heaven taken form."
     "I wouldn't really call it that," Boomer replied, but he could
tell that his words weren't being heeded.  Jolly's eyes remained locked
on the dancers, and by the way he started moving forward with
determination, told Boomer that his friend's thoughts of dinner had
evaporated completely.
     "Stay clear of my ion trail, Boomer," Jolly announced, the
giddiness in his voice apparent as he hooked his hand on the back of a
chair at the only vacant table.  "I'm locked on target!"
     "Hey, hold it, Jolly," Boomer teased as he tapped him on the
shoulder.  "I thought we were going to get some food.  Remember? 
Roasted Piscean fowl.  Broiled Libran calf with crisp vegetables.  All
those delicacies you said you've been drooling over for the last six
sectars?"
     "Boomer, I see all the food I need!"  Jolly shook himself loose
and made his way down to the front.  "Besides, haven't you guys always
said that it's better to feed the mind than the mouth?"
     The dark-skinned warrior let out a hearty laugh.  The Book of the
Word's right, he said to himself as he followed him.  Man definitely
does not live by bread alone.


     "Just watch me for the first hand," Starbuck was saying as he and
Apollo entered the Lounge thirty microns after their two friends had
gone in.  He had finally lit his fumarello which he waved about him
non-chalantly, and more than once, Apollo had fanned an errant strand
of pungent smoke away from his face.  "If you see me win once, will
that ease all your anxieties?"
     "Not in a million yahrens," Apollo shook his head as the two of
them flashed their furlon passes to the Rising Star's Chief Steward,
who stood on duty at the entrance. "Your so-called run of good luck
will be what is known as a fluke."
     "Ah, Lieutenant Starbuck," the gray-haired, mustachioed Chief
Steward said as soon as he saw the blonde lieutenant.  "How nice to see
you aboard the Rising Star again."
     Starbuck looked up and smiled. "Oh, yes.  Zeibert, isn't it?"
     "I'm glad you remembered," Zeibert said with more than a trace of
admiration in his voice.  "The last time I saw you was a most memorable
experience for me."
     Yeah, all I did was give you over eight hundred cubits for extra
private rooms when I was trying to juggle both Athena and Cassiopeia
showing up unexpectedly, Starbuck thought as he recalled the incident. 
No wonder you remember me.
     "If by any chance the two young ladies are accompanying you this
time, Lieutenant," Zeibert said, "I should have little trouble
arranging private accommodations for you to handle the both of --"
     "Ah, thank you, Zeibert."  An edge of curtness entered Starbuck's
voice as he interrupted the Chief Steward.  "I'm afraid that this time,
I'm not in the mood for 'pre-war' behavior.  I'll just stick to the
Chancery and try my luck there."
     "A pity," Zeibert said as he realized that he wouldn't be
receiving a windfall of extra cubits this time, "Enjoy your stay,
Lieutenant."
     "I intend to," Starbuck said with emphasis as he followed Apollo
in.  His friend was staring at him somewhat dubiously.
     "Pre-war behavior?"  Apollo raised an eyebrow.  "What was he
talking about, Starbuck?"
     "Ancient history, Apollo," he said firmly.  Which was true to a
large extent ever since his relationship to Athena had fizzled out
completely, and his devotion to Cassiopeia had steadily increased. 
"It's nothing important."
     Trying to avoid the subject that he knew Apollo wanted an answer
to, Starbuck looked about the lounge until he noticed Boomer and Jolly
settling in at a table right in the front row.  Their spot was a scant
three metrons from where the three dancers continued to perform.
     "Where did they disappear to?" Apollo asked, not seeing the duo in
their enraptured position.  By his tone, Starbuck knew that Apollo had
another item to hold against him in his quest to avoid the chancery.
     "Over there.  I guess they're occupied for the rest of the furlon,
huh?"  Starbuck motioned to their friends with his fumarello, and once
he saw Apollo nod, he let his voice resume its brash edge.  "Now, old
buddy, let's say I show you how misplaced your lack of faith in me
really is?"
     "Starbuck, I meant what I said.  I am not losing another secton's
pay."  The harsh edge returned to Apollo's voice, and he fixed his
friend with a stern look.  "I don't care if the Lords of Kobol
themselves revealed this new system to you."
     Starbuck grinned slyly at his friend and took a long puff on his
fumarello, "Come on, Apollo, how would you like to win an extra
secton's pay?  Think of all the extra dividends that would come from
another two hundred cubits.  Maybe even something special for Boxey's
next birthday.  Besides," his grin widened, "you owe me one after
forcing me into that painful session with Zara."
     "No, I don't."
     "Yes, you do."  Starbuck started to drag him by the shoulder out
of the Astral Lounge toward the door that led to the Main Chancery.
     "Starbuck, wait!" Apollo protested, feeling as though those doors
were going to spell his doom, as though beyond them lay the worst
torture imaginable.  "What makes you think I don't want to watch those
dancers, too?"
     "You'll have time for that later," Starbuck said as they reached
the exit, watching as Apollo feebly reached to grab onto the edge of
the doorway.  He smiled slightly, thinking about how much Apollo
reminded him of a poulon on its way to the slaughter, not that he had
anything like that in mind for the evening.  "Besides, if it's good
dancing you want to watch, I suggest you wait for the Skorpian troupe
that performs later tonight. Now they have some pretty girls in
costumes that would really boggle the mind."
     "Look, Starbuck," Apollo snapped, shaking himself loose from his
friend as soon as they were out in the short passageway that connected
the Lounge with the Chancery, "I really--"
     Before Apollo could say anything else, the doors to the Chancery
opened and a sour-faced warrior with curly blonde hair emerged.  He was
so busy counting from a large bag of cubits that he held in his left
hand, a grotesque number to begin with, that he didn't notice either
Apollo or Starbuck until he bumped right into them.
     "Hey, watch where you're going!" Starbuck angrily protested.
     The curly-haired warrior looked up and as soon as he saw Apollo
and Starbuck, a taunting sneer came over his face.
     "Well, well," he said, "If it isn't the self-appointed kings of
the triad court themselves."
     Starbuck's face twisted in disgust when he realized who it was. 
"Oh great," he groaned.  "What rock did you crawl out from under this
morning, Ortega?"
     "Starbuck," Apollo clenched his teeth and grabbed his friend by
the arm.
     Sergeant Ortega, an ex-Colonial Security Guard who had transferred
to Flight Duty during the difficult period when so many pilots had been
stricken with illness before the Battle of Kobol, folded his arms and
grinned menacingly at Starbuck.  "What's the matter, Starbuck?  Just
one secton before the big match and already you're feeling scared?"
     "Ortega, the day I'm scared of you on the triad court is the day I
defect to the Cylons.  You and Barton don't stand a chance against us."
     "Frack, I wouldn't even need Barton," Ortega continued to taunt. 
"I could take on the both of you all by myself and still win the
match."
     "I'd like to see you try!" Starbuck shot back and shook Apollo
off.  "Maybe we could settle this whole thing right here and now!"
     "That's enough!" Apollo suddenly stepped in between the two. 
"Enough!  If either of you so much as lay a finger on each other,
you're both on report and I'll see to it that you both spend the rest
of your furlons in the brig!  Is that clear?"
     "Clear," Starbuck muttered as he continued to stare at Ortega with
pure venom.
     "I guess so, Captain," Ortega deliberately placed some heavy
sarcasm on the title. "Until next secton, on the triad court then?"  He
flashed a malevolent smirk at the two of them as he went back to
counting his large wad of currency and disappeared into the Lounge.
     "Lousy Sagitarian snake," Starbuck seethed.
     "Enough," Apollo said firmly.  "You should have known better,
Starbuck.  He deliberately provoked you because he thinks it'll have
you too riled up, come the match next secton.  You'll be so on edge
that before you know it, you'll do something you'll regret on the
court, earn yourself a disqualification and all but guarantee victory
for him."
     "Who can control their temper around him?" Starbuck spat, "That
guy should have been jettisoned with all the excess refuse the day we
fled the Colonies.  All he ever does is go out of his way to be a pain
in the astrum.   He's been that way since the day I met him at the
Academy."
     "And got him expelled.  I know that," Apollo nodded, recalling as
well how an exasperated Bojay had come to him two sectars ago demanding
that Ortega be transferred out of Silver Spar Squadron because the
curly-haired sergeant was being too much of a disruptive influence.  It
marked the third time in a yahren that Apollo had been forced to move
Ortega from one squadron to another because virtually no one liked to
be around him.  "But Starbuck, if you want to prove how better you are
than him as a human being, and not just as a triad player, then you've
got to stop letting him goad you.  Before you know it, you'd only end
up hurting yourself."
     "I'll take it under advisement," Starbuck said, clearly having
difficulty shaking his anger and inner rage off.  "Now in the meantime,
I'd like to get back to the Chancery."
     Apollo wasted little time following him in.  After what had just
happened, all of his reluctance about accompanying Starbuck had
evaporated.  He had to make absolutely certain that the run-in with
Ortega wouldn't rattle Starbuck to the point where he'd self-destruct
at the gaming tables.


     In stark contrast to the crowded, noisy activity taking place in
the Astral Lounge, the Empyreal Lounge, located on the starboard side
of the Rising Star was a haven for those who desired a more quiet
atmosphere.  The Lounge itself took up two deck levels and featured
over forty plush, comfortable chairs and couches scattered about the
vast room.  From each chair on both levels, a visitor could enjoy a
drink while taking in the spectacular, unobstructed view of the stars
that came courtesy of the massive, two-story transparent porthole that
lined this area of the ship.
     This was the place on the luxury ship where people in the mood for
quiet talk and introspection would come to.  Where they could be free
of the raucous din of the Astral Lounge's loud music, or the frenzied,
cheering crowds of the spectators at the Triad Court, three levels
below.  A closed-circuit videocom might on occasion carry the live feed
of a triad match in progress, but always with the sound off so as not
to disturb the Lounge's other patrons.  Any music that was heard in the
Empyreal Lounge was always of the soft, tranquil variety, usually
performed on the large spinet situated on the top level next to the
bar.
     Quiet and introspection, though, was the furthest thing from the
minds of the many Galactica warriors who had come over to the Rising
Star for their furlons.  As a result, the Empyreal Lounge was not
enjoying any major increase in business that the Astral Lounge, the
Chancery or the Main Dining Hall was receiving this day.  It suited the
staff of the Empyreal Lounge just fine.  Since all members of the
Rising Star's crew were designated as Level Three employees on the
Fleet Treasury's pay scale, then all of them would receive any pay
raises stemming from the increased business caused by the warriors on
furlon, regardless of whether or not their own section had enjoyed any
increased business.
     Not a bad system, the Lounge's Assistant Chief Bartender, a tall
man in his late thirties with salt and pepper hair thought, as he
brought over two glasses of Sagitarian brandy to a table on the second
level.  The Astral Lounge staff has to do all the extra work, and we
all get paid the same.
     "Will there be anything else?" he said politely to the middle-aged
couple seated at the table.  These were regular customers at the
Empyreal Lounge, who showed up every day to spend a centar taking in
the view.
     "Thank you, Pallan.  That'll be all," the man smiled back.  After
many sectars of coming to the Lounge, he and his wife both knew the
Assistant Chief Bartender well enough to be on a name basis with him. 
The same was true of many other regular customers.  All of them,
without hesitation, knew the Assistant Chief Bartender as a genial man
who was always quick to serve the patrons with honest, friendly
service.  So much did they like him, that the regulars virtually made a
point of coming whenever the man called Pallan was on duty.  And all of
them were always quick to leave him with an extra ten cubits gratuity
to express their appreciation.
     None of the Empyreal Lounge's regular customers though, would ever
have guessed that the man called Pallan carried a dark secret deep
inside him.  A secret that would have shocked the people who liked him
so much, beyond all measure.
     It never would have been gleaned from a look at his personnel file
in the Fleet Computer.  According to the Fleet Records, the man called
Pallan was a native of Piscera who had been a bartender his entire
adult life.  Single, and without family, he had survived the Holocaust
while working in the fashionable Solaria Restaurant in Piscera's
capital city and had hooked up with a band of Pisceans that had been
able to rendezvous with the Galactica and the rag-tag fleet of 220
ships that had left the Colonies behind forever.
     It was true that there had once been a bartender named Pallan who
had worked in the Solaria Restaurant on Piscera.  But the man who now
worked aboard the Rising Star was not the same man.  He had merely
assumed that identity after stumbling across the dead body of the real
Pallan in the shattered remains of the restaurant and stealing the dead
bartender's identification cards.  Ever since, he had lived the life of
a total lie.  It was a lie that had to be maintained for the rest of
his life, since the truth would only result in a punishment too severe
for his mind to comprehend.
     Each passing day, though, always carried the risk that the lie
would be undone and the truth of "Pallan's" real past would come to
light.  From the very beginning, Pallan knew that there was one man in
the Fleet who had the power to expose him.  Someone who knew his real
identity as the result of a chance encounter on the eve of the
Holocaust at the Caprica City Aerodrome.
     "Good morning, Pallan," a voice from behind him suddenly spoke up.
     Instantly, Pallan felt his skin crawl.  The one man who held his
fate in the palm of his hand had decided to show up.
     Showing no outward emotion except for the pleasant expression of a
genial bartender, Pallan made his way over to the table alongside the
railing that overlooked the main level, where the man had seated
himself.
     "Good morning, Sergeant Ortega," he said, "The usual for you?"
     "Actually, I think it's time we have a nice little talk," Ortega
said as he kept one hand buried inside his sack of cubits.  "Suppose
you join me."
     Pallan tensed slightly and smiled thinly.  "Very well."
     After going over to the Chief Bartender to tell him he was taking
a ten centon break, Pallan came back to Ortega's table and calmly sat
down.
     "Okay," the bartender kept his voice low and confidential, in
keeping with the kind of conversation that the Empyreal Lounge was
noted for.  "What is it this time?"
     Ortega, still feeling malevolently satisfied in the wake of his
run-in with Starbuck, smirked at him.  "What do you think?"
     "If you're asking for more cubits, forget it," Pallan said coolly
but forcefully.  "I've been as generous with you as I possibly can. 
Twenty-five percent of my salary plus all the cubits I had left over
from the stash I won on Carillon.  What more could I possibly give
you?"
     "Plenty."  Ortega leaned forward.  "You see, my dear Pallan, I
have a very nice set-up in place aboard the Rising Star.  And it's
enabled me to enjoy considerably more success in the Chancery than the
average warrior ever experiences."
     Pallan eyed the bag of cubits that the blonde sergeant still had
his hand in.  It seemed heavy enough to number in the low thousands.
     "You cheat?"  He decided to be blunt.
     "I wouldn't exactly call it that."  Ortega leaned back in his
chair.  "Let's just say that the dealer at Table number three, a
certain Chella, owes me some favors, and because of that he's made
things a lot easier for me."
     "That's very interesting."  Pallan found himself struggling to
keep his composure. "What does that have to do with me?"
     Ortega smirked.  "If I tell Chella to do me a favor, he does it. 
And if I tell him that I'm not the only person who needs to go on a
winning streak at Table 3, he'll listen."
     Light suddenly dawned on Pallan, "I see," he nodded.  "I go on a
winning streak, and then I turn all of the winnings over to you.  Is
that the idea?"
     "You go to the head of the class," Ortega grinned wickedly and
patted the bartender on the arm.  "This way, I get to make a double
killing so to speak."
     "Supposing I can't come up with extra winnings?" Pallan retorted
softly.  "Suppose your friend Chella isn't anxious to reciprocate?  A
dealer who loses too much money is bound to attract attention sooner or
later."
     "That isn't my problem," Ortega shook his head.  "From my
standpoint, you only have to be concerned with coming up with those
extra winnings."
     "And if I can't?"
     Ortega grinned.  "Don't worry."  his voiced was dripping with the
sense of holding total power over the bartender.  "I can always come up
with an alternate way that will help you meet my demands."
     Pallan felt on the verge of exploding with fury.  "And next secton
brings more demands and more cubits?  When is it all going to end?"
     "Never," the curly-haired sergeant's words were blunt and sharp. 
"Because when it comes to you, my dear Pallan, I have you over the
proverbial barrel."
     "Don't be too sure."  For the first time, the bartender matched
the malevolent tone the sergeant had been using with them.  "There's
always another way out for me."
     Ortega grinned again.  "Yes, I haven't forgotten what you said to
me that night on Carillon when you first gave me 5000 cubits to keep my
mouth shut.  You said I could prosper from my silence or die.  But one
thing I know you aren't, Pallan, is stupid.  Capital offenses are a
thing of the past, especially in a Fleet as small as this.  No one who
commits murder has a place to hide.  You'd only be asking for trouble
even bigger than the kind you're in now."
     "Don't bet on it," Pallan raised the low venom in his tone a
notch.  "The worst thing you can ever do is get too overconfident. If I
were you, I'd lay off for now."
     "Don't think I wouldn't be prepared."  the blonde sergeant patted
the holster of his uniform.  "In the meantime, my dear Pallan, I
suggest you pay Chella a visit and get a head start for when we next
meet.  And I expect nothing less than a thousand cubits."
     Before Pallan could say anything, Ortega rose from his seat and
reached the stairway that led to the main level.
     Pallan took a deep breath to keep the fury he felt inside from
exploding and made his way over to the railing that overlooked the main
level.  He could see the warrior walking at a carefree pace toward the
exit that led to the luxury ship's main corridor.
     The only thing he was certain of, was that he had no intention of
letting his situation with Ortega remain status quo for much longer.


     "Passenger shuttle Callisto is now docking.  Please wait for all
arriving passengers to depart before beginning general boarding."
     Ortega sat down on one of the cushioned benches lining the docking
lounge and began to idly count some of his large sum of money.  If the
Fleet's second largest passenger shuttle was carrying a full load of
people, it would be at least five centons before he'd be able to board
for his return trip to the Galactica.
     "Someday you're going to have to tell me the secret of your
success."
     The curly-haired sergeant looked up and saw that his Red Squadron
wingmate and Triad court partner, Sergeant Barton, had arrived and
settled next to him.  He barely acknowledged him with a half nod and
said nothing.
     Typical, Barton thought with a trace of disgust.  He'd heard all
kinds of stories about Ortega's surly demeanor from a whole host of
pilots during conversations in the Galactica Officer's Club.  As a
result, when he'd been paired with Ortega six sectars earlier, he'd
acted as cautiously as he possibly could, refusing to let himself be
goaded by any of Ortega's insults or attempts to start a fistfight. 
Even though there were many occasions during that first secton together
when Barton felt like shoving the curly-haired sergeant into an
airlock, he'd held his tongue and waited for Ortega to back off.  His
silent approach had proved successful, especially when Ortega
discovered how good a triad player Barton was, and how his wingmate was
the only warrior willing to partner with him in the athletic contests. 
In the six sectars since, they were by no means friends or even cordial
to each other.  They had however, settled into a stable situation of
mutual tolerance, in which they could at least work without any fear of
ugliness or violence erupting.  And since they had become one of the
top-ranked triad teams, they both knew underneath that it was in their
best interest not to antagonize each other.
     And so on this occasion, Barton didn't bother reacting harshly to
his wingmate's snub.  He was long past the point where he could be
affected by it.
     "By the way," his tone grew more business-like, "I got a telecom
last night concerning the duty roster.  Our deep-patrol's been moved
back to four days from now."
     For the first time, Ortega responded to him with a half-smirk,
"You suppose Apollo pulled some strings so that we'd have to fly so
close to the match?"
     Barton hesitated for a brief instant, knowing that one wrong word
might set Ortega off into one of his patented rages.  "I....don't think
so," he chose his words carefully.
     "Why not?" Ortega kept staring ahead at the crowds of passengers
that were now getting off the shuttle, "Boomer's our squadron
commander.  Boomer's best buddies with Apollo and Starbuck.  And the
winner of the match goes on to play Boomer and Castor. Boomer'd feel
insulted if he didn't get another crack at Apollo and Starbuck."
     There he goes again with one of his paranoiac rants, Barton
thought.  All typical of a man who saw the universe divided neatly into
two parts.  Himself on one side, and his enemies on the other.
     "I don't think Boomer's that devious."  Barton said gently, which
brought a guffaw from his wingmate.
     They exchanged no more words for the next two centons as they
waited for the light to turn green above the docking ring that
connected the Callisto to the Rising Star, indicating that it was time
for them to board the shuttle.  The steady stream of departing
passengers had trickled down to only a few, indicating that it wouldn't
be much longer. Already, Ortega and Barton had both gotten up from the
bench in anticipation of the light turning from red to green. 
     The last three passengers finally emerged and as soon as the two
warriors saw who they were, expressions of disbelief and amazement came
over them.
     "Now there's something you don't see every day," for one of the
few times in his life, Ortega was awed, "Borellian Nomen."
     The three men who'd emerged gave the impression of towering
giants, as each was at least six feet, seven inches in height.  Heavy
brown robes covered them from head to foot, but still failed to obscure
their incredibly broad shoulders and powerful physiques. The faces of
two of the men were concealed by massively thick beards that blended
perfectly with their equally thick eyebrows.  Only the third one was
beardless, indicating that he was at least twenty yahrens younger than
his companions.
     The three men were Borellian Nomen.  They were natives of the
planet Borallus, a harsh desert world located outside the main star
system of the twelve colonies.  Though considered human in the general
sense, they were totally unlike any of the other ethnic tribes that
were native to the twelve worlds.  The exact origins of the Nomen race
had always been shrouded in mystery, but it was generally believed that
they were the descendants of an expedition of early space travelers
who'd set out from the Colonies four thousand yahrens ago and crashed
on the distant world of Boarallus.  There, the survivors had
encountered the native population, and the cross-mating between the
Colonists and the native Borellians had resulted in the Nomen species. 
Human in a general sense, but with features and characteristics that
always managed to put Colonists ill at ease.
     The suspicion and hostility between Colonists and Borellians had
always been mutual, ever since the first modern contacts between the
two races twelve-hundred yahrens before.  It was because of that
underlying hostility that the Borellian government had been reluctant
to enter into any kind of alliance with the Colonies after the war with
the Cylon Empire had begun.  Only when the Cylons had scored a
devastating raid on Borallus did the Borellian government finally feel
compelled to ask the Colonies for protection.  In the thousand yahrens
since, the relations between the Borellian Nomen and the Colonies had
never been better than that of a grudging tolerance in which they both
realized that a common enemy could destroy them all.
     Of the Fleet's population of 70,000 survivors of the Holocaust,
there were more than 150 Nomen who had been living in the Colonies as
official emissaries of the Borellian government or as expatriate
settlers who found that they could often find profitable employment as
private bodyguards for prominent Colonists.  Now, they were largely
confined by choice to living quarters on one passenger freighter that
few people ever liked to visit.  Ever since the beginning of the
Exodus, the hostility between Colonists and Borellians had only
deepened.  Many Borellians expected Adama to return them to their home
planet after the journey had begun, but it wasn't until much later that
they realized that they would never see Borallus again.  Adama had
refused to consider stopping at Borallus for supplies since he already
knew that a Cylon task force would be lying in wait for the Galactica.
     Few Borellians had learned to accept Adama's decision. 
Practicality would have told them that the Cylons had likely taken
advantage of their destruction of the Colonies to destroy Borallus as
well.  Instead, the Borellian Nomen saw Adama's decision as a further
example of Colonial prejudice against Borellians in general.
     Given the hatred and contempt Borellian Nomen held for Colonials,
the Rising Star was the last place anyone might have expected to see
them.
     "What do you suppose they're here for?" so great was Ortega's
surprise that it had completely pierced his anti-social exterior.
     "Don't know," Barton shook his head, "But I don't think I want to
stick around to find out."
     His triad partner nodded, "I'm with you."
     The two warriors wasted little time boarding the shuttle.  They
didn't even cast a second glance at the three Nomen, who were headed in
the direction of the Astral Lounge. 

Chapter Three     

     The music was slow and melodic, and it suited Chameleon just fine. 
The noise that the youth these days called music was a little too
artificial for his tastes, but every once in a while, there was a song
that was perfectly suited to slow dancing.  And now, he was dancing
with Blassie in his arms, without a care in the world as they slowly
circled the dance floor.
     Around them, other couples were dancing, and Chameleon knew
without looking that many were casting appreciative glances in their
direction.  He smiled to himself.  He hadn't felt this comfortable with
a woman dancing in his arms in yahrens, not since...
     He blinked his eyes slightly as his eyes threatened to mist over. 
Even now, more than twenty yahrens -- now nearing thirty -- after
Umbra, he still couldn't think of his wife without his eyes blurring. 
At least it was improving with time, but there had been no one like
Gabriella.  His poor beloved Gabriella.
     The day he met her, it was just like it happened a few sectons
ago.  He had run into the younger woman when he was during one of his
more tame periods.  He hadn't been to a chancery in sectars, and he was
starting to make a name for himself in the designation that he'd chosen
for himself.  And he was miserable.
     Gabriella was ten yahrens younger than him, but with a feisty
maturity that immediately attracted Chameleon.  Her parents, of course,
didn't approve of him, but Gabriella didn't care.  After seeing each
other for a few sectars, he proposed to her, and she accepted.  He had
been so surprised, because the relationship was moving at a speed that
he'd never experienced before, but with every fiber in his being, he
knew that this was the woman he was meant to be with.
     He still wasn't sure why they'd picked Umbra for their new home,
but the small community had everything they wanted.  Chameleon
remembered when he had brought his wife to their dwelling, carrying her
the old-fashioned way, and how Gabriella had laughed as he twirled her
around so she could see the entire room.
     The birth of their first child, a beautiful baby boy, two yahrens
into their marriage only increased their happiness.  As Chameleon
watched his wife and son, he knew that he was light yahrens from the
man he'd once been, and Kobol willing, he'd never go back to that life
again.
     Lady Fortune was the patrol deity of gambling, and she never
forgot her own.  Nor did she let them go.  Like the unsteady odds she
influenced in wagering, she pulled strange things on her unsuspecting
victims.
     It was a morning that would destroy everything Chameleon held
dear.  Late in the fall, Chameleon was helping some local agron
producers calculate the insurance they'd need to cover that yahren's
crops, and to estimate the following yahren's, as well.  If he didn't
use his math for odds, then percentages were just as good.  They were
located at a five centon's drive from Umbra, and the village could be
seen in the distance.
     One of the farmers' wives had started screaming.  In the blue sky
that one micron had been completely empty, Cylons ships could be seen. 
In the blink of an eye, they descended on the defenseless village,
strafing the buildings and streets.
     All Chameleon could think about was Gabriella and their son. 
Without any thought, he ran from the shocked farmers for his
hovermobile, heading straight for Umbra. With his heart beating as
though it would burst in his chest, he drove straight into the heart of
the attack.  By some miracle, he made it to their neighborhood, and he
was nearly physically sick when he saw that their house was almost
completely destroyed.
     He could see the Thorn Forest a few dozen metrons from their area,
but he paid it no attention as he ran for the dwelling.  Half of the
house was on fire, but he ignored the panic that the sight inspired as
he made his way inside.  He wasn't able to find anything, though.  The
laser blasts had weakened the foundation, and the floor gave way
underneath his weight.
     He didn't remember anything until he heard someone calling to him,
using a gentle voice.  "Mathias, Mathias...  Can you hear me? 
Mathias?"
     The name meant nothing to him, but the voice, soft and feminine,
made him remember that he hadn't been able to find Gabriella.  Opening
his eyes, he sat up, crying out his wife's name.
     But the woman who spoke to him wasn't Gabriella, and as he looked
around, he didn't recognize where he was.  Feeling his heart beginning
to sink, he asked her was going on.  When she explained, it felt like
he was listening to one of the daily dramas on the Caprican network.
     The attack had occurred nearly five yahrens ago, and Chameleon
gasped at the news.  Five yahrens!  Had he been in a coma for that
long?  The woman, a psychtech named Safia, told him that ever since he
came here, to a psychward outside of Caprica City, he was suffering
from traumatic amnesia, and the only name he had for recording purposes
was Mathias.  This was the first time he had remembered who he was, and
if things continued to improve, he could be released.
     Feeling his whole body shaking, Chameleon asked about his wife and
son.  Safia smiled at him gently, telling him that she could provide
him a list the Caprican government had put out, listing who had
survived the disaster.
     When he finally got to see the list, he felt his life crumble even
more than it already had.  Gabriella's name was plainly listed under
the deceased list, but as Chameleon examined both the list for
survivors and for the dead, his son's name was nowhere to be found.
     Explaining that to the psychtech, Chameleon told her that his son
wasn't listed. Safia calmly explained that several thousand children
had been orphaned at Umbra and the surrounding area; by now, they were
scattered about the planet in foster homes and orphanages, others
probably were adopted by now.  Many children had been too young to know
their own names, and were supplied with new ones by the Caprican social
services.
     Feeling like he had a new purpose in life, Chameleon was overjoyed
when he was released a few days after first "waking" up.  Almost
immediately, he started searching for his son, and he prayed that
Gabriella could give him some help.
     But now, more than twenty yahrens later, his son still hadn't been
found, and Chameleon had never found another woman like Gabriella.  He
had been with several women since then, but none gave him the true
happiness that only Gabriella could provide.
     Blassie was different, though.  She possessed some of the
qualities that he loved in Gabriella, but she still wasn't what he
wanted.  Even so, he could still enjoy the evening in her company.


     At the main entrance to the Astral Lounge, Zeibert was totally
oblivious to the music on the dance floor as he busily consulted the
day's admission ledger.
     Over four hundred today, he smiled slightly with satisfaction. 
It's been so many yahrens since we had numbers like that dancing and
having a good time.
     Abruptly, the Chief Steward was distracted when he noticed a large
shadow gliding over his ledger book.  When he looked up, he was
startled to see the sight of three Borellian Nomen towering over him.  
In the more than forty yahrens that Zeibert had worked aboard the
Rising Star, this was the first time he could ever recall seeing Nomen
aboard the luxury ship.
     "Your um....your passes please?" he managed to force his words
out.
     One of the two older Nomen cast an indifferent glance at Zeibert
and held up three gold admission passes that entitled them to access in
all sections of the Rising Star.  The Chief Steward hastily nodded his
head and backed up against the wall, trying to keep his distance as
much as he possibly could.
     Side-by-side, the three Nomen walked into the Lounge's main
entryway.  And as every spectator gathered in the Lounge spotted them,
it seemed as if a giant off switch had been activated.  Conversation,
music, dancing and eating all came to a stop as every pair of eyes
locked on in amazement at the sight of the three giants.  For many, it
was the first time any of them had ever seen a Nomen in their lifetime.
     On the dance floor, Blassie found herself totally transfixed that
she didn't notice the uneasy look on Chameleon's face.
     "Ohhh..." he moaned slightly under his breath as he instantly
positioned himself directly behind Blassie, hoping that he might be
blocked from view on the other side of the Lounge.  He alone, among all
the people in the Astral Lounge knew why the Nomen had come, and what
they planned to do.
     It was time for him to do some very quick thinking.


     At a table close to the dance floor, Boomer set his tankard down
while Jolly's eyes darted away from the dancers.  The dark-skinned
warrior seemed merely amazed, while the corpulent sergeant took on an
expression of deep concern.
     "Borellian Nomen?" Boomer said in disbelief. "I know there's a
shipload full of them in the Fleet but I didn't know any of them mixed
with the Colonists."
     "They don't," Jolly's voice had the same deathly serious edge it
only assumed during a heavy combat engagement.  "Unless they're on a
blood trail."
     "Blood trail?"  Boomer shot a quick glance at his friend and he
almost went ashen in spite of his complexion.
     "Yeah."
     The Nomen in the center of the column, who was clearly the oldest
stepped forward with hands on hips and looked out as if he were
surveying the Lounge in an effort to find something he would recognize. 
An air of nervous tension began to fill the room as those who
understood the meaning of the words "blood trail" began to whisper
their concerns to their friends and companions.
     Boomer decided that the time had come to take some badly needed
initiative.  He got up from his chair and walked up to where the lead
Nomen was standing.  His bearing was firm, erect and one of calm,
collected authority, though inside he was a mass of nervous tension.
     "Relax folks," he said aloud for the benefit of everyone in the
room.  "There's nothing to be concerned about here.  These fellow
voyagers are only here to enjoy themselves, just like the rest of us."
     Boomer came to a stop in front of the lead Nomen, who showed all
indications of being the leader of the group.  The warrior looked at
him dead-in-the-eye and put the most delicate edge possible into his
next word, "Right?"
     The lead Nomen's menacingly indifferent expression did not change. 
He simply looked at Boomer for what seemed like an eternity before he
moved off toward a nearby table.  The other two Nomen followed and they
settled down.  From their position, they had a nearly complete
panoramic view of the entire Lounge.
     Slowly, some of the tension in the room seemed to dissipate as
normal conversation began to resume.  Boomer went back to his table
near the dance floor, where he noticed that Jolly was clutching his
tankard so tight, he almost expected it to shatter from his grasp.
     "Looks like things are under control."  Boomer tried to break the
ice.  "What's say we finally order that dinner?"
     Jolly kept his eyes locked on the Nomen and shook his head.  "I
just lost my appetite."
     Boomer settled down and felt too amazed to even think of using the
comeback he'd been waiting to use for yahrens if he ever heard Jolly
utter that phrase.


     Chameleon almost felt on the verge of breaking out in a cold sweat
as he kept himself positioned behind Blassie in the hopes that the
siress could keep him blocked from view.  He knew right away though,
that it wouldn't be long before one of the Nomen would have a clear
view of the entire room and that would no longer be a viable option.
     It was time to act.
     "Uh....Siress," he said apologetically, "I wonder if you would be
so kind as to excuse me for a centon.  I did shuttle here on business,
as you recall.  But it won't take long."
     The attractive middle-aged siress seemed slightly dejected.  "Oh,
I do hope it's not interviewing those young female warriors."
     He let out a reassuring chuckle.  "Let me assure you, I find a
woman who has experienced life, much more attractive than mere youth.
     Siress Blassie blushed slightly and absently adjusted her left
earring.
     "I won't be long," Chameleon smiled as he started to amble in the
direction of the exit that led to the Chancery.  "Promise."
     As soon as he was away from Blassie, he felt the sweat finally
break out on his forehead, knowing that he had only mere microns to get
out of the Lounge before he'd be spotted.


     Boomer didn't even bother finishing his tankard of Gemonese ale
once he'd resumed his seat.  For now, he felt it was more important to
keep his attention focused solely on the Borellian Nomen.  If trouble
was going to happen, he wanted to be able to act quickly.
     "You ever had to deal with a Nomen before?" Jolly asked, the
tension still thick in his voice.
     "Never," Boomer admitted.
     "I have."  Jolly forced himself to take a sip of ale.  "Nine
yahrens ago, I was spending a long furlon at home on Caprica with my
family.  Next thing I knew, District Headquarters called me up in the
dead of night asking me to report for an emergency assignment. 
Protecting the Borellian Ambassador."
     Boomer shot a quick glance at his friend.  "Let me guess.  His
life was threatened by some renegade Nomen?"
     "Exactly," Jolly nodded.  "The Ambassador was seen as too
pro-Colonial by some of the Fundamentalist Nomen who favored a posture
of total neutrality in the war.  One of the hardline groups publicly
vowed to go on a blood trail against the Ambassador.  It got so bad
that the Caprican Government didn't think it was safe enough to let
Caprican Security or even Colonial Security handle protecting him. 
They wanted warriors to do it."
     "And you ended up confronting the would-be assassins?"
     "Yep," Jolly nodded.  "The worst experience of my life apart from
a combat engagement."
     "Tell me about it sometime," Boomer grunted as he kept his eyes
focused on the Nomen at the other end.  "Right now, I need to keep
concentrating on them."
     Just then, Boomer saw the one beardless Nomen shift his attention
to the far side of the Lounge.  His expression seemed to grow more
menacing.
     The Galactica warrior shot a glance at the far side where it
seemed like the Nomen had focused his attention on.  Boomer caught a
quick glimpse of an elderly, but limber white-haired man glancing back
before the door to the Chancery corridor opened.
     Suddenly, a high-pitched whine erupted drowning out all other
sounds in the Lounge.  Many people in the crowd abruptly pulled back
and let out gasps of horror.
     "Holy Frack!"  Jolly got to his feet. "One of them just activated
their laser boles!"
     Boomer bolted out of his chair and quickly made his way up to the
table where the Nomen were seated.  The beardless one was holding the
two, glowing white orbs that he had yanked off his cloak, and which
grew louder with each micron.
     "What's going on here?" Boomer demanded.
     "He is young."  The lead Nomen who had refused to speak to him
earlier spoke up and held out his arm to keep Boomer and Jolly from
getting closer.  "He activated them by accident."
     "Then have him de-activate it!" Boomer angrily shot back.
     "He can't," Jolly said as he felt his heart pounding faster. 
"Once drawn they have to be used or they reach critical mass and
explode."
     "Great." Boomer preferred to let anger rather than tension or fear
control him. "How long until they go off?"
     "Fifty microns," the lead Nomen looked over at the beardless one
and seemed displeased.
     There was no sound other than the increasing whine of the laser
boles as the spectators began filing back toward the Main Exit and the
Chancery Entry Corridor.
     Finally, Boomer snapped his fingers and motioned to one of the
vertical support columns located next to a group of now-empty tables
and chairs.
     "You," he pointed at the young Nomen.  "Over there.  Throw it over
there and let's get this thing done with so no one gets hurt."
     The beardless one looked back at the lead Nomen.  He firmly nodded
his head.
     After seemingly taking his time, the young Nomen got to his feet
and hurled the twin laser boles at the support column.  As soon as it
impacted, it let out a medium-sized explosion and left a blackened scar
at the base.
     With the danger past, Boomer let out a quick exhale of relief and
then drew himself up to the most angry, authoritative posture he could
summon.
     "You've got some serious explaining to do," he said.  "Borellian
Nomen don't draw laser boles by accident."
     The lead Nomen finally got to his feet.  He towered over Boomer by
almost a full foot.
     "I said he is young."  There was no air of apology or regret in
his low, menacing tone of voice.  "The drink and the music have excited
him.  That is all.  It will not happen again."
     "Oh that's a fact sir," Boomer nodded with a dry air.  "Because if
you're staying here, or on this ship for that matter, then these
weapons are coming off."
     "It is against our Code to be unarmed!" the beardless one suddenly
protested.
     "You should have thought of that before you got excited!" the
Galactica warrior retorted.
     The lead Nomen's glare at Boomer seemed to intensify.
     "And we should have known better than to mix with Colonials," he
said darkly. "We will await transportation back to our ship in the
Docking Lounge."
     He motioned the beardless one to retrieve the laser boles that lay
at the base of the column they had exploded against.  The young Nomen
picked them up and clicked them together, indicating that they were
active and ready for reuse.  Once he reattached them to his cloak, he
rejoined the other two Nomen and they exited the Lounge through the
Main Entrance.
     As soon as they were gone, a collective sigh of relief went out
through the room. Slowly, the guests began to return to their tables.
     "What do you suppose that was about?" Jolly asked as he and Boomer
lingered by the table the Nomen had now vacated.  "Who'd be on board
here for them to be conducting a blood trail?"
     "I don't know," Boomer said.  "The people who usually gather on
the Rising Star aren't the types who would ever come across a Nomen for
any reason, let alone incur their wrath."
     Now that he knew the danger had passed, Jolly felt safe letting
some humor rise to the occasion.  "I've got it," he said, "One of
Starbuck's old girlfriends hired them."
     Boomer allowed himself a thin smile as they returned to their
table by the dance floor.  "Could be.  Or better still, maybe it's Sire
Uri they're after."
     "If that's the case I'd have stepped aside and let them do their
job," Jolly quipped as he went back to his ale.
     "You and me both."  Boomer didn't join in the gallows humor as
much as he wanted to.  He was still struck by the elderly man he had 
glimpsed before the Nomen had pulled out his boles, and he wondered if
the chain of events had been more than coincidental.


     Ten centons later, the three Nomen were all occupying the same
bench in the Docking Lounge that Ortega and Barton had been using
earlier.  The other passengers awaiting the arrival of the Canaris were
visibly keeping their distance from the Borellians, passing time by
watching the IFB monitors in the antechamber, which were now devoted to
a preview of the next sectan's triad match.
     ".....And it's reported that ducats for next sectan's match
between the number one ranked team of Apollo and Starbuck against
number three ranked Barton and Ortega have become so scarce that some
fans are willing to pay as high as five hundred cubits on the Black
Market just to get in.  Of course, since we at the IFB plan on bringing
you full live coverage of the match, we hope that all of you watching
will choose discretion instead, and save yourselves a small
fortune....."
     "I go to the matches just to get away from your lousy commentary,
Zed," one of the waiting passengers talked back to the monitor.
     The Nomen were all oblivious to the sounds of the videocom and the
other passengers waiting.  To them, it was all idle chatter of
Colonists absorbed in their foolish pleasure pursuits. Only one of the
reasons why Nomen, with their rigid behavioral codes, despised
Colonials in general.
     A feminine voice suddenly filled the Docking Lounge to announce
the arrival of the Canaris.  Five centons went by as two dozen
passengers got off to enter the Rising Star.  When the last of them
were gone, the red light above the entryway went on.
     "Shuttle Canaris is now ready for boarding," the feminine voice
spoke again as the passengers in the antechamber made their way over. 
"Passengers holding ducats for the Antares, Pathmain, Agro Ship,
Electronics Ship, Freighter Gemon and Freighter Borallus may enter at
this time."
     Despite the fact that their ship had been announced, none of the
Nomen moved from their positions on the main bench.  As the last of the
passengers made their way aboard, the lead Nomen, who sat on the right
side finally broke the silence among them.
     "This fool is of your blood."  He directed his words to the second
older Nomen though he kept his gaze forward.  "I hold you responsible,
Bora."
     "I accept the burden for my nephew Taba's actions," the Nomen
called Bora said with deference as he too kept looking forward.  "And I
vow that we will bring the prey down."
     The lead Nomen let out a grunt indicating his displeasure.
     "Tell me something I do not know, Bora."  his voice dripped with
contempt.  "Like how a Borellian Nomen could break the Code by drawing
his weapon without thinking?"
     The young Nomen called Taba turned his head toward the leader with
an almost pleading expression.
     "Maga," he said, "I saw that jackal Captain Dimitri at----"
     The lead Nomen called Maga ignored his plea.
     "Your lack of discipline is disgusting," he said as he kept
looking forward.  "You are a warrior of the Code.  A Nomen.  You have a
name that strikes like a poison skorpious at the heart of others.  For
we alone among Borellians knew the trauma of surviving the land of the
Maga sun and the endless sands.  The qualities that made us superior to
the infidels who ruled our planet.  The qualities which make us
superior to those who presume to lead us now."
     Maga then wheeled his head towards Taba and his voice rose with
defiant, determined menace.  "And because we have those qualities, we
alone shall survive this trek through the stars forced upon us by the
Colonial jackals.  But only if we keep the Code."
     The young Nomen seemed shamed into total humiliation.  "I'm
sorry," he managed to force his words out.
     The contempt refused to lessen from Maga's tone.  "If you wish to
apologize Taba, do it after you've been punished."  He then looked away
from him again as he added, "If you survive."
     "Shuttle Canaris now departing," the overhead voice sounded
through the Docking Lounge.
     The Nomen remained seated on the bench as Kerby stuck his head
through the docking ring that led inside to the shuttle.  He frowned
slightly when he saw the three giants remaining where they were and
decided to take a chance speaking up.
     "Uh....gentlemen, the Canaris is leaving now.  There won't be
another shuttle for your freighter for another two centars."
     None of the Nomen acknowledged his words or his presence. 
     "If you want to get back to your ship, it has to be now," the
shuttle steward tried one last time.
     "We have unfinished matters to conduct here," Maga finally spoke
cryptically without looking at him.  "Do not bother waiting for us."
     Kerby's frown deepened but he knew better not to argue with a
Nomen.  He stepped back inside the docking ring and punched the buttons
that sealed the companionway shut.


     Chameleon could hear the sounds of commotion going on inside the
Astral Lounge as soon as he was safely inside the corridor that led to
the Chancery.  He could only hope and pray for now that it hadn't been
caused by one of the Nomen spotting him.
     That's the last time I ever let myself get mixed up with those
people, he vowed as he reached the Chancery door and waited for it to
slide open.  Of all the stupid things to do, forgetting all about their
Code and their blood trails.  You can't treat Borellian Nomen the way
you would other people.
     If he had been spotted, then Chameleon already knew that his
safety was only temporary for now.  He knew that if he were the hunter
instead of the hunted, and had an inkling that his prey was somewhere
on board the Rising Star, then the most prudent course of action would
be to return to the Docking Lounge and wait.  Sooner or later, the
hunted would have to leave the luxury ship and there was only one way
to go.
     The doors slid open and Chameleon stepped inside the Chancery. 
The gambling den was filled to above-average capacity with dealers
positioned at more than twenty gaming tables.  The only sounds in the
room were the occasional laughter of winning customers and the
intermittent groans of the losers.  No music was ever played inside the
Chancery, and conversation usually stayed at a minimum.  The Rising
Star Chancery, throughout it's heyday in the pre-Holocaust period had
always been known as a place where intense concentration came first. 
That remained true even today.
     Chameleon looked about and saw numerous warriors, some in dress
uniforms, some in regular battle dress hunched around the tables trying
to see if they could beat the House at games like High-Low, Temptation,
Any Number and Pyramid.  From the general tone of the room, there were
more occasional groans than bursts of laughter which indicated that the
House was doing very well.
     His eyes wandered about and then narrowed in amazement when he saw
a face he had seen barely a centar ago on the IFB seated at a Pyramid
table, puffing heavily on a fumarello.  It was undoubtedly Lieutenant
Starbuck.  The warrior who had moved him inside with his story of being
orphaned as a child so many yahrens ago in the Umbra disaster. 
Especially because there was so much that Chameleon could personally
identify with when it came to his own life.
     As soon as that realization went through his head, another one
entered.  One that he had to admit almost made him feel ashamed.  But
as he cast a glance back over his shoulder at the door he had come
through, he realized that he just might not have any other choice.
     If the Nomen were waiting for him in the Docking Lounge, then he
had to find a way of getting off the Rising Star so they wouldn't be
able to make a move on him.  That meant finding a way to get off in the
unwitting protective custody of some warriors.
     As his eyes focused again on Starbuck, Chameleon knew that he had
the perfect opportunity to get exactly that.  All because of that
chance listening to the IFB broadcast on the way over.
     The Lords forgive me, he thought, that I would have to exploit the
worst experience of my life to save myself now.
     He straightened his tunic and nonchalantly made his way over to
the Pyramid table.

Chapter Four

     One successful play of the cards was all Starbuck needed to make
the sting of his run-in with Ortega fade away completely.  It had come
right on the first try.  When Starbuck saw that his new system had paid
off instantly, Apollo almost felt himself groaning inside.  Not because
he was having second thoughts about what Starbuck had said about the
success of his system, but because he knew that it would only whet his
friend's appetite for more.  If he'd failed on the first try, then just
maybe it would have made the brash lieutenant act with a hint of
caution.  Just enough to keep him from having second thoughts about
going too far with it, and keep him from pushing Apollo into making a
bet of his own.
     About the only solace Apollo took was the fact that the Rising
Star's Chancery was noted for quiet and concentration.  If there'd been
music and raucous noise present, the scene would have reminded him too
much of what the chancery on Carillon had been like.  Where he and
Serina had first opened up to each other.
     "Well, Lieutenant?" the dealer, a heavyset middle-aged man, with
curly brown hair that looked in need of a good styling, inquired. 
"Another go?"
     Starbuck grinned and took a satisfied puff on his fumarello brand
cigar, "You'd better believe it."
     The man then dealt four cards, first in a row of three, followed
by a single card above the middle card in the first row.  In Pyramid, a
perfect hand meant all of the same color with all four cards
representing the different building phases of a pyramid.  The next most
valuable hand was a full Pyramid, which meant all four building
sections but not necessarily all of the same color.  From then on down,
the hands were ranked according to phases of three-quarters, half and
quarter with ties broken according to the value of the odd cards in the
hand. 
     The rules dictated that Starbuck examine his two cards on the
bottom row first. He lifted each one up and his eyes widened in almost
childlike glee when he saw that he had the necessary card for the first
quarter, along with an upper level phase of the same color.
     "I'll hover with these." he grinned at the dealer and then shoved
a medium-sized pile of cubits across the table, causing Apollo to
impulsively grab him by the arm.
     "Starbuck, have you lost your mind?  You just opened with two
hundred cubits."
     "Naturally," Starbuck grinned, "Since I know this system can't
lose, there's no point probing delicately.  Better to make a preemptive
strike right away."
     The warrior then looked at his next card without revealing it to
the dealer. Without changing his expression, he looked the dealer in
the eye and said simply, "Build me." 
     The dealer then dropped another card on top of the one Starbuck
had rejected. The warrior then moved another pile of one hundred cubits
across the table and looked at his final card in the pile.
     "I," he gave the dealer a satisfied smirk, "will hover with
these."
     "The House raises the pot by an additional one hundred cubits,"
the heavyset dealer said.  "Do you wish to match?"
     "Absolutely."  Starbuck didn't bat an eye as he pushed another
pile across.
     At that point the dealer now exposed the first portion of his
hand.
     "Your last chance to build, Lieutenant."  the dealer said,
stone-faced.  "At this point, the House has at least a perfect
half-Pyramid."
     Starbuck looked at his own cards.  He already knew that all of his
cards added up to three-quarters, though not of the same color, and he
had already rejected another card that would have helped the House
extend to three-quarters.
     I am home free, he thought.
     "No build," he said, "I am definitely going to hover with these
and I raise the pot by one hundred cubits."
     Next to him, Apollo had placed both his hands on his chin in
amazement at how far Starbuck was going.  
     "What'd I tell you, Apollo," Starbuck gave him a playful nudge,
"This system can't lose.  I am about to make the biggest legitimate
killing of my life."
     Apollo remained non-plussed, "The evening is still young,
Starbuck."
     "The trouble with you is a lack of faith."
     "No, just an overabundance of experience with your 'systems',
Starbuck. Especially on a place called Pineus." he added a touch of
frost to the last word.
     "Ah, stop being so bitter.  I was dealing with one of those Pinean
dealers, and you know how crooked they can be."
     "Then how come you're not using the old system?"
     "Because this one is foolproof."
     "Another fifty cubits, Lieutenant?" the dealer inquired in the
same neutral tone. Once the building phase was over on both sides, the
pot could go up as high as either side wanted until the customer
called.
     Starbuck casually pulled out his pocket computron to recalculate
the odds he'd factored in to his system.  When the readout reconfirmed
everything he'd planned in advance he grinned and pushed another small
pile over.
     As soon as he was done and had placed his computron back in his
jacket pocket, he heard the sound of a voice clearing itself.  Glancing
to his right, he discovered that the seat next to him was now occupied
by a handsome, elderly man with silver hair.
     "Pardon me," Chameleon leaned over and said in a confidential
tone, "I realize this is no concern of mine, but I couldn't help but
notice your calculations.   If you're playing the system that I think
you're playing, then it has one flaw."
     Starbuck looked at the elderly man with faint incredulity, "Flaw?"
     "Mmmm hmmm," Chameleon nodded, "The odds are three to one in your
favor, which are quite good.    But if the dealer is holding the
capstone of the same color to go with his perfect half-Pyramid, then
that automatically beats your regular three-quarters Pyramid with no
capstone.  Have you factored in that probability?"
     The brash lieutenant seemed at a loss for words to hear a kindly
looking old man giving him pointers about something he regarded as his
specialty.  But there was an air of familiarity in the way the man
spoke that made Starbuck feel uneasy.  He got the distinct sense that
whoever this man was, he knew what he was talking about, and was
speaking from experience.
     "Anyway," Chameleon went on, "I thought you'd at least want to
know that."
     It took Starbuck nearly a half-centon before he smiled faintly and
muttered, "Thanks." Feeling slightly rattled inside, he looked at the
pile of three hundred and fifty cubits he had placed in front of the
dealer in long contemplation.
     "Do you plan to exercise a withdraw option, Lieutenant?" the
dealer inquired.  The withdraw option entitled a customer to pull back
half of his accumulated wager if he suddenly felt that the odds against
him of winning were too great.
     "Uhhhhh......" Starbuck hesitated slightly and cast another glance
at the old man, and then at Apollo, who almost seemed to be enjoying
the predicament his friend was now in.
     Then, without saying a word, Starbuck casually pulled back half of
his accumulated pile.  The old man was firmly nodding his head in
approval.
     The dealer then turned up his last card.
     "Red capstone on top of perfect red half-Pyramid." he said, "The
House wins."
     Apollo gave Starbuck a deadpan glance, "Can't lose, huh?"
     "Of all the......" Starbuck was shaking his head in amazement.  Of
course he should have thought of that possibility, but it had seemed so
negligible in his mind, until someone else had pointed it out to him
with such authority as the old man had.  "Well, like the man said it
has one little flaw, but I can work it out." he then turned back to the
man and shook his hand, "I should thank you for saving me a hundred
seventy-five cubits at least,  ah----" 
     "Chameleon," he returned the handshake and smiled.
     "Chameleon.  Well, I'm Starbuck and," he pointed next to him,
"This is my conscience, Apollo."  He always hated it when circumstances
humbled him into using that line, but this was one occasion where he
knew it was all too appropriate.
     Apollo reached over and shook the old man's hand, "And I've got to
thank you too, Chameleon.  You just saved me an early shuttle home
listening to all the reasons why his system should have worked."
     "Think nothing of it." Chameleon said nonchalantly, "Perhaps I can
show some further hospitality by purchasing you both a drink?"
     "You know," Starbuck said thoughtfully, "Maybe this time if I
tried----"
     "That would be a wonderful idea."  Apollo interrupted with a grin
as he instinctively grabbed Starbuck by the arm and pulled him out of
his chair at the gaming table.  "Come on Starbuck.  Your benefactor's
not through with you yet."
     "Uh, but_" Starbuck protested faintly and then decided not to
belabor the point as he gave in and started the walk toward the rear of
the Chancery.


      As soon as Chameleon got up from his seat and followed the two
warriors, the gambling table was empty and alone, except for the
heavyset dealer, who shook his head in amusement as he cleared up the
cards and cubits from the table.
     They never learn, he thought.  Always thinking there's a foolproof
way of beating the House.  But the dealer had worked long enough on the
Rising Star to realize that there was only one foolproof way of making
money off the House.
     And unfortunately for him, he knew all about that one foolproof
way from personal experience.
     "Excuse me, is this Table Number Three?"
     The dealer looked up and found himself staring into the face of a
tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper hair.
     "Yes," he said, "You want to place a bet?"
     "Is your name Chella?"
     The dealer's friendly expression hardened into one of neutrality,
"What of it?"
     "I need to talk to you, in private," the man said.  "My name is
Pallan.  I work in the Empyreal Lounge."
     "Lucky you," Chella's tone was indifferent as he reorganized the
decks of cards into neat stacks.  "I hear you guys aren't getting any
overflow from all these warriors on furlon.  But you'll all end up
getting just as much of a raise from the overall net profit."
     "This is important, Chella," a note of urgency entered Pallan's
voice, "Sergeant Ortega referred you to me."
     Abruptly, the dealer stopped his sorting of the decks and slowly
looked Pallan in the eye. His neutral expression had now taken on a
distinct air of hostility.
     "All right then," he said, "Not here though.  In the Astral Lounge
in five centons. I'll get my relief to take over."
     The assistant chief bartender nodded, "I'll be waiting."
     As Pallan turned and departed, the dealer named Chella had to
exercise all the self-control he could muster to keep from tearing a
deck of Pyramid cards in half.

     
     Since the departure of the Canaris, the only sound that filled the
Docking Lounge was the noise of the IFB monitors airing a replay of the
previous evening's triad match. The three remaining beings in the
Lounge took no notice of it though, as the Borellian Nomen  continued
to sit across the cushioned bench with the air of sentries on duty. 
Each of them, watching and waiting for their prey.
     From the corner of his eye, Maga saw Bora cast a glance over at
the monitor which indicated only one thing to him.  A mounting sense of
inner impatience.
     "Patience, Bora," the lead Nomen continued to stare straight ahead
as he broke the long silence that had set in, "He can't stay in there
forever.  Soon, he must appear.  And then, he will be ours and the Code
shall be honored in full."


     "I couldn't believe it when you indicated that you knew all about
the system, Chameleon," Starbuck said admiringly as he drink remained
untouched.  "I thought I was the first person to dream it up."
     The old man took a sip of his drink and said with an almost
gentle, paternal air, "Lieutenant, I'm afraid I was using that system
on Caprica while you were probably still in swaddling.  Maybe even
before you were born." he then smiled wryly, "Although I must say, I
never met anyone else who played it."
     "If it exists, then Starbuck will play it at least once in his
lifetime," Apollo quipped, which brought good-natured chuckles from all
of them.  "Are you a professional wagerer, Chameleon?"
     "I was," Chameleon sighed as he looked Apollo in the eye, "Long
ago.  But being a wagerer isn't a proper way to make a living nowadays,
especially when the sacrifice of everyone in the Fleet is required. 
I'm a genetic tracer now."
     "Genetic tracer?" Apollo frowned.  "I've never heard of that
profession."
     "Few people have," Chameleon took a sip of his drink, "It's rather
a new science."
     "How new?"
     The old man took another long swallow from his glass and then kept
his expression on Apollo, and away from Starbuck.  "It's what you'd
call a post-Holocaust occupation, Captain.  You see, there were so many
frightened young children herded aboard the ships in the Fleet during
the evacuation of the colonies, that a lot of them didn't have a scrap
of identification on them.  No records whatsoever, and many of them too
young to offer anything definite about their parents.  In short, poor
orphans with no knowledge at all of who they are, and where they came
from.  My task is to help unite those orphans with blood relatives who
might have survived."
     Starbuck, whose attention had started to wander back toward the
gaming table, suddenly darted his head around and stared at Chameleon
with a large measure of disbelief.
     "You've got to be kidding," the blonde lieutenant said, "That's
got to be an impossible task."
     Chameleon set his tankard down and looked directly at Starbuck for
the first time, "It's difficult, but not impossible, Starbuck.  If I
have reason to believe such a relationship exists, there are genetic
tests that can confirm or deny it."
     "You mean you can test everyone in the Fleet and tell who's
related to who?" Apollo's interest was clearly piqued.
     Chameleon shrugged, "Theoretically, yes.  But with over 70,000
people in the Fleet and then running cross-checks, it would literally
take hundreds of yahrens.  These tests are very extensive in nature. 
They require taking neurological cell samples from both subjects, and
all other kinds of technical tests that it....well, you can see the
challenge it poses.  Especially when our facilities are so limited as
they are aboard the Orphans Ship. That's where the main base of
operations under Dr. Pia is set up.  She's a fine scientist. Former
deputy Chief of the Taurean Science Ministry as I recall."
     "It sounds fascinating," Apollo shook his head in near-awe, "And
you gave up being a professional wagerer for that?  Those jobs seem
light-yahrens apart."
     "Well there's a personal reason why I chose genetic tracing,
Captain," Chameleon drew his shoulders up and then silently said to
himself, Forgive me Gabriella.  "I have much in common with those
orphans.  You see, I was badly injured in one of the first Cylon raids
on Caprica.  For five yahrens, I was a traumatic amnesiac.  And upon
recovering, I learned that my wife had been killed in that raid.  But
my baby son may have escaped." he let out a forlorn, sad sigh and
stared off into space, "I tried so hard to find him."
     Starbuck felt as if he'd wandered into some kind of surrealistic
dream.  Trying not to let any false alarms of hope enter his mind, he
quickly asked, "And did you find him?"
     Chameleon gazed at him and smiled weakly, "No, Starbuck.  I never
did.  There were just too many babies and children rounded up by the
Caprican government and dispersed to local orphanages."
     The brash warrior felt his heart start to pound with the same kind
of trepidation he hadn't felt since he'd first strapped himself inside
a viper simulator at the Academy.  "This ah, this raid on Caprica.  
Where and when did it take place?"
     As soon as the question was out of Starbuck's mouth, Apollo felt
his eyes widen in amazement as he realized right away what his friend
was getting at.  A subject so deep and personal to Starbuck that he
could only recall his friend talking about it once to him in all the
yahrens he'd known him.
     "Oh, you've probably never heard of it," Chameleon nonchalantly
waved his hand. "It was on the edge of the Thorn forest.  A little agro
community called Umbra."
     Apollo felt his hand freeze on his tankard, while Starbuck took
his cigar out of his mouth and began to absently mash it out inside one
of the ashtrays.
     "Lieutenant?" Chameleon frowned, "Is something wrong?"
     Starbuck felt himself taking several deep breaths trying to come
to terms with what he'd just heard.  From nowhere, out of the blue,
this strange old man who was more savvy about gambling than he was, had
walked right in and shared something else that he had in common with
the brash warrior.  Something that conceivably held the answer that
Starbuck had wanted to answer for his entire life.  Ever since he'd
first experienced conscious memories in an impersonal Caprican
orphanage.
     Could it really be?   He tried so hard not to raise any false
hopes inside himself. Could it really be that this man holds the key to
the one thing I want to know about more than anything else?
     "Uh, Chameleon," he finally forced his words out.  "Chameleon, I
was orphaned in the raid on Umbra."
     The old man's eyes widened in apparent amazement, "Were you?"
     "Yes," Starbuck nodded, "I was only, oh they said I was probably
anywhere between eighteen sectars and three yahrens old.  I was in an
orphanage my whole life until I entered the Colonial Academy."
     Chameleon let out an incredulous chuckle, "Well now to say the
least, this is an incredible coincidence."
     "You know Chameleon----" Starbuck leaned forward and started.
     "Oh well now, wait a centon, Starbuck," he held up a cautious
hand.  "I know all about the exact statistics of the devastation at
Umbra, because I must have memorized them a thousand times during my
search efforts.  There were over three thousand children orphaned in
that raid.  I mean, the chances that you could be my...." he hesitated
for a brief instant, "Well that you could be my son, are astronomically
low to begin with."
     "Yeah, that's true, that's true," Starbuck then nodded vigorously,
as though he wanted an air of practicality to remain in his tome,
"But....well Chameleon, there is a legit chance, nonetheless."
     "About the same as you ever getting two perfect Pyramid hands in a
row, Starbuck," Chameleon smiled wryly.
     "Hey, those are chances I've always lived for," the warrior
matched it, trying to break some of the apprehension he felt inside.
     "This is wonderful, Starbuck," Apollo found himself grinning, and
then feeling a sense of dread caution kick in, "But hey, the man's
right.  Don't get too over-enthused at this point."
     "Apollo," Starbuck's voice dropped to a low whisper, "Don't you
realize that for the first time, I've met someone who might be my
father?"
     "The key word is might, buddy."
     "Look," Starbuck held up a hand.  "I know the odds are against it. 
But we'd have ways of confirming that, wouldn't we?  At the very least
I can eliminate one possibility from my mind, which is more than I've
ever been able to do in my whole life."
     "That would sound reasonable," Chameleon nodded.  "I haven't been
able to pursue one solid lead for so many yahrens, and now that we're
all in this horrible situation, cut off from the Colonies forever where
there aren't any other means of properly investigating...." his voice
trailed off.
     "So what you're saying, is maybe you should set up an appointment
for Starbuck to come over to the Orphans ship and go through one of
these genetic tracer tests?" Apollo inquired.
     Chameleon finished off his drink and set the empty tankard down.  
"Well, it's not quite that easy, Captain.  I'm not in any position of
authority on the staff, and there's so much advance paperwork that has
to be done on an individual case study before Dr. Pia would ever
approve a new tracer comparison.   And I'm afraid that she'd be far
less receptive toward letting an adult like Starbuck get priority ahead
of a poor young child who has a lot more at stake.  I mean that would
be....well it would just be ethically wrong to ask for that kind of
favored treatment."
     Starbuck felt his shoulders sag slightly in disappointment, "Yeah,
I guess it would."
     "However," Chameleon leaned forward and a note of optimism
returned to his voice, "There is a way of cutting through all of the
felgercarb, so to speak, at least in terms of making a beginning.  A
simple hemo-type and iris-cone count.  It's very crude, and would match
hundreds, even thousands of people who have common ancestry within five
hundred yahrens or so, but at least it would be a start."
     "But how would you arrange that?" Apollo frowned.  "Aren't the
facilities on the Orphans ship overloaded for even that?"
     The old man looked at him with an almost sheepish expression,
"Actually, Captain, the facilities for a simple test of the kind I'm
talking about may very well be on the Galactica in your Life Center
Operations."
     "Great!" Starbuck grinned and got to his feet, "Let's get going
then."
     For just a faint instant, Apollo found himself hesitating.  That
last remark from Chameleon about facilities on the Galactica had the
aura of a too-pat quality that made him wonder if there was more than
met the eye to what the old man was after.
      Abruptly, he dismissed the concern as a foolish consideration
from his mind
and got to his feet.  "Okay," he said, "I'll have the shuttle readied
for us to go.  You two finish your drinks and be in the Docking Lounge
in ten centons."
     As soon as he was gone, Starbuck and Chameleon found themselves
smiling awkwardly at each other.
     "So," the warrior broke the ice, "Where should we begin?"
     "What's say we start with you telling me everything you know about
yourself, Starbuck," Chameleon said.
     As the warrior began, the old man felt a pang of guilt inside him. 
Guilt that a desperate moment of his life had now forced him to exploit
the trauma of his past and the memory of the only things he had ever
cherished in the name of survival.
     But was it really so wrong, he tried to rationalize, as he
listened to Starbuck talk about his experience growing up in the
Caprican orphanage.  If this was so wrong, then why had the Almighty
dictated that he see that IFB broadcast on the way over to the Rising
Star, where he'd heard Starbuck tell his story about being orphaned in
the Umbra disaster?  Surely the hand of Providence had been at work in
providing this opportunity he could take advantage of to save himself
from the ones he knew were waiting for him. Waiting for the opportunity
to kill him.  
     No, he thought.  He couldn't let his mind be troubled too much by
this.  Starbuck had provided him with an opportunity, and he needed to
take advantage of it for as long as he possibly could.  And in the
process, he'd try his best not to hurt him too much.


     Apollo made his way back into the Astral Lounge, where he found
Boomer waiting by the entryway, next to Zeibert's station.
     "Say Boomer," Apollo said, "Some business just came up and
Starbuck and I are going back to the Galactica.  Just wanted you to
know in case you felt like leaving now."
     "I'm tempted to go," Boomer grunted, "This furlon didn't turn out
to be all I expected."
     "What do you mean?" Apollo raised an eyebrow.
     "After you and Starbuck left for the Chancery, Jolly and I had a
run-in with some Borellian Nomen."
     The captain's incredulity deepened, "You're kidding."
     Boomer nodded, "One of them accidentally plugged one of those
laser boles they carry.  We had to expend the energy by using it
against that column back there."  he motioned toward the column in the
middle of the Lounge, where the blackish scar was still evident.
     "Did you call Security after that happened?"
     "I didn't need to.  They said it was accidental.  And they agreed
to leave on the next shuttle."
     Just as Boomer finished his sentence, Jolly came through the Main
Entrance and walked up to the two warriors.
     "Guess what," the fat warrior said, "Those Nomen still haven't
left."
     "What?" Boomer's face twisted, "They left the Lounge a half-centar
ago."
     "And the Canaris has come and gone," Jolly's tone was grim.  "But
the three of them are all sitting by themselves on their astrums in the
Docking Lounge just staring off into space."
     "Why would they do that?" Apollo wasn't too familiar with the
habits of Nomen. Like most Colonials, he had a lingering suspicion of
them that had always made him avoid them at all costs.
     "I think it means only one thing," Jolly said as the memory of
past run-ins with Nomen filled his mind.  "They're on a blood trail. 
And I don't think what happened in the Lounge was an accident."
     Apollo took a breath, "Jolly, you round up some men from Council
Security. Boomer, come with me."


     After five minutes of preliminary conversation about their
backgrounds, Starbuck and Chameleon had finished their second drinks
and decided it was time to leave.
     "We might as well get going," the warrior rose from his chair. 
"Apollo should have the shuttle all ready by now."
     "I can hardly wait," Chameleon smiled, and then added as an
afterthought.  "By the way, Lieutenant, I think we should go back
through the Astral Lounge instead of the Main Exit."
     Starbuck frowned, "What for?  The Main Exit's a quicker walk back
to the Docking Lounge."
     "There's just one thing I need to take care of.  A personal
matter."
     The warrior shrugged.  "Okay, Chameleon.  Let's get moving."
     They went back through the rear exit of the Chancery and down the
short corridor that led to the Astral Lounge's rear door.  When they
entered, Chameleon was relieved to see that the Nomen had long since
left the room and an air of normalcy had returned to the place.
     A micron later, he spotted Blassie sitting alone at their table. 
Her jeweled hand touching her chin with an air of forlorn, lonely
impatience.
     "Lieutenant, if you could wait just here for a micron," Chameleon
said, feeling guilty inside about how he'd been forced to treat the
first woman who's company he'd genuinely enjoyed in a long time.  "This
won't take long."
     "Need me for any help?"
     "No, no.  Not at all."  the last thing Chameleon needed was
Starbuck by his side at this point.  The only way he could stay in
Blassie's good graces was to perpetuate his earlier lie.  "Just wait
here.  I'll be back."
     Chameleon made his way down the steps that led to the main floor
where all the tables were set up.  As soon as Blassie saw him, her eyes
lit up in delight and a smile crossed her pleasantly attractive face.
     "Chameleon!  I thought I'd been abandoned."
     He smiled warmly as he took her hand and kissed it.  "The thought
of abandoning a lovely creature like you would be a terrible sin,
Siress.  But I'm afraid that my business affairs with the IFB have now
reached a point where I have to end our time together much sooner than
I wanted to."
     Her mouth drooped in disappointment.  "What now?"
     Chameleon pointed over to where Starbuck was waiting along the
back wall perimeter of the Lounge.  "That's Lieutenant Starbuck, the
subject of that interview we saw on the way over."
     "Yes, I remember," Blassie nodded.  "You were saying how it was a
mistake to be interviewing warriors like him on the IFB news."
     "And my fears have been borne out," his voice dropped to a
confidential level. "No sooner was I on my way back to you then did I
run into him.  And he was in a most foul mood over the way he felt Zara
had treated him in the interview.  Naturally, since I as head of the
News and Interviews Division arranged the interview in the first place,
he was taking all of his anger out on me."
     "That was very inconsiderate of him," the attractive siress said
with a touch of disdain.
     "Well, perhaps.  But I think good politics dictated that I try and
make the Lieutenant happy, and so I've spent the last half-centar
making amends to him.  But I'm afraid settling all of his complaints
will take much longer than I anticipated.  So I think it best, dear
Blassie, that you not ruin your time aboard the Rising Star by waiting
for me any longer."
     "Such a pity," Blassie sighed.  "I was so looking forward to your
kind offer of repayment later this evening."
     Chameleon kissed her hand again.  "And I remain in your debt,
Siress.  You shall be repaid by me in due time.  I will not hesitate to
get in touch with you when my schedule is free."
     "You know where to reach me?" 
     "Your location and telecom number are ingrained in me." he smiled. 
"Until next time, Blassie?"
     "Until next time," she returned the smile and raised her
half-filled glass of ambrosia.  "Goodbye, Chameleon."
     "Goodbye."
     As soon as Chameleon had rejoined Starbuck at the other side of
the Lounge, he saw the warrior staring at him quizzically.
     "What was that all about with the attractive woman there?"
Starbuck asked.  "Did you stand her up or something?"
     "In a way, I guess I did," Chameleon resumed walking toward the
Main Entrance. He made certain Starbuck didn't put a hand over his
shoulder as he'd done in the corridor, because that would surely raise
eyebrows from Blassie if she were still watching.  "Siress Blassie----"
     "Wait a centon buddy.  Siress Blassie?" a sly edge entered
Starbuck's tone.  "How did a professional wagerer turned genetic tracer
get to hook up with a woman like that?"
     Chameleon shrugged and smiled humbly.  "I guess there's something
about me that....has a way with beautiful women.  Anyway I was just
expressing my apologies to her.  But once I explained the
circumstances, she was most understanding."
     "And you just met this Siress today and got that far with her?"
Starbuck's amazement increased as they went by Zeibert's station and
exited into the Main Corridor.
     "Yes," Chameleon admitted.
     "We have to be related then," Starbuck grinned as he clapped his
hand around Chameleon's shoulder as the Main Door to the Lounge closed
behind them.  "That kind of success with the ladies is only acquired by
genetic instinct."
     

     Elsewhere in the Astral Lounge, as many of the male customers
eagerly awaited the start of the dance number by the Skorpian troupe of
exotically garbed female dancers, two men seated at a table off to the
side were totally oblivious to all of the entertainment activities.
     "So what's this about Sergeant Ortega referring you to me?" the
Chancery dealer named Chella eyed Pallan with suspicion.
     "Sergeant Ortega said you were the man who could help me with
a.....problem I have."
     "Oh he did, did he?" a large amount of acid and venom entered the
dealer's voice. "Well if you think you can get me to give you what that
slimy snitrod Ortega has been getting out of me, you can forget it. 
I'll go so far when it comes to him, but I'm damned if I'm going to
give the same generosity to one of his friends."
     "Ortega is not my friend," Pallan said through clenched teeth,
"He's an evil dreg and he unfortunately has me boxed into a situation
where he has title to half of what I earn and then some."
     A humorless smile came over Chella's lips.  "You too, huh? 
Welcome to the club."
     "Look, what he's got on you isn't my business, anymore than what
he's got on me is your business," Pallan tried to stay patient.  "But
it's really important that you let me come up with a thousand cubits so
I can get him off my back for now."
     "Not a chance," Chella's tone grew blunt.  "If Ortega comes to me
personally, then maybe I'll have reason to reconsider.  But not from
you, pal.  You've got my sympathy, but there isn't a snowball's chance
in Hades that I'm going to start rigging results at my table for two
people.  I can barely keep the books in good order as it is palming off
winnings for Ortega.  If someone else at my table goes on a big winning
streak, that's going to attract all kinds of attention from my Chief
Supervisor that I can do without."
     Pallan grabbed him by the arm.  "Look," an edge of desperation
entered his voice, "I'm not saying you've got to do this on a regular
basis.  Just let me win one big hand at the table, and maybe I can use
that to help me raise funds elsewhere.  I just need to get the
miserable boray off my back."
     "Take it from one who's in the same boat you are, pal.  It's not
going to work. Now my advice to you is to just wait the slimy leech
out.  Because sooner or later, he's going to go too far and realize
that he can't keep raising the ante on any of us.  It'll soon reach a
point where even if he does go ahead and turn us in for what he's got
on us, he'll only be cooking his own goose as far as a charge of
blackmail and conduct unbecoming a warrior puts him at risk of being
thrown in the Prison Barge too."
     "I can't take that risk," Pallan whispered cryptically.  "You've
got to help me, Chella."
     "I can't." the dealer said with the same mixture of sympathy and
bluntness.  "And if it's any consolation to you, you're not the first
person Ortega's sent to me as a way of getting extra money for
himself."
     The bartender's eyebrows went up.  "Who else?"
     "Assistant Maintenance Chief of the Aquacade.  Name's Elias,
though I don't think that's his real name any more than my real name is
Chella, or your name is Pallan."
     Pallan's lips tightened, "That is my real name." he said.
     "Okay, maybe so.  But you can see why I'm in no position to do
favors for you, when I've already turned another of Ortega's victims
down.  But the fact that he's trying to get all he can out of three of
us means that he's going to some day find that his hands are too full. 
He's either going to have to lay off or run the risk of something
really serious."
     Something very serious, Pallan idly thought to himself.  Something
I probably should have arranged back on Carillon when I saw him in the
Chancery down there.  I should have set things up for him to become an
Ovion dinner.
     "Very well," the bartender finally sighed.  "If you can't do it,
then fine.  But if I happen to mention that to Ortega, and he comes to
you personally about it, don't blame me.  I have to look out for me
first."
     "We all do," Chella nodded.  "It's a rotten position to be in. 
But then again, isn't that the price we paid because of our desperate
desire to live?"
     Pallan found himself wondering what it was that Chella was
referring to. Whatever it was that Ortega had on the dealer, and the
maintenance worker named Elias, he was sure that it was bad.  But
nowhere near as bad as what the sergeant had on him.
     "Perhaps," he finally answered.  "And living beats dying any day,
doesn't it?"  He rose from the table.  "Sorry I bothered you."
     As Pallan left the Astral Lounge, his mind was already certain of
one thing. Sergeant Ortega's winning streak was about to come to an
end.  All that remained was a question of how and when it was going to
be pulled off.

Chapter Five

     "The key is to not let them intimidate you," Boomer was saying to
Apollo as they approached the Docking Lounge.  "According to Jolly,
most Nomen who have a blood trail planned are sticklers for making sure
they don't get themselves into trouble before they've carried out their
objective.  That means they're apt to back down in the face of
authority."
     "You take charge then, Boomer," Apollo said as they rounded the
corner that led to the main waiting area.
     When they entered, they saw the three Nomen seated on the bench,
none of them taking any notice of the two warriors.
     "Okay gentlemen," Boomer said with the same level of authority
he'd displayed earlier in the Astral Lounge.  "Suppose you explain
yourselves.  A half-centar ago, you said you were leaving.  So why are
you still here?"
     Maga's head moved only a fraction of an inch, so he could see the
two warriors in his peripheral vision.
     "By what authority do you question us, Lieutenant?" there was an
air of gentility in his monotonic voice for the first time.  "Are we
not humans?   Are we not members of this Fleet with equal rights and
privileges, according to the precepts of Colonial law?"
     "Of course you are," Boomer was unimpressed by Maga's appeal to
the sense of latent prejudice that existed among most Colonials toward
Nomen.  From his standpoint, the only reason why Borellian Nomen were
regarded with suspicion and fear by Colonials was because of the
Nomen's own deeds and actions down through the millennia, and not
because of any instinctive racial prejudice.  "But none of us, whether
we're Borellian or Colonial have the right to abuse those laws."
     Apollo decided to step in.  "And Colonial law clearly states that
it's illegal to carry weaponry aboard a civilian ship unless you're
attached to the military or Council Security. The fact that you're
Borellian Nomen has nothing to do with it.   This officer did his duty,
and now it's clear that you've lied to him about what you planned to do
next."
     Abruptly, the beardless Nomen named Taba bolted from his seat and
made a motion for his laser boles.   In the space of two microns, both
Apollo and Boomer had responded by whipping out their laser pistols,
while Maga had raised his arm to block Taba from detaching his weapon.
     There was an implacable silence for nearly a centon as the two
warriors kept their pistols trained on the Nomen, while Maga kept his
hand locked on Taba's to keep him frozen in mid-motion.
     Finally, the beardless Nomen broke the silence with clear
indignation, "He insulted you."
     Maga continued to stare straight ahead.  "If he insulted me, he
would be dead." He then rose from his seat and lifted the young Nomen
to his feet, glaring at him with contempt.  "It is you who have
insulted me, Taba.  Twice!  You must answer to the Code."
     The lead Nomen then forcefully ripped off the young Nomen's
weapons belt containing each of his laser boles and handed them to
Bora.  "For disgracing the Code, your name will be stricken from the
ranks of Nomen.  Forever."
     Maga then turned back to the two warriors.  "You may do with him
as you wish. To me, he no longer exists."
     The two lead Nomen resumed their seats on the bench, while Taba
stood frozen. His lack of a beard made it easier for Apollo and Boomer
to see the air of humiliation and anger lining the young Noman's face.
     "What's the situation, Captain?"
     The two warriors turned around and saw that Jolly had arrived with
two black uniformed guards from Council Security.
     Apollo motioned to the two guards and pointed at Taba, "This man
is to be detained on charges of reckless endangerment and attempted
assault, pending a full tribunal hearing.  I'll personally file the
complaint later."
     The guards nodded and took hold of Taba, guiding him out of the
Docking Lounge and leaving the three warriors alone with the two
remaining Nomen.
     "I suppose we should thank you for acknowledging the trouble your
friend caused," Boomer decided he at least owed Maga that much.  "But
I'm afraid you still haven't answered the question I asked.  Why didn't
you leave the Rising Star when you said you would?"
     "We did not leave because the Canaris was full.  We are waiting
for the next shuttle.  It is simple as that."  Maga's voice had the
faintest edge of deference, which was the most that any Noman was
capable of summoning.
     "Then you're not on a blood trail?" Jolly's previous experience
with Nomen made him decide to come to the point.
     "We would not be returning to our ship if we were," the lead Noman
said matterof-factly as he resumed his posture of staring straight
ahead.  "If you