Space Murderer 
A Battlestar Galactica/Dune/Lost in Space/Dracula/Clan of the Cave Bear/
Fabulous World of Krypton Crossover Fanfic by Paul H. Robison

Sequel to: The Cylon's Curse and A Visitor From Hades

Prequel to: Greetings From Space Family Robinson


Spoliers:
Adventures Of A Space Casanova (Adaptation) by Eric Paddon
The Young Lords (Adaptation) by Eric Paddon
Battlestar Galactica 4: The Young Warriors, by Glen A. Larson and Robert
Thurston.  Berkely Books, N.Y, N.Y, (c) 1980

Posted August 2005

Special Guest Stars:
1.  Jeremiah Smith (A.K.A. "Jeremiah," with no last name. Lost in Space
Season 2: 
     "Curse of Cousin Smith")
2.  The rondor, an exceedingly rare creature whose single large horn
emitted strange radiations that could cure any deadly illness. (The
Fabulous World of Krypton)
3.  Ohan (A.K.A "Charybdis."  Lost in Space Season 1: "All that
Glitters")
4.  Phanzig (A.K.A. "Verrah." Lost in Space Season 3: "Condemned of
Space")
5.  Admiral Zhark (Lost in Space Season 2: "Mutiny in Space")
6.  Zumdish (Lost in Space Seasons 2 & 3: "The Android Machine," "The
Toymaker," & "Two Weeks in Space")
7.  Bolix (Lost in Space Season 1: "All that Glitters")
8.  Farnum B. ( A.K.A. Sire Farnum, Lost in Space Season 3: "A Day at the
Zoo" & "Space Beauty")
9.  Stilgar, the Fremen (Frank Herbert's Dune)
10.  Ayla (Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear)
11.  Grod (Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear)
12.  Brun and Goov (Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear)
13.  Dracula (As an IL-series Cylon.  Bram Stoker's Dracula)
14.  Mog-ur (Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear)
15.  Iza (Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear)
16.  Zoug (Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear)
17.  Quanto (Lost in Space Season 1.  "The Challenge)
18.  Durc, Ovra and Uba (Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear)
19.  Norg (Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear)

Battlestar Galactica is the property of Glen A. Larson and Universal
Productions (c) 1978
Lost in Space is the property of Irwin Allen, Space Productions and 20th
Century Fox (c) 1965
Dune is the property of Frank Herbert (c) 1965
The Clan of the Cave Bear is the property Jean M. Auel and Bantam Books
(c) 1981
Dracula is the property of the estate of Bram Stoker
The Fabulous World of Krypton is the property of DC Comics

All are used without permission, for my amusement and that of anyone else
reading the following, and without intent to make any money whatsoever.

From The Adama Journals

     It has now been twelve sectans since the remarkable chain of events
that began with a missing patrol of vipers and an encounter with the
enigmatic personage that called himself Mr. Morbus. In only a matter of
days we witnessed such incredible sights as the capture of Baltar, the
disappearance of the Cylon pursuit force, and the intervention of those
mystifying beings of light traveling faster than the eye could
comprehend. They who, in their boundless mercy, gave us both deliverance
from Mr. Morbus 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 find myself 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 the correct one,
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 Mr. Morbus.  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 Mr. Morbus
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 Morbus 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 increase 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 much irritation 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 mind that holds him back
from settling down to enjoy 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 Athena and me 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.

*****************************

Diary Of Lieutenant Starbuck: entry #29025vhb

     I remember when the warriors used to shuttle off the Galactica to
whichever port she was at and have a few days' furlon on the surface.  I
lived for furlons in those days, anticipating the sights I would see that
day, whether they were the new sights of a brand-new locale, or the
humble and recognizable scenery of a familiar planet, I would always have
my associates in tow, looking for fun and adventure wherever we went,
knowing that we'd have to be back at our ship at a certain point in the
future.
     But that was then, this is now. The old familiar furlon stomping
grounds are long gone, destroyed by the Cylons in their quest to destroy
the human race. Any new planets we visit are more often than not for
missions, not furlons, though the odd one might occur here and there. 
And even these are few and far between, with the Cylons being a threat
that always looms over our shoulder, poising to strike even if they
hadn't made an appearance for sectons.
     I couldn't help but jump for joy when I received the news that, at
long last, Commander Adama was putting the squadrons on furlon.  We'd
been on the alert for too long, and everyone aboard our battlestar knew
it.  Tempers were flaring up like the volcanoes on Epar and attention
spans weren't as good as they once were.  It was getting to the point
where we needed to get away from our responsibilities and enjoy ourselves
without needing to worry about alerts and combat.
     And so here I am, on a shuttle jam-packed with my brother warriors,
headed for the Rising Star.

*****************************

Chapter One: The System That Can't Lose
     
     Starbuck smirked as he extracted a lengthy fumarello from his
uniform jacket pocket, his precious habit that was being threatened with
the lack of genuine tobaccon in the fleet.  Like many other things,
tobaccon was a product that didn't add to the welfare 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
smoking was not permitted aboard a military 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 was a going to try his hand at Pyramid to put a brand new system
he planned out for it to the ultimate test.
     And Apollo understood it, too.  Nothing had to be said because he
could easily pick up an observation from his friend's body language. 
Yahrens of being Starbuck's closest buddy and wingmate allowed 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 was better than being a hapless victim to
Starbuck's ploys.
     For a few microns, Apollo wondered how he might retaliate against 
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
favorite stunt had taken place one evening at the age of nine, when he
had snuck into the turbo-flush with the opaque plastic salt and
peppershakers he'd stolen from the dining room.  The ones that had
pop-off tops that could be forced open with a knife blade if you were
persistent enough.
     He'd emptied the saltshakers from one of the "acquired" containers
and filled it about one-third full with condensed marmelon juice. 
Placing a thin tissue across the opening, he poked it down a bit to form
a depression, and then filled the depression with about a teaspoon of
baking soda.  Finally, he covered, from the inside, the holes of the top
with tape the same color as the salt and peppershakers, replacing the top
on the containers and trimming the visible tissue from around the top.
Making sure the device was upright and as stable as possible for his
personal sake, Apollo carried the device back to the dining room.
     When all the members of his family, Zac and Athena included, sat
down to dinner, Apollo discretely placed the shaker on the table near to
his father.  Being the next person to use the saltshaker, Adama shook it
lightly at first, then harder as nothing came out. Upon the third shake,
the saltshaker's top popped off, quite spectacularly, amidst a shower of
foam. It had been worth the grounding he'd received to see his father's
reaction, since one does not usually observe this type of behavior in a
common everyday saltshaker!
     Unfortunately, the humor was lost on Adama himself.  The "foam
shower" of marmelon juice and soda ruined his meal.  Even worse, he was
dressed in his formal uniform and cape, turning the joke into an abysmal
ruin.
     After the strict lecture he'd received, coupled with the threat of
the strap, it was the last prank 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 tilted his head against the back of his seat.  He
would need his strength to put up with whatever it was.
     "How much longer is this darned shuttle jaunt going to take?"
Starbuck wondered nonchalantly, hearing Apollo give another sigh as he
tried to get comfortable.  He looked about the shuttle's cabin, seeing
the familiar faces that bordered them.  Lately, they'd been strained with
weariness, but now they were glittering again with new dynamism and
happiness.  He spotted Jolly and Boomer on the other side, both engaged
in vigorous conversation.  Ordinarily, 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 there," 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.
     "Calm down, Starbuck.  We only launched three centons ago."
     "Hey, yeah, we did. I forgot."  Starbuck twirled the fumarello in
his fingers, and 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.  It's been so long since I last came to a chancery for more than a
few centars at time, you know." 
     "At least not since Carillon," Apollo said, secretly thanking the
Lords for that.
     "And that may be just as well, good buddy, since it's given me heaps
of centons to think over over some ideas on what I might do.  I think
I've finally got a game and a system that can't lose."
     He gave Starbuck a sidelong glance but did not move. "A system that
can't lose? Hah!  That'll be the day!"
     "I think today is the day."  Starbuck finally decided on holding
onto his fumarello with one hand, while his other arm stayed on the rest.
     "You'll have to forgive me for getting a sense of deja vu, but,"
Apollo paused, "those were the exact words you used at the gaming
chancery on Octavus."  He closed his eyes, knowing that he was missing
out on a great expression on Starbuck's face.
     "That's not fair!"
     "It's funny that you should bring it up because I didn't think so
too."  He gave Starbuck another hard look, remembering the evening of
their return to the Galactica as two very downtrodden warriors. 
"Especially since betting on your last system cost me a secton's pay!"
     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 Octavus.  The planet was one of the
most famous leisure worlds known in the Colonies, and had been for nearly
two hundred yahrens.  Unfortunately, it was also a world where many a
traveler had departed without his or her cubits.
     "I think I've learned something since then," he defended himself. 
How was he supposed to know that the system failed if the set in
particular went over three turns?
     "Oh you learned something all right!" Apollo shot back, as he
pointed to himself.  "How to throw my hard-earned money down a rathole!"
     "Look at the bright side," 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 flopped back in 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 monetary 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.
     Wankmaster had served aboard the Canaris in the two yahrens prior to
the Final Destruction, 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 Wankmaster had actually shown her most of the
ropes.  She had been a typical assignee from the Cancerian branch of the
Star Trails Travel Agency, but her attitude changed as the pilot began to
respect the ship with Wankmaster'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, and then finally the smaller
ships like the Canaris.  Wankmaster made it his business to find the
bigger parts to keep the ship running.  It could be easier said than
done, but so far, he'd come up with enough to keep the Canaris in
moderately good condition.
     Along with his never-ending search for good parts for the ship,
Wankmaster was endowed with lots 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 inter-colony voyages.  Now they were used to make sure
that the person coming aboard the ship had the proper authorization to
voyage.
     That's what Wankmaster was doing this very 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-and twenty 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 conclusion 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.  Wankmaster 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,
Wankmaster 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, Wankmaster 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 Galactica
recruitment.  We need you!"
     Wankmaster 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 where the
huge letters "IFB" were displayed.  Kobol know where the IFB had drudged
up their anchors, but during the Canaris' travels, Wankmaster had seen
plenty who by far outclassed those two.  Oneuss 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, one and all!" she began, smiling at the monitor.  "Please
join me in welcoming Lieutenant Starbuck."
     The scene widened to include Zara's guest, a warrior that Wankmaster
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.

*****************************

Transcript Of Zara's Interview With Lieutenant Starbuck, Part 1:

     ZARA: "Hello!"
     STARBUCK: "Uh, hi..."
     ZARA: "Why don't we start with some background information, like
your age, for instance?  How old are you, Lieutenant?"
     STARBUCK: "I don't know."
     ZARA: "I realize that you must be very nervous at being interviewed,
but surely you can remember how old you are!"
     STARBUCK: "That's the problem.  I don't know how old I am.  I was
orphaned back in 7322, when the Cylons attacked the little agron
community of Umbra on Caprica.  Some Colonial Warriors found me and they
never could find out who my parents were, or locate any other family. 
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: "How were you cared for?"
     STARBUCK: "In those days orphans were legally considered victims of
the war and I was assigned to a pair of other victims for bringing up. 
It was astonishing how many of my playmates were in the same situation. 
And those who had genuine parents, they only saw them once in a while. 
Most adults seemed to be either warriors who were away for long periods,
or they were in some important and busy way connected with the war
effort.  I mean, the war's been going on for so many generations that
kids grow up not having an alternative to the idea of war.  What
alternative could they have?  What is peace really, or the idea of peace? 
Not really the opposite of war, at least not in my experience.  Peace is,
well, just something of an abstraction that's supposed to be the opposite
of something real, you see?  War and peace don't seem to me like
legitimate opposites."

*****************************

     There were only a few more rows to go, and Wankmaster 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 old man wearing a wide-brimmed, off-white straw hat and a
woman were sitting. With his polite, "Your ducats, please," he placed the
collector in front of them.
     The ornately dressed young woman in the opposite seat from the man
in the wide-brimmed hat was surprisingly elegant and mature for her age. 
She looked very intelligent, fiery and independent.  If she needed to be
coquettish, it would not be for her own personal gain, for she was a
siress.  She 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, Wankmaster ventured, "Sir, your
ducat, please."
     With a determined flick, the man turned the monitor off, and turned
to face him. Wankmaster found himself looking into the bulldog face of a
classic "guy-next-door" type. The man himself was dressed in a burgundy
jacket over a white shirt and black bowtie.  His moustache and goatee
made him look old enough to be the young siress's father.  With a shake
of his head, the man said, "My, my, my.  What a waste of time and money
that program is."
     "Your ducat, please, sir.  We're only fifteen centons from docking,
and I still have to--"
     "Oooh, how that Zara goes after the story, egging that poor warrior
on even though he's scared stiff with nervousness," the man interrupted
him, disgust in his voice.  "I do declare.  I'm going to have to take
some drastic---that's drastic with a capital 'D'---action the micron I
return to the comtel ship."
     His young companion looked at him with wide, admiring brown eyes
that told Wankmaster that they hadn't been together for very long.  "I
didn't know you ran the IFB, Jeremiah."
     He gave her a smile, "Unfortunately, my dear girl, I do not run the
entire IFB; I merely direct the news and interviews.  I don't know about
any of you, but I've had it to the tip of my hat with these warriors. 
They're on the Triad games, and practically everything else.  I think we
need to see life from elsewhere in the fleet, about people who do more
than just fly ships and fight battles.  I believe the term I'm looking
for is---human interest stories."
     "I find myself in complete agreement with you," 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."
     Jeremiah's eyes looked from the ducat collector to Wankmaster's
face.  "How about you, for example?  Surely a distinguished gentleman
like you has many more responsibilities other than pestering folks for
their ducats.  Yes?"
     Wankmaster stood up straight and put on a smile.  "Why sure!  I'm
responsible for the Canaris's maintenance.  Finding enough hand-me-down
parts to keep this steel bird in the air is a full-time job in itself!"
     Jeremiah turned to his companion.  "Did you ever hear such an
amazing thing in your life, Irulan?  Now, that's my idea of the ultimate
IFB story!  People should hear about on the determination, innovation and
the will to fight against misfortune and bad times.  Those brave men and
women who serve us without glory."
     Blassie nodded her agreement, and Jeremiah, completely consumed by
his enthusiasm, turned to Wankmaster.  "Why, By the Nine Maelstroms of
Piw-Lore, I just had a wonderful idea!  How, my fine young modocker,
would you like to be interviewed by Zara on the IFB?"
     Wankmaster was stunned.  "Me?  Interviewed by Zara?"
     "The very thing!  And we shall proudly call this masterpiece of
electronic media, 'The 'Unsung Heroes of the Centar.'  Yes, I do believe
people would find that a lot more interesting than about the same tired
old stories that those warriors tell over and over again." Jeremiah
scrutinized him carefully.  "You're interested!  I can tell by that
sparkle in your eyes!"
     Wankmaster was just about glowing with pride at the turn in
conversation.  "You're damn right I'm interested!"
     "Splendid, splendid!  Now, as soon as you go off duty, I want you to
report to the comtel ship.  Zara will interview you for the first
broadcast.  I'll notify her once I get aboard the Rising Star."
     "Thank you, sir!"  Wankmaster could not help smiling.  "I'll go as
soon as I can.  Please excuse me, but I have to collect the rest of the
ducats before we dock."
     "Who am I to stand in the way of a man and his sworn duty, Mr.
Wankmaster?" Jeremiah's smile mirrored Wankmaster's.  "Thank you for
everything."
     Still shocked but elated that he was going to be interviewed on the
IFB, even if by Zara, Wankmaster was about to ask the next row for their
ducats when he remembered that he hadn't gathered Jeremiah's.  He hurried
back and placed the collector in front of the older sire.
     "Your ducat, sir?" he asked.
     He received a sympathetic smile.  "There is a certain inefficiency
in asking for the same thing twice, my boy---If you take my meanin'."
     He felt his cheeks redden, even though he could vaguely remember it. 
That's right, he thought.  The conversation with Jeremiah must have
distracted him.  "Of course!  You've already given me your ducat! I'll
trouble you no more, sir."
     Wankmaster left the two alone to continue with the other rows, and
Jeremiah settled back in his seat.  He exchanged a smile with Irulan, who
was giving him another one of those sassy looks.  Reaching out, he turned
the IFB back on, where Starbuck was finishing a sentence before Zara
asked him another question.

*****************************

Transcript Of Zara's Interview With Lieutenant Starbuck, Part 2:

     ZARA: "Hmmmm.  I see.  So---your parents were killed in that Cylon
attack?"
     STARBUCK: "Presumably.  Nobody was ever able to tell me for sure. 
My father had achieved some notoriety as a gambler, and in the years
since I've heard odd rumors of him roaming several worlds and getting in
to scrapes by taking chances on anything that came his way.  But I doubt
he exists---if he's even alive.  Those are just tall tales, I think."
     ZARA: "Alive or not, the relevant fact is that you seemed to have
lacked parental guidance in your formative years."
     STARBUCK: "In a way.  My foster parents were nice and all.  But
Chas, my father, had an electrohand instead of a real hand and was
confined for life to a medical ground-strider, war injuries, you know. 
My mother, Pear, had been injured in a laser attack and she'd
miraculously survived, but she was nearly blind.  Still, they treated me
well, normally, like any---"
     ZARA: "But they were not your parents.  Go on."
     STARBUCK: "Well, when I reached the age of career-selection, it
seemed only natural to apply to the Academy and train to be a fighter
pilot.  I'd never really wanted anything else.  I was accepted and took
to flying a viper by the seat of my pants.  I finished top of the class,
at least at war and flying skills.  My academics weren't all that great,
but I got by.  After graduation, I came to the Galactica, the rawest
ensign in the history of the Colonial Fleet, I think, but somehow, I
became the crack fighter pilot that I am.  I give everybody this line
about how I hate duty but I'm really very good at it, really very good at
war skills."
     ZARA: "I sense some bitterness coming into your voice, Lieutenant. 
Have you every truly gotten away from the war?"
     STARBUCK: "No.  Even my diversions, gambling and romance, are
primarily escapes from war, and I attend to both concerns with the same
tactical efficiency I apply to combat.  God, I'm so tired of the war,
this flight from the Cylons, everything.  I want to think in some way
that doesn't relate to war.  These feelings started obsessing me some
time ago, when I flew into an anomaly of space called a void.  It was
completely empty, this void, completely black.  I might've been trapped
there forever.  Ever since, I've been bothered by what once would've been
unimportant. The war, my viper, the meaning of things...I don't know who
I am anymore.  I've been getting depressed regularly, been having trouble
sleeping, getting nightmares, questioning---"
     ZARA: "Nightmares?"
     STARBUCK: "Most of my dreams revolve around the war---what else? 
Either I'm cruising along, and a Cylon ship appears out of nowhere,
lasers firing, and I catch that fabled last laser beam in my teeth---or
I'm in a raging battle and I watch the enemy whittle our squadron down, I
see my friends, Boomer and Apollo both killed, and soon I'm the last
viper left, and the Cylons trap me in a pinwheel attack and just before I
wake up, I feel my ship exploding around me.  I can sometimes feel myself
disintegrating into little pieces."
     ZARA: "A very interesting account of yourself, Lieutenant.  Have you
anything more to add?"
     STARBUCK: "Nope.  That's it.  I'm functioning in my job as well as
ever.  It's just away from it that I'm having trouble coping."
     ZARA: "Do you still feel satisfied at a job well done?"
     STARBUCK: "Sure.  But, you know, it doesn't have quite the same
meaning for me.  I mean, I know I have to carry on the good fight and I
understand clearly why I drag myself into a viper cockpit mission after
mission, and I even still get the same old thrills from victories in
battle, but sometimes those achievements don't add up to much.  They seem
like just so much melted felgercarb."

*****************************

     Jeremiah stared at the monitor for a few microns, his eyes losing
their focus as he looked, yet did not 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 mental foray into the past faded when Irulan touched his arm.
"Are you all right?"  Her brown eyes were looking at him with concern.
     "All right?" he smiled.  "I must say I've never felt better, Irulan,
especially since I've got the Rising Star to look forward to.  It's been
a while since I've been to any kind of leisure ship, especially in the
company of such a charming young lady."
     She smiled, and Jeremiah 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 stayed
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?" Starbuck asked, playing innocent.  "Discussion, maybe,
but no argument."
     "Righty right," Boomer said, looking at Apollo.  "Let me guess. 
He's gonna try his hand at Pyramid and he's got a system worked out for
it?"
     "How'd you guess?" the captain replied with a mirthless grin.  "Now,
I suggest that we make our way to the Astral Lounge.  I hear they've got
some interesting entertainment lined up for the duration of our furlon,
so let's check that out first.  We do have two days to play with, after
all."
     "Sounds good to me!" Boomer chimed in.
     "Yeah, with all those cultured buriticians," Starbuck teased.
     "Just because you're green 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 positively hideous.  I thought Zara was never going to ask an
intelligent question!  And I'm not even photogenic!"
     "You're more photogenic than all of Blue Squadron 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 said, good-naturedly but threatening. 
"You're going to get a communique 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 public relations and military goodwill."
     "You'll never find me on the IFB," Apollo said, shaking his head.
     "Why not?"
     "Being the squadron commander, does have its privileges, after all,"
he grinned. "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.  Jeremiah and Irulan
were mixed in with them, and they walked toward the Astral Lounge.  The
ship had a feeling unlike any other in the fleet, that of fun and
reminiscing.  It 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. 
Everyone on the Rising Star was someone new and it wasn't the place for
worries or grief.
     In the hallway outside the Lounge, Jeremiah suddenly stopped as he
checked his suit jacket and pants pockets, a worried look on his face. 
Irulan looked at him in concern.
     "Oh my, my, my!  What an absolute pity..." he muttered.
     "What is it?" Irulan asked, pulling the two of them aside so the
others could pass by without any problems.  "Is there something wrong?"
     "Unfortunately, it does look like I have misplaced my trusty wallet
on the Canaris," he explained, looking up at her.  "And so I absolutely
must go back and fetch it.  Meanwhile, you just go in and reserve us a
table.  Everything's going to be just fine with me, so don't worry."
     "I shall 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.  "A gentleman never accepts money from a
lady, especially a siress.  It'd downright rude."
     "What if I were to insist?"
     He blinked at her for a micron, and then smiled slightly.  "Then I
would have no choice but to accept, because it's even ruder to deny a
lady's wishes.  However, I must insist that when the evening is done, 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."  Irulan's eyes were
sparkling, as she looked Jeremiah in the eye.  "And if you feel that
strongly about it, naturally I shall accept.  So you can... repay me?"
     Jeremiah gave her a large smile and offered his arm to her.  "But of
course.  Thank you, Irulan.  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 that could match them for
attractiveness.

*****************************

Chapter Two: Quanto

     "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, good chances 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 advantageously positioned
about the performing stage were taken, leaving only standing room at the
back of the lounge.  The music was piercing, the decorations were
dazzling, 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 ethereal, in that the area around their eyes
were painted with bright makeup that gave them the edge of
otherworldliness that seemed to be desired.
     "Look what we've got here!" Jolly said, 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.  "She looks like heaven
in human form."
     "More like a venomous slitheron in human form," Boomer replied, but
he could tell that his words weren't being heeded.  Jolly's eyes remained
locked on the dan-cers, 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!"
     "Hold it right there, Jolly," Boomer teased as he tapped him on the
shoulder.  "I thought we were going to get some food.  Just think of all
those delicacies you said you've been drooling over for the last six
sectars: roasted Piscean bullmuscle with a side order of broiled Libran
budgerigar and smoked apples."
     "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 a wayward strand of
the pungent side stream 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, Lew-ten-ant Shtarbuck," the gray-haired, mustachioed Chief
Steward said as soon as he saw the blonde lieutenant.  "How nishe to shee
you aboard the Rish-eeng Shtar again."
     Starbuck looked up and smiled. "Oh, yes.  Zumdish, isn't it?"
     "I'm sho glad you remembered me," Zumdish said with more than a
trace of admiration in his voice.  "The lasht time I shaw you wash a
mosht memorable ex-shpeer-ee-ench 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.
     "Eef by any chance the two young lay-dees are accompanying you
theesh time, Lew-ten-ant," Zumdish said, "I should have leetle trouble
arran-geeng private accommo-dations for you to handle the both of --"
     "Ah, thank you, Zumdish," an edge of curtness entered Starbuck's
voice as he interrupted the Chief Steward,  "but 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."
     "I'm shorry to hear that," Zumdish said as he realized that he
wouldn't be receiving a windfall of extra cubits this time, "Een-joy your
shtay, Lew-ten-ant."
     "I will, I will," 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 sputtered 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."
     "I don't owe you a frakkin' thing!"
     "You do so!"  Starbuck started to drag him by the shoulder out of
the Astral Lounge toward the door that led to the Main Chancery.
     "Cut it out, Starbuck!" Apollo protested, feeling as though those
doors were going to spell his doom, as though beyond them lay the worst
torture imaginable.  "Did it ever occur to you that I might want to watch
those dancers?"
     "You can watch 'em some other furlon," 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 sexy dancing you want to
watch, wait for the Scorpian 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 passage-way that connected
the Lounge with the Chancery, "I really--"
     Before Apollo could say anything else, the doors to the Chancery
whispered open and a warrior with a high forehead and slicked-back red
hair emerged.  He was so busy counting from a large bag of cubits that he
held in his left hand, a gross number to begin with, that he failed to
notice either Apollo or Starbuck until he bumped right into them.
     "Hey, daggit-face, watch where you're going!" Starbuck angrily
protested.
     The red-haired warrior looked up and as soon as he saw Apollo and
Starbuck, a taunting sneer came over his face.
     "Well I'll be a siminoid's uncle," 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 black hole did you crawl out of this
morning, Quanto?"
     "As you were, Starbuck," Apollo clenched his teeth and grabbed his
friend by the arm.
     Sergeant Quanto, 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 scared of me?"
     "Quanto, the day I'm scared of you on the triad court is the day the
Cylons throw me a birthday party.  In a good match, we could eat you and
Barton alive."
     "Barton?  Hah! I don't need him," Quanto continued to taunt.  "Not
when I can take on the both of you all by myself and win the game."
     "Take on both of us by yourself? Why, you little....!" Starbuck shot
back and shook Apollo off.  "I'm gonna have it out with you man-to-man,
Quanto!  Right now!"
     Quanto balled up his fists and raised them.  "All right!  Let the
good times roll!"
     "Put 'em down, Quanto!" Apollo suddenly stepped in between the two. 
"You too, Starbuck!  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 Quanto with
pure venom.
     "Well, you're the captain, Captain," Quanto 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.
     "That goddamn daggit waste!" Starbuck seethed.
     "Enough!" Apollo said firmly.  "If you had half a brain, Starbuck,
you would've realized that he was deliberately trying to  provoke you to
get you too riled up for the match next secton.  He wants you so on edge
that you'll do something tacky 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 Quanto be transferred out of Silver Spar Squadron because the
red-haired sergeant was being too much of an unsettling influence.  It
marked the third time in a yahren that Apollo had been forced to move
Quanto 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 get to you.  Before you know it, you'd only end up hurting
yourself."
     "Point well taken, bud," 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
Quanto wouldn't rattle Starbuck to the point where he'd go to pieces at
the gaming tables.

*****************************

     In austere contrast to the crowded, noisy activity that was taking
place in the Astral Lounge, the Empyreal Lounge, located on the starboard
side of the Rising Star was a sanctuary for those who desired a quieter
and more relaxed 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 meditation would come to.  Where they could escape from
the grating hubbub of the Astral Lounge's deafening music, or the
hysterical, cheering crowds of the spectators at the Triad Court, three
levels below.  A closed-circuit videocom might occasionally carry the
live feed of a triad match in progress, but always with the sound muted
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 twicara on the top level next to the bar.
     Quiet and meditation, 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, which 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.
     All in all, not such a bad system, the Lounge's Assistant Chief
Bartender, a tall, oval faced man in his late thirties with dark hair and
narrow eyes thought, as he brought over two glasses of Sagitarian
brandiano 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.
     "Anything else, folks?" 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, but no, Ohan.  That will 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 Ohan was on duty.  And all of them were
always quick to express their gratitude by leaving him an extra ten
cubits perk.
     None of the Empyreal Lounge's regular customers though, would ever
have suspected that the man called Ohan 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 learned from a look at his personnel file
in the Fleet Computer.  According to the Fleet Records, the man called
Ohan 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.
     Yes, there had once been a bartender named Ohan who had been in the
employ of 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 Ohan in the
shattered remains of the restaurant and stealing the dead bartender's
hovermobile driver's license.  Ever since, he had lived the life of a
total lie, a lie he would be forced to maintain for the rest of his life,
since the truth would only result in a punishment too severe for his mind
to get a handle on.
     Each passing day, though, always carried the risk that the lie would
be undone and the truth of "Ohan's" real past would come to light.  From
the very beginning, Ohan 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, Ohan," a voice from behind him suddenly spoke up.
     Instantly, Ohan 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, Ohan made his way over to the table alongside the
railing that overlooked the main level, where the man had seated himself.
     "Good morning, Sergeant Quanto," he said, "The usual for you?"
     "No drinks for me at this centon.  I think it's time we have a nice
little chat," Quanto said as he kept one hand buried inside his bag of
cubits.  "Suppose you join me."
     Ohan tensed slightly and smiled thinly.  "Very well."
     After going over to the Chief Bartender to tell him he was taking a
ten centon break, Ohan came back to Quanto'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 do I have to do for you this time?"
     Quanto, still feeling malevolently satisfied in the wake of his
run-in with Starbuck, smirked at him.  "Guess."
     "I'm sorry.  No more cubits," Ohan said coolly yet forcefully. 
"I've been as generous with you as I'm willing to be. 
You've already taken twenty-five percent of my wages plus all the cubits
I had left over from the stash I won on Carillon.  How can you possibly
want more?"
     "Easy," Quanto leaned forward.  "I have a very nice set-up in place
aboard the Rising Star which has enabled me enabled me to enjoy
considerably more success in the Chancery than the average warrior ever
experiences."
     Ohan gazed at the bag of cubits that the blonde sergeant still had
his hand in.  It gave him the impression of being heavy enough to number
in the low thousands.
     "You've been cheating?"  He decided to be blunt.
     Quanto leaned back in his chair and lowered his voice to a
conspiratorial whisper.  "Rather than use such a harsh words as
'cheating,' let's just say that the dealer at Table number three---his
name's Verrah---by the way, owes me some favors, and because of that he's
made things a lot easier for me."
     "All very interesting but what's that got to do with me?" Ohan found
himself struggling to keep his composure. 
     Quanto smirked.  "Verrah does what I tell him when I tell him.  If,
for example, 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 Ohan, "Aha!" he nodded.  "I go on a
baffling winning streak at Table 3.  But I don't keep any of my prize
money---I turn all of it over to you. Is that the general idea?"
     "You catch on quick, my friend!" Quanto grinned wickedly and patted
the bartender on the arm.  "That way, I'll be able to make a double
killing so to speak."
     "And if I can't come up with extra winnings?" Ohan retorted softly. 
"And if your friend Verrah isn't anxious to reciprocate?  A dealer who
loses too much money is bound to attract the attention of Pit Boss Datlee
sooner or later."
     "That's not my problem, or yours," Quanto shook his head.  "All you
have to be concerned with is hitting the jackpot at Table 3."
     "What if I don't?"
     Quanto grinned.  "In that case," his voiced was thick with the sense
of holding total power over the bartender, "I'll be forced to come up
with another way to help you meet my demands."
     Ohan felt on the verge of exploding with fury.  "And next secton
brings more demands and more cubits?  Is there no end to your greed?"
     "No end," the red-haired, beady-eyed sergeant's words were blunt and
sharp.  "Because when it comes to you, Ohan, I have you by the proverbial
jugular."
     "Are you sure?"  For the first time, the bartender matched the
malevolent tone the sergeant had been using with them.  "Have you
forgotten that there's a way out for me?"
     Quanto sneered at him once more.  "Oh yes. I remember what you said
to me that night on Carillon when you first gave me 5000 cubits to ensure
my silence.  You said I could either prosper from my sealed lips or die. 
But I know the one thing you're not Ohan: stupid.  Capital offenses are a
thing of the past, especially in a Fleet as small as ours.  There's no
place to hide for a murderer here. Kill me and you'd only be asking for
even bigger trouble than what you have now."
     "Beware of your audaciousness, Quanto," Ohan raised the venom level
in his tone a notch.  "Lay off now---or else..."
     "Or else what?" the redheaded sergeant patted the holster of his
uniform.  "Go on now, pay Verrah a visit and get me a head start for when
we meet next time.  I'll be expecting a thousand cubits---and not an
ingot less!"
     Before Ohan could say anything, Quanto rose from his seat and
reached the stairway that led to the main level.
     Ohan 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 his usual happy-go-lucky 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 Quanto remain status quo for much longer.

*****************************

Chapter Three: Fremen's Holiday
     
     "Inward bound passenger shuttle Megan is now docking.  Please wait
for all arriving passengers to depart before beginning general boarding."
     Quanto 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 were 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, buddy you gotta tell me the secret of your success."
     The wavy-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 Quanto'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 Quanto six sectars earlier, he'd acted
as vigilantly as he possibly could, refusing to let himself be aggravated
by any of Quanto's verbal abuse or attempts to start a fistfight.  Even
though there were many occasions during that first secton together when
Barton felt like shoving the beady-eyed sergeant into an airlock, he'd
held his tongue and waited for Quanto to back off.  His silent approach
had proved successful, especially when Quanto 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 one 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 rebuff.  He was long past the point where he could be
affected by it.
     "Thought you might like to know," 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, Quanto responded to him with a half-smirk, "Damn
Apollo anyway!  He threw his weight around to shove duty down our throats
so close to the match."
     Barton faltered briefly.  He had to choose his words carefully,
since one wrong word might set Quanto off into one of his unique rages. 
"That's not his way," he chose his words carefully.
     "Not his way?  Felgercarb!" Quanto kept staring ahead at the crowds
of passengers that were now getting off the shuttle, "Boomer's our
squadron commander and best buddies with Apollo and Starbuck.  The winner
of the match goes on to play Boomer and Kulanda. It's therefore logical
to assume that 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 sees the universe divided neatly into two parts:
himself on one side, and his enemies on the other.
     "Have a heart, Quanto.  Boomer's not that underhanded," 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
Megan 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,
Quanto 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.
     "There's something you don't see too often, nowadays," for one of
the few times in his life, Quanto was awed, "Arakeen Fremen."
     The three men who'd emerged gave the impression of towering giants,
as each was at least six metrons tall.  Heavy tan mantles covered them
from head to foot, but still failed to obscure their incredibly broad
shoulders and powerful physiques. Their eyes were tinted solid blue by a
steroid they used called Spice, which permeated their bodies.  Their
faces, even that of the third one, who was twenty yahrens younger than
his companions, were weathered, almost dehydrated-looking.
     These men were Fremen, natives of the planet Arrakis, sometimes
called Dune.  With its two moons, it orbited the star Cannopus, located
outside the main star system of the Twelve Colonies.  It was a desert
world.  Devastating sandstorms scoured its surface, and beneath that
surface lurked enormous, deadly sandworms. The planet supported no
natural open water and very few indigenous lifeforms.  To those
lifeforms, water was the most precious commodity. To live on Arrakis was
to struggle constantly for survival.
     Though racially human, culturally they were unlike any of the other
ethnic tribes that were native to the Twelve Worlds.  The exact origins
of the semi-nomadic Fremen people had always been cloaked 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 Arrakis.  There, the
survivors had encountered the native population--dark-skinned humans,
probably descendants of an extinct Kobollian colony---and the cross
mating between the Colonists and the native Arakeen had resulted in a
fragmented tribal culture that was well suited to the hostile planet.
     The suspicion and hostility between Colonists and Fremen had always
been mutual, ever since the first modern contacts between the two peoples
twelve-hundred yahrens before.  It was because of that fundamental
hostility that the Arakeen Tribal Cooperative had been understandably
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 an
overwhelming raid on Arrakis did the Tribal Cooperative finally feel
compelled to ask the Colonies for protection.  In the thousand yahrens
since, relations between Fremen and Colonials had never been better than
that of a reluctant acceptance 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 Fremen who had been living in the Colonies as
official emissaries of the Tribal Cooperative or as expatriate settlers
who found that they could often find profitable employment as private
bodyguards for important 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 Fremen had only deepened.  Many Fremen 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 Arrakis again.  Adama had refused to consider stopping at Arrakis for
supplies since he already knew that a Cylon task force would be lying in
wait for the Galactica.
     Very few Fremen had learned to accept Adama's decision.  Common
sense would have told them that the Cylons had likely taken advantage of
their destruction of the Colonies to destroy Arrakis as well.  Instead,
the Fremen saw Adama's decision as a further example of Colonial
prejudice against them in general.
     Given the hatred and contempt Fremen held for Colonials, the Rising
Star was the last place anyone might have expected to see them.
     Unfortunately, Quanto's surprise was not so great was that it had
completely pierced his anti-social exterior. "Think I'll go up and ask
those Sneetches what they want here," he said, invoking the Colonial's
favorite racial slur against them.  "Sneetch," was a crude derivative of
the Fremen term "Sietch," meaning "Place of assembly in time of danger."
Because the Fremen lived so long in peril, the term came by general usage
to designate any cave warren inhabited by one of their tribal
communities.
     "Don't," Barton shook his head, "It's not wise to get them upset."
     "Nobody seems to give a frack when I'm upset," Quanto snorted.
     "That's because you won't draw a crysknife and stab someone in the
heart whenever you're angry.  Fremen have been known to do that," Barton
explains.  "Look, if it's all the same to you, I don't know what they
want but I'd rather not stick around to find out."
     His triad teammate shrugged his shoulders.  "Okay, partner.  If
it'll make you feel better, let's get the felgercarb outta here."
     The two warriors wasted little time boarding the shuttle.  They
didn't even cast a second glance at the three Fremen, who were headed in
the direction of the Astral Lounge. 

*****************************

     The slow and melodic music suited the aged Jeremiah just fine.  The
noise that young people 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 the
sensuous young Irulan in his arms, without a care in the world as they
slowly circled the dance floor.
     Around them, other couples were dancing, and Jeremiah knew without
looking that many were casting appreciative glances in their direction. 
He smiled to himself.  He hadn't felt this relaxed 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 Tanannah, poor
beloved Tanannah.
     Ah, the day he'd met her, as if it had happened but mere 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.
     Like Siress Irulan, Tanannah was twenty yahrens younger than him and
had a feisty maturity that immediately attracted Jeremiah.  Her parents,
of course, didn't approve of him, but it made no difference to Tanannah. 
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 agron community had everything they wanted.  Jeremiah
remembered when he had brought his wife to their dwelling, carrying her
the old-fashioned way, and how Tanannah 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 Jeremiah cared
for 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.
     It is said that Lady Fortune, the patron deity of gambling, never
forgets her own, nor did she give them up.  Like the unsteady odds she
influenced in wagering, she pulled strange things on her unsuspecting
victims.
     It was a morning that would destroy everything Jeremiah held dear. 
Late in the pleasant Caprican autumn, Jeremiah 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.  Of
course a reformed gambler couldn't use his math skills for odds, but
percentages were equally as challenging.  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 had been completely empty one micron ago, Cylons ships could be
seen.  In the blink of an eye, they descended on the defenseless village,
strafing the buildings and streets.
     All Jeremiah could think about was Tanannah and their son.  Without
any concern for his own safety, 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
Cylons' laser blasts had destabilized 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.  "Arabion, Arabion...  Can you hear me?  Arabion?"
     The name meant nothing to him, but the voice, soft and feminine,
made him remember that he hadn't been able to find Tanannah.  Opening his
eyes, he sat up, crying out his wife's name.
     But the woman who spoke to him wasn't Tanannah, 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!  Good Lords of Kobol, had he been in a
coma for that long?  The woman, a psychtech named Xelerone, 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 Arabion.  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, Jeremiah asked about his wife and
son.  Xelerone smiled at him gently, telling him that she could provide
him a list the Caprican civil government had put out, listing who had
survived the attack.
     When he finally got to see the list, he felt his life crumble even
more than it already had.  Tanannah's name was plainly listed under the
deceased list, but as Jeremiah examined both the list for survivors and
for the dead, his son's name was nowhere to be found.
     "My son---he's nowhere to be found on this list," Jeremiah told the
psychtech.
     "It's likely he's one of several thousand children that were
orphaned at Umbra and the surrounding area," Xelerone calmly explained.
     "If he's alive, then why have you not brought him to me?"
     "Arabion---I'm sorry---Jeremiah---remember, we're talking about
children that were orphaned five yahrens ago," she put strong emphasis on
her last three words.  "By now they've been scattered about the planet in
foster homes and orphanages, others have probably long since been
adopted."
     "But I must see him!" Jeremiah protested.  "Surely you have the
power to reunite me with my own flesh and blood!"
     "It's not as simple as that," Xelerone said.  "Many of those
children had been too young to know their own names, and were supplied
with new ones by the Caprican Social Service.  Frankly, I just don't
think it would be practical for you to see him again.  You'd be a total
stranger to him."
     Feeling like he had a new purpose in life, Jeremiah 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
Tanannah could reach out from the Great Beyond and give him some help.
     But now, more than twenty yahrens later, his son still hadn't been
found, and Jeremiah had never found another woman like Tanannah.  He had
been with several women since then, but none gave him the true happiness
that only Gabriella could provide.
     Irulan was different, though.  She possessed some of the qualities
that he loved in Tanannah, 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, Zumdish was totally
unmindful of 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 the three Fremen, all of them wearing robes over
their stillsuits, towering over him.  In the more than forty yahrens that
Zumdish had worked aboard the Rising Star, this was the first time he
could ever recall seeing Fremen aboard the luxury liner.
     "Your um...your passhes pleash?" he managed to force his words out.
     One of the two older Fremen cast an indifferent glance at Zumdish
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 Fremen walked into the Lounge's main
entryway.  And as spectators gathered in the Lounge spotted them, it
seemed as if a giant off switch had been activated.  Dialogue, music,
dancing and eating all came to a stop as every pair of eyes locked on in
amazement at the sight of the three blue-in-blue eyed humans.  For many,
it was the first time any of them had ever seen a Fremen in their
lifetime.
     On the dance floor, Irulan found herself so totally spellbound that
she didn't notice the uneasy look on Jeremiah's face.
     "Oh the pain...I say, oh, the pain," he moaned slightly under his
breath as he took off his white hat and instantly positioned himself
directly behind Irulan, 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 Fremen had come, and what they had in mind for him.
     The time had come 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.
     "Arakeen Fremen?" 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."
     "Only one reason they would," Jolly's voice had the same deathly
serious edge it only assumed during a heavy combat engagement.  "They've
challenged someone to a Blood Duel."
     "A Blood Duel?' Boomer shot a quick glance at his friend and he
almost went ashen in spite of his complexion.
     "Yep."
     The bearded and oldest Fremen in the center of the column 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 duel" 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 bearded
leader of the Fremen trio was standing.  His bearing was firm, erect and
one of calm, collected authority, though inside he was a mass of nervous
tension, knowing what this offshoot branch of the human race was capable
of.
     "Everyone just stay calm, now," he said aloud for the benefit of
everyone in the room.  "There's nothing to be worried 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 bearded Fremen, who showed all
indications of being the leader of the group.  He looked at him
dead-in-the-eye, and put the most delicate edge possible into his next
word, "Right?"
     The lead Fremen's menacingly indifferent expression did not change. 
The way he looked at Boomer made the warrior want to rip the stillsuit
tube out of his nose and strangle him with it.  After what seemed like an
eternity had passed, he finally moved off toward a nearby table.  The
other two Fremen 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.
     "All right, I think I've got everything under control."  Boomer
tried to break the ice.  "What's say we finally order that dinner?"
     Jolly kept his eyes locked on the Mutant and shook his head.  "Never
mind; 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.

*****************************

     Jeremiah almost felt on the verge of breaking out in a cold sweat as
he kept himself positioned behind Irulan 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 Fremen 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, "Would you be so kind as to
excuse me for a centon.  As you recall I did shuttle here on business. 
Don't you worry  your pretty little head, though. It won't take long."
     The attractive young siress seemed slightly dejected.  "I do hope
it's not interviewing those pretty female warriors."
     He let out a reassuring chuckle.  "Please accept my personal
assurance that I find a woman who has experienced all the universe has to
offer so early in life more attractive than mere beauty."
     Siress Irulan blushed slightly and absently adjusted her left
earring.
     "You have my word as a gentleman and a fellow Colonist that I won't
be long."  Jeremiah smiled as he started to amble in the direction of the
exit that led to the Chancery.
     As soon as he was away from Irulan, 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 aleddey
once he'd resumed his seat.  For now, he felt it was more important to
keep his attention focused solely on the Arakeen Fremen.  If there was
going to be trouble, he would have to be able to act quickly.
     "You ever had to deal with a Fremen before?" Jolly asked, the
tension still thick in his voice.
     "Never," Boomer admitted.
     "I have."  Jolly forced himself to take a sip of aleddey.  "It was
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 Official Emissary of the Arakeen Tribal Cooperative."
     Boomer shot a quick glance at his friend.  "Let me guess.  He'd been
challenged to a Blood Duel?"
     "Exactly," Jolly nodded.  "That's the code they live by: anyone may
challenge another in a duel to the death over matters of etiquette, law,
or honor."
     "Honor?" Boomer was shocked.  "In something that's tantamount to
murder and suicide?"
     "Jolly continued.  "The Emissary was considered too pro-Colonial by
some of the Fundamentalist Sietch Naibs, or chieftains, who favored a
posture of total neutrality in the war.  One of the hardline naibs
publicly challenged the Emissary to a blood duel.  It got so bad that the
Council of Twelve didn't think it was safe enough to let the Caprican
Civil Police or even Colonial Security handle protecting him.  So
naturally, they decided warriors could do a better job of it."
     "And you ended up confronting his would-be opponents?"
     "Yep," Jolly nodded.  "It was the worst experience of my life apart
from a combat engagement."
     "What in Hades do they hope to gain by this felgercarb?" Boomer
wrinkled his face in disgust.
     "Oh, lots of things," Jolly said. "The winner of the duel gets the
wife, children, certain possessions of the loser, and---the personal
satisfaction of seeing the opponent lying dead at his feet."
     "They're sick!" Boomer grunted as he kept his eyes focused on the
Fremen at the other end.  "All the more reason I'd better keep an eye on
them."
     Just then, Boomer saw the youngest Fremen 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 Fremen had focused his attention on.  Boomer caught a quick
glimpse of an elderly, but limber white-haired and goateed man slapping
on a wide-brimmed hat and 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 aura-grenades!"
     Boomer bolted out of his chair and quickly made his way up to the
table where the Fremen were seated.  The youngest one was holding the
glowing pineapple-shaped bomblet that he had pulled out from under his
cloak, and which grew louder with each micron.
     "What's going on here?" Boomer demanded.
     "He's young."  The lead Fremen who had refused to speak to him
earlier spoke up and held out his arm to keep Boomer and Jolly from
getting closer.  "This irresponsible whelp activated it by accident."
     "I want that thing deactivated right now!" Boomer angrily shot back.
     "He can't do that," Jolly said as he felt his heart pounding faster. 
"Once drawn it has to be used before it reaches critical mass and
explodes."
     "Damn!" Boomer preferred to let anger rather than tension or fear
control him. "How long until it goes off?"
     "Fifty microns," the lead Fremen looked over at the youngest one and
seemed displeased.
     There was no sound other than the increasing whine of the aura
grenade 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 Fremen.  "Over there.  Throw it over
there and let's get this thing done with so no one gets hurt."
     The youngest one looked back at the lead Fremen.  He firmly nodded
his head.
     After seemingly taking his time, the young Fremen got to his feet
and hurled the aura grenade 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.
     "All right," he said, "I want an explanation and I want it right
now.  From what I know about Arakeen Fremen, they do not draw weapons by
accident."
     The lead Fremen finally got to his feet, drawing himself up to his
full height and towering over Boomer.  The deep breath he took through
his nose made a loud hissing sound through his stillsuit's breathing
tube.
     "I told you he's young."  There was no air of apology or regret in
his menacing tone of voice.  "He just got excited by the drink and the
music.  That's all.  It won't happen again."
     "Boy, you can say that again, mister," Boomer nodded with a dry air. 
"Because if you're staying here, or on this ship for that matter, then I
expect you to strip to your stillsuits---that means no weapons and no
cloaks!"
     "It's against our ancient Fremen laws to be naked and unarmed before
the infidel!" the youngest one suddenly protested.
     "You should have thought of your laws before you got excited!" the
Galactica warrior retorted.
     The lead Fremen's glare at Boomer seemed to intensify.
     "And we shouldn't have mixed with you stinking Colonial wankers," he
said darkly. "We'll await transportation back to our ship in the Docking
Lounge."
     He gestured the youngest one to retrieve the aura grenade that lay
at the base of the column it had exploded against.  The young Fremen
picked it up and twisted a little knob at the top, indicating that it was
active and ready for reuse.  Once he put it under his cloak, he rejoined
the other two Fremen and they exited the Lounge through the Main
Entrance.
     As soon as they were gone, a collective groan 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 Fremen had now vacated.  "Who'd be on board
here for them to be fighting a blood duel with?"
     "You got me," Boomer said.  "The people who usually gather on the
Rising Star aren't the types who would ever come across a Fremen 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 Zalto
they're fighting."
     "If that's the case I'd have stepped aside and let them fight it out
with him," Jolly quipped as he went back to his aleddey.
     "You and me both."  Boomer didn't join in the gallows humor as much
as he wanted to.  He was still struck by the old gentleman he had
glimpsed before the Fremen had pulled out his grenade, and he wondered if
the chain of events had been more than coincidental.

*****************************

     Ten centons later, the three Fremen were all occupying the same
bench in the Docking Lounge that Quanto and Barton had been using
earlier.  The other passengers awaiting the arrival of the Canaris were
visibly keeping their distance from the Arakeens, 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 Quanto 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 Fremen were all unmindful of the sounds from 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 Fremen, with their rigid codes of conduct, 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 Nomad, Paudhmine, Agro Ship,
Electronics Ship, Freighter Gemon and Freighter Arrakis are welcome to
embark at this time."
     Despite the fact that their ship had been announced, none of the
Fremen moved from their positions on the main bench.  As the last of the
passengers made their way aboard, the lead Fremen, who sat on the right
side finally broke the silence among them.
     "This maggatoid was born in your sietch."  He directed his words to
the second older Fremen though he kept his gaze forward.  "As a fellow
naib I have no choice but to hold you responsible, Tunk."
     "As naib of his sietch, I'll proudly accept the burden for Musa 's
actions," the Fremen called Tunk said with deference as he too kept
looking forward.  "And I vow that we will defeat our dishonorable
opponent."
     The lead Fremen let out a grunt indicating his displeasure.
     "Tell me something I don't know, Tunk."  His voice dripped with
contempt.  "Like how a Fremen of Arrakis could break the discipline of
his lifelong training by drawing his weapon without thinking?"
     The young Fremen called Musa turned his head toward the leader with
an almost pleading expression.
     "Stilgar," he said, "I saw that jackal Captain Dimitri at---"
     The lead Fremen called Stilgar disregarded his plea.
     "I find your lack of discipline disturbing," he said as he kept
looking forward.  "The life and safety of the tribe depends upon each
person's ability to observe the water and combat disciplines of the
sietch.  That's the difference between our people and those people. 
We're renowned fighters, with superior reflexes, immunity to pain, and
toughness being common among our ranks.  We are vicious in battle and our
duels are to the death, not first blood." He paused, and his blue-in-blue
eyes seem to grow colder and colder.  "We alone among the Arakeen knew
the trauma of surviving in the land of the sandworms and the endless
desert.  Those qualities made us superior to the infidels who ruled our
planet.  Those qualities make us superior to those who presume to lead us
now."
     Stilgar then wheeled his head towards Musa 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 do not abandon our racial values."
     The young Fremen seemed shamed into total humiliation.  "I'm sorry,"
he managed to force his words out.
     The contempt refused to lessen from Stilgar's tone.  "I refuse to
accept your apology, Musa, until after your punishment."  He then looked
away from him again as he added, "If you live long enough to be punished,
that is."
     "Shuttle Canaris now departing," the overhead voice sounded through
the Docking Lounge.
     The Fremen remained seated on the bench as Wankmaster stuck his head
through the docking ring that led inside to the shuttle.  He frowned
slightly when he saw the three muscular men remaining where they were and
decided to take a chance speaking up.
     "Uh...gentlemen, we're leaving now.  There won't be another shuttle
for your freighter for another two centars."
     None of the Fremen 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've got unfinished business to conduct here," Stilgar finally
spoke cryptically without looking at him.  "Don't bother to wait for us."
     Wankmaster's frown deepened but he knew better not to argue with a
Fremen.  He stepped back inside the docking ring and punched the buttons
that sealed the companionway shut.

*****************************

Chapter Four: Starbuck's Father?

     Jeremiah 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 Fremen spotting him.
     What a fool I was to ever let myself get mixed up with those people,
he berated himself as he reached the Chancery door and waited for it to
whisper open.  Of all the stupid things to do, forgetting all about their
barbaric customs and their blood duels.  You can't treat Arakeen Fremen
the way you would other people.
     If he had been spotted, then Jeremiah already knew that his safety
was only temporary for now.  He knew that if he were the aggressor
instead of the defender, and had a hunch that his opponent 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 opponent
would have to leave the luxury ship and there was only one way to go.
     The doors slid open and Jeremiah stepped into 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 was usually kept at a minimum.  The Rising Star Chancery,
throughout its glory days during the pre-Holocaust period had always been
known as a place where intense concentration and stern devotion to
gamesmanship came first.  That remained true even today.
     Jeremiah 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 Infinity, Imagination,
Cash, Dash or Crash, and, of course, 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 bewilderment 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 Jeremiah 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 Fremen 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 attack him.  That meant finding a way to get off in the unwitting
protective custody of some warriors.
     As his eyes focused again on Starbuck, Jeremiah 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.
     Oh Lords, I do beg your forgiveness, he thought, for exploiting the
worst experience of my life to save myself at this difficult centon.
     He straightened his hat and burgundy longcoat then nonchalantly made
his way over to the Pyramid table.

*****************************

     One successful play of the cards was all Starbuck needed to make the
sting of his run-in with Quanto 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.
     "The Master wishes to have another go at it, yes?" the dealer, a
hawkfaced late middle-aged man, with receding brown hair and a
bullet-shaped bald head, inquired. 
     Starbuck grinned and took a satisfied puff on his fumarello,
"Absolutely!"
     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.
     "Think 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.
     "Are you out of your mind, Starbuck?  What do you mean opening with
two hundred cubits?"
     Starbuck grinned, "Since I know this system can't lose, I don't have
to probe delicately.  That's why I'm making a preemptive strike right
now."
     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'll hover with these," he gave the dealer a satisfied smirk.  
     "Are you sure you want to do that, Master?" the heavyset dealer
said.
     "Positive."
     "You leave the House no choice but to raise the pot by an additional
one hundred cubits.  I would try to match if I were you."
     "Well, you're not me, but I'll match anyway."  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.
     "Ooh, Master," the dealer said, his face like stone but his tone
mocking.  "At this moment, the House now has at least a perfect
half-Pyramid.  Your only remaining option is to build."
     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.
     This just about puts me in the clear, 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.
     "Have faith, have faith."
     "Faith I'll put in the Lords, not in your so-called systems,
Starbuck. Especially after a place called Octavus." he added a touch of
frost to the last word.
     "Ah, stop being so bitter.  I was dealing with one of those
Octavusian dealers, and you know how dishonest they can be."
     "Then how come you're not using the old system?"
     "Because this one is foolproof."
     "Will that be 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 an elderly bulldog-faced gentleman
wearing a white hat now occupied the seat next to him.
     "I do beg your pardon, Lieutenant," Jeremiah leaned over and said in
a confidential tone, "Now, I know it ain't none o' my lil' ol' business,
but I couldn't help noticin' your calculations.  If you're playing the
system I think you are, then it's got a dandy little flaw in it."
     Starbuck looked at the goateed man with faint incredulity, "No way!"
     "Yep. 'Fraid so," Jeremiah nodded, "Now, the odds are three to one
in your favor. That's good---except when the dealer holds a capstone of
the same color to go with his perfect half-Pyramid. If he is, then that
automatically beats your regular three-quarters Pyramid with no capstone. 
I don't suppose you even bothered to factor 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.
     "Nothing personal against you, m'friend," Jeremiah went on, "but I
thought you should 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.
     "You have a withdraw option, Master.  Do you plan to exercise it?"
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 unceremoniously pulled back
half of his accumulated pile.  The old man's white hat bobbed up and down
as he 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---" 
     "Jeremiah is my name," he returned the handshake and smiled.
     "Jeremiah?  I'm Starbuck and," he pointed next to him, "that's my
self-appointed 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 owe you my
thanks as well, Jeremiah.  You just saved me an early shuttle home
listening to all the reasons why his system should have worked."
     "The pleasure's all mine," Jeremiah said nonchalantly, "Perhaps I
can
show some further hospitality by purchasing you boys a drink?"
     "You know," Starbuck said thoughtfully, "Maybe this time if I
tried---"
     "That'd 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."
     "Wait a centon--" 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 Jeremiah got up from his seat and followed the two
warriors, the gambling table was empty and alone, except for the
hawk-faced 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.
     "It is," he said, "You would like to place a bet, no?"
     "No bets.  I'm looking for Verrah. Are you Verrah?"
     The dealer's friendly expression hardened into one of neutrality,
"Maybe.  What can I do for you, Master?"
     "I need to talk to you, in private," the man said.  "My name is
Ohan, you know, Ohan...from the Empyreal Lounge."
     "Ah, I have heard of you," Verrah's tone was indifferent as he
reorganized the decks of cards into neat stacks.  "I have also heard of
your lack of 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, Verrah," a note of urgency entered Ohan's voice,
"Sergeant Quanto referred you to me."
     Abruptly, the dealer stopped his sorting of the decks and slowly
looked Ohan in the eye. His neutral expression had now taken on a
distinct air of hostility.
     "Very well, we'll talk," he said, "But not here though.  Meet me in
the Astral Lounge in five centons.  I'll summon my relief immediately."
     The assistant chief bartender nodded, "I'll be waiting for you."
     As Ohan turned and departed, the dealer named Verrah 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 Arakeen Fremen 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, Stilgar saw Musa cast a glance over at
the monitor which indicated only one thing to him: a mounting sense of
inner impatience.
     "Just remain calm, Musa," the lead Fremen continued to stare
straight ahead as he broke the long silence that had set in, "He can't
stay in there forever.  Soon, he'll   appear, he has to.  And then we
will close in for the kill and emerge victorious in this blood duel."

*****************************

     "I couldn't believe it when you indicated that you knew all about
the system, Jeremiah," 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, "Oh, my good Lieutenant, I'm afraid that system was around
on Caprica while you were probably still a babe in arms, maybe even
before you were born.  It never worked for me when I used it."  He then
smiled wryly.  "But I must say, it's been yahrens since I met anyone else
who played it."
     "Starbuck will play any system that exists, even if only once in his
lifetime," Apollo quipped, which brought good-natured chuckles from all
of them.  "Are you a professional wagerer yourself, Jeremiah?"
     "Once," Jeremiah sighed, as he looked Apollo in the eye, "But that
was a long time ago.  These days it's just not the best way to make a
living, especially when everybody in the Fleet's got to make a personal
sacrifice."
     "And what sacrifice have you made?" Starbuck asked.
     Jeremiah adjusted his hat.  "Gentlemen, you are looking a certified
genetic tracer."
     "Genetic tracer?" Apollo frowned.  "What in Hades is that?"
     "I'm not at all surprised you've never heard of my profession,
Captain," Jeremiah took another belt of his drink. "It's a rather new
science."
     "Just how new are we talking about?"
     The old gentleman drank yet another draught from his glass and then
kept his expression on Apollo, and away from Starbuck.  "I believe you
would call it a post-Holocaust occupation, Captain.  Unfortunately, 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, the poor little things have know knowledge at all of who they are,
where they came from.  That's where I come in, dear boy.  I help unite
those orphans with blood relatives who might've survived.
     Starbuck, whose attention had started to wander back toward the
gaming table, suddenly darted his head around and stared at Jeremiah with
a large measure of disbelief.
     "C'mon.  You're pulling our legs, right?" the blonde lieutenant
said, "I mean, that sounds like an impossible task."
     Jeremiah set his tankard down and looked directly at Starbuck for
the first time, "Difficult it is, but impossible it's not, Starbuck.  If
I suspect the existence of such a relationship, there are genetic tests
that can confirm or deny it."
     "You can test everyone in the Fleet and tell who's related to who?"
Apollo's interest was clearly piqued.
     Jeremiah shrugged, "Yes, I can do that.  But with over 70,000 people
in the Fleet and then running crosschecks, it would literally take
hundreds of yahrens."
     "Hundreds of yahrens---to test everybody?" Starbuck was incredulous.
     "They're very extensive in nature," Jeremiah explained. 
"Neurological cell samples must be taken from both subjects.  When you
consider the other kinds of technical tests that come afterwards you can
see the challenge it poses.  And, sad to say, our limited and underfunded
facilities aboard the Orphans' Ship don't help matters any."
     "The Orphans' Ship?" Apollo asked.
     "That's where the main base of operations under my boss, Dr. Sarthe
is set up.  She's a fine scientist. Former director of the Taurean Center
for Theoretical Clinical Research, if my memory serves me right."
     "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."
     "I had a personal reason for choosing genetic tracing, Captain,"
Jeremiah squared his shoulders and then said Forgive me Tanannah,
somewhere inside his mind.  "I have much in common with those orphans.  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, bless his little
heart, 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, "Did you find him?"
     Jeremiah gazed at him and smiled weakly, "I regret to inform you,
Starbuck, that I never did.  There were just too many babies and children
rounded up by the Caprican Social Service 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.
     "You've probably never heard of it," Jeremiah 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
fumarello out of his mouth and began to absently mash it out inside one
of the ashtrays.
     "Why Lieutenant," Jeremiah frowned, "did I strike a raw nerve?"
     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 savvier 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, Jeremiah," he finally forced his words out.  "Jeremiah, it just
so happens that I was orphaned in the raid on Umbra."
     The old man's beady eyes widened in apparent amazement, "Is that a
fact?"
     "Yep," 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."
     Jeremiah let out an incredulous chuckle, "My, oh my!  What an
incredible coincidence!"
     "You know Jeremiah---" Starbuck leaned forward and started.
     "Not so fast, 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, "that
you could be my son, are so astronomically low...well, they just ain't
worth talking about."
     "That's true, that's true," Starbuck then nodded vigorously, as
though he wanted an air of practicality to remain in his tome, "But
Jeremiah, there is a legit chance, nonetheless."
     "About the same as you ever getting two perfect Pyramid hands in a
row, Starbuck," Jeremiah smiled wryly.
     "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?"
     "That's a very big 'might be' 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."
     "Sounds reasonable to me," Jeremiah nodded.  "I haven't been able to
follow one solid clue 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.
     "Should we set up an appointment for Starbuck to come over to the
Orphans' ship and go through one of these genetic tracer tests?" Apollo
inquired.
     Jeremiah finished off his drink and set the empty tankard down. 
"Yes, you should, but.... ah...not right now."
     Starbuck's eyes went wide as moons.  "Not right now?!"
     "The trouble is, Lieutenant, I'm not in any position of authority on
the staff.  There's so much advance paperwork that's got to be done on an
individual case study before Dr. Sarthe would ever approve a new tracer
comparison.  And then there's the age factor.  You are, after all, an
adult and she'd never let you get priority ahead of a poor young child
who has a lot more at stake.  It would be ethically wrong to ask for that
kind of favored treatment."
     Starbuck felt his shoulders sag slightly in disappointment, "Of
course.  No doctor should ever be asked to forgo her ethics...not even
for me."
     "But there's a light in the tunnel, m'boy," Jeremiah leaned forward
and a note of optimism returned to his voice, "If you'd be satisfied just
to make a beginning, I've got a way to cut through all of the felgercarb,
so to speak.  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,
"Where's it written in stone that we have to use the facilities on the
Orphans' ship, Captain? I'll bet you've got the facilities for a simple
test of the kind I'm talking about on the Galactica, in your Life Center
Operations."
     "You win that bet, mister!" 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 Jeremiah 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.  "It's settled," 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 Jeremiah found themselves
smiling awkwardly at each other.
     "So," the warrior broke the ice, "Where should we begin?"
     "Just tell everything you know about yourself, Starbuck," Jeremiah
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 slaughter him
and declare themselves the winner of their twisted game.
     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.

*****************************

Chapter Five: Cheaters Always Prosper

     Apollo made his way back into the Astral Lounge, where he found
Boomer waiting by the entryway, next to Zumdish's station.
     "Hey, 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 happened?" Apollo raised an eyebrow.
     "After you and Starbuck left for the Chancery, Jolly and I had a
run-in with some Arakeen Fremen."
     The captain's incredulity deepened, "Fremen?  Here on the Rising
Star?"
     Boomer nodded, "It gets better.  One of them accidentally plugged
one of those aura grenades 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.
     "Why didn't you call Security and have those crazy desert rats
removed?"
     "I didn't have 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.
     "Well they haven't," the fat warrior said, "Those Fremen are still
here."
     "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 Fremen. Like most Colonials, he had a lingering suspicion of them that
had always made him avoid them at all costs.
     "It's like I've been telling you guys all along," Jolly said as the
memory of past run-ins with Arakeen Fremen filled his mind.  "They're
engaged in a blood duel with someone.  What happened in the Lounge was no
accident. I don't care what that bearded blunder said."
     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 Jeremiah 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 just barely contain my excitement," Jeremiah smiled, and then
added as an afterthought.  "However, Lieutenant, I'm afraid we're going
to have to make a little detour through the Astral Lounge."
     Starbuck frowned, "What for?  It's a quicker walk back to the
Docking Lounge through the Main Exit."
     "Sure it is.  But there's a personal matter I need to take care of
first."
     The warrior shrugged.  "Okay, Jeremiah.  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 Fremen had long since
left the room and an air of normalcy had returned to the place.
     A micron later, he spotted Irulan sitting alone at their table.  Her
jeweled hand was touching her milky-white chin with an air of forlorn,
lonely impatience.
     "Lieutenant, could you wait here for a just a micron?" Jeremiah
said, feeling guilty inside about how he'd been forced to treat the first
woman whose company he'd truly enjoyed in a long time.  "This won't take
long."
     "I'd kinda like to help, if I could."
     "I can personally assure you that your help will not be necessary." 
The last thing Jeremiah needed was Starbuck by his side at this point. 
The only way he could stay in Irulan's good graces was to perpetuate his
earlier lie.  "Just wait here.  I'll be back."
     Jeremiah made his way down the steps that led to the main floor
where all the tables were set up.  As soon as Irulan saw him, her
liquid-brown eyes lit up in delight and a smile crossed her youthfully
attractive face.
     "Jeremiah!  I thought I'd been abandoned."
     He smiled warmly as he took her hand and kissed it.  "Perish the
thought.  Abandoning a lovely creature like you would be an unpardonable
sin, Siress.  And yet my business affairs with the IFB have now reached a
point where I'll be forced to end our time together much sooner than I
wanted to."
     Her mouth drooped in disappointment.  "What now?"
     Jeremiah 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."
     "I remember," Irulan nodded.  "You were saying how it was a mistake
to be interviewing warriors like him on the IFB news."
     "Sadly, my fears have been borne out," his voice dropped to a
confidential level. "No sooner was I on my way back to you than I ran
into him.  He was in a foul mood over the way he felt Zara had treated
him in the interview, I tell you.  Naturally, since I, as head of the
News and Interviews Division, arranged the interview in the first place,
he took all of his anger out on me."
     "How very inconsiderate of him," the young and beautiful siress said
with a touch of disdain.
     "Quite so.  Good politics decreed that I must 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 Irulan, that you not ruin
your time aboard the Rising Star by waiting for me any longer."
     "Such a pity," Irulan sighed.  "I was so looking forward to your
kind offer of repayment later this evening."
     Jeremiah kissed her hand again.  "I remain indebted to you, Siress. 
When my schedule is truly free, I shall get in touch with you and repay
you in due time."
     "Do you know where to reach me?" 
     "Your location and telecom number are ingrained in my mind," he
smiled.  "Until next time, Irulan?"
     "Until next time," she returned the smile and raised her half-filled
glass of ambrosia.  "Goodbye, Jeremiah."
     "Goodbye."
     As soon as Jeremiah 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 young lady there?"
Starbuck asked.  "Did you stand her up or something?"
     "In a manner of speaking, yes," Jeremiah 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 Irulan if she were still watching.  "Siress Irulan---"
     "Wait a centon buddy.  Siress Irulan?  The Siress Irulan?" a sly
edge entered Starbuck's tone.  "How did a professional wagerer turned
genetic tracer get to hook up with a woman like that?"
     Jeremiah nervously adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, shrugging and
smiling humbly.  "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 that baby buritician today and got that far with
her?"  Starbuck's amazement increased as they went by Zumdish's station
and exited into the Main Corridor.
     "I'm pleased to say I did," Jeremiah admitted.
     "We've got to be related then," Starbuck grinned as he clapped his
hand around Jeremiah'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
erotically garbed female dancers, two men seated at a table off to the
side were totally oblivious to all of the entertainment activities.
     "Sergeant Quanto referred you to me?" the Chancery dealer named
Verrah eyed Ohan with suspicion. "Why?"
     "He said you were just the man to  help me with a...problem I have."
     "I...am not surprised to hear that," a large amount of acid and
venom entered the dealer's voice. "Do you expect me to give you what that
slimy snitrod Quanto has been getting out of me?  I suggest you put the
idea out of your head.  I'll be damned if I'm going to be as generous
with his friends as I am with him."
     "Quanto is not my friend," Ohan 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 Verrah's lips.  "So he got to you too,
eh?  Welcome to the club."
     "What he's got on you isn't my business, anymore than what he's got
on me is your business," Ohan 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."
     "Emphatically no," Verrah's tone grew blunt.  "If Quanto comes to me
personally, then maybe I'll have a reason to reconsider.  But from you?
Never!  I sympathize, Master, 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 Quanto.  If someone else at my table goes on a big winning streak,
that's going to attract all kinds of attention from Datlee that I cannot
afford."
     Ohan grabbed him by the arm.  "Please," an edge of desperation
entered his voice, "You don't have to let me do this on a regular basis. 
If I can only win one big hand at the table, then maybe I can use that to
help me raise funds elsewhere.  I just need to get the miserable doray
off my back."
     "Take it from a fellow voyager who's in the same boat you are,
Master.  It simply will not work.  Allow me to offer you a face-saving
alternative: wait the slimy leech out.  Sooner or later, he'll go too far
and this will force him to understand that he can't keep investing in any
of us.  Soon it will 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," Ohan whispered cryptically.  "You've got
to help me, Verrah."
     "The answer remains no, Master," the dealer said with the same
mixture of sympathy and bluntness.  "If it's any comfort to you, you're
not the first person Quanto's sent to me as a way of getting extra cash
for himself."
     The bartender's eyebrows went up.  "Who else?"
     "The Assistant Maintenance Chief of the Aquacade.  His name is
Bolix, though I don't think that's his real name any more than my real
name is Verrah, or your name is Ohan."
     Ohan's lips tightened, "That is my real name," he said.
     "I find that hard to believe, which is why I'm in no position to do
favors for you, when I've already turned another of Quanto's victims
down.  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, Ohan 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 Quanto, and he comes to
you personally about it, don't blame me.  I have to look out for me
first."
     "We all do," Verrah 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?"
     Ohan found himself wondering what it was that Verrah was referring
to. Whatever it was that Quanto had on the dealer, and the maintenance
worker named Bolix, he was sure that it was bad.  But nowhere near as bad
as what the sergeant had on him.
     "Possibly," he finally answered.  "And living beats dying any day,
doesn't it?"  He rose from the table.  "Sorry I bothered you."
     As Ohan left the Astral Lounge, his mind was already certain of one
thing. Sergeant Quanto'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 Six: The Fremen Leader's Idea

     "Always remember to not to let them intimidate you," Boomer was
saying to Apollo as they approached the Docking Lounge.  "According to
Jolly, most Fremen fighting a blood duel are sticklers for making sure
they don't get themselves into trouble before they meet their opponent in
battle.  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 Fremen seated on the bench,
none of them taking any notice of the two warriors.
     "Gentlemen," Boomer said with the same level of authority he'd
displayed earlier in the Astral Lounge.  "A half-centar ago, you said you
were leaving.  So why are you still here?"
     Stilgar's head moved only a fraction of an inch, so he could see the
two warriors in his peripheral vision.
     "Why are you questioning us, Lieutenant?" there was an air of
gentility in his monotonic voice for the first time.  "Aren't we
considered humans?   Aren't we members of this Fleet with equal rights
and privileges, as said by Colonial law?"
     "Of course you are," Boomer was unimpressed by Stilgar's appeal to
the sense of latent prejudice that existed among most Colonials toward
Fremen.  From his standpoint, the only reason why Arakeen Fremen were
regarded with suspicion and fear by Colonials was because of the Fremen's
own deeds and actions down through the millennia, and not because of any
instinctive racial prejudice.  "But none of us, whether we're Arakeen 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. It has nothing to do with
the fact that you're Arakeen Fremen. This officer let you off easy and
you've lied to him about what you planned to do next."
     Abruptly, the young Fremen named Musa bolted from his seat and
pulled out his crysknife-- a personally tuned blade made from the tooth
of a sandworm--and waved it murderously at Boomer's chest. In the space
of two microns, both Apollo and Boomer had responded by whipping out
their laser pistols, while Stilgar had raised his arm to block Musa from
detaching his weapon.  "Your crysknife is not a toy to be drawn whenever
you wish to display it!" he admonished, growling his words.
     There was an implacable silence for nearly a centon as the two
warriors kept their pistols trained on the Fremen, while Stilgar kept his
hand locked on Musa's to keep him frozen in mid-motion.
     Finally, the youngest Fremen broke the silence with clear
indignation, "But that maggatoid insulted you!"
     Stilgar continued to stare straight ahead.  "If so I would have
killed him on the spot myself."  He then rose from his seat and lifted
the young Fremen to his feet, his blue-in-blue eyes boring into him with
contempt.  "You are the one who's insulted me, Musa.  And you've done it
twice!  As of now, I declare you invisible!"
     The lead Fremen then forcefully ripped off the young Fremen's dark
cloak.  His crysknife, aura grenades and homebrew laser pistol clattered
to the floor. Tunk bent down and collected them.
     Boomer studied at the young Fremen's stillsuit, himself having never
seen one before.  It was made of a black, leather-like material.  This
body-enclosing suit was designed to collect and recycle all the moisture
the body releases, from urine, feces and sweat, to the exhalation of
water vapor in the breath, hence the tube leading into the nostrils.
     "You are convicted of the crime of dishonoring yourself and your
people!" Stilgar bellowed.  "No one will ever speak to you, look at you,
or even feed your filthy mouth again!  You will be invisible forever!" He
then turned back to the two warriors.  "Do as you will with him.  As far
as I'm concerned, he has ceased to exist."
     The two lead Fremen resumed their seats on the bench, while Musa
stood frozen. Apollo and Boomer could see the air of humiliation and
anger lining the young Fremen'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 Musa, "This man is
to be held on charges of reckless endangerment and threatening Colonial
officers with a deadly weapon pending a full tribunal hearing.  I'll
personally file the complaint later."
     The guards nodded and took hold of Musa, guiding him out of the
Docking Lounge and leaving the three warriors alone with the two
remaining Fremen.
     "I suppose we should thank you for acknowledging the trouble your
friend caused," Boomer decided he at least owed Stilgar 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?"
     "They told us the Canaris was full.  We have to wait for the next
shuttle.  It's that simple."  Stilgar's voice had the faintest edge of
deference, which was the most that any Fremen was capable of summoning.
     "Then you're not here to fight a blood duel?" Jolly's previous
experience with Fremen made him decide to come to the point.
     "We wouldn't be returning to our ship if we were," the lead Fremen
said matter-of-factly as he resumed his posture of staring straight
ahead.  "If you Colonials would abandon your racial intolerance you would
find that there is much we could learn about each other.  Not the least
of which is trust."
     The almost humble nature of his words seemed to catch the warriors
off-guard. Jolly was almost on the verge of trying to suppress an
incredulous laugh from inside, since he could never recall seeing a
Fremen acting this way before.
     "Intolerance is not a major characteristic of Colonial society,"
Apollo finally said.  "As long as you're willing to live under the same
rules and infrastructure that the rest of us do, even you Fremen are
always welcome to enjoy what the Fleet has to offer.  Just try to keep
your young firebrands under control the next time you come out here."
     "His like shall never contaminate our ranks again, Captain."
     The unseen feminine voice that announced all the departures and
arrivals then filled the room.  "Galactica shuttle Delta Two, now arrived
and ready for boarding."
     "I wonder what's holding Starbuck up?" Apollo idly glanced at the
doorway.  No sooner were his words out then he saw Starbuck enter the
Docking Lounge with his arm around Jeremiah.  It was clear to Apollo that
Starbuck and the old man had really hit it off.  They almost seemed like
lifelong comrades.
     "You ever try fumarellos?" Starbuck was asking.
     "Good Lords in Heaven no," Jeremiah shook his head, without casting
the slightest glance at the two Fremen as they moved past the bench.  "I
quit smoking yahrens ago.  It's a totally wretched habit, believe me. 
You really should think of doing the same."
     "Boy if that's your attitude toward one of the greatest things the
Almighty ever permitted man to invent, we can't possibly be related,"
Starbuck quipped as they entered the docking ring that would take them
inside the shuttle.
     Neither of the Fremen made a sound as the two of them passed.  But
Boomer noticed how Tunk's eyes suddenly deviated from their perpetual
straight-on positioning and strayed ever so faintly to the right as both
Starbuck and Jerermiah disappeared.  He wondered if he should have asked
a question about that, and then decided it would make him seem too
paranoid.
     "Coming, Jolly?" Apollo inquired.
     The fat warrior was still eyeing the Fremen with suspicion, "Naw.
Think I'll try to get back to my furlon, if that's okay."
     Apollo nodded, "Boomer?"
     "I've kind of lost my enthusiasm for partying," the dark-skinned
warrior said as he stepped toward the docking ring, "Enjoy your dinner,
Jolly."
     "I guess that's that," Apollo smiled thinly at Stilgar, "Perhaps
what you say about trust will be borne out some day."  The captain then
followed Boomer through the docking ring, which closed shut thirty
microns later.
     "Galactica shuttle Delta Two now departing." the overhead voice
intoned.
     Jolly found himself lingering in the Docking Lounge, still unable to
stop viewing Stilgar and Tunk with an air of suspicion.  The memory of
his mission nine yahrens before, when he'd been recruited to help thwart
a Fremen assassination plot against Arrakis' Official Emissary to the
Colonies was playing as clearly in his mind as an IFB broadcast. In
particular, the violent ending of the mission that had forced him to
shoot down two of the naib's henchmen during that operation.
     Finally, the remaining warrior turned and departed, leaving the two
Fremen alone. As soon as the sound of his footsteps had faded away, Tunk
finally broke the silence.
     "Enlighten me," he said.
     "Talk," Stilgar tilted his head toward him.
     "Musa dishonored us and he must be punished for it.  But why must it
be at the hands of these weakling Colonial warriors?"
     "Had I not stopped him, he would have stabbed two Colonial warriors
to death," the lead Fremen grunted. "Kill them and more will take their
place.  They would even feel compelled to descend on our ship."
     "If that ever happened, we would all as Fremen fight them to the
death."
     "They are weak but many," Stilgar said frankly.  "And we also suffer
from the fact that our so-called leader, the infidel Fidan, is a lackey
who serves Colonial interests. His philosophy of goodwill towards these
inferiors afflicts too many of our own ranks at present.  That's why, for
now, we must have the patience of the sandworm before he rises out of the
dunes to attack his prey." He tilted his head toward Tunk, "I haven't
forgotten that we've challenged Captain Dimitri to a blood duel.  But
patience is what we'll need to slay the dishonorable maggatoid."
     Tunk nodded, "As always you speak wisely, Stilgar.  But now, we
discover that our prey has received protection from the warrior called
Starbuck.  What if he speaks of the little he knows?"
     "He can't unless he's willing to incriminate himself." Stilgar was
emphatic.  "For now, he feels safe and so he'll remain silent.  And his
still tongue will mean his death."
     "But only if we can get aboard the Galactica."  Tunk noted.
     "We'll get aboard the Galactica, I'm sure."
     "How?"
     There was silence from Stilgar, indicating that the lead Fremen had
not yet arrived at a solution to that problem.  He turned away from his
comrade and resumed his posture of staring straight ahead in silent
contemplation.  With Tunk resuming the same posture, the only sound that
now filled the Docking Lounge was the IFB monitor on the other side of
the antechamber.
     "...You are watching the IFB's rebroadcast of last evening's triad
match between the number four ranked squadron of Greenbean and Tocol
versus number seven ranked squadron of Vickers and Cree.  We will be back
with further coverage and a preview of next sectan's match between the
number one and number three ranked teams after these public service
messages."
     The image of lead newscaster Zed was then replaced by that of
Galactica Bridge Officer Omega, delivering the same pre-recorded pitch
for warrior recruitment that the IFB was obligated to play twelve times
over the course of each broadcast cycle.  The two Fremen took no notice
of the first part of the announcement, but as Omega continued, Stilgar's
head suddenly tilted up and fastened on the monitor..
     "...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 become part of the team that's
defending the Fleet, request an open channel to Galactica recruitment. 
We need you ."
     As Omega's smiling visage winked off the screen and was replaced by
a Medical Corps announcement, Tunk glanced over at his leader, whose eyes
had narrowed in deep contemplation.  It was clear to him that the lead
Fremen had just been presented with the germ of an idea and would soon
inform him of how it would be implemented.

*****************************

Chapter Seven: Warrior Protection?

     When Apollo entered the shuttle, he felt his spirits rise a bit when
he saw that Sheba was co-piloting with Sergeant Loveliness.  For reasons
that he could never bring himself to admit, even to himself, he found
that he enjoyed any opportunity to be around her.  There was little
question in Apollo's mind that all of the underlying tension and
hostility that had existed when they'd first met five sectars ago was
gone now.  Especially after the experience they had shared on that
strange planet where amidst the wreckage of a mysterious ship, there had
been that encounter with the man in scarlet called Mr. Morbus.
     Even now, twelve sectans later, Apollo's memory was still blank in
many spots about just what had happened to him, Sheba and Starbuck during
both the final encounter with Morbus, and the trip back to the Galactica. 
Only once, had he ever asked the two of them about what they remembered
and their recollections had been equally vague and jumbled.  But whatever
had happened, they knew it had to have been extraordinary.  For when they
had returned, they had found themselves suddenly speaking aloud the
general coordinates that would ultimately lead the Fleet to Earth in
either the near or distant future.
     If Apollo was unwilling to admit the obvious facts to himself about
Sheba, he could at least acknowledge that he regarded her as a very close
friend.  Equally close as he viewed Starbuck, Boomer and Cassiopeia.  And
he wasn't about to consider avoiding her for any reason any longer.
     By contrast, Sheba had emerged from the Morbus experience with no
doubts in her mind about how she felt about Apollo.  She saw herself a
much chastened and more mature person than she had been before.  She had
come to accept the Galactica as her new home now, and no longer spent
idle centars grieving for her lost father, Commander Cain, who had not
been heard from since he'd taken the Battlestar Pegasus off to engage two
Cylon basestars head-on.  She had learned to open herself up to a new
circle of friends who'd come to accept her as part of their extended
family, just as Adama had promised to her after her father had
disappeared.
     Sheba also knew that she was in love with Apollo.  That was one fact
that remained clear in her mind in the wake of the whole Morbus
experience and the blackouts that had happened in the last encounter and
the journey back.  With it, was the realization that Apollo potentially
felt the same about her, but was too traumatized by the memory of his
dead wife Serina to think about acting on those impulses.
     She had vowed not to push Apollo or forcibly drag anything out of
him.  At the very least, she felt that she needed to be patient with
Apollo and wait for him to sort out things in his mind and heart before
she ever dared confronting him about her own feelings toward him.  And so
long as Apollo was treating her as a good friend and not trying to avoid
her, then she was content to let things remain status quo.  For now at
least.
     "That was a short furlon." Sheba smiled wryly when she saw Apollo
and Boomer enter.  "Did Starbuck's system hit you in the pocketbook that
fast?"
     "I got lucky," Apollo returned it.  "Starbuck found something else
to distract him. Something more important than gambling or women."
     "Didn't think Starbuck regarded anything more important than either
of those." Sergeant Loveliness, an attractive black-haired woman who had
dated Starbuck once, noted dryly.
     "Well, in Starbuck's case there is one thing more important."
     "Which is?" Sheba flicked the switch that detached the shuttle from
the Rising Star's docking ring and brought it into position for main
engine firing that would take them on a course back to the Galactica.
     "Learning something about his past."  Apollo glanced back at the
rear compartment where Starbuck and Jeremiah were still caught up in an
intense conversation.  "That old man in the straw hat with him, his
name's Jeremiah and it turns out he's a survivor of the Umbra disaster
that left Starbuck orphaned.  There's a possibility he could be
Starbuck's father."
     Sheba's eyes lit up in amazement.  "That's incredible!  Loveliness
and I both saw that IFB interview he did and we were both talking about
how sad that whole thing was."
     "I know.  It is ironic that he'd get a break like that just after it
was on.  I know from personal experience that Starbuck never likes
talking about it.  Until now, that is."
     "I take back what I said," Loveliness said with faint regret as she
took hold of the controls.
     Boomer was the only one not to react with any overt enthusiasm. 
Instead, the dark-skinned warrior found himself staring back at Starbuck
and Jeremiah, trying to pinpoint the itch inside his brain that was
telling him there was something unusual about the whole thing.
     Apollo noticed his friend's subdued reaction.  "Something wrong,
Boomer?"
     "I'm not sure," Boomer put a finger to his chin and kept his gaze on
the rear compartment.
     "What's there to be concerned about?" Sheba seemed bursting with
happiness over what she regarded as wonderful news.  In her case, the
idea of being reunited with a lost parent was something that touched
close to home for her.  Especially since she still held out hope that she
would know that same joy someday when her father returned. "I think it's
wonderful that after all these yahrens, Starbuck may have found his
father.  It's nothing short of a miracle if it's true."
     "The key word is 'if,'" Boomer kept tapping his finger against his
chin.
     Apollo decided he needed to drag out whatever Boomer was thinking. 
"Is there something you're trying to tell us, Boomer?"
     Boomer took a breath.  "I didn't want to say anything about this
until I had to." Boomer paused.  "I'm reasonably certain I've seen
Jeremiah before."
     "Where?" Apollo asked.
     "In the Astral Lounge when that Fremen pulled his aura grenade.  I
could have sworn I saw an old man, dressed exactly like Jeremiah right
down to the white hat, make a run for the exit just a micron before, and
that was what caused him to act."
     "That Fremen did what?" Loveliness' expression suddenly became one
of utter befuddlement.  Next to her, Sheba craned her head around and her
smile faded.
     "Later, Sergeant," Apollo waved his hand and returned his attention
to Boomer. "You mean you think those Fremen challenged Jeremiah to a
blood duel? Be reasonable, buddy.  At his age I'm sure his dueling days
are long since behind him."
     "I don't think anything, Apollo.  But if Jeremiah was the man I saw
in the Lounge, then it's definitely a possibility."  Already, Boomer was
starting to feel slightly embarrassed that he'd said anything at all.  It
made him feel like a man who'd just summoned a thunderstorm on a festive
outdoor parade. 
     Sheba was determined to not let anything ruin the wonderful feeling
inside her. "Even if what you're saying is true, what does that have to
do with whether or not Jeremiah is Starbuck's father?"
     Light was slowly dawning inside Apollo's head.  "Technically,
nothing, Sheba, but Boomer's got a point," he said.  "If the Fremen were
after Jeremiah, then the only way he could save his life would be to seek
warrior protection."
     "Which we just gave him by escorting him off the Rising Star right
in front of their weird blue eyes."
     "I don't buy it," Sheba said.  "If the Fremen are resorting to
something illegal like a blood duel, then why wouldn't Jeremiah just ask
for our protection and asylum and leave it at that?  Why bother with
something about Starbuck that could be exposed in an instant if it turns
out to be false?"
     "I think it's because Jeremiah's got some troubles of his own,"
Boomer declared.
     "Could the two of you save your speculating for later?" Sheba felt
an edge of impatience creeping inside her.  "Think of Starbuck first. 
There'll be plenty of time to run a full background check on Jeremiah
once we're aboard the Galactica."
     "Sounds agreeable to me." Apollo conceded.  "Loveliness, as soon as
we're aboard, stop by Fleet Personnel records and get whatever's in the
Main Computer Banks on him. Drop it off in Commander Adama's office when
you're through.  As soon as we get done with the preliminary stuff in the
Life Center, we'll be heading over there."
     "No problem," the black-haired copilot nodded.

*****************************
     
     In the back of the shuttle, Starbuck found himself thoroughly
enraptured by the stories Jeremiah was telling.
     "What's the highest pot you ever had in any game?"
     "Twenty-three thousand cubits, dear boy."
     "Twenty-three thousand?" Starbuck's eyes widened for the third
time since he'd begun conversing with the old man.  "And what happened?"
     There was a faint twinkle in Jeremiah's eye.  "I won, naturally.  I
used a level three red and level two green to bluff the poggies out of my
poor lil' opponent."
     The warrior's jaw fell open.  "You won that big a pot with nothing! 
Not even a quarter-Pyramid!"
     "We're talking about the greatest bluff of my life, Bucko," Jeremiah
sighed.  "Best of all, it paid the most important dividend of my life. 
That one little hand in a backwoods chancery on Sagitarra was what
enabled me to give up gambling at a most critical time.  With those
winnings, I was able to come home to Caprica with a sufficient reserve
account to try and make a break with the whole thing.  Start an honest
living as an agro worker.  And more importantly, make myself respectable
for a lovely young lady named Tanannah."
     "I see.  Ah, I take it that was my...I mean," he caught himself in
time.  "Your wife?"
     "She was," there was a wistful quality in his voice, betraying the
sadness he still felt inside over losing her.  "And what a remarkable
woman she was, Starbuck.  There's much I could tell about her, but...why
don't we save it for after these tests?"
     "Oh sure," Starbuck said hastily.  "Sure, Jeremiah, I understand.  I
mean, I know it's a one-in-three thousand shot, so I shouldn't get ahead
of things." he then leaned forward, "There is one thing though, should it
turn out that you are my father."
     "What?"
     "Obviously if I'm your son, that would mean my real name isn't
Starbuck."
     "Of course it would," Jeremiah nodded.
     "Do me one favor," Starbuck put an arm around him.  "Don't tell me
what it is.  I think no matter what happens I'll just stick to Starbuck. 
I'm...kind of fond of the name."
     "You darn well ought to be, m'boy.  It's a good name," Jeremiah
said,  "held by a very good warrior.  Besides," he shrugged, "If you are
my son, your original name would inappropriate, anyway, with the way you
are now."
     Starbuck nodded faintly in understanding.  "Thanks."

*****************************

     Ever since the danger of constant Cylon attack had slackened off
twelve sectans earlier, Cassiopeia had found herself enjoying the
positive things in her work for the first time.  With no constant danger
of treating injured warriors any longer, she could now turn her attention
to areas like medical research and scientific studies that she found
fascinating.  And with her increased fascination came more than one
subtle hint from her mentor Dr. Salik that she ought to consider becoming
a full-fledged doctor in her own right.
     Dr. Cassiopeia, she idly mused as she went over a research file
dealing with a potential vaccination against a strain of Sagitarrian
abiotrophia.  It has a nice ring to it.  Maybe I should take Salik's
offer up.  Someday at least.
     "Cassiopeia?"
     She looked up from her reading and was surprised to see every single
close friend of hers enter the Life Station.  Apollo, Boomer, Sheba, and
then Starbuck, who still had his arm around Jeremiah.
     "This is a surprise," the med-tech got to her feet.  "What brings
you all here?"
     Her boyfriend stepped forward with a wide grin and pointed to
Chameleon, "Cass, this is Jeremiah.  Wait 'till you hear the things we
just found out about each other."
     Five centons later, after Cassiopeia and Jeremiah had exchanged
pleasantries and Starbuck had summarized the situation, there was a look
of amazement and wonder on Cassiopeia's face.
     "That is good news.  Yes, I know the kind of test you were talking
about, Jeremiah.  If you two step this way, I can have it done in just
five centons."
     "Splendid, splendid," Jeremiah smiled.  "This way we can at least
see if there's a legitimate basis for going any further."
     "We won't be long," Cassiopeia said as she led Starbuck and Jeremiah
into the next room, leaving the others to wait in the main chamber of the
Life Station.
     "He seems anxious to get it done," Sheba noted.  "That doesn't do
much for your theory that he was only interested in getting warrior
protection.  Because he has to know that the instant it's all over, he
goes back to his own ship, and if the Fremen are after him, he's right
back to square one."
     "Right," Boomer conceded.  "Still,  the more details we have about
him, the better I'll feel."
     The main door slid open and Apollo saw his sister come in, holding
two sheets of paper.
     "Message for you from Jolly aboard the Rising Star," Athena handed
them to her.  "He thought you'd find it useful."
     "Thanks," Apollo said and skimmed them briefly.
     "What's brought you all down here anyway?" Athena frowned slightly
as she took note of Boomer's and Sheba's presence.
     "It's the most wonderful news, Athena," Sheba's bubbly enthusiasm
resurfaced. "Starbuck's met a man who might actually be his father!"
     Athena raised an eyebrow and Apollo instantly saw how his sister
seemed to regard it with utter indifference.
     "That's...nice," she finally spoke, with nary a trace of emotion. 
"If that's true, tell him I said congratulations.  I think I'd better get
back to the Bridge."
     She then turned and was gone as quickly as she'd come in.  Both
Sheba and Boomer seemed taken aback by how Athena had reacted.
     "Did you see the way she reacted?  Boomer said.  "We might as well
have been talking about Baltar."
     "I'm not surprised," Apollo said aloud.  "It seems like every day,
she gets more and more bitter about breaking up with Starbuck."
     Sheba, whose arrival on the Galactica came after the break-up
between Starbuck and Athena, shook her head sadly.  "I never realized it
had been so serious between the two of them."
     "Remind me to tell you about it sometime," Apollo sighed and went
back to the report he'd been given.
     "So what does Jolly's report say?" Boomer inquired, anxious to
change the subject.
     "Not a lot," the captain said as he handed the papers to him.  "The
two Fremen did leave on the next shuttle.  The one that's been detained
is still insisting it was an accident that he pulled out his aura grenade
in the Astral Lounge.  If they're engaged in a a blood duel, they're not
talking or offering any hints for now."
     "Which means there's not enough evidence to justify having Council
Security monitor those other two."
     "Name me one Council Security goon who'd have the guts for an
assignment like that," Sheba observed dryly. 
     Her remark released some of the tension that had set in and the
three of them laughed.
     "Okay," Apollo chuckled.  "Okay, I guess there's nothing else that
can be done for now until Loveliness delivers that background report on
Jeremiah to the Commander. When we tell him about this story, we give him
all the details."
     "And in the meantime, let's not needlessly dampen Starbuck's
enthusiasm," Sheba said.  "Let's go inside and see how that preliminary
test is coming."

*****************************

     Aboard the freighter Arrakis, the home-away-from-home for the entire
Arakeen population in the Fleet, another kind meeting was taking place: a
meeting of the twenty senior members of the Landsraad; literally the
assembly of all the naibs of the Fremen seitches.  At the head of the
table sat Stilgar who was unofficially regarded as the titular leader of
all Fremen.  To his left sat Tunk, while the rest consisted of the only
ones on the ship who already knew about what they had been seeking aboard
the Rising Star and why.
     "What news have you to report of the blood duel you are waging
against the jackal Captain Dimitri?" a middle-aged Fremen named Savas 
asked.
     "None that is promising," Stilgar said.  "The dishonorable conduct
of the untrustworthy Musa has placed us in a difficult position for now. 
One that has enabled Captain Dimitri to receive safe haven aboard the
Galactica."
     "Which forces us to cope with the ignominy of an unresolved blood
duel," this from another Fremen named Turgay.  "How do you plan to remedy
this, Stilgar?"
     "The blood duel shall be resolved," Stilgar's tone grew defiant. 
"All that is needed is a change in tactics."
     "And how do you plan to obtain access to the Galactica?" this from
Savas.
     "We have an opportunity," Tunk said.  "It has been decided by
Stilgar
that the way to gaining access aboard the Galactica is to do so under the
cover of enlistment in the Colonial Warrior Corps."
     If any of the other Fremen in the room had been capable of laughing,
all of them would have done so upon hearing Tunk's words.
     "Nonsense!"  Turgay bellowed.  "You cannot be serious that you could
enlist in the Colonial military without attracting suspicion and
attention from those onboard the Galactica."
     "Without a doubt we shall attract suspicion and attention," Stilgar
said.  "But the Colonials are slow-witted and it will take too much time
for them to act on their suspicions.  All that is required of us is to
locate first, the warrior Starbuck, who will lead us to the jackal, and
then the fulfillment of our duel.  And we shall sacrifice our lives in
order to succeed if it must be so."
     At this point, another Fremen named Serkan, much younger and with
only a mustache under his beaked nose, got to his feet which was an
uncharacteristic posture during a meeting of the Landsraad.
     "You leave me no choice but to question your judgment, Stilgar," he
looked the Fremen naib in the eye.  "Either way, whether you are
successful or not in tracking down Captain Dimitri aboard the Galactica,
you risk bigger damage to what all of us have managed to accomplish over
the past twelve sectans.  During that time, we have all put our hatred
for the Colonials aside and ventured out in the name of achieving a
greater good.  The goal of self-sufficiency and independence from both
the Colonials and our infidel masters aboard this ship which is the
desire that burns closest to all our hearts.  But if you place that goal
in jeopardy because of our obsessive desire to fulfill one blood duel,
all of us will no doubt be brought to ruin."
     "How dare you speak sacrilege, Serkan!" Tunk thundered in
indignation if he were capable of doing so.  "What you call for is to
shirk our values, our customs and our laws.  Our laws...which must be
upheld in all circumstances no matter what the costs are."
     "I'm not concerned about the individual cost, Tunk," Serkan held his
ground. "Rather, the cost to what our long-term objective is.  Whether
you are successful or not, the death of Captain Dimitri would immediately
result in an investigation by the Colonial Warriors into the practices of
all Fremen aboard this ship.  And the infidel Fidan would not hesitate to
grant that permission since he yearns for any pretext that would result
in our destruction as a culture.  Such an investigation, would inevitably
uncover everything that we have accomplished in twelve sectans.  Our
supplies of spare parts, fuel cells, weapons, food.  All that we have
gathered to achieve our goal of self-sufficiency and separation from
Colonial and infidel rule."
     Stilgar got to his feet and fixed a withering, angry stare at the
younger Fremen.  "You disgrace yourself," his voice dripped with
contempt.  "Not only do you promote sacrilege by suggesting that there
are circumstances when Fremen law must be declared meaningless, you also
shame me by accusing me of treason.  For the only way our objective could
be discovered would be to learn that from my lips, which you assume I
would give them in the event of capture."
     "I refute the charge," Serkan said.
     "I will not withdraw it," Stilgar said.  "You talk of your desire to
see our objective of self-sufficiency fulfilled, yet you mock and shame
the laws that our society is to be governed under once self-sufficiency
is achieved.  I challenge you to a blood duel."
     "I accept your challenge, and I demand the privilege of settlement
now." the young Fremen's voice grew cold.
     "Granted."
     Stilgar stood up and moved alongside the table while Serkan moved
away from his seat, so that the two Fremen were now face-to-face, ten
feet apart on a straight line.  All of the other Fremen in the room
promptly got up from the table and moved to the other side of the room to
watch the duel.
     Both Stilgar and Serkan bowed slightly and then closed their eyes in
intense concentration.  Each was beginning a mental count inside.  When
the count ended, it would be a matter of who was faster and more accurate
with their aura grenades.
     The count reached twenty, and abruptly Stilgar opened his eyes,
detached his boles and flung them at Serkan with a speed and intensity
that the young Fremen had badly underestimated.  Before Serkan had time
to detach his own boles, Stilgar's had slammed directly into his chest
and exploded.
     Not a sound was uttered by any of the others in the room as Serkan's
lifeless body collapsed to the floor in a bloody, unrecognizable mess. 
Stilgar calmly came up to the corpse, reached down and picked up the
grenade from Serkan's ruined cloak and stillsuit and reattached it to the
belt of his own stillsuit.
     "His likes shall no longer contaminate our ranks," Stilgar spoke
with the faint air of triumph.  "Tunk will accompany me on this task. 
And when we next meet, we shall return in fulfillment of our duel."
     The rest of the Fremen solemnly bowed as Stilgar left the room.

*****************************

Chapter Eight: The Test

     There was an air of silent, anxious anticipation inside the Life
Station as Cassiopeia sat in front of the monitor attached to the
sophisticated machinery that had conducted both the hemotype blood test,
and the iris-cone eye test that would give them the preliminary results
on whether Starbuck and Jeremiah could theoretically be related.  The two
of them were on the other side of the apparatus, where they'd been
subjected to the tests.  Behind them, Apollo, Sheba and Boomer stood with
arms folded, each of them wondering what the news would bring and how it
might affect the other matters associated with Jeremiah that they'd been
discussing.
     "Okay," Cassiopea said.  "The results of your samples have been
computated and I should be getting a read-out any micron now."
     Inside, Starbuck felt his heart skip a beat.  For him, this was
potentially the fulfillment of a dream he'd carried since childhood.  To
finally have some idea of who he was, and where he'd come from.  To
understand how and why he'd inherited the instincts that had made him the
kind of man he was.
     For Jeremiah, his personal feelings were a mixed bag of
anticipation, apprehension and regret.  Anticipation because he knew
there was a very remote chance that this lead he had grasped at in the
name of survival could actually produce an unexpected result that would
solve a mystery he had long ago given up hope of finding the answer to. 
Apprehension, because if he didn't get past this first test, he'd be
turned loose from the Galactica and be right back where he started,
forced to keep one eye over his shoulder in fear over when the Fremen
might appear again.  And regret, because if his deceptions were exposed
it would mean losing the friendship of someone he was already feeling
close to after only a couple of centars.
     Oh my Lord, he thought to himself.  Whatever happens now please let
it work out for the best.
     Cassiopeia squinted at the monitor on her side of the apparatus and
began to make several notations.
     "Well?" a note of impatience entered Starbuck's voice.  "What do you
see, Cass?"
     The blonde med-tech took a breath.  "So far, so good.  The iris-cone
type of the both you contains characteristics of native Capricans.  And
it also indicates that you're both of southern Caprican tribal stock. 
We're not dealing with something utterly impossible like a pure Caprican
and a pure Sagitarian or something like that---"
     "Cass, save us all the technical felgercarb.  What else?" Starbuck's
impatience mounted.
     "This is where the hemo-type results are important to establish
general DNA similarities.  And...okay, I think..." she paused as she
double-checked the results in her mind to be sure.  Once she was, she
broke into a smile.  "There's no question but that you're related to each
other within ten generations."
     Starbuck let out an exhilarated whoop, "Yeeee-haaa!" he raised his
arms triumphantly and then clasped one around an amazed Jeremiah.
     "Now Starbuck," his girlfriend got to her feet and injected a note
of caution.  "This just proves common ancestry within the last four
hundred yahrens.  There are a lot of people who can have that in common
with you."
     "Including me," Apollo couldn't help but quip.
     "And for that far back, even me," Boomer slyly added      Sheba
shook her head in faint exasperation and came over to Starbuck. "I'm
happy for both of you," she gave him a quick hug and then looked at
Cassiopeia.  "Is there any way you could take those genetic tracer tests
here on the Galactica?"
     The med-tech hesitated slightly.  "Theoretically, yes, as we have
the same facilities that the Orphans' Ship has for those tests, but I'd
have to get Dr. Salik's approval before we could start."
     "Oh dear.  Surely the good doctor won't have a problem with that,"
Jeremiah said with an anxious edge.  
     "I'm sure he won't.  Once he approves, then it's just a question of
whether or not you're up to taking them."
     "I most assuredly am," Jeremiah's tone grew more emphatic.  "The
sooner the better, Cassiopeia."
     "Unfortunately, Dr. Salik won't be back from the main Fleet Hospital
ship for another two centars.  But you and Starbuck could just rest up a
bit until then."
     "How 'bout a cold brew in the Officers Club on me?" Starbuck's smile
widened as he kept his arm around Jeremiah's shoulder.  "Hey, why don't
all of you join us in the celebration?"
     Before Apollo could answer, an announcement over the Galactica's
voxbox filled the room.  "Attention Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer.
Report to Commander Adama's quarters immediately."
     "Looks like we'll have to take a rain check on that drink,
Starbuck," Apollo said feeling relieved.  "Sheba, I think Boomer and I
will be needing you there too."
     "No problem," she nodded in understanding.  "Starbuck, you and
Jeremiah enjoy yourselves."
     "I'm sure we will," Starbuck grinned as he and Jeremiah headed for
the exit. The old man seemed just as relaxed as he returned the warrior's
grin.
     Cassiopeia let out an exhilarated sigh.  "I don't think I've ever
seen Starbuck this happy before."
     Apollo exchanged a glance with Boomer, and already he could tell
that they both felt there was no point dampening Cassiopeia's enthusiasm
with their suspicions about Chameleon.
     "Let's hope he ultimately has reason to stay happy, Cassiopeia,"
Apollo said as he moved toward the door.  "Boomer, Sheba, let's not keep
the Commander waiting."

*****************************

Chapter Nine: Doubts

     When the three warriors arrived in Adama's office, they found the
Galactican commander seated at his desk, frowning over a sheaf of papers
that he'd been consulting.
     "Flight Sergeant Loveliness  delivered this to me," he said, a stern
edge to his voice.  "She said you'd explain what was significant about
this Central Computer readout on someone named Jeremiah."
     It took Apollo five centons to recapitulate the details of what had
happened aboard the Rising Star, with Boomer adding information about his
initial confrontation with the Nomen in the Astral Lounge.
     "Very well, then," Adama said when they had finished.  "That clears
up that matter. Naturally, the thought that he could be Starbuck's father
is intriguing, but certainly much too premature to consider at this
stage."
     "Does the file say anything, Commander?" Sheba inquired.
     "Only a small amount," the commander said.  "According to Central
Fleet Records, Jeremiah was taken aboard the Rising Star during the
Exodus from Caprica.  He was officially logged in among the survivors by
Wing Sergeant Quanto, back in the days when he was still attached to
Colonial Security."
     "Quanto," Apollo muttered under his breath, thinking it paradoxical
that the rowdy flight sergeant had to be indirectly connected with these
events as well.  Especially in light of the upcoming triad match and the
near brawl that had erupted between him and Starbuck just before meeting
Jeremiah.
     "Is there any background information?" Boomer asked.
     "None.  Just his planet of origin.  No designation given at the
time."
     "That's interesting," Apollo said. "Jeremiah says he's been working
on Dr. Sarthe's staff on the Orphans' Ship with their genetic tracer
project.  Does that check?"
     "Not according to the file."  Adama said as he indicated the papers. 
"Loveliness' search of the G-2 and G-3  employees attached to the Orphans
Ship turned up nothing. She then ran it for the entire Fleet.  No one by
the name of Jeremiah is attached to any full-time designation anywhere."
     "Well, that's one strike against Jeremiah, I'm afraid," Apollo
grunted.
     Sheba glared at him.  "Maybe Jeremiah isn't a full-time employee,
Apollo.  That wouldn't show up in the Central File."
     "There's one way to confirm that," the Commander activated his
videocom. "Athena, this is Commander Adama.  Patch me through to Dr.
Sarthe on the Orphans Ship."
     "Yes sir.  I'll notify you when the patch-through's ready," his
daughter's voice replied from the Bridge.
     "I don't think Jeremiah would have been foolish enough to lie about
something like this when he knows that we could check that in an
instant," Sheba was not inclined to believe the worst about Jeremiah.
Especially when so much was riding on it for Starbuck.
     "We'll find out about that soon enough," Adama decided to change the
subject.  "Meanwhile, let's get back to this matter of the Arakeen
Fremen.  If some of them are engaging in blood duels, that's a very
disturbing development.  Emissary Fidan has assured me that he's done his
best to keep his people under control."
     "Do you trust Fidan that much, Commander?"  Boomer asked
skeptically.
     Adama turned back to Boomer, smiling thinly. "Fidan is the best
among all the Arakeen in the Fleet, Boomer.  He was always a friend to
the Colonial government when he was the Arakeen Emissary to Caprica. 
That's why the Fremen have always hated him.  If the Fremen get out of
control, then he knows that means he's ultimately in danger too."
     "Have you considered having a Colonial Security detachment posted
on their freighter to help Fidan out?"
     "Out of the question," Adama said.  "Not only would it be a serious
breach of Colonial jurisprudence, but there's also the fact that Fidan
doesn't want any outsiders stationed there.  It would only sway the
non-militants in the Arakeen population into thinking that what the
Fremen say about Fidan being a Colonial puppet is true.  Fidan wants to
be our friend, but he wants to run things with his people his way,
according to Arakeen methods.  Which is only fair since the Arakeen are
really the one group of people in this Fleet that have been brought along
as reluctant guests."
     "More fool them for not realizing that the Cylons had just as many
designs on Arrakis as they did the Colonies," Boomer snorted.
     "I should probably have a talk with Fidan about it as soon as I'm
done with all of you."  Adama coughed again.  "I know there's a lot about
the Arakeen that makes it hard for the average Colonial to think of
getting along with them, but for better or worse, they are part of this
Fleet and if our ideas and our values of equality and justice have any
meaning, we have to apply them to the Arakeen as well."
     "Point taken, Commander," Sheba acknowledged.
     The video-com then chimed and Athena's voice came through. 
"Commander, I have Dr. Sarthe on direct tie-in."
     "Thank you, Athena."  Adama flicked the switch.  "Dr. Sarthe, this
is Commander Adama."
     "Yes Commander, it's an honor to talk to you again," a mature,
feminine voice answered.  "We haven't spoken since you signed the
proclamation establishing my project."
     "My apologies for not paying your clinic a visit, Doctor.  Your
project is of interest to me, and I wish it all the success.  However,
that's not why I've called you.  I'm calling in regard to a member of
your staff."
     "Oh?" there was a faint edge of surprise in Sarthe's voice.  "Who?"
     "This is about an elderly gentleman named Jeremiah.  About
seventy-five yahrens old, pug-faced, wears a white country gentleman's
hat, burgundy longcoat and bowtie."
     "Jeremiah," she mused and then let out an exclamation, "Yes, I know
who you're talking about.  But he's not a member of the staff,
Commander."
     "Who or what is he then?"
     "I don't know anything personally about the man.  He's very charming
and the people benefit from him when he comes by.  He spends about a
centar or two each sectan helping us out when things get a bit
overloaded.  Nothing taxing on his part, but he lends a kind of presence
that brightens things up a bit when we need it."
     "I see," Adama nodded, "That's all you know about him?"
     "There might be some regular staff members who know him better than
I do, Commander.  But I think if you've got questions about him, he seems
completely harmless from our standpoint."
     "Thank you Dr. Sarthe, you've been most helpful.  I'll repay you in
the next sectar by visiting your clinic."
     "You're most welcome, Commander.  I look forward to your visit."
     Adama switched off the videocom and glanced at the three warriors. 
"Well?"
     "So much for your theory that Jeremiah lied about his work," Sheba
directed herself to Apollo.  "It may not be a full-time designation, but
he certainly has worked there."
     "But that only accounts for two centars in an entire sectan," Apollo
replied gently.  Every instinct inside him wanted to avoid any kind of
tone that would lead to hostile words with Sheba.  "That's plenty of time
for him to be caught up in something that's got the Fremen after him."
     "Okay," Sheba kept her tone reasonable, for she too didn't want to
start an argument with Apollo.  "Suppose the Fremen are after him.  Why
doesn't he just come out and tell us the reason why?"
     Apollo shrugged.  "Maybe because if he told us, it would get him
into trouble with Colonial jurisprudence."
     She let out a mildly exasperated sigh.  "And if it is a con on
Jeremiah's part, then why is he so anxious to take the genetic tests
right away?  I'd think he'd want to delay it as long as possible so he
could remain aboard the Galactica.  He would have at least taken up
Cassiopeia's offer of rest for as long as he needed before beginning."
     Apollo felt a wave of embarrassment come over him as the logic of
her argument sunk in.  "You know," he sighed, "I'm beginning to feel like
an equinian astrum in the worst way."
     "That makes two of us," Boomer nodded his head.  "Maybe we're just
too paranoid.  Maybe what that Fremen said about Colonial bigotry really
is guiding our thinking.  We fear the Fremen so much because they're not
like us, so that means we assume the worst about them.  We assume they're
fighting a blood duel and if we didn't, we have no reason to suspect
Jeremiah on this."
     "There's another way you could settle your doubts about Jeremiah,"
Adama gently spoke up.  "The Central File check is the most basic
examination.  General information available to anyone in the population
who wants to punch in a name at the nearest data base.  But we do have
the ability to use Colonial Security to conduct more extensive background
investigations of people if circumstances warrant it.  If you think
Security should conduct a deeper background check of Jeremiah and his
story about being an Umbra survivor, you can always go to Colonel Tigh
and he'll see to it." he then raised a cautious hand.  "With discretion
of course.  In Starbuck's enthused state of mind, he might not take
kindly to the idea."
     "So you don't share my concern, or Boomer's, Father?" Apollo asked.
     "I wasn't there, Apollo," Adama managed to keep his tone neutral. 
"But if you do think there's a chance that this Jeremiah is using
Starbuck, then you must take some kind of action. For Starbuck's sake at
least."
     Boomer slowly nodded.  "I suppose a Colonial Security check is the
least we could do.  Nothing too extensive.  No browbeating.  Guys like
Kulanda never resort to those kinds of tactics."
     "Must we do that?" Sheba was disappointed that the impact of her
earlier point had begun to fade.  In her own mind though, she didn't want
to imagine the disappointment and hurt Starbuck would go through if his
hopes had been raised by a lie. It put her in mind too much of an
experience she had gone through a mere twelve sectans earlier when she
had experienced that same disappointment and hurt because of some lies
told to her by a charming gentleman.
     "The alternative would be to confront Jeremiah your concerns,
Apollo," Adama said.  "Would you prefer it that way?  A simple man-to-man
talk?"
     His son slowly exhaled, "That would be worse, Father, because then
I'd be practically calling him a liar."
     "Not practically," Sheba retorted mildly.  Events were reaching a
point where even she found it difficult to maintain her patience with
Apollo.
     Adama shifted his glance to her with an air of gentle reproach. 
"Well, if he's  telling the truth, Sheba, he'll understand.  And if he's
not---I wouldn't worry about hurting his feelings."
     "Don't look at me, Commander," she said.
     Adama said, "Didn't your experience with Mr. Morbus teach you not to
let outward appearances be the key to judging a man?"
     "Yes," Sheba said, "but I believe Jeremiah thinks there is a chance
that Starbuck is his son.  If there wasn't any kind of genuine belief
inside him about that, then he would have ended the game much sooner and
asked for sanctuary."
     Boomer awkwardly shuffled his feet.  "You know, I wish I was on
patrol right now so I didn't have to deal with these things.  Because
right now, I'm almost wondering if it might be possible that we're both
right."
     "Both right? That Jeremiah could be Starbuck's father in spite of
the fact that the Fremen could be after him?"
     "Who knows?" Boomer smirked.  "Stranger coincidences have happened
before."
     "That would be the ultimate coincidence of all time," Apollo said
and then turned to Sheba.  Right away, she could tell that his body
language was silently communicating the desire for a quick truce. 
"Sheba, could you see Colonel Tigh about the security check?"
     She slowly nodded.  "All right.  But I still think you're going to
be proved wrong."
     "I hope you're right," Apollo said.  "I pray to the Lords you're
right."

*****************************

Chapter Ten: Starbuck v. Quanto: Round 2

     "Y'know, somehow I just can't picture you doing agro work," Starbuck
said as he and Jeremiah sat at a table in the Officers Club.
     Jeremiah shrugged and sipped at his tankard of aleddey.  "Had to do
somethin' to keep myself away from the cities and the evils of chanceries
in those days.  Your mo---whoops---Tanannah," he caught himself, "was an
outdoorsy kind of woman.  So smitten was I with that lovely creature that
I'd have been a damn fool not to do something that would cater to her
tastes."
     "She must've been a remarkable woman to change you," Starbuck said
with fascination.  "Most longtime wagerers I know don't kick the habit
that easily."
     "Remarkable she certainly was, m'boy," the old man sighed, as the
memories filled his mind.  Not wanting to get emotional, he changed the
subject.  "How 'bout you, Starbuck?  Have you considered getting sealed
with one of the lovely ladies on this ship?"
     The warrior absently waved his cigar as he hesitated answering.  "I
suppose you could say I've had three women in my life that made me think
about it at one time or another."
     "Ah, yes?" Jeremiah fiddled with his moustache.
     "Sure, why not?" Starbuck took a breath.  This was the first time he
could ever recall opening up about this subject to anyone.  Not even to
close friends like Apollo or Boomer.  But his feeling about Jeremiah
being his father was so intense that he saw no reason not to tell him. 
"The first girl I knew on Caprica.  Her name was Aurora.  We went out
quite a bit before I went to the Academy, but it kind of fizzled out
after awhile. She really wasn't interested in marriage, so she never
encouraged the thought too much."
     "Are you still seeing her?"
     "No," Starbuck sighed.  "I'm afraid she's dead.  I hadn't seen much
of her in awhile, but the night the Cylons destroyed the Colonies, I made
one trip down to Caprica to help in the evacuation.  I flew right over
where her house was and it took a direct hit."
     "I'm sorry to hear that," Jeremiah's tone grew empathetic.  "That
must have been tough on you."
     "Not too much," Starbuck said.  "After Aurora there was another
girl.  Kind of like her in a lot of ways."
     "A casualty of the Holocaust as well, I reckon."
     "No, not at all," Starbuck shook his head.  "She's still alive.  As
a matter of fact, she's Apollo's sister.  Her name's Athena.  Works on
the Galactica's bridge crew."
     "And you met Apollo through her?"  Jeremiah said.
     "No.  First I met Apollo and then I met Athena.  I was...well I was
more serious with her than I was with Aurora.  I almost thought we
had..." he then trailed off.
     Jeremiah slowly nodded.  "Awww.  Things didn't work out, huh?"
     "You can say that again," the warrior sighed.  "She...well she took
it a little harder than I did.  I'd still like to be friends with her,
but...she's not exactly willing right now."
     "I know the feeling," Jeremiah confessed.  "Come to think of it,
I've been there too."
     "You must have passed off a lot of interesting things to me,"
Starbuck grinned.
     "To cut a long story short..." Jeremiah blushed slightly and
sheepishly lowered his head.
     Before they could go any further there was a commotion from the
other side of the Officers Club, as a boisterous, garbled voice suddenly
exclaimed for all to hear.  "Listen up, everybody!  Listen up!  I hereby
proclaim myself the official buyer of a round of drinks for all those
present!"
     As the majority of patrons suddenly let out murmurings of approval
and gratitude, Starbuck felt his stomach turn when he saw that the source
of the voice was Sergeant Quanto.
     "One exception though," Quanto rose from his barstool seat and
pointed to the back.  "No free drink for Lieutenant Starbuck.  Not today. 
Lieutenant Starbuck doesn't get a free drink from me until after the big
match next sectan.  Because after what he and his buddy Apollo are gonna
go through on that there triad court when I got through with them,
they're going to be crying their hearts out in so many drinks, that I
plan on picking up their tab then!"
     Already, those who were sitting close to Quanto began backing away
from him in mild disgust.  Starbuck was staring intently at the drunken
warrior with an indifferent expression.  But Jeremiah could see the
muscles throbbing visibly in the warrior's neck, indicating his inner
rage.
     "Starbuck..." Jeremiah started as he grabbed his hand.  But the
warrior pulled away and flashed him a very disarming smile.
     "Excuse me," he said as he rose from his seat.  "This'll only take a
centon."
     "Don't go doin' somethin' dumb, Bucko," the old man protested.  But
the warrior paid no attention as he slowly made his way up to the bar
where the inebriated Quanto sat with a taunting sneer.
     "Well?" Quanto didn't let up, as Starbuck drew to within two feet of
him. Throughout the rest of the Officers Club, all other conversation had
come to a stop, with every pair of eyes focused on the two warriors who
seemed ready to come to some serious blows.
     "Don't waste cubits on drinks for me, Quanto," Starbuck kept his
voice low but venomous. "Because I promise you this: after the match, you
won't be in any shape to go near a bar."
     "Oh?" the sergeant refused to let up.  "Is your little boy trap
strategy going to injure me on the court?"
     "I'll come up with a new strategy," Starbuck acidly retorted.  "One
that'll wipe that smirk off your face forever."
     "How's about a sneak preview, Bucko?" his voice dripped with
sarcasm.
     "Goddamn you!" Starbuck had begun raising his arm when the door slid
open and Apollo and Boomer entered.  As soon as they saw the two
warriors, they immediately dashed up to them.
     "What the frack's going on here?" Apollo thundered as he grabbed
Starbuck by the shoulders and pulled him away from Quanto.  At the same
time, Boomer had pulled the blonde sergeant off his stool and had both
his arms locked behind his back.
     "Nothing, Apollo.  Just Sergeant Quanto being his usual friendly
self!" Starbuck said acidly as he shook himself loose from Apollo's
grasp.
     "And Lieutenant Starbuck compensating for the rage that will be
denied him on the triad court!" Quanto fired back in half-slurred words.
     Boomer, who was Quanto's squadron commander, turned him around so he
was glaring at the sergeant jaw-to-jaw.
     "You get this straight, Sergeant!" Boomer barked.  "I will not have
one of my men disgracing himself like you're doing now.  You're going to
sober up by taking your deep patrol right now!"  He then stared over at
Barton, who'd been watching the proceedings from the other side of the
Club.  "Barton, you keep your eye on him and make sure he does his job!"
     Quanto's wingmate and triad partner got to his feet and glared at
the blonde sergeant with distaste.  He came over, grabbed him by the arm
and dragged him out of the club.
     "Lousy gallmonging snit, you've got to drag me into your troubles
now---" the door then closed, terminating the rest of Barton's berating
of Quanto.
     Slowly, the rest of the patrons began resuming their conversations,
as Boomer came up to Apollo and Starbuck.
     "Boomer, you're the man of the centon," Starbuck grinned.  "You sure
put that dreg in his place."
     "Wipe that smile off your face, Lieutenant!" Apollo's voice was cold
and unsympathetic.  "I told you on the Rising Star to ignore him, no
matter what he said."
     "Hey, Captain, I didn't throw any punches.  I was just letting him
know that come the match next sectan, he's not going to be so cocky any
longer."
     "Don't let him know anything more, Starbuck."  Apollo jabbed his
finger to within an inch of Starbuck's face. "If you'd laid one finger on
him, I'd have thrown you in the brig.  Let that be your last warning."
     The blonde lieutenant shrugged his shoulders and slowly exhaled. 
"Yes sir."
     "Whoa there, Captain," a voice chimed in.  The three warriors turned
around and saw that Jeremiah had joined them.  "Don't you go crawlin'
down Starbuck's throat on all fours.  That other warrior started the
whole thing and I'm a witness."
     "We know that, Jeremiah," Apollo nodded.  "That's the guy Starbuck
and I are playing triad against next sectan.  He's been waging
psychological warfare ever since the match was scheduled."
     "Waging, did you say?  Now that's an equine of a different color,"
Jeremiah nodded in understanding.  "Starbuck, the trick to that is
ignoring him just like you'd ignore a man who's boasting about having a
full perfect pyramid on his first deal of the cards.  It's all talk
designed to mask the fact that there's nothing underneath."
     Starbuck slowly smiled.  "Are you giving that advice to me as one
gambler to another, or do I detect a paternal undertone as well?"
     Jeremiah returned the smile and shrugged with the same meek, humble
air. "A little of both, I 'spose.  Long ago, I tried my hand at triad and
a person just like that rude warrior was the key to ending whatever
potential I had there."
     "You could've fooled me," Starbuck put his hand on his shoulder. 
"You have the kind of agility that makes me think you'd have been a great
triad player."
     "Agility I have, discipline I lack... leastways the discipline to
master a hidden natural talent."
     "Uh...gentlemen?" Apollo coyly interrupted, amazed at how Jeremiah's
words had completely gotten Starbuck's mind away from Quanto.  That said
a great deal about the kind of effect the old man was having on his
friend.  "I hate to interrupt the chat, but the reason why Boomer and I
stopped by here, was to tell you that Dr. Salik is back from the Hospital
Ship and has approved your genetic testings.  Report to the Life Station
immediately."
     "Hey that's great!" Starbuck grinned. "We're one step closer to
getting everything confirmed.  Come on Jeremiah, let's go."
     As soon as the two were gone, Apollo and Boomer stared at each other
in mutual disbelief.
     "I'll tell you something," Apollo finally said.  "The way he reacts
to what Jeremiah tells him, I'm really hoping our hunch is wrong.  A
father-figure could be just what Starbuck needs to cure his worst
habits."
     "Amen to that," Boomer said as he and Apollo sat down at the bar. 
When they received their drinks, the black warrior held up his glass
thoughtfully.  "Did you know that Jolly was an Umbra survivor too and
grew up in the same orphanage with Starbuck?"
     "Yeah," the dark-haired captain nodded as he sipped his drink.  "But
didn't Jolly end up finding his family?"
     "Only after six yahrens," Boomer said.  "He had a chance to see what
it was all like.  Since Starbuck never talks about it, I asked Jolly what
it was like.  He said the orphanage was a nice sheltered place, manned by
nice dedicated people who did their best, but that none of them had any
concept of how to communicate one-on-one with any child who lived there."
     "A staff comprised of magnificent teachers and authority figures,
save for those who could provide the extra dimension that only a parent
can," Apollo agreed.  "I see what you mean.  And I guess that's why
Starbuck's never latched on completely to my fath---the Commander," he
quickly corrected himself, "as someone who could fill that role.  The
bottom line is that the Commander has to be an authority figure and a
teacher first, just like all the social workers at the orphanage were."
     Boomer nodded.  "I was luckier.  My parents died when I wasn't even
five yet, but at least I had an aunt who raised my brother and me as if
we were her sons.  And Lord knows that wasn't easy with two kids of her
own who always resented us."  He paused to reflect a bit.  "My brother
ended up dead in a street brawl.  He never realized what a good thing he
had in our aunt as a parental figure.  If I hadn't recognized how good
she was, and looked up to her that way and leaned on every word she told
me, I'm convinced I'd have ended up the same as him."
     Apollo gently patted his friend's shoulder.  He knew it couldn't
have been easy for Boomer to talk about the family he'd lost in the
Holocaust.  His aunt and two cousins were still living in the same back
streets apartment house Boomer had grown up in, and when the black
warrior had returned to Caprica during the evacuation, he'd barely had
time to go off and see that the apartment had taken a direct hit. 
Everyone inside had died instantly.
     "Sheba should be making that background check request to Colonel
Tigh, by now," Apollo sighed.  "I'm counting on it to be all for
nothing."
     "You and me both," Boomer said as he finished his drink.
     "I think I want Starbuck to have this as much as he does."

*****************************

Chapter Eleven: A Conversation Between Two Warriors

     "Red Squadron deep patrol now ready to launch, Colonel."  Rigel
reported from her station.
     "Excellent," the Galactica's executive officer nodded.  "Tell them
they're cleared."
     Tigh went back to the navigational board on the bridge's upper level
and plotted out the trajectory where the deep patrol would search.  If
all went well, they'd have a full readout on everything that lay ahead
for the next sectar's worth of flight time by the Fleet's standards,
since the Galactica was forced to go no faster than the slowest ship in
the convoy of 220.
     It seemed like an eternity to Tigh since the Galactica had last gone
hyperdrive at her top speed.  Not since long before the Holocaust.  It
sometimes made the executive officer think that the great battlestar had
become like an old woman that had been slowed down by age.  It wasn't an
unfair comparison, he knew, but until he felt the Galactica moving again
at her top speed some day, it was an impression he'd be unable to shake
from his mind.
     "Colonel Tigh?"
     He turned around and saw that Sheba had arrived on the upper level.
     "Yes, Sheba?"
     "Colonel, something's come up that requires a Colonial Security
background check."
     "Well that falls under my jurisdiction," the executive officer said. 
"Who's it for?"
     "A man named Jeremiah," she said.  She then took five centons
explaining the basic situation.  When she was done, it was clear that
Tigh's interest was piqued.
     "Starbuck's father," he was impressed.  "That would be good news if
it turned out to be true."
     "It would," Sheba nodded.  "I really wish this security check wasn't
necessary, but Apollo and Boomer think there are too many lingering
questions about where Jeremiah came from that can't be ignored.  If you
can do this as discreetly as possible though, I think it would make
things a lot easier."
     Tigh nodded.  "I'll put Sergeant Kulanda on it.  He's the best man
we have in the whole Security division and knows how to handle things
that way."
     "That's good," she said.  "When he's done, make sure the report gets
to Apollo. He'll know what to do with it."
     "I will.  Anything else?"
     "No," Sheba smiled.  "But if the genetic tests come back with a
positive result before the check is finished, I'll let you know and you
can then cancel the whole thing."
     "That would be an order I'd give with pleasure," Tigh returned it.
     As soon as Sheba had gone, the executive officer went over to the
railing and motioned Omega to join him on the upper level.
     "Omega," he said as soon as the bridge officer arrived.  "Have
Sergeant Kulanda report here as soon as possible."
     "Yes sir," Omega then handed him a clipboard.  "Before I do that, I
thought you should know that a shuttle of the new warrior recruits for
this sectan will be arriving in twenty centons.  You and I have to be
there for the usual welcome and introduction speech."
     "Just what I needed," Tigh grimaced.  "You know Omega, ever since
you started doing that IFB spot, all the recruits keep expecting me to
make a welcome speech with the same felgercarb rhetoric with all the
we-need-you slogans.  It's gotten to the point where I dread it every
sectan."
     The Bridge Officer smiled, "Don't blame me, Colonel, I didn't write
the script for that spot.  I do admit, it even makes me cringe whenever I
see it on the videocom."
     "Unfortunately Omega, you're the only warrior on the bridge with
photogenic presence.  That means you keep doing the spots."  Tigh said
lightheartedly.  "Okay, we'll handle the recruits first and then take
care of Sergeant Kulanda and this background check on Mr. Jeremiah."

*****************************

     No sooner were the two vipers away on their long deep patrol, then
did Barton resume his browbeating of Quanto.
     "Take in what I'm about to say, Quanto."  Barton was exclaiming. 
"Thanks to you my whole evening's been shot to Hades.  Flying a deep
patrol three days ahead of schedule ain't my idea of fun, buddy, but
because the fracking rulebook says I'm assigned to you, I've got to share
in your punishment. Teammate or not I'll throw the fracking triad game to
Starbuck and Apollo, you keep this shit up.  It'd serve you right!"
     "Aw, blow it out your astrum," the sergeant mumbled, feeling the
effects of a hangover kick in.
     "You're not shutting me that easily, Quanto," Barton retorted.  "If
I have to fly alongside you for twelve centars you're going to get an
earful from me.  If you want me to give my all on that triad court, then
you take it like a fracking man!"
     Quanto muttered something short and indecipherable.  He was in the
halfway state between lingering drunkenness and the nasty pain of
returning sobriety.  The condition most people never felt because they
were usually sleeping it off at that stage.
     "You're a piece of work, Quanto.  Didn't anybody ever bother to tell
you that?"  Barton decided that this would be the occasion he would let
his partner have it.  "I wouldn't be surprised if all of your friends in
this universe could hold a meeting inside Jolly's viper, with him already
occupying it!"
     "I don't need any fracking friends," Quanto mumbled.  "I got all I
need in this world.  Perfect set-up."
     "Sometimes I wonder just how perfect your set-up is," Barton went
on.  "Most of us never had enough accumulated pay to make one trip to the
Rising Star's Chancery until now.  But you've made probably twenty jaunts
over there ever since the Battle of Kobol.  Where do you get the money to
do that?"
     "None of your fracking business, Barton," Quanto spluttered his
words out.
     "Maybe not.  But it's my business if I have a wingman, and a triad
partner who can't keep his astrum out of trouble."
     "You don't have to worry about anything I do that isn't on the triad
court or out here in my viper, Barton," Quanto reached inside his helmet
and rubbed his throbbing temple.  "Have I ever let you down there?"
     "No," Barton conceded.  "You haven't.  I'll give you credit for
that.  But mark my words Quanto, if you keep acting the way you do away
from the court and away from your viper, then somebody that isn't me is
going to snap and kill you someday.  Hades, the way Starbuck was looking
you in the eye, the murder suspect just might fit his description."
     Quanto began to let out a half-drunken giggle.  "Starbuck kill me? 
It's all that sorry bastard can do to kill a Cylon.  Nobody's got the
guts to do me in.  All except," his chuckling increased, "one."
     "Who's that?" Barton inquired sarcastically.
     Quanto's laugh now became an annoying cackle of ironic delight.
"Someone who hates me for a reason Starbuck couldn't begin to approach. 
Good old Charybdis."
     Barton frowned slightly.  The name meant absolutely nothing to him. 
"Who's Charybdis?"
     "The original interplanetary man of mystery, Barton."  Quanto was
clearly enjoying himself.  "A man of great mystery who made the mistake
one day of letting a sharp observer like me discover why he's such a man
of mystery."
     "Translate that into common Colonial Standard if you please.  You
talk like an Aquarian philosopher."
     Quanto suddenly blinked twice as sobriety took further hold of him. 
He felt a cold sweat break out on his body as he realized the danger he
was putting himself in.
     "In Colonial Standard it means just what I said, Barton," he chose
his words methodically, knowing that he needed to get off the subject as
fast as he possibly could.  "Even if there were a formal translation, it
wouldn't be anything you'd ever understand, anyway."
     "Knowing you, he couldn't be a jealous husband or lover mad at you
over a woman," Barton decided to stick the knife inside Quanto further
than he'd ever dared before.
     The red-haired sergeant cocked his helmet toward his wingmate's
viper with a cold, angry expression.
     "All right," Quanto seethed.  "That's enough.  You've extracted your
pound of flesh, now back off."
     "Okay," Barton smiled thinly with the satisfaction that he'd finally
given Quanto a taste of his own medicine of aggravation and left the
dislikable sergeant unable to top him. "To business then, Sergeant.  Hit
those scan beams to full-forward max and let's see if our little path
that the Commander says is going to take us to Earth someday is all-clear
like we want it to be."

*****************************

Chapter Twelve: Recuruits, Tests And Background Checks

     When Tigh and Omega arrived in the landing bay to meet the recruit
shuttle, they saw several members of the Galactica's Fire Control team
moving several large tanks of boraton foam across the tarmac.
     "Hello Bennann," Tigh smiled at the Chief Firefighters who was
directing the workers. "How's it coming?"
     The gray-haired fire chief smiled back with an edge of pride. 
"After sixteen sectans since the Cylon fighter rammed this landing bay,
Colonel, the Main Boraton Mist Control Center is finally ready for
business, better than ever."
     "Outstanding!" Tigh noted.  "And I take it that all of the new
shielding features Wilker and Shaddrack designed are all in place now?"
     "They finished installing the last components a few centars ago,
Colonel.  The Control Center is now a fireproof zone.  No matter how bad
a hit we take in the landing bay, even from a Solonite packed fighter, we
won't lose main pressure for our boraton hoses throughout the ship."
     As the Chief Firefighter moved off to continue directing the
strategic positioning of the boraton tanks, Tigh turned to Omega and said
in a low voice.  "If the Lords are with us, we'll never have to find out
how effective the new shielding is."
     "Agreed," the Bridge Officer nodded as they watched the recruit
shuttle arrive and come to a stop thirty feet away from them.  The door
opened and a diverse cross-section of twenty men and women emerged. 
Right away, Tigh knew that this was a group with no inherent instinct for
military discipline, since they all stood in a disorganized cluster, as
opposed to a straight-line formation.  Too many of them swayed by the
silly IFB spot, the executive officer thought idly as he stepped forward
and assumed an authoritative posture.
     "As executive officer, I'd like to welcome all of you new recruits
aboard the Galactica," he began.  "Most of you have probably never set
foot on a battlestar before, and it's only natural for you to find it a
bit overwhelming, especially since we're more than three times the size
of the second largest ship in the Fleet." he paused as he prepared
himself for the tough part of the speech.  The part that always made the
na‹ve recruits have their first second thoughts about signing up.  "I
know that Commander Adama appreciates the sense of duty and
self-sacrifice that's led all of you to consider a new career as part of
the team responsible for defending the Fleet.  But make no mistake that
the life of a warrior, even in seemingly idle times such as these, is no
less than hazardous than it is in a constant crisis situation.  And you
will all be expected to live according to a disciplined schedule that is
not for the faint of heart, or for anyone who thinks that the life of a
warrior is much easier now that we no longer face constant Cylon
harassment."
     As Tigh expected, he saw two to three of the recruits awkwardly
shuffling their feet.  "Bridge Officer Omega will escort you to the
recruit quarters and will answer all preliminary questions once you
arrive.  Omega?"
     The bridge officer nodded and said with authority to the recruits. 
"Okay, let's fall out!  This way to the main turbo lift."
     As the recruits moved past him, Tigh felt satisfied that Omega had
stopped using the word "please" as he had been apt to do in previous
recruit gatherings and had taken on a more tough posture that went
against the image they'd seen of him in the IFB spot. More than once he'd
told the Bridge Officer that he couldn't act too polite to them, or it
would only give them the wrong idea about what they were ultimately in
for.
     The executive officer's thoughts were distracted when the last two
recruits from the rear of the group moved past him.  Because of the
disorganized cluster the group had been in, Tigh hadn't even noticed them
until now.  But there was no mistaking the fact that they were
blue-in-blue-eyed  Arakeen Fremen.
     Arakeen Fremen?  The executive officer frowned as he saw them follow
the group toward the turbo lift.  Now that's a strange coincidence. 
Sheba said this Jeremiah person might have been mixed up with some Fremen
out to kill him. But then again maybe it isn't a coincidence.
     He went over to the intercom switch that connected him to the
Bridge.  "Athena? Tigh here?  Has Sergeant Kulanda arrived on the
Bridge?"
     "He's here, sir."
     "Do me a favor.  Have Apollo and Boomer report to the Bridge too."
     "Yes sir."

*****************************

     When Tigh returned to the Bridge ten centons later, he saw that the
two pilots were waiting along with the muscular Colonial Security Guard,
who was also Boomer's triad partner.
     "I'm glad you're all here," Tigh said.  "Kulanda, I'll be needing
you to handle a deep background check on someone we don't know much
about.  An elderly gentleman named Jeremiah who's done some work on the
Orphans Ship in the genetic tracer project. I'm afraid there's not much
else to go on, other than the fact that he claims to be from Caprica, and
says that he was once a professional wagerer who survived the Umbra
disaster thirty yahrens ago while working as an agro worker."
     Kulanda rubbed his chin.  "Sounds like a pretty tall order, Colonel. 
What else I can go on?"
     "He was on the Rising Star earlier today," the executive officer
said.  "I'd question the crew of the Canaris to see if they remember whom
he was traveling with when he came aboard and if there's anything known
about whom he mingles with."
     "You might want to check out someone named Siress Irulan," Apollo
spoke up. "When we were in the shuttle coming back to the Galactica, I
think I overheard Jeremiah mentioning that name to Starbuck, or him
mentioning it to Jeremiah.  I can't remember which."
     "Okay," Kulanda nodded.  "That gives me enough to keep me occupied
for tonight and tomorrow at least.  But I could use a holo picture or
something to circulate among those I talk to."
     "No problem," Apollo said.  "Play back the security video com from
the Life Station from just two centars ago.  You can print out a
holo-still from there."
     The Security Guard nodded and went down to Athena's station where
the necessary equipment was.
     "Was there another reason why you wanted us here, Colonel?" Boomer
inquired.
     "There is," Tigh nodded.  "I just got back from welcoming aboard the
newest recruits, and for the first time in forty yahrens of service as a
warrior, I see two Arakeen Fremen among the lot."
     Apollo and Boomer exchanged uneasy glances.
     "I didn't have the legal right to stop them and ask who they were
and what they were doing aboard the Galactica.  But in light of what
Sheba said to me about how you two are concerned that this Jeremiah is
pulling a hoax to elude some Fremen, I can't dismiss it as a mere
coincidence."
     "Maybe I ought to go down to the recruit quarters and see if they're
the ones we talked to aboard the Rising Star," Boomer offered.
     "Out of the question," Tigh shook his head.  "You haven't got any
legal basis for questioning them either, and even if they are the ones
you talked to, you still haven't proved that they're linked to Jeremiah. 
The only thing we'd invite would be a nasty protest that could hurt
Emissary Fidan's goodwill strategy, and I don't think that would help our
overall diplomatic position as far as the Arakeen are concerned."
     "If we can't go down and question the Fremen, Colonel, then what in
Hades are we supposed to do?" Apollo folded his arms in disgust.
     "At this point, the only thing I can suggest is to ask Jeremiah a
few discreet questions," Tigh said.  "Since Kulanda needs to handle the
background material, he can't do it.  But you've already made his
acquaintance, so you should be able to do it without arousing too much
suspicion."
     "I presume we can," Boomer shrugged.  "But let's not nail him to the
wall about it, or Starbuck might blow as big a fuse with us as he did
with Quanto."
     "Quanto?" Tigh lifted an eyebrow.  "What happened there?"
     "Nothing you need to know about right now, Colonel," Apollo said
hastily, not wanting to complicate matters any further.  "Just some cruel
psychological sport before the triad match next sectan."  He turned to
Boomer, "Let's see if Starbuck and Chameleon are back in the Life Station
now."

*****************************

     "Okay, Cass," Starbuck's voice had the enthusiasm of a schoolboy as
he and Jeremiah entered the Life Station.  "We're ready for those tests."
     The blonde med-tech smiled brightly.  "Follow me," she motioned. 
"The equipment's located in the auxiliary lab."
     As they entered the room next to the main Operations Center of the
Life Station, Jeremiah handed Cassiopeia his hat, shaking his head in
amazement.  "I honestly had no idea the Galactica had the same facilities
to conduct the full-scale tests we do on the Orphans Ship."
     "Standard operating procedure requires the Galactica to have its own
version of every piece of medical equipment you can find in the Fleet,"
she said as she pointed to two chairs, both of which had some kind of
light fixture positioned overhead.  "If each of you will sit down there,
I can get started."
     Starbuck and Jeremiah both sat down in the chairs that were spaced
five feet apart.  The warrior's eyes went up to the overhead fixture and
he felt a wave of discomfort go through him when he saw a laser's nozzle
at the end of the fixture.
     "Uh, Cassie?" he asked delicately as the med-tech strapped him in
place.  "How bad is it gonna hurt?"
     She threw him a look that combined both playful teasing with
sarcasm.  "My hero."
     "Hey look, I ah, I just want to know what you're going to do. 
That's all."
     Cassiopeia sat on the edge of his chair and looked him in the eye. 
"I'm just going to extract a neuro-cell from you and Jeremiah."
     "A brain cell?" his voice crept up with alarm.  "From my head?"
     Cassiopeia couldn't resist.  "Well, unless your brain's moved to the
spot your enemies think it usually is."
     "Cute," he smiled sarcastically with a that's-not-funny aura. "Just
tell me if it's dangerous or not, okay."
     "Only if there's nothing in there to extract." she refused to let
up.
     Starbuck grimaced again and saw Jeremiah chuckling, clearly enjoying
her quips. "Hey come on, Jeremiah.  Don't give her any more
encouragement!"
     "Look Starbuck," Cassiopeia's voice took on a soothing tone.  "You
won't feel a thing.  This is a finite laser extractor and it can withdraw
the image of a single neuro-cell without even breaking the epidermis of
your head."
     He sighed.  "It still sounds dangerous to me."
     "Someday, I'll have Salik present you with a dissertation about how
this kind of procedure was done five hundred yahrens ago, Starbuck.  In
those days, the patient's head needed to be shaved before direct surgical
extraction could take place."
     "Yeeow!" Starbuck protectively ran his hand through his thickly
styled hair that always looked in need of a little more trimming.
     She smiled and kissed him on the cheek.  "Be brave, Warrior of the
Centar." she said as she went into the next room, leaving Starbuck and
Jeremiah alone.
     The old man was staring at Starbuck with only the faintest trace of
awkwardness. Over the last few centars, he'd found his guilt over the
tactics he'd employed to get aboard the Galactica fading away completely,
to be replaced by a hope and desire that this desperate situation he'd
been thrust into would lead to the greatest answered prayer he'd ever
asked the Almighty for.
     The more he talked with Starbuck, the more convinced he was that the
warrior represented the best hope he'd ever had of finding his lost son. 
There was so much in Starbuck that reminded Jeremiah of himself, during
his younger, undisciplined days before he'd met Tanannah.  About the only
real difference he saw between himself and Starbuck was that the warrior
had a sense of underlying devotion to duty that Jeremiah knew he'd never
possessed in his life.  That was why Starbuck had become a warrior and
confined his recklessness to his leisure time.  Deep down, Starbuck's
concern over doing his part in the war against the Cylons had been far
stronger than Jeremiah's ever had.
     Perhaps growing up in that orphanage, scarred by the knowledge of
what the Cylons had done to disrupt his life put that in him, he mused. 
Oh, if only I could've been younger and had some definite answers about
what happened to my son, I'd have found the nerve to enlist myself. 
Instead of going back to the life of a con-man wagerer, getting myself
into trouble all the time.  But Jeremiah had always known that he could
never try to be an agro-worker again.  Not when he no longer had a
family.  Doing farm work would only serve as a painful reminder to him of
what he had once had, and had so tragically lost forever in the blink of
an eye.
     He had to reflect on how miraculous it was that he'd even survived
the Holocaust in the first place.  Like all Capricans, Jeremiah had
planned on the night of the supposed end-of-the-war as a night for
festivity and merriment.  He had dressed in his finest suit and escorted
an elegant lady from the noble class that he'd met a sectan before at a
theater opening, down to a fashionable Piscean restaurant, where a
colossal celebration was planned for the moment the Peace Treaty between
humans and Cylons became final.  While his motives for charming the woman
had been purely selfish, designed to find a way of ultimately conning her
out of a thousand cubits of her money, he had vowed to be on his best
behavior that night, and engage in no schemes.  This was supposed to be a
time when every person in all the Colonies had reason to celebrate, and
he had no intention of ruining it for anyone.
     He could still remember when the Cylon attack began, as though it
had happened yesterday.  A giant monitor featuring the BNC's coverage of
the festivities that were to take place at the Caprican Presidium was at
the back end of the restaurant, and he could see their lead anchor Serina
delivering her report when the sounds of loud explosions brought all of
the festive conversation in the restaurant to a screeching halt. 
Jeremiah and his date had promptly gone out to the restaurant's terrace
with its gorgeous panoramic view of Caprica City and watched in
bewildered horror as they saw the first wave of Cylon fighters making
their strafing runs on the city.
     It was enough to produce a wave of flashbacks inside Jeremiah to
what had happened at Umbra thirty yahrens earlier: seeing the fighters in
the sky headed for Umbra to begin their strafing runs, his mad, frantic
dash in his hovermobile to get back, arriving too late at his house and
then being thrust into a long coma when the floor of his destroyed house
caved in beneath his feet.
     But this time, he knew, like everyone else in the restaurant knew,
that what was happening now represented something far worse than any of
them could ever have imagined.
     Jeremiah's memory of the next several centars was hazy and still
imprecise to him.  He could recall moving with a whole panicked throng,
upturning tables and clawing their way out of the building to get to the
nearest bomb shelter two blocks away. Becoming separated from his dining
companion as the crowd pushed its way through the downtown streets and
screamed in panic as several Cylon fighters flew overhead on more than
one occasion.  The last precise image Jeremiah could recall was seeing a
laser streak from a Cylon fighter crashing into the ornate glass dome of
the restaurant's top, that had made it one of Caprica's architectural
gems.  Then he'd felt himself being shoved down the steps into the
shelter and could remember nothing more for the next eight centars until
he heard the voice of Commander Adama playing on someone's portable
audio-com in the shelter.  Then, the cold reality of what had happened
sunk in as he and the other stunned survivors listened to Adama's message
that the Colonies were being abandoned, and that all survivors were to
get to the nearest aerodrome to play a part in a mass evacuation.
     He'd been among the lucky who'd made it to the aerodrome in time
before the crowds became too massive and all kinds of chaos had broken
out with people clawing each other, assaulting each other, and in some
cases even murdering each other to get to a place at the front of the
line.  They'd herded him with the other refugees into the Rising Star's
Aquacade and it had taken Chameleon many sectans to come to terms with
his new surroundings, and to wait out the panic that had set in from the
constant Cylon pursuit before he'd finally felt secure enough to settle
down and resume his practice of making a living through his time-honored
tactics of wagering and conning.
     Already though, Jeremiah was certain of one thing: if Starbuck
turned out to be the miracle he'd hoped for, he was certain in his mind
that he'd have to change his ways again.  For the first time since Umbra,
he'd have a sense of responsibility in his life.

*****************************

     Cassiopeia had just settled herself in front of the console that
controlled the neurotesting equipment when she heard the doors open and
saw Apollo and Boomer enter. "Hi." she smiled brightly at the two
warriors.
     Apollo didn't return it.  "How're the tests coming?"
     "I'm just about ready to start," she said as she activated the main
power switch.
     "Cassiopeia," Apollo said awkwardly. "When you're done, could you
hold Starbuck here for awhile?  Boomer and I want a few centons alone
with Jeremiah."
     "What for?" her smile turned into a frown.  "What's going on,
Apollo?"
     "We just want to ask him some routine questions, that's all."
     She flicked the switches that would bring the rest of the system's
instruments to full power and looked him in the eye.  "Apollo, my
interest in whether or not Jeremiah is Starbuck's father goes beyond mere
medical reasons."
     "I'm aware of that, Cassiopeia."
     "Then, unless he's broken ship's regulations, I don't see why you'd
need to ask him anything."
     Boomer decided to let Apollo off the hook.  "Cassiopeia, there's a
chance that Jeremiah is pulling a hoax.  He may have another reason for
trying to make Starbuck think he's his father," Boomer said.
     "It's just a chance, but it's one we've got to check out for his
sake," Apollo said. "Sergeant Kulanda's running a deep background check
on the man but we'd rather ask him any questions face-to-face."
     Cassiopeia looked through the glass where she could see Starbuck and
Jeremiah sitting next to each other, both smiling and exchanging glances
at each other, indicating that they were in another intimate
conversation.
     "Oh God, I hope you're wrong," she sighed.  "Look at them.  They
seem like such a natural fit together.  Just like..." she trailed off and
looked back at Apollo.  "Well, just like you and the Commander."
     "I know," Apollo admitted.  "But too many strange things are going
on, Cassiopeia.  If we don't resolve them, Starbuck's going to be hurt a
lot worse than Jeremiah could ever be hurt."
     The med-tech nodded.  "I'll keep him occupied when the tests are
done."

*****************************

     "Your Cassiopeia is truly a vision of loveliness, Starbuck."
Jeremiah said as they waited for the machines to spring to life.  "So
much like your moth---" he stop and let out an embarrassed chuckle. 
"Darn. There I go again, going from A to Z and letting my emotions
overpower my common sense.  I mean she reminds me of my wife.  Tanannah."
     "What was she like?"  Starbuck asked, intrigued by his comparison.
     "Oh," Jeremiah mused.  "The same eyes.  The same hair.  The same
gentle, but cutting-edge sense-of-humor.  Tanannah always knew how to put
me in place with put-downs just like what Cassiopeia gave you a micron
ago."
     Starbuck felt a sensation come over him that almost made him feel
uncomfortable. "She's that much like her?"
     "I'm only judging from a first impression, Starbuck, but I'd say
yes." he said. "What makes you ask?"
     "Well," Starbuck slowly exhaled.  "It's just that...well ever since
my relationship with Athena went sour, Cassiopeia's been the only one
I've felt serious about.  The only one I've...well the only one I think I
could ever consider getting..." he hesitated for an instant, because this
was something he'd never spoken aloud to anyone before, not even to
Apollo.  "Well, getting sealed to."
     "Truly?" Jeremiah lifted an eyebrow.
     "I don't mean right now." Starbuck added hastily.  "Not with... all
the craziness that's gone on ever since we fled the Colonies.  But...well
maybe when we find Earth." he then smiled to cover his embarrassment. 
"You know what I mean?"
     "Yes," Jeremiah grinned.  "I know what you mean."
     Starbuck rested his head against the top of his chair and stared at
the finite laser that was slowly springing to life.
     "Hold your head still, Starbuck," Cassiopeia's voice came through on
an overhead speaker. "I'll be doing the extraction on you, first."
     "Why do I get the feeling that something I said about Cassiopeia
being like Tanannah bothered you, Bucko?" Jeremiah said.
     Starbuck kept his head immobile.  "Well...it's just that if it
turned out that you were my father, and that Tanannah was my mother, and
if Cassiopeia were just like her, it'd...well it'd almost make me think
that I was in love with her for the wrong reasons."
     The old man slowly nodded. "I see what you mean.  Starbuck, let me
just say this.  That's nothing to be ashamed about.  There's
nothing...unnatural about it, if that's what you're worried about.  In
fact, I think there's an old Gemonese song about how the ideal woman to
get sealed to, is someone just like the one one's father chose.  It's
just another...genetic instinct about who the right kind of woman is."
     "Thanks for putting it that way," Starbuck smiled, glad that
Jeremiah had broken the tension on that point.  It made him wonder for
the first time if his reluctance to go ahead with first Aurora, and then
Athena had been because they were the antithesis of the kind of woman
Cassiopeia was.  The antithesis of what he'd really been looking for in a
woman all these yahrens.
     That's definitely more food for thought, he realized as he heard the
laser spring to life.

*****************************

     "These are the recruit quarters," Omega motioned as he led the group
of recruits inside the medium-sized bunk room, one of more than sixty
such room on the Galactica that accommodated most of her enlisted
personnel.  "You'll all be staying here throughout your basic training. 
Find yourselves a bunk and then report your number to Corporal Lomas,
who's in charge of security operations for this section of the ship."
     He watched the recruits disperse throughout the room and then
frowned slightly when he saw two Arakeen Fremen move past and stake their
claim to a bunk at the far end of the room. Their towering presence was
so intimidating, that it immediately caused two other recruits who'd
selected a bunk across from them to move to another empty one on the
other side of the room.
     Fremen?  Among the recruits?  That's a first.
     "Uniforms will be issued after standard mental and physical tests
are taken, first thing tomorrow morning." he went on.  "You'll all be
having a busy day then, so your sleep cycle officially begins now.  In
the meantime, I'll be turning things over to Corporal Lomas, who's in
charge of Colonial Security for this section of the Galactica.  Any
questions you have, direct them to him."  He motioned the young uniformed
guard over and patted him on the shoulder.  "They're all yours, Lomas."
     As soon as Omega had gone, Lomas began to move about the room,
making an idle inspection of each of the recruits.  By the time he
reached the end of the room and saw the two Fremen for the first time, he
stopped in his tracks at the unexpected sight.  The Fremen stared at him
with their blue-in-blue eyes for nearly a half-centon, which caused Lomas
to slowly back away with a laid-back air.  He had only gone two steps,
when he felt one of their massive hands tap him on the shoulder.
     Without batting an eyebrow, Lomas turned around and looked them in
the eye. "Something I can do for you guys?" he politely inquired.
     "There is," Stilgar said in his low, impersonal tone of voice that
was typical of all the Arakeen.  "We've got a friend stationed aboard the
Galactica, someone who helped us in the escape from the Colonies.  Would
his quarters be anywhere nearby?"
     Lomas kept his expression polite.  "That depends.  What's his name?"
     "Starbuck," Tunk spoke. "Lieutenant Starbuck, I believe?  Or has he
received higher rank of late?"
     "No, he's still Lieutenant Starbuck," Lomas said.  "He's billeted
with the Blue Squadron on Beta Deck.  They're all on furlon right now, so
he won't be there at this time."
     "When does his furlon end?" Stilgar inquired.
     "I'm afraid that you wouldn't be able to see him until after you've
undergone the first stages of basic training and received proper security
clearances, gentlemen," the guard said.  "Until that phase is complete,
all recruits are confined to this section of the Galactica and only leave
under supervision for their training exercises."
     Suddenly mindful of the suspicion and hostility that plagued
relations between Colonials and Arakeen, he then added,  "No exceptions. 
I'm sorry."
     "We understand," Stilgar nodded.
     "If you wish, I can deliver a message to Lieutenant Starbuck
personally."
     "That won't be necessary," Stilgar then shook his head.  "We would
like to surprise him."
     The two Fremen then turned back to their bunk, leaving Lomas alone
and a trifle puzzled.
     We've all got to get used to new things; he shook his head in
disbelief as he moved back to the worktable that served as his duty
station.

*****************************

     "And that concludes today's testing," Cassiopeia smiled as she
entered the lab and undid the straps holding Starbuck and Chameleon in
their chairs. "I've got perfect neuro-cell samples, along with DNA
sampling and blood cell sampling, and we can start the process comparison
check in the computer."
     "Will it take very long?" Starbuck anxiously inquired.
     "A minimum of twelve centars but  no more than twenty-four," the
med-tech said. "Looks like you two will have something to sleep on as far
as the results go."
     Jeremiah rose from his chair and stretched himself out.  After
sitting for more than a centar feeling a battery of tests administered to
him, he was feeling the longness of the day catching up with him."
     "Oh Starbuck, I almost forgot," Cassiopeia said.  "You need to come
with me and fill out some of the forms that go with this test.  It'll
take a few centons, but it has to be done to keep things official.  Dr.
Salik's a stickler for that kind of thing."
     "Sure Cass, no problem."  Starbuck said and flashed a grin at
Jeremiah.  "See you in a little bit."
     The old man nodded, putting his wide-brimmed hat upon his head and
made his way out of the lab room where he saw that Apollo and Boomer were
waiting.
     "Ah, Jeremiah," Apollo chose his words carefully.  "We were
wondering if you'd join us in the Officers Club.  It's closed now, but we
can get in and talk without anyone else to disturb us."
     "Starbuck's not going to be ready for a bit."
     "Actually Jeremiah, we wanted to talk to you alone about a couple of
things." Boomer said.  "Do you mind?"
     Jeremiah shook his head disarmingly, "Aw, no, no.  I don't mind. 
What's it all about, though?"
     "We'll explain later," Apollo said.  "If you'll follow us please?"
     "Lead on, good captain."

*****************************

Chapter Thirteen: Routine Questions

     When Tigh arrived in Adama's quarters, he found the Galactica
commander in a slightly annoyed state of mind.
     "Glad you came Colonel," the commander held up a report.  "Have you
seen this latest memorandum from Admiral Zhark on the Celestra?"
     "No, I can't say I have," Tigh said. "Is it about that spare parts
inventory business?"
     "It is." Adama frowned.  "For the fifth straight sectan, he says the
inventory doesn't check.  Once again, a slight discrepancy in the
inventory of total spare parts kept aboard the Celestra for viper
maintenance.  Not enough that would cause concern if it happened just
once, but when it happens  five sectans in a row it adds up to something
potentially serious. Someone in this Fleet has been pilfering spare parts
and may very well be selling them illegally as part of a Black Market. "
     Tigh's brow knotted in concern.  "That is potentially serious.  If
this trend continues it could really hamper our ability to keep our
vipers in working order."
     "Not only that," Adama said.  "Suppose one person or one group of
people is doing all the stockpiling of what's being taken?" he let his
words hang in the air.  "We could be looking at a potential terrorist or
mutineer within this Fleet.  That's the last thing we need at a time when
some semblance of normalcy may finally be settling in."
     "Any leads for Colonial Security to work on?"
     "None," Adama shook his head.  "Zhark says he's going to launch an
internal investigation of his own to see who might be selling the parts,
and he'll get back to me when that's done.  If he stalls on it though, I
probably will have Colonial Security take over."
     "Zhark was never one to stall on things," Tigh smiled crookedly.
     "Don't I know it," Adama returned it, thinking of the five yahrens
he'd spent as Zhark's chief aide aboard the Battlestar Ricon many yahrens
ago.  Anyway, what brings you here?"
     The smile faded from the executive officer's face.  "A bit of
disconcerting news surrounding that man Jeremiah."
     "Oh?" the commander lifted an eyebrow.
     "Sergeant Kulanda telecommed a preliminary report.  It seems that
the ducat collector aboard the Canaris remembered Jeremiah this morning
and went into a fit when Kulanda showed him the holopic of him. 
Apparently, Jeremiah smooth-talked his way into making the trip to the
Rising Star without ever giving him a ducat.  Charmed him to death with a
story about being the News Director for the IFB and how he might be able
to arrange an interview with Zara for the man.  Naturally, when the
collector showed up at the IFB headquarters on the Electronics Ship
to see what the status was of his interview prospects, he was in for a
major embarrassment.  And a bigger one when his ducat cross-check came up
one short at the end of the day."
     "Very interesting," Adama leaned back in his chair, blowing his nose
into a handkerchief. "That shows that Jeremiah has a definite con-man's
streak inside him, but to be perfectly honest Tigh, that's the kind of
stunt I'd almost expect from a man who was Starbuck's father. I
mean...you do see the similarity."
     Tigh chuckled, "Yes Commander, I suppose you're right about that. 
Anyway, Kulanda's now checking out the woman who was with Jeremiah on the
trip over, one Siress Irulan."
     "Irulan," Adama mused.  "I think I know her, or at least of her. 
The youngest of Siress Brunhilde's six nieces, I believe."
     "Not the same personality, I hope," Tigh smirked.
     "If so, then Jeremiah may have had a reason for getting off the
Rising Star that I could understand," Adama returned it, still thinking
of how the woman who had once been Ila's rival for his affections many
yahrens ago had come back to haunt him recently during the whole messy
business of getting new agro-seed from the New Corinth agro-settlement on
Arcadis.  "Anything else to report?"
     "One other thing that may have a bearing on Jeremiah," Tigh's tone
grew serious.  "There are two Arakeen Fremen aboard this ship as part of
the new group of recruits that came aboard a couple of centars ago."
     Adama frowned in disbelief.  "What?"
     "Two Fremen.  It did strike me as odd, given the whole issue of
whether Jeremiah is connected to a Fremen blood duel, but I didn't have a
legitimate basis for questioning them ahead of the normal security
clearances all the recruits end up going through.  And I wouldn't let
Boomer and Apollo go down to see if they're the ones from the Rising Star
because the political risk of a protest to Emissary Fidan would be too
great."
     The Commander nodded, "Yes, you did the right thing there.  An
unwarranted questioning of Fremen would be just the sort of thing
hardliners could use to undercut Fidan.  But still, it's hard to fathom
two Fremen going so far as to sign up as recruits."
     "Maybe you should talk to Fidan about it."
     "I will," Adama leaned forward and hit his telecom to the bridge. 
"This is Commander Adama.  Put me through to Emissary Fidan aboard the
freighter Borallus."
     Two centons later, the face of the Arakeens' unofficial leader was
on the screen. Emissary Fidan had been the Arakeen Tribal Cooperative's
official envoy to the Colonies at the time of the Holocaust and had long
prided himself as a friend of Colonial interests, even though it had long
since earned him the hatred of militants in the Fremen class.  As a
member of the Fremen Landsraad, he possessed the same towering build and
physical presence of the Fremen, but unlike the Fremen maintained a
clean-shaven appearance and wore Colonial dress, as opposed to the
traditional cloak and stillsuit.
     "Greetings, Commander Adama," his voice was the same neutral
monotone typical of all Arakeen, but possessed a hint of affection and
warmth that long-time acquaintances could always sense.  "It's always an
honor to speak with you."
     "The feeling is mutual,  your excellency," Adama's tone was
completely cordial. "I have long valued your friendship."
     "Is there a matter of concern to you, Commander?"
     "At the moment, I'm not sure," Adama chose his words carefully. 
"Your excellency, I'm well aware of the fact that you believe the Fremen
should be entitled to as much free rein as possible aboard your ship, in
order to maintain their customs and their culture, and I have never
questioned your judgment on that matter."
     "And I have long appreciated that, Commander.  Free rein with the
Fremen is the key to making them lasting friends of the Colonial people
like the rest of us Arakeen are.
     "However, there is a matter of concern that has come up in the last
day.  Are you familiar with the Fremen charged with reckless endangerment
and threatening Colonial officers aboard the Rising Star this morning?"
     "Unfortunately, yes.  The Landsraad brought that to my attention
earlier this evening.  A brazen youngster named Musa, I believe.  His
naib has already sentenced him to a lifetime's invisibility, so when he
is eventually released, he will be an outcast among his tribe.  All
Fremen officials are well aware of the fact that antagonizing Colonial
interests does them no credit."
     "Understood," Adama said.  "But Your Excellency, does this newfound
respect for Colonial procedure among the Fremen also extend to
volunteering for service in the Colonial military?"
     The Emisarry frowned.  "No, I would scarcely think that Fremen would
be motivated to go that far, Commander.  I have preached a doctrine of
tolerance and the benefits of cooperative interaction, but even I would
not consider the idea of stressing the benefits of serving in the
Colonial military."
     "You are aware then, that two Fremen are among the newest group of
recruits that came aboard the Galactica this evening?"
     "No, I was not," Fidan said.  "That's certainly news to me.  But you
do realize that it is not my place to keep them under constant
surveillance, anymore than it is your place to do so for your own people,
Commander."
     "Granted," Adama conceded.  "But there is a possibility, not yet
proven I admit, that as many as three Fremen could be engaged in a blood
duel.  If that is true, then I would be required to ask you to exercise
greater control over the Fremen since such a practice can not be
tolerated in any shape, form or size within this fleet."
     "I quite understand, Commander," Fidan said in agreement.  "It is a
barbaric practice borne of a tradition that most Arakeen thankfully came
to see as outmoded and useless long ago in our planet's history.  No
Arakeen who is ever found to have engaged in such a practice is welcome
aboard my ship."
     "If you could at least ascertain for us who the two recruits are,
and discreetly notify us about what you know about them, that would be
most appreciated."
     "I'll get to work on that tomorrow, Commander.  As you are
undoubtedly aware, most of us begin our sleep cycles considerably earlier
in the evening than Colonials are apt to."
     "Of course.  Thank your for your courtesy, Your Excellency."
     Fidan bowed his head slightly in respect. "As the savior of all that
is undoubtedly left of Arakeen civilization, Commander Adama, you are
entitled to nothing less.  Good night, my friend."
     "Good night, Your Excellency," Adama shut off the telecom and looked
up at Tigh.  "It would seem that this matter is now on hold until
tomorrow.  We'll resume work on it then.  If Kulanda contacts you about
his interview with Siress Irulan, do let me know about that."
     "I will," the executive officer nodded.  "Good evening, Commander."
     "Good evening, Tigh," Adama said as he went back to the strange
report from Admiral Zhark about missing spare parts.

*****************************

     The Officers Club was empty when Apollo, Boomer and Jeremiah
arrived. Because Apollo had higher security clearance as a Squadron
Commander, he was provided with a special pass-card to all sections of
the battlestar.  It was a privilege he seldom took advantage of.  On this
occasion though, he felt that an exception was warranted.
     As soon as the three had settled down to drinks, Boomer had
explained the nature of their concerns as delicately as possible to
Jeremiah.  As Boomer spoke, the old man's expression took on a bemused
air.  At no time did he ever seem surprised or rattled.
     "What is this? Some kind of an idiotic joke?" Jeremiah said as soon
as Boomer had finished.  "You think I concocted a story about losing a
son just so I could get off the Rising Star with a warrior?"
     "No joke, Jeremiah," already Boomer felt embarrassed.  The old man's
demeanor and inherent charm made it difficult to accuse him of any
unethical conduct.  "I was in the Astral Lounge when the Fremen pulled
out an aura grenade.  And it looked like just before he did, a man
dressed very much like you are now left the Lounge at the rear exit. 
Now, was that, or was that not you in the Lounge at the time?"
     Jeremiah skipped a beat for only a micron.  "Well sonny, it looks
like you've uncovered my dirty little secret.  Yes, that was me you saw.
And to be blunt with you Lieutenant, one of those Fremen was after me."
     The admission caught both Apollo and Boomer off-guard.
     "Why would he be after you?" Apollo could scarcely believe that
Jeremiah would volunteer information like that.  
     "Because, Captain, that particular Fremen, the young one you said
was the individual who pulled the grenade, had an eight-yahren old child
with minimal psychic abilities that he said was his son.  I ran the test
for him as a favor, totally on my own time without Dr. Sarthe's
knowledge, and it came back negative.  He didn't take the news very well,
unfortunately.  The next day, that young scamp confronts me, throws a
crysknife on the floor at my feet and demands that fight him in a blood
duel.  I declined of course, but, apparently, in their society, the
penalty for declining such a challenge is death."
     "All that because a genetic test on a child psychic turns out to be
negative?"
Apollo tried to digest that information.
     Jeremiah took another sip of his drink.  "They've got a prophecy,
Captain, about a...redeemer of their race called the Kwisatz Haderach."
     Apollo and Boomer told him they didn't know what that term meant.
     "In Colonial Standard, this translates to 'Shortener of the Way,' "
Jeremiah explained. "The Kwizatz Haderach is a male Fremen capable of
absolute powers of prescience, able to predict all possible futures and
to cause select threads of time to be realized through mental
manipulation. The prophecy states that, sometime during the Seventh
Millenium, he will ascend to power then unite all the Fremen seitches
into a mighty nation and strengthen Arakeen power among other power loci
throughout the universe.  The father of the Kwizatz Hederach will achieve
a very high position in their society, so, I guess this is just that
young Fremen's way of getting back at me for denying him the honor and
glory he so deeply desired."
     "Why didn't you notify Council Security, or even Colonial Security?"
Boomer said.  "They could have made a protest to Emissary Fidan about an
out-of-control Fremen on your behalf, and he'd have personally cracked
down on that man."
     "Because, Lieutenant ....I was acting on advice from Siress Irulan,"
Jeremiah's tone became matter-of-face.  "She's...a bit of an expert on
Fremen culture and...she said I would be better off just leaving the
whole thing alone, staying out of sight of him, give him time to get over
his anger.  Besides, can you imagine the trouble I'd be in if Dr. Sarthe
every found out that I spent some evenings conducting unauthorized tests? 
It's likely she would never again let me anywhere near her lab.  Oh, the
heartache I'd suffer if I couldn't help anymore in the tracer project."
     Apollo looked him in the eye.  "So you don't feel the need for
warrior protection."
     "I'd be lying if I denied it would give me some peace of mind about
the Fremen," the old man conceded. "But compared to what the stakes are
with Starbuck, I see it only as a secondary matter, Captain.  If the
tests turn out negative and I have no further business to keep me here on
the Galactica, then I simply return to my quarters aboard the Seniors
Ship, and my occasional duties aboard the Orphans Ship."
     Apollo was on the verge of letting out a sigh of embarrassment. 
Even so, he knew there was one more card he needed to play.  "Would it
bother you, Jeremiah, to know that two Fremen just arrived on the
Galactica as warrior recruits today?"
     Jeremiah shrugged.  "No.  I mean, it's possible those two Fremen
might share a similar grudge against me, but I won't use it as grounds to
be suspicious of them.  Besides, aren't warrior recruits confined to one
section only of this ship?"
     "Well...yes," Apollo conceded.  "I just thought you should know."
     "I appreciate that, Captain, but I don't think that amounts to
much."
     The embarrassment finally kicked inside Apollo.  The aura Jeremiah
had projected was so convincing and so sincere, it was hard for him to
not believe the old man.
     "Look...um, Jeremiah," his voice grew apologetic.  "We were just
concerned about Starbuck being used.  His being an orphan is the most
sensitive subject of his entire life.  It's something he doesn't even
talk about with us."
     "I suspected as much," Jeremiah smiled.  "But he must be a fine
young man to have such wonderful friends like the two of you."
     His words managed to break through the embarrassment both warriors
were feeling.  Apollo returned the smile and raised his tankard in a
toast.  "To a positive match."
     "To a positive match," Jeremiah clinked his tankard against Apollo's
and then Boomer's.

*****************************

Chapter Fourteen: "We're Already Warriors "

     The sound of the new warrior recruits snoring away in their bunks
ordinarily would have unnerved any outside observer, but Corporal Lomas,
seated at his work station table near the door to the recruit quarters,
had gotten used to this sound long ago.  To him, it was simply part of
the natural rhythm of things and it enabled him to stay on top of all the
paperwork he needed to do once the new recruits came aboard.
     Even so, Lomas despised his current assignment.  When he'd signed on
as a Colonial Security Guard prior to the Holocaust, it had been with the
mindset that he'd get to see more of the universe than anyone possibly
could.  During the days of the cease-fire leading up to the peace that
never was, expectation of a return to deep star exploration was at a
high.  That would mean Colonial Security Guards would be needed more than
ever to serve on landing parties to new, previously unexplored planets.
     Not so in this post-Holocaust journey across the stars to a distant
planet called Earth.  Hardly ever did the Galactica stop to study unknown
planets, and when they did, regular warrior-pilots handled the
responsibilities of exploring in the interests of efficiency. In the
changed environment, Colonial Security Guards had been reduced to the
function of a police force that only acted whenever matters of military
security were involved.  And even there, they often found themselves
limited since the civilian police force represented by Council Security
insisted on handling all security matters away from the Galactica.
     Maybe those black-shirted goons have it better, Lomas idly thought
as he wrote down the names of the recruits that had been given to him and
prepared them for the official security clearance forms that would be
processed the next day.  At least they lead more exciting lives.
     He noticed a shadow come across his desk.  When Lomas looked up, he
saw the two Fremen recruits standing in front of him, their blue-in-blue
eyes glowing like little lights in the semi-darkness.  From his seated
position, Lomas had the impression of ten feet giants hovering over him.
     "Yes?" he inquired gently, trying not to betray any inner feelings
of unease.
     "We need a private room to conduct our nightly religious rituals,"
Stilgar said in the familiar neutral monotone, "away from those who do
not share our religious beliefs."
     Lomas frowned, "I beg your pardon?"
     "Fremen law requires three ritual prayers daily, one in the morning,
one at midday, and one after midnight," Stilgar explained.  "The
nighttime prayer is the most important to us, as we must use that time to
take our sacred life-giving drug," he held out an ornate pill bottle in
front of Lomas' face, "the Spice Melange."
     Lomas set his pen down.  "Forget it!  Warrior recruits are confined
to this area only.  No exceptions."
     "Are you denying us our religious freedom?" a hint of coldness
entered Stilgar's voice.
     The security guard flushed slightly.  "No, but I think you should
have consulted the manual for warrior training procedure before you came
aboard.  No privileges regarding cultural practices, particularly
drug-related practices, are granted to warriors until routine security
checks and clearances are made.  When that process is done, you can put
in a request and I'm sure we'll be glad to accommodate you on that
matter."
     "That won't do," Stilgar said.  "In Arakeen culture, to miss one day
of private prayer is regarded as an unpardonable breach of the law. 
Furthermore, if we were to fail to take even one dose of Spice Melange,
we would become comatose and die.  How do you expect us to live up to the
code of honor we intend to swear to as new Colonial Warriors if we're
forced to simultaneously betray a code of conduct that we honor no less?"
     Frack, felgercarb and shit!  Lomas suddenly found himself yearning
for a night of quiet paperwork for the first time.  If I argue with them
it's only going to mean trouble.
     "All right, I'll do this much for you two," he said.  "You can have
the supply compartment next door for however long you need it, but after
tonight, I expect you to follow the rules and Spice Melange be damned. 
Agreed?"
     "Agreed," Stilgar said.  "Any room will do, so long as it is
private." 
     "Come along then," Lomas got up from his desk and went over to the
door on the other side of the room that led to the adjacent compartment
where surplus uniforms and boots were kept.  He inserted his access card
that opened it, and stepped inside.
     "No offense gentlemen," Lomas said as he started to clear away some
of the uniforms in order to make room for them to squeeze in.  "But I
don't think you guys are going to make good warriors."
     Abruptly, Stilgar brought his fist down squarely on Lomas's back. 
The security guard was unconscious even before his body began its descent
to the floor.
     The Fremen naib stood over his body with contempt as he grabbed a
uniform off the hangar.  "We're already warriors.  Far greater than any
of you could ever hope to be."
     He handed a uniform to Tunk and then took out another one for
himself.  With total stealth, so as not to disturb any of the sleeping
recruits, they began to remove their cloaks and slipped the uniforms on
over their stillsuits.

*****************************

Chapter Fifteen: The End Of A Friendship

     "Well?" Boomer inquired as he and Apollo walked down the corridor
after leaving Jeremiah in the Officers Club.  "I guess that's the end of
it."
     "I'd say it pretty much is the end," Apollo sighed.  "I should
probably spend what little time is left in this day with Boxey.  If he's
back from all the indulgences the Rejuvenation Center has to offer."
     "He's undoubtedly having a more fun time in the Rejuvenation Center
than the last time I saw him there," Boomer said in joking reference to
the terrifying experience he, Boxey, Athena and Princess Alpha had gone
through after the Cylon suicide attacks sixteen sectans ago. "When you
see him, tell him I still want to get around to that compartment
billyarks match we never started."
     "I think he's lost his passion for billyarks," Apollo said.  "He's
moved up to three-dimensional triad now."
     "That's a better game anyway," Boomer admitted.
     "Apollo, Boomer," they looked up and saw Tigh emerge from the next
compartment.  "I'm glad I caught you.  Sergeant Kulanda just telecommed
in some more details on the security check on this Jeremiah."
     "What'd he say?" Apollo asked with interest.
     "What security check are you talking about?"
     The three men turned around and were startled to see an irate
Starbuck walking toward them from the opposite direction.
     "Uh...Starbuck.  Didn't know you were..." Apollo started haltingly.
     "I was on my way to find my father," he said defiantly and with
throbbing muscles in his neck.  "Unless in your paranoia you've decided
to toss him in the brig!"
     "Now wait a centon, Starbuck, all we did was conduct a normal
security check. That's all."  Apollo held up a hand.
     "By sending out Sergeant Kulanda to dig up dirt?" Starbuck
spluttered.  "If you wanted to run a check, that's what the Fleet
Computer's for!  It's only when you've got paranoia do you send out
Colonial Security to run the kind of checks that are usually reserved for
potential murderers or saboteurs!"
     "Starbuck, there were good reasons for carrying out a security
check," Boomer protested.  "All kinds of crazy things were happening on
the Rising Star that didn't add up.  For sagan's sake, we already talked
to Jeremiah and he understood completely why we asked him about them. 
You can talk to him yourself in the Officers Club and he'll confirm
that!"
     "My father is clearly a greater man of tact and dignity than either
of you," Starbuck refused to let up. "Lucky for you he's not my age. 
I'll bet he'd have given you both a good kneeing in the crotch for
questioning his integrity!"
     "Starbuck, face reality!" Apollo protested.  Starbuck's reaction to
the whole thing was starting to get on his nerves.  "When we met Jeremiah
on the Rising Star---"
     "Yeah, I remember," Starbuck coldly interrupted.  "You just couldn't
wait to start throwing ice water on the idea that he was my father!"
     "I was not!" Apollo fired back.  "I just wanted to run things by the
book!"
     "You want to know what the trouble with you is?" Starbuck was now
going jaw-to-jaw with him.  "You don't have any faith in anyone, or
anything except yourself!  The stars and planets revolve around Apollo's
instincts and Apollo's judgments!  I'll bet you see yourself as some Mr.
Perfect-Know-It-All who thinks he's never been wrong one day in his
life!"
     Apollo had now had enough.  "And you want to know something
Starbuck?"  He refused to back away from the jaw-to-jaw position.  "I
hope that test comes back negative, because after this little two-yahren
old child stunt of yours, I think it's probably clear that Jeremiah's too
good a man to be your father!"
     "Oh is that a fact?" Starbuck roared.  "We'll just see about that. 
And I can't wait for you to beg for forgiveness and kiss my astrum when
those tests prove you wrong, and it'll give me pleasure to not let you
have it."
     "That's ENOUGH!" Tigh roared.  "Stop it!  Both of you!"
     Starbuck was still seething as he glared at the executive officer. 
"My apologies, Colonel that you had to witness the end of a friendship."
he then jabbed a finger in Apollo's stomach.  "I'll be with my father, if
you want to count the Mess Hall silverware. Otherwise," his voice raised
to it's highest level of cold contempt, "you stay clear of me. And that
goes for you too, Boomer.  My wonderful ex- friends."
     He then turned and stormed off down the corridor that led back to
the Officers Club.  Apollo was still shaking in rage.
     "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed
it," he whispered.  "I know Jeremiah's a charming man, but to cast that
kind of spell over Starbuck..."
     "Warriors can be human too," Boomer said quietly.  "You said it
yourself.  This concerns the one thing in Starbuck's life that's bothered
him more than anything else.  He wouldn't act that way toward you, or to
me, if he didn't want so much to settle that one thing in his life.  You
should have taken his words more on the chin."
     "How can you take words like that on the chin?" the bitterness was
obvious in Apollo's voice.  "After all we've been through for all these
yahrens, he's willing to throw it away just on a whim about someone we
barely know much about."
     "Because what's at stake means that much to him, Apollo," Boomer
patted him on the shoulder.  "That's why."
     "I guess," Apollo slowly exhaled and forced himself to look back at
Tigh.  "I apologize, Colonel, I..."
     "Never mind," Tigh said.  "Getting back to what Kulanda had to
report..."
     "Oh yes," Apollo straightened himself out.  "What did he find?"
     "More mysteries.  Siress Irulan confirmed what he already learned
from the Canaris ducat collector that Jeremiah has a penchant for telling
some tall tales about himself.  Then, by a lucky coincidence he found
some staff members from the Orphans' Ship who confirmed that the only
thing Jeremiah does for the genetic tracer project is provide some
cheerful words and a smile a couple centars every sectan."
     "One question."  Apollo held up a hand.  "Those workers on the
tracer project. Did they say whether or not Jeremiah's capable of running
that equipment himself?"
     Tigh consulted his notes.  "Yes, they did.  They say Jeremiah
wouldn't know how to operate a single piece of equipment there.  He's
computer illiterate, as far as they know."
     Apollo and Boomer exchanged troubled glances.
     "Which makes his story about why the Fremen are after him total
felgercarb," Boomer said.  "Colonel, we'd better throw diplomatic caution
out the window and find out just who those Fremen recruits are.  Because
if they are the ones from the Rising Star, then I think we're looking at
a blood duel for sure."
     "We can drop by the Recruit Quarters and check it out ourselves,"
Tigh said. "Let's get going."

*****************************

     "Jeremiah!" Starbuck said brightly as he entered the Club and found
the old man still sitting at the table, finishing off the last part of
his drink.  "Glad I found you."
     "I've been expectin' you, m'boy." Jeremiah set his tankard down. 
"Anything on the testing front?"
     "Nah, nothing like that," Starbuck came up to him and awkwardly
lowered his head.  "Look...ah, Jeremiah, there are some things I'd like
to talk to you about.  In some place a little more...private."
     Jeremiah looked about the empty surroundings of the Club.  "Why not
here?"
     "Because," Starbuck said, "because it's too...well, the setting's
all wrong for the kind of things I'd like to say to you.  I'd rather go
someplace a little more personal to me.  Like...well like in my viper
down in Alpha Launch Bay.  It's deserted at this time of night."
     Jeremiah put his hat on and rose.  "Y'know something?  I've been
dying to see one of those magnificent machines up close.  If not for my
poor-quality eyesight, I might have qualified for flight status in my
youth."
     "Tell me all about it," Starbuck clapped his hand around his
shoulder as they left the Officers' Club.

*****************************

Chapter Sixteen: The Fremen Make Their Move

     "We need uniforms that will best conceal our appearance, Tunk,"
Stilgar said as he tossed away the warrior's tunic Tunk had first handed
him.  "We've got to take advantage of the night working conditions so
that our presence isn't noticed by too many warriors."
     "You're right." Tunk nodded and found an orange coverall and
matching helmet from the launch crew division that he realized would be
far better for the task.  "Once we've achieved victory in this blood
duel, we'll commandeer a shuttle and return to the Arrakis.  Since we
never gave our true names to that fool guard, they'd never be able to
conclusively prove our involvement.  We benefit from the Colonial
prejudice that all Fremen look alike to them."
     He handed the helmet to Stilgar who placed it over his head.
     "We've got to hurry," Stilgar said as he slipped into the orange
coverall.  "Time is of the essence."

*****************************

     "Never even tried a viper simulator?" Starbuck asked as he and
Jeremiah walked toward the turbo lift.  "I always thought those pleasure
palace Chanceries had one or two of those who really wanted to be
daring."
     "Don't believe I ever had the nerve to," Jeremiah said.
     They turned the corner and stopped as they came within an inch of
colliding with a male and female warrior who were both locked in a
passionate kiss and embrace.
     "Oh.  Sorry Giles, did we interrupt something?"  Starbuck sheepishly
inquired.
     The two of them let go of each other in embarrassment and stood at
rigid attention.  To Starbuck's amazement, he saw that the woman wasn't
Brie, who he always thought of as the only woman Giles was interested in,
but Loveliness.
     "Starbuck," the one-time member of his squadron was blushing red. 
"What are you doing up this late?"
     "Just showing a friend of mine my viper down in the launch bay,
Giles.  Oh and Loveliness," he eyed the female shuttle pilot wryly who
was also blushing a deep red.  "Better watch yourself around this space
lupus.  He's got the worst hand and foot coordination of any would-be
triad player."
     Loveliness swallowed uneasily and said nothing.
     "C'mon Jeremiah," Starbuck put his arm around the old man's shoulder
again and they resumed walking.  "I've got a real beaut to show you down
there.  I'll even let you try out the cockpit."

*****************************

     It took ten centons for Apollo, Boomer and Tigh to negotiate the
various deck levels and corridors to reach the entrance to the Recruit
Quarters.  When the door opened and they entered, they were stunned to
see that Lomas wasn't at his work station.
     "He's not there," Tigh said, trying to recover from the sinking rush
of horror that was coming over him.  "If he's not on duty, then those two
Fremen---"
     "---are making their move now!" Apollo felt a sick feeling enter his
stomach.
     The executive officer dashed over to an intercom.  "Executive
officer to bridge! Priority alert!"
     "What's the emergency, Colonel?" the puzzlement in Athena's voice
was obvious.
     "Send out all available security guards to fan the areas around
Recruit Quarters. They're to be on the lookout for two Arakeen Fremen who
are likely fighting a blood duel.  Also, locate Lieutenant Starbuck and a
civilian named Jeremiah and have both of them placed in immediate
protective custody.  On the double!"
     As soon as he mentioned the name of her one-time boyfriend, Athena's
voice took on a concerned edge.  "Is Starbuck in danger?"
     "He may well be.  Just carry out that order, now Athena!"
     Tigh turned back to Apollo and Boomer.  "Let's see if they're still
in the Officers Club."
     "Agreed," Apollo nodded.  The three of them began sprinting for the
nearest turbo-lift.

*****************************

     "I'm telling you Loveliness, it was a mistake," Giles was saying as
he and Loveliness finally summoned the nerve to start walking.  "I let
myself get carried away over my spat with Brie.  I should have known
better."
     The shuttle pilot stared at him with a hurt look.  She'd enjoyed her
evening with Giles, and found him to be the most interesting man she'd
ever spent a date with.  Far more interesting than her one occasion with
Starbuck.  "Giles, please."
     "No, Loveliness.  I'm sorry," the viper pilot held up a hand.  "I
think Starbuck's running into us was one of those little signals from the
Almighty you just can't ignore."
     "Excuse me." a deep male voice spoke.
     Giles and Loveliness looked up, and in the dimly lit corridor saw
two tall crewmen wearing the orange coveralls of launch crew personnel.
     "Something we can do for you, Crewman?" Giles inquired, wondering
how many more people he'd run into unexpectedly.
     "We're looking for Lieutenant Starbuck.  Have either of you seen
him?"
     "Try Alpha Launch Bay," Loveliness motioned behind her.  "He and a
civilian were headed that way a few centons ago."
     "Thank you," the lead crewman nodded as he and the other moved past
quickly. The two warriors didn't have time to catch a glimpse of either
of their faces.
     "I guess old Bucko's losing his touch with the ladies if he's only
mixing with men on his furlon," Giles observed dryly as they moved on.

*****************************

     "You won't find a better flying machine ever designed by an
intelligent species in the universe," Starbuck said as he sat on top of
his viper and pointed out the various controls to an awed Jeremiah, who
was sitting inside the cockpit.  "Over here on the control stick is the
main engine turbos, followed by the laser generator fire button.  You
press that red dot and a million voltons of firepower emerges that's
blasted many a Cylon fighter into spacedust down through the yahrens."
     "Hard to believe," Jeremiah said.  "Now, about this third button
marked 'IM'? Whatever could that stand for?"
     "You know something?" Starbuck chuckled.  "They never did tell us
what those initials stand for.  But what it does is control our reverse
thrusters.  The feature that enables us to be a lot more unpredictable
than the average Cylon fighter is."
     "Surely flying one of these things produces a lot more satisfaction
than just the ability to shoot at Cylons," Jeremiah said.  "I doubt very
seriously that words can describe what it must feel like to just streak
through the stars, totally in control of your fate.  It must be
exhilarating."
     "It is," Starbuck admitted as he drew up his shoulders.  "There's
nothing quite like it in the whole universe.  Which is why---" he sucked
in his breath, "---I'm gonna miss it."
     Jeremiah looked up at him and frowned.  "I beg your pardon?"
     "Jeremiah," Starbuck leaned closer to him.  "Let's be honest.  We
know those test results are going to be positive.  We already confirmed a
common ancestral pool and that profile couldn't match many other
inhabitants from Umbra.  We think alike.  We share the same interests. 
The same tastes in just about everything except smoking.  None of that
can be a coincidence.  I know in my heart the results are positive."
     "There's a good chance of that, yes.  But what does that have to do
with---"
     "Jeremiah," Starbuck gently cut in.  "I want to make up for all the
lost yahrens."
     An uneasy look came over the old man's bulldog face.  "Starbuck, I'm
the one who should be saying that."
     "Nope," he smiled.  "You spent your whole life looking for me."
     Jermeiah licked his lips, which were fast becoming dry.  "M'boy," he
took his hand.  "You really don't know anything about me."
     "No, I don't," Starbuck shrugged and then gathered all his strength. 
"That's why the Service will have my resignation in the morning."
     "Resignation?" Jeremiah's jaw opened in disbelief.  "Do you realize
what you're saying?"
     "I'm saying something I've wanted to say my entire conscious life,
since I realized what Fate had dealt me, growing up in that miserable
Caprican orphanage," Starbuck said with all the genuine feeling he could
summon.  "That one day I'd get a chance to meet at least one of my
parents, if not both of them, and just spend all the time I could getting
to know them, and to know myself at long last;  all about where I come
from, about my ancestors. All the answers to things I could only dream
about night-after-night before I cried myself to sleep in that orphanage. 
To finally reach out to someone who was part of my own flesh-and-blood
and embrace them."
     "All well and good, Bucko," Jeremiah had the distinct sense inside
him that events had spiraled far out of control, and that he was now
reaping a path of destruction that he had not wanted to sow.  "But that
doesn't mean you have to give up doing what you do best!"
     "Jeremiah," Starbuck looked him in the eye.  "All the furlons in the
world wouldn't give me enough time to spend with you, even if we never
see another Cylon attack again.  That time is the one thing I want more
than anything else, and if resigning my commission will give it to me,
I'm going to do it."
     "They need you here, Starbuck," a faint edge of pleading entered the
old man's voice. "The Fleet needs you to be a warrior. They need you
to...."
     Starbuck waved his hand.  "I've thought of myself as too
indispensable for a long time, Jeremiah.  It's time I realize that I'm
not, especially when there are more important things in life to grab hold
of."
     "Ain't nothin' more important than defending the Fleet."
     "What about your work?" Starbuck said simply.  "Reuniting babies and
children with their parents.  Making sure that what happened to us
doesn't have to happen to others.  That's the kind of work that really
means something.  You work with life, not death."
     "But somebody's gotta preserve that life, Starbuck," Jeremiah
harshly countered. "Somebody's gotta preserve our civilization and
species so that a new generation of parents and babies need not ever go
through the horror of an Umbra or a Holocaust again.  If not you then
who?"
     "Ah, they've got a lot of hotshot pilots who can handle that job,"
Starbuck's voice became a forlorn whisper.  "As God as my witness
Jeremiah, this is what I want;  the ability to do something positive in
my life for a change.  Especially with the one thing I've always wanted
in my life.  A family."
     "What about the ones who've loved you as family all these yahrens,
Starbuck?" Jeremiah said.  "People like Apollo and Boomer and Sheba and,"
he took a breath, "Cassiopeia?"
     He let out a mild snort.  "Lately, Jeremiah, I've discovered that
maybe I don't know them as well as I think I know them.  Apollo and
Boomer that is.  I'm seeing a lot of traits in them that...well that make
me realize that I've misjudged them over the yahrens." He looked him in
the eye.  "Can you believe they had the nerve to have Colonial Security
run a full-blown check on you?"
     Jeremiah felt his inner anguish deepen.  "And that's what put you in
this frame of mind about resigning?"
     "No," he shook his head.  "No, not completely.  Maybe I did fly off
the handle with them a bit.  Maybe they did act from good intentions
but---" he took a breath.  "But when it comes to choosing between what
they've offered me all these yahrens, and what I have a chance for with
you, Jeremiah, it's just no comparison as to what I really want.  I'd
have come to that conclusion anyway, even if they hadn't run a check."
     "But what about Cassiopeia?" Jeremiah asked pointedly.  "If it's
just gonna be you and me from now on, like you intend, where does that
leave her?"
     "Well," Starbuck absently mused.  "I still feel the same about her. 
I...think I could fit her into my life still."
     "I honestly don't see how," Jeremiah refused to let up.  "Her duties
are here.  You can't ask her to give that up in an instant so she can
conform to your world."
     "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, Jeremiah," Starbuck
regained the firm edge in his voice.
     "You might not be able to cross it," Jeremiah took his hand. 
"Look...son," the pleading edge in his voice increased.  "You make me
feel very proud.  You really do.  But also..." he choked up slightly and
Starbuck wondered if there were tears forming in his eyes,
"...insignificant."
     Starbuck frowned.  "Insignificant?"
     "Look..." Chameleon seemed to struggle getting his words out, but
inside he knew that he'd been left with no other choice.  He finally
needed to make a clean breast about everything to Starbuck.  About the
real reasons why he'd sought him out.
     I'm sorry Tanannah, his heart cried out.  I'm so sorry I used your
precious memory and legacy of what you gave me for such a selfish reason.
     "Look," Jeremiah started over.  "The truth of the matter is---"
     Before he could go any further, they were both distracted by the
noisy sound of the turbo lift descending.  Ordinarily it wouldn't have
attracted any attention but in the deserted setting, the noise was
practically deafening.
     Starbuck glanced over and frowned when he saw the orange coveralls
and helmets of launch crew personnel.  "Launch crew personnel?  What are
they doing down here when everyone's on furlon?"
     Jeremiah instantly saw the blue-in-blue eyes of the two men and he
knew right away could only mean one thing.  "That is definitely not the
launch crew, m'boy," an edge of panic entered his voice as he abruptly
took off his hat and slouched himself low in the cockpit, out of their
line of sight.
     Starbuck dropped to the tarmac and came up to them.  His frown
deepened when he saw them step out of the shadows and he could see the
blue-in-blue eyes of Arakeens.
     "What's going on?" he kept his voice polite, but also made sure his
arm was parallel to his laser pistol.  "Neither of you are from Jenny's
crew."
     "Where are you hiding him?" Stilgar inquired with heavy contempt.
     "Where am I hiding who?" his frown deepened.
     "The jackal," Tunk chimed in.  "Captain Dimitri."
     "There's no...Captain Dimitri here," his bewilderment increased. 
"Just me."
     "Liar!"  Stilgar spat.
     Starbuck felt his patience evaporating. "I'm only going to ask you
nicely one more time.  Just what the frack is going on here?"
     "A blood duel, Lieutenant!" Stilgar raised his voice and whipped out
his aura grenade.  As soon as he heard the high-pitched whine, Starbuck
pulled out his laser pistol and backed away behind one of the support
columns.  He took a micron to glance back and see where the Fremen had
retreated to, and saw the blue orb of the grenade whoosh within inches of
his head.  It slammed against the column and exploded in a shower of
sparks.
     Starbuck fired back at the Fremen and just had time to see his shot
miss as they backed away behind another column.  But when the warrior
heard the high-pitched whine again, he realized that the Fremen had
heavily armed themselves with more than just one grenade.
     He decided to make a move into the open and hope that would give him
one clear shot at them.  But as soon as he moved away from the safety of
the column, he saw three grenades streak over his head and crash against
the beam four inches above.  The concussion knocked Starbuck off balance
and made him drop his laser pistol.  He heard it clatter away in a
direction he couldn't begin to pinpoint.
     "Frack, felgercarb and shit!" he muttered angrily to himself.  He
got back to his feet and saw the Fremen slowly approach him.  He knew
that any hope of exit from the launch bay was cut off for now.
     Instinctively, he made for the launch tube that his viper was lined
up on.  As he dashed down the darkened tunnel that ultimately exited from
the battlestar itself, he head the whine of yet another grenade unfurl. 
Starbuck glanced back over his shoulder and saw the blue streak again. 
This time, he had to jump to the side of the tube to avoid getting hit.
     From inside the viper, Jeremiah slowly brought himself back up to a
sitting position as he saw Stilgar and Tunk step in front of the viper
and slowly make their way down the launch tube.  To his relief, they
never bothered to turn around and look back where he would have been a
clear, defenseless target.  But his relief was overshadowed by his terror
at how Starbuck was hopelessly trapped inside the darkened launch tube
with no apparent way out.
     Overhead, he heard the urgent voice of Athena fill the launch bay
over the unicom. "Attention.  Attention all Security personnel.  Converge
immediately on Alpha Launch Bay.  I repeat.  Converge immediately on
Alpha Launch Bay."
     That told Jermiah that help would arrive soon, but as he saw the
Fremen slowly walk with ominous steps down the launch tube; he also knew
that they might not arrive in time.
     All righty, these bastards wanted to fight me in a blood duel, so
I'll give them a fight they'll never forget, he thought with mounting
fury, but how do I do it?  He found his eyes glancing down at the control
panel Starbuck had pointed out just centons ago and realized that the
answer lay there.
     "Laser, laser," he whispered as he searched for the power button and
then found it. As he activated the main power button for the viper, he
looked up and saw Starbuck making his way back out.  He had clearly
hidden in one of the side vents inside the launch tube, waited for the
Fremen to move past, and was now bidding a quick retreat.
     "Son, hit the deck!" Jeremiah shouted as the power-up sequence
completed itself.  He just had time to see Starbuck jump out of the
launch tube opening and collapse to the tarmac as the Fremen turned
around and pulled out their grenades.
     But before they could release them, Jeremiah's finger came down on
the red button and the streaks of laser fire erupted down the launch
tube, each of them grazing the Fremen and knocking them to the ground
where they lay motionless.  Because laser fire from a viper was never
intended for this setting, a backlash of intense smoke erupted and
flooded the launch bay.
     Jeremiah coughed several times as he waved the smoke out of his face
and got out of the cockpit.  He dropped to the tarmac, slapped on his
hat, and saw Starbuck lying there, writhing slightly after his tumble
out.
     "Starbuck?" Jeremiah came up to him, and helped him to a sitting
position. "Starbuck, are you all right?"
     Starbuck coughed and looked up at him in both bewilderment and
admiration. "Who else but my father would be crazy enough to fire a laser
in a launch tube?"
     "It's gonna be okay, m'boy," Jeremiah helped him to his feet.  "It's
gonna be okay.  I've beaten them!  I won!  Thank the Lords, I won!"
     They heard the sound of the turbo lift descending again and microns
later saw Apollo and Boomer dash up to them, with two Colonial Security
Guards trailing them.
     "They're in the launch tube," Jeremiah pointed.  Boomer and the
guards dashed down the still smoldering tunnel while Apollo remained with
Starbuck and Jeremiah.
     "What happened?"
     Starbuck was still in a dazed state.  "Some Fremen dressed as launch
crew came down here after me."
     "Apollo!" Boomer called back from inside the tube.  "Get some
med-techs down here.  Don't ask me how, but they're both alive."
     "Pity," Starbuck shook his head in disappointment and turned back to
Apollo. "They're fighting a blood duel against some some Captain
Dimitri," he shook his head in anger and bewilderment.  "I don't know any
Dimitri on the Galactica, do you?"
     Apollo didn't say anything.  His eyes had focused squarely on
Jeremiah, who was awkwardly biting his lip and blushing in embarrassment. 
Starbuck looked at him and saw his embarrassment deepen, and at the same
time the warrior felt his heart begin to sink.
     "Um," Jeremiah forced his words out.  "I'm Captain Dimitri...In a
way."
     "In a way," Apollo said, feeling the sense of disappointment mount
inside him that he knew couldn't begin to approach what Starbuck was
feeling now.
     "Jeremiah," Apollo came up to him and put his arm confidentially
around him. "It's time we had another talk."

*****************************

Chapter Seventeen: All Truths Revealed
     
     The next morning, a chastened Starbuck stood in front of Adama as he
and Apollo gave the Commander, Boomer and Sheba a summary of what
Jeremiah had told them in the Launch Bay.
     "Apparently, the whole thing started three sectans ago, when
Jeremiah, in one of his many part-time occupations throughout the Fleet,
discovered that a technician on the Celestra named Faleuscaro was selling
spare parts on the Black Market to the Fremen." Starbuck was saying. 
"They were just hoarding the stuff, evidently with the intention of
building a weapon or something that would enable them to stage a revolt
against Emissary Fidan, seize control of the Arakeen, leave the Fleet and
settle somewhere on their own.  Preferably on a desert planet where they
could establish a perfect society according to their ancient traditions."
     "And when Faleuscaro mentioned that the Fremen were in the market
for large quantities of livestock that are essential to their diet,
that's when Jeremiah decided to get a piece of the action by approaching
Stilgar masquerading as Captain Dimitri."  Apollo added.
     "The commanding officer of the Livestock Ship," Adama noted.
     "Exactly," Starbuck nodded.  "Stilgar paid Jeremiah enough money
that would have theoretically bought them enough livestock to start an
unlimited supply once they arrived on the new planet.  But when Jeremiah
conned them and disappeared into the night with the money, the Landsraad
challenged, in absentia, the man they thought was Captain Dimitri to a 
blood duel."
     "That sick felgercarb they live by!" Boomer said with dry contempt. 
"And all this time, they pretended to go along with Fidan's cooperation
strategy just so they could find a way of overthrowing him in the
long-term."
     Starbuck then looked at Apollo and Boomer with deep embarrassment
and shame. "And, while Jeremiah insists that he is a legitimate Umbra
survivor, he admits that his primary reason for approaching me was to use
me just to get off the Rising Star.  He said then when he saw my
interview with Zara on the IFB, he realized that information, in
conjunction with his part-time work on the Orphans Ship, presented an
opportunity that was too much to pass up when his survival was as stake. 
It was just a...freakish coincidence that the preliminary test for common
ancestry was positive." he let out a sigh, "I was just another victim of
his impeccable charm."
     "Starbuck," Apollo said with deep sympathy.  "We're sorry.  We all
are.  And I---" he bit his lip.  "I want to apologize for some things I
said earlier..."
     "Hey," Starbuck flashed one of his characteristic smirks as he came
between the two warriors and clapped his hands on their shoulders.  "I'm
the one who owes both of you an apology.  I mean...you know all my life,
I've always wished I could find a family to call my own, and I guess I've
never fully appreciated the fact that I've got one right here among all
of you."
     Apollo tried to keep the tide of emotion inside him in check.  "I
wish he had been your father," he said.
     "We all do," Sheba stepped forward.  "I was hoping it so much for
you Starbuck, because well..." she lowered her head slightly.  "Well,
because I know what it feels like to want to find someone close to you
again."
     Starbuck nodded in understanding and took on a philosophical
expression.  "I know one thing for certain," he said.  "I'm not going to
let the fact that I'm an orphan trouble my conscience any longer. 
Besides," he smirked, "I'm kind of old to break in a new father anyway."
     "There remains the question of what to do with Jeremiah," Adama said
aloud.  
     Starbuck took a breath. "Commander, I know I've probably got reason
to hate him more than any man in the universe, but...well I can sort of
understand his predicament. I hope you won't be harsh on him."
     The Commander managed a thin smile.  "I may have a solution on how
to handle Jeremiah."

*****************************

     For several centars, Jeremiah had sat in a holding area of the
Galactica's brig where Colonial Security had placed him in protective
custody.  The room had no bars or locked doors to keep him confined, but
as far as Jeremiah was concerned that made little difference.  His sense
of guilt over what he had put Starbuck through had left him with an
exceptionally bad taste in his mouth.
     I s'pose I had it coming, he thought sadly.
     "Jeremiah!" 
     He looked up and saw Cassiopeia making her way past the two security
guards with a look of total joy on her face and in her sprightly walk.
     "Jeremiah, listen to me," she entered the holding area as she
squeezed his arm and knelt by him.  "The test results are positive! 
They're positive!"
     Jeremiah was totally thunderstruck.  It took him a half centon
before he dared repeat the word.  "Positive?"
     "Yes," she nodded vigorously.  "Positive.  Right down to the last
detail!"
     "Positive, you said," Jeremiah as he stared at the floor in numb
shock.  After all that had happened, this was the last piece of news he'd
expected to hear.  "It's...but I hadn't really...I mean..."
     "In the face of all that happened, with the Fremen and everything
else?" Cassiopeia smiled. "Look at it as a miracle, Jeremiah.  The
Almighty created a situation where you could finally be led to your son
at last.  We've got to go to the Commander's office and tell Starbuck. 
And tell everyone for that matter!"
     "No," Jeremiah impulsively grabbed the med-tech's arm and looked her
in the eye.  "No.  Cassiopeia... you've made a mistake.  It has to be
negative."
     "What?" she tried to keep smiling in spite of her disbelief over
what she'd just heard.  "No Jeremiah, there's no mistake!  The results
are positive.  You are Starbuck's father!"
     "Cassiopeia," a pleading edge entered Jeremiah's voice.  "For
Starbuck's sake, those results have to be negative."
     "For Starbuck's sake?" her smile had turned into a frown. 
"Jeremiah, what are you talking about?"
     The old man sat down on the bench.  "Cassiopeia, if you'd come to me
with those results after you took the test, I wouldn't be saying this. 
But not now, not after the talk I had with Starbuck.  If those results
aren't negative, then Starbuck will give up everything he loves.  His
career, his friends, even you."
     "Jeremiah," Cassiopeia protested.  "You can't mean that---"
     "If only you could've seen him, Cassiopeia," he went on forcefully. 
"This whole business about being an orphan's consumed him all his life. 
It's made him lose sight of what he's good at, and even worse, it's made
him lose sight of how much his friends care about him.  He's even willing
to give you up if, God forbid, he saw you as an obstacle to spending time
with a lost father.  And for what?   So he can recapture something with
an old fool who except for two yahrens in Umbra, never did an honest
thing in his life?   Cassie, I've grieved for yahrens about what was
stolen away from me at Umbra, but only now am I finally accepting that
I'll never get any of that back.  I can't make up for those wasted
yahrens, especially since doing so would come at too high a cost to..."
he paused and forced out his next words, "...someone I love so dearly."
     "Jeremiah," Cassiopeia looked him in the eye with a neutral
expression.  "Don't perpetuate another lie just because Starbuck said
something in a rash moment.  He can learn to adjust in a way that could
find room for all of us."
     "It just ain't worth the risk, Cassiopeia," Jeremiah said.  "I've
seen directly the love and friendship people like Apollo and Boomer,
Sheba and Commander Adama have for him, and also the relationship you and
he have.  If I did anything to disrupt what he's got here on the
Galactica, I couldn't live with it on my conscience."
     Cassiopeia let out a sad sigh, "You're still his father, Jeremiah."
     "And nothing's gonna change that," he nodded, "I'm grateful that the
one question in my heart that's always troubled me over the yahrens has
finally been answered.  Just knowing at least that the son I lost at
Umbra is alive and well, and above all, has had a good life is more than
I could ask for."
     "But what about Starbuck's peace of mind?" she retorted gently. 
"He's wanted to know who and what he is all these yahrens.  Doesn't he
have the same right to have those questions answered?"
     "Someday, yes," Jeremiah conceded.  "But not now.  Not when he's...
too juvenile to handle the responsibility of what having a real father
means," he smiled weakly, "Not that I'm criticizing him, Cassie, but...I
guess my paternal instinct knows all about lack of maturity."
     She sighed again.  "Jeremiah, if Starbuck ever finds out someday
that I've withheld this information, he may end up hating us both."
     "That's easily preventable," Jeremiah shook his head.  "So long as
Starbuck doesn't know that I'm his father, then I can at least try and be
his friend.  I can be a very good friend. Someone he wouldn't mind having
some nice, casual contact with from time-to-time.  At the very least, we
could begin to build some kind of meaningful foundation between us.
Something that could better prepare him for the truth when that time is
right."
     "Will that time ever be right, Jeremiah?" Cassiopeia smiled thinly. 
"Will you at least tell him yourself...someday, and not force me to do it
after you've died?"
     "Someday," he tried to smile reassuringly.  "Someday.  Maybe..." he
skipped a beat as he looked her over and saw the shadow of his own wife
looking back at him.  "Maybe on the day he gets sealed."
     She let out a light laugh.  "Starbuck?  Get sealed?" she shook her
head.  "You're playing with a fixed deck of cards, Jeremiah.  That's
never going to happen.  He's a skirt-chaser through-and-through."
     "Ohhhh, I'm...not....so...surrrre," a sly edge entered the old man's
voice.  "I know something of my son's taste in women.  The results may
surprise even you, Cassiopeia."
     She looked at him with an incredulous air.  "You mean..." she was
unable to go any further.
     "Yes," Jeremiah nodded.  "You've shared something precious with me,
now let me return the favor.  What Starbuck has with you isn't like what
he's had with anyone else. Remember that always.  And just... be patient
and wait until he's able to admit that directly to you."
     "Just like he has to be patient for you," Cassiopeia sighed.  "You
two really are alike."
     She impulsively hugged him and as Jeremiah held her, he found
himself hoping that Starbuck would never be so foolish let a woman as
precious as Cassiopeia ever get away from him.

*****************************

     A centar later, Cassiopeia had escorted Jeremiah to Adama's quarters
where Apollo, Boomer, Sheba and an awkward Starbuck remained.  As
Jeremiah stood in front of the Commander, Starbuck found himself looking
at the floor, unable to focus on the man he'd placed so much hopes in.
     "Thank you for coming, Jeremiah." Adama's voice was courteous but
had the firm edge of a judge about to pass sentence.  "You will be
interested to know that all matters relating to this incident have been
dealt with.  Thanks to your statement, Admiral Zhark has placed
Faleuscaro under arrest for theft and sale of spare parts. Even more
important, Ambassador Fidan has initiated a total crackdown on the
Landsraad.  Their conspiracy to overthrow him is shattered, the three
Fremen who were after you will be charged with attempted murder, and the
spare parts the Fremen were hoarding have been returned. Fidan's now
going to run things on the Arrakis in a way that won't infringe on the
Fremen's basic rights, but will at least insure that they could never
launch another conspiracy as odious as this right under his nose, let
alone fight another blood duel," he paused.  "There still remains the
matter of you, however."
     Jeremiah took a breath, as he kept his hands behind his back.  "It's
a problem, I'm sure."
     "On the one hand, your statement, as well as the security check
conducted by Sergeant Kulanda, implicates your guilt on potential charges
of illegal profiteering, failure to report a conspiracy, and even fraud."
     Hat in his hands, the old man lowered his head and bit his lip. 
Cassiopeia felt her body trembling and then glanced at Starbuck.  She
could see a pained expression on the warrior's face.
     "But on the other hand," Adama went on.  "Thanks to you, we've
succeeded in solving the two biggest internal problems the Fleet has been
facing.  I think those factors mitigate on the whole against having any
formal charges filed against you."
     Jeremiah seemed to relax as sighs of relief went up from the other
people in the room.  Even from Starbuck.
     "But as to what you do from here on..." Adama cautioned gravely.
     Jeremiah shuffled his feet.  "I suppose I could go back to what I
was doing."
     "If you mean your part-time work on the Orphans Ship, that's no
problem.  Dr. Sarthe says you're always welcome there," Adama said
firmly.  "As to what you do in the rest of your spare time however?"
     "I suppose I could always go back to that as---" Jeremiah stopped
when he saw the slight glare on Adama's face.  "Ah no, I guess I couldn't
do any of that." he added hastily.
     A thin smile came over the Commander's face.  "Tell me Jeremiah," he
then stopped and looked him in the eye.  "Is that your real name, by the
way?"
     "To tell the truth Commander...ah," he then decided
that playing the con game had gone far enough, even for comic effect. 
"Yes.  Yes it is.  In fact, I think it's probably high time that I give
some real background material on where I came from for the benefit of
your Fleet Computer Records.  All you need to know about Jeremiah, son of
Festus and Bernice, born in Caprica City, 7286."
     "Very good," Adama leaned forward and smiled.  "And it may interest
you to know Jeremiah, that when Sergeant Kulanda was making his rounds
about you, he was bombarded with some urgent questions about what had
happened to you from a certain Siress Irulan aboard her personal ship,
the Ourania."
     Jeremiah blushed slightly in embarrassment.  He already had an
inkling of what Adama was about to say, and knowing Irulan as he did, he
wasn't sure the results would be something he'd enjoy.
     "Now I've taken the liberty of explaining things to the Siress,"
Adama went on. "And once the circumstances became clear to her, the young
lady was most willing to personally take charge of your rehabilitation."
     Boomer, Apollo and Sheba all found themselves suppressing smiles and
chuckles as they saw an uneasy look come over Jeremiah's face.  Even
Starbuck couldn't help but smile because he could empathize with how
Jeremiah felt at the moment.  All of his freedom and easy way of living
gone and replaced by servitude to a young buritician who would be playing
constant nurse-maid to him.  Not a prospect that any man who felt like
Jeremiah, or himself for that matter, would find enjoyable.
     "Um...Commander," Jeremiah fumbled slightly.  "If I may.  Ah---"
     "It is so ordered Jeremiah." Adama's tone was of gentle finality.
     Jeremiah felt his shoulders sag a bit.  The last thing he'd ever
wanted to face was the prospect of someone constantly watching him and
attending to him.  He'd always thrived on his freedom of movement.  His
ability to appear and disappear in places at virtual will.  Now that part
of his life was irrevocably over.  He might as well have been sentenced
to the Prison Barge for all that it mattered.
     But then again, he mused; it need not be too bad.  He had enjoyed
Irulan's company.  She was a charming, attractive woman.  Perhaps there
could be some positive benefits from the whole thing after all.
     At the very least, he'd give it a chance.
     "Jeremiah," Starbuck rose from his seat next to Cassiopeia and came
up to him. The old man looked him in the eye and for the first time tried
to see if there was some hint of himself in the eyes or anywhere else. 
In all the time he'd spent with Starbuck, he'd never tried to look for
signs but now that he knew the truth, he found that he couldn't help
himself.
     "Hey, Jeremiah," Starbuck smiled and extended his hand.  "I realize
you were in a tight spot and you did what you had to do in order to
survive." he warmly shook his hand.  "No hard feelings, as far as I'm
concerned."
     As Jeremiah felt the clutch of his handshake, he finally saw the
shadow of his younger self in Starbuck's face.  It took him a micron to
recover himself inside and reciprocate the handshake.
     "Thank you," he whispered.  "That does mean a lot to me, Starbuck. 
A lot more than you could ever realize." he glanced faintly over his
shoulder at Cassiopeia, who gave him a faint nod of recognition that no
one else in the room but Jeremiah noticed.
     "In a way I feel kind of attached to you after all we talked about
and all we went through," Starbuck said.  "And the computer did say we're
distant relatives at the very least.  I may not have learned everything I
wanted to know, but you are the first person I know who does have at
least some connection with me."
     "How true, how true," Jeremiah smiled.
     "We could always...well, see each other from time-to-time, now and
then, when you're not busy and I've got time to kill on my furlon."
     "I'd enjoy that," Jeremiah said.  "I really would."
     "Why not at the triad match next sectan?" Cassiopeia spoke up. 
"Starbuck and Apollo are taking on Quanto and Barton in the biggest match
in a long time.  The whole Fleet's been talking about it."
     "Yeah," Starbuck smiled brightly.  "I can use my connections to get
you ducats for the best possible seats."
     "I would like to see that." Jeremiah's tone brightened.  "I've heard
all kinds of stories about how you're a master on the triad court."
     "Out of curiosity Starbuck, what do you mean by 'your connections'
when it comes to five hundred cubit ducats?" Apollo couldn't resist.
     "Oh...well ah," Starbuck began sheepishly as he shot a glace at
Adama who was still a fixture of total bemusement.
     Boomer got to his feet, "What he means is that Jeremiah can have my
ducat. Zed's been on my back to provide player analysis during the
broadcast.  I might as well do it.  You can pick it up in my quarters."
     "Thank you, Boomer," Jeremiah smiled.  "I appreciate that.  It'll be
an honor to attend."
     "In the meantime, Commander, would it be okay if I shuttle Jeremiah
to the Ourania?" 
     "You're still on furlon, Starbuck."  Adama smiled.  "Go right
ahead."
     "Thank you sir," Starbuck felt relieved.  As he kept his gaze
focused on the Commander, he didn't notice Jeremiah glance quickly at
Cassiopeia, and silently mouth the words "Thank you" to her.
     "Starbuck," Jeremiah quickly turned back to him just as the warrior
shifted his gaze away from Adama.  "And all of you.  Thank you, and again
I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused."
     "It's okay," Starbuck then leaned closer to him and said in a low,
sly tone.  "Now about that betting system.  Are you sure there's no way
of beating it?"
     "That's a given, m'boy," Jeremiah said as he warmly wrapped his arm
around him and then added in an equally sly, mischievous tone, "Unless of
course you decide to cheat."
     Adama closed his eyes and groaned slightly as he leaned back in his
chair.  Apollo, Sheba and Boomer all found themselves chuckling at the
sight of how when it came to the subjects that were always Starbuck's
vices, he and Jeremiah seemed practically inseparable.
     Cassiopeia felt her jaw open slightly in shock at how Jeremiah
already seemed determined to revert to form.  But then, her reaction gave
way to one of amusement and the med-tech found herself thinking a thought
she wished she could express aloud.
     Like father, like son.
     "I once had a system that was really foolproof for pyramid,"
Jeremiah said as he and Starbuck headed for the door.  "But there was
this three-armed dealer on Octavus that figured out how to beat it."
     As the door opened, Starbuck's eyes widened in fascination and he
turned back to Apollo with a wicked grin.  "You hear that Apollo?   That
system on Octavus wasn't so bad after all!  I'll make you try it out next
time we go to the Chancery!"
     "Oh brother." Apollo rolled his eyes slightly as the doors closed. 
"There goes my next sectar's pay!"
     It would take nearly five centons for every one else in the room to
stop laughing before any of them could finally leave.

*****************************

Chapter Eighteen: The Big Payoff

     The Galactica's lone agro-ship,  responsible for growing all the
crops necessary to feed the people of the Fleet, was regarded by many as
the ideal haven for getting away from the crowds and hectic activity one
saw on most of the ships in the Fleet.  That was especially true of the
lush Botanical Gardens that dotted the length of the ship and were
sheltered underneath clear glass domes that offered a breathtaking
panorama of the stars above.  Inside each garden was a specimen of almost
every plant, crop and tree that was salvaged from the Colonies prior to
the Exodus.  Carefully tended under the general supervision of Operations
Chief Jotridus, each garden had blossomed into jungle-like
proportions.  It was all too easy for a visitor to the Gardens to get
lost and not find his way out for centars.
     Ohan walked leisurely down the walkways lining the path of the
Gardens, occasionally glancing at some of the posted signs denoting the
various plant specimens. The wide cross-section of plant life from all
the twelve planets couldn't help but make him admire how Jotridus and his
team of agro-workers had put all of this together on such short notice
and been able to maintain it all this time.
     But then again, he thought ruefully, he always knew he had to bear
some measure of responsibility for the fact that this task had to be
undertaken in the first place.
     He turned off from the main walkway that ran the length of the room
and detoured to the right, where the path went deeper inside some of the
fuller, Scorpian snowweed trees that towered so high, their glistening
leaves came within fifteen feet of brushing the top of the glass dome.
Ohan knew that of all the spots on the agro ship, this was the one that
was by far the most isolated and secluded.  All a person had to do was
step off the walkway and into the cluster of trees and within ten feet,
he would immediately think he was lost in a forest back on Scorpia.
     The bartender stepped over the walkway railing and went ten feet
into the artificial forest.  As he leaned against the base of a tree, he
felt something poke against his back.
     The barrel of a warrior's laser pistol.
     Ohan didn't wink an eyebrow as he felt the metal snout of the lethal
weapon against him.  He had half expected it.  And he already knew that
in the long-run of things, he had no cause for concern.
     "Come out, Sergeant Quanto," he said calmly.
     The redheaded warrior stepped out from behind the tree, pointing his
pistol at Ohan with a menacing look.  His beady eyes were red and
bloodshot, the effects of his long deep patrol with Barton still
lingering, as well as the aggravation he'd been forced to endure from his
wingmate's taunts.
     "Okay Ohan," Quanto kept his pistol pointed at the bartender's
chest. "Anything positive to report?"
     "In a way," Ohan stared at the warrior's weapon with distaste.  "Are
you paranoid about something, Quanto?"
     "Always. I'd never trust you for a centon."
     Ohan laughed.  "Come on Quanto.  You said it yourself yesterday.  No
one can commit murder in this Fleet and hide forever."
     "With you, I'm not so sure," Quanto glared at him with his beady
brown eyes.  "You're the only person I know who'd even think of trying it
some day."
     "As opposed to Verrah and Bolix?" he gently retorted.  "What did you
manage to pin on them?"
     The sergeant laughed.  "Total felgercarb in comparison to you."
     "You still made a mistake letting me find out about them, Quanto,"
Ohan folded his arms.  "All these sectars, you've made me afraid of you
and you've used that fear to extort plenty out of me.  But now that I
know you're pulling this same stunt with two other men, I don't have to
be quite so fearful."
     "What's that supposed to mean?"
     "As of next sectan, you're getting nothing more from me," Ohan said. 
"I'll let you have 20,000 as a final payment, and then that's it."
     Quanto started to laugh ruthlessly.  "You're in no position to say
that."
     "Don't you know that it's become too dangerous for you to ever say a
word?" Ohan's tone was pointed.  "Exposing me, means you'd have to answer
a lot of questions yourself that in the end, may not net you as long a
sentence as I'd get, but it would still put you in the Prison Barge for a
long time to come."
     The warrior flushed.  "For what?"
     "Extortion, bribery, not to mention dereliction of duty," Ohan said. 
"If it were me alone, maybe you could avoid that.  But not when you've
also got your fingers in Verrah and Bolix.  If you expose me, Quanto,
then I'm going to at least give myself the satisfaction of taking you
down with me by leading any investigation straight to them as well.  In
the end, your little stash of cubits won't mean a thing for you anymore."
he flashed a malevolent smirk at the warrior.  "You overreached yourself
Quanto, and that'll cost you one of your sources."
     He raised his pistol so it was aligned with Ohan's face.  "Maybe it
will."
     "I kind of expected you'd try a stunt like that," Ohan smirked. 
"That's why I insisted we meet here.  Because in case you've forgotten,
gaining access to the Gardens meant signing in at Jotridus' station. 
When I arrived, I made certain that no one else has signed in since you
did thirty centons ago.  If you kill me, then you become the prime
suspect once they look at the register and see my name below yours."
     It took a centon for the words to sink in, and then Quanto finally
lowered his pistol.
     "You see," Ohan smiled.  "You can't kill me, and you can't expose me
without exposing yourself to prison.  That's all there is to it.  You can
either take 20,000 from me as a final payment, or nothing more."
     Quanto put his pistol back in his holster.  "When do I get it?"
     "There's just one catch."
     His head darted back up.  "What?"
     "To get paid, you'll have to throw the triad game to Apollo and
Starbuck," Ohan said.
     The redheaded warrior's face twisted and darkened in rage.  "Come
again?"
     "You heard me," the bartender's voice grew more  firm.  "The only
way you're going to get 20,000 from me is if you throw the match to
Apollo and Starbuck. Specifically, you let yourself get thrown out of the
game in the last round."
     "You're nuts!" Quanto trembled.  "This game's been on my mind for a
sectar now. I've been waiting for a chance to finally put that
gallmonging snit Starbuck in place."
     "So they've been saying in the IFB reports.  But I think I know you
well enough to realize that given a choice between money and stroking
your ego on the triad court, you'll pick the former any day of the
sectan." His simpering intensified.  "For once, you're going to do
something I tell you to do, Quanto.  I'll gladly pay 20,000 cubits to you
if it means I have the satisfaction of knowing I forced you to do things
my way."
     Quanto bit his lip in an effort to hold back his anger and rage. 
"What if I refuse?"
     "Then my policy of never paying you another cubit goes into effect
right now."  He paused.  "What'll it be, Quanto?  One last payday or
nothing?"
     The sergeant looked at him for more than a centon without moving,
all the time breathing heavily and swallowing repeatedly to keep his
emotions in check.  Finally, he extended his hand reluctantly.
     "I guess it has to be that way," he tried to sound philosophical. 
"I suppose I can look back and say it was a great run while it lasted."
     "Indeed," Ohan took the offered hand.  The handshake lasted no more
than a half-micron before they both withdrew their hands in mutual
disgust.
     "So when do I get the big payoff, if I do as you say?"
     "In the locker area," Ohan said.  "I get off duty at 2200.  That's
why your ejection must be timed to a late phase of the game.  I'll go
down to the training room and give you the payoff as soon as you're out
of the turbowash.  Nobody else will be there then, so it's the ideal
time."
     Quanto nodded.  "It's a deal," his voice then took on a cautious,
menacing air. "But if you double-cross me Ohan, I'll find other ways of
making you suffer."
     Ohan said nothing as the redheaded sergeant moved away through the
trees and back onto the walkway that led out of the Gardens.
     Once Quanto was gone, the bartender named Ohan found himself smiling
in satisfaction for the first time in many sectars.  The critical phase
of his plan had been a smashing success and there was now no doubt of
what the real outcome of the meeting was going to be.
     Sergeant Quanto had just signed his death warrant.

*****************************

From the Adama Jouranals:
     
     Today brings another hopeful report from our deep patrol scouts, who
have discovered another planet along these coordinates given to us by the
super race of the mysterious Ship Of Lights who spared us from the evil
plans of the even more mysterious Mr. Morbus.  More and more often, the
planets we come across bear signs of what has to be the lost Thirteenth
Tribe.  Signs of camp settlements made by scouting parties during the
long journey from Kobol to Earth when no doubt, the space ark needed to
make periodic stops for supplies.  Leaving behind remnants that more than
seven thousand yahrens later, the descendants of their brother tribes
could find and use as a sign of hope that we are on the right path.  We
are getting closer.  But still, nothing definite as to whether the day of
discovery could be in the lifetimes of our present generation, or much
further in a distant future no one alive today will ever see.
     We must be prepared though to handle any possibility that might face
us on that day when Earth is discovered.  I have commissioned Colonel
Tigh and other senior personnel to draw up contingency plans that will be
implemented according to what kind of civilization exists on Earth when
we find it.  The only common thread in each of these contingency plans is
the need for great discretion upon our arrival.  A time of careful
watching and analysis in which our people can learn and sample everything
about her culture.  Too sudden an appearance from their brothers and
sisters in space could send the people of Earth into a traumatic culture
shock that they might not ever fully recover from.  Our contingency plans
must take into account the sad prospect that after all these yahrens, the
very origins of the Thirteenth Tribe, and the memory of the brother
nations they chose to separate from, could very well be forgotten to the
people of Earth by now.  Separated from us after seven thousand yahrens,
Earth has had time to build a unique civilization all its own and to
chart a path totally unlike that which the Twelve Colonies did.
     And what were the results of that path?   I can still recall the
cryptic words of Mr. Morbus that on Earth "empires have risen and
fallen."  Words that could apply even to our own civilization.  At the
very least, that would indicate that Earth is anything but a Utopia where
mankind has not succeeded in eliminating the flaws in his nature that
forever keep him one step below the angels.  What it doesn't answer is
whether Earth is now a civilization far in advance of us at this point in
their development...or a society of primitive animals, fallen from a
greater time.  That will only be known on the day that Earth is found. 
And I pray to the Lords that I will be part of that generation fortunate
to know the answer and see if my decision to begin this long journey will
have been truly worth the effort.
     Our internal situation is thankfully more stable than it has been at
any time since the journey began.  The danger of the Cylons has after
thirteen sectans of no sign of them, become more and more like that of a
nightmare that fades from memory upon waking up. And the recent affair
surrounding the elderly gentleman Jeremiah, while providing much personal
disappointment to Starbuck, has produced two important dividends in
breaking the conspiracy attempt by the Fremen against Emissary Fidan, and
the return of all the spare parts for viper maintenance stolen from the
Celestra.  Admiral Zhark, my one time superior aboard the Ricon so many
yahrens ago, assures me that he will be running an even tighter operation
than ever before on the maintenance ship to see to it that nothing like
this ever happens again.  With Zhark, I know I can always count on a
vigorous effort when it comes to enforcing regulations and military
discipline in any operation where he is in command.  He might have a
penchant for carrying it too far at times, but in the wake of these
thefts, a vigorous course of discipline is exactly what's needed.
     And so, with no internal crises confronting us at this centon, and
with the Council of Twelve remaining quiet for now, I find myself in the
enviable position of being able to relax this evening.  A time to watch
the much-heralded triad match that takes place this evening on the Rising
Star.

*****************************

Chapter Nineteen: Rising Star  Rumble

Transcript of ZED AND Boomer's triad telecast, Part 1:

     ZED: "Good afternoon.  Through your videocoms, you are looking at
the triad court and spectators gallery here on the Rising Star.  They're
empty now, but in only four centars they will be packed to capacity with
the sounds of cheering spectators watching the most anticipated triad
match of the last sectar between the number one ranked team of Captain
Apollo and Lieutenant Starbuck, against the number three ranked team of
Sergeants Barton and Quanto.  For the winner, one step closer to the
Championship Finals match. For the loser, almost certain elimination and
the hope that the next round of tournament play will bring greater
rewards.  With such high stakes involved, we can expect to see nothing
less than the art of triad in it's purest form.  The form that makes it
more than just a game, but a contest bordering on warfare.  With me now
is a man who is deeply interested in the outcome of tonight's match and
who will be with me tonight providing expert player analysis for the
viewers, bringing a dimension and understanding that none of the people
present here tonight will be able to receive.  I refer of course to
Lieutenant Boomer of the number two ranked team of Boomer and Kulanda,
who will be facing the winner of tonight's game in next sectan's
Championship Match.  And Lieutenant, wouldn't you agree that we can
expect to see a no holds barred, knockdown fight to the death between
these two great teams tonight?"
     BOOMER: "Well now, Zed, I anticipate nothing less than good quality,
rock-hard competition from two teams that have earned their way into this
position.  I can say honestly that there aren't two better teams in the
entire triad league that I've faced than the ones who'll be playing
tonight.  They should give us a match worth remembering."
     ZED: "Now there have been stories, Lieutenant, as I'm sure you're
well aware, that Sergeant Quanto's reputation off-court is not very high
amongst his fellow warriors.  Is there any sense that Sergeant Quanto's
strength on the triad court is tied in to that combative behavior he
displays off the court?"
     BOOMER: "Well Zed, I really think that the bottom line for any triad
player, whether he's a viper pilot like Captain Apollo, Lieutenant
Starbuck or myself, or a security guard like Sergeant Kulanda, is that we
see triad as a wonderful outlet for our competitive energy and nothing
more.  All of the triad players I know are professionals in their jobs
off the court, and as the commander of Red Squadron group, which includes
Sergeants Barton and Quanto, I can say positively that they've never been
anything less than proficient under my command.  So I don't think what
happens off the court ever enters into matters at all, and vice versa.  I
mean, you take me for instance.  Apollo and Starbuck are probably the
closest friends I've ever had in eight yahrens service in the Warrior
Corps.  Off the court, they're my brothers-in-arms.  On the court, I want
to beat them with the same intensity I'd reserve for the Cylons. 
Whatever difficulties you've heard about as far as off-court matters go,
I think it'll play no part in tonight's game."
     ZED: "Well, Lieutenant Boomer I think we'll see if your assessment
is borne out when the centon arrives.  A reminder to all of you, our
pre-match coverage will begin one-half centar before the first ball is
dropped at 2000.  Until then, this is Zed sending it back to you Zara, in
our IFB studio."

*****************************

     Ohan had one eye on the IFB monitor inside the Empyreal Lounge as he
cleared away the empty glasses on some recently vacated tables. 
Ordinarily, the sound on the monitors was always kept turned off so as
not to disturb the quiet atmosphere the Empyreal Lounge was noted for. 
Tonight would be a rare exception however.  With interest in the outcome
of the triad match at an all-time high, the Rising Star's Assistant Chief
Steward, who had jurisdiction over the Empyreal Lounge,  had already
decided that the volume would be turned up to one-half for the first
time, as a courtesy to patrons who wanted to watch the action within the
Lounge's relaxed setting.  By contrast, customers in the nearby Astral
Lounge, where Chief Steward Zumdish handled all matters, would be
watching the match on a giant six-metron high monitor where the
commentary would be blotted out for the most part by both raucous music
and cheering crowds.
     Ohan felt relieved that Assistant Chief Steward Talius had already
decided to keep the sound up on the Empyreal Lounge's monitors.  If he'd
been forced to ask Talius himself, it'd have seemed too suspicious.  But
if his plan had any chance of succeeding, he needed to keep one ear on
the commentary and know exactly what was happening with the game.
     With that contingency element taken care of, there now remained just
one more thing and everything that needed to be done prior to the match
would be in place.
     "Talius," he came over to his boss, "I need five centons for a
personal matter.  Can you cover me until I get back?"
     "Sure thing, Ohan," he said.  He regarded the assistant chief
bartender as a loyal, dependable employee who was entitled to more slack
than the average employee usually received.
     "Thanks," Ohan nodded and walked down the steps that led to the exit
on the lower level.  Once he was out in the Main Corridor, he picked up
his walking pace, casting glances in every direction to see if anyone
else was headed toward the same area.  To his relief, there was no one in
sight.
     He finally reached the public telecom located just off the Docking
Lounge, calmly picked it up and punched in the code for the place he
wanted to reach.
     "Chancery," a voice at the other end answered.
     Ohan put his hand over his mouth and spoke in a tone totally
different from his normal speaking voice. "I need to speak to Verrah. 
It's very urgent."
     "Just a centon, I'll get him." there was a brief shuffle as the
Chancery's Operations Chief went off to summon the dealer from Table
Number Three over.  As Ohan waited, he felt the sweat break out on his
forehead, as he kept glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone might
approach and overhear what he was about to say.  If someone did, then
he'd be forced to abort a major element of his plan that very well could
force him to abort the entire operation altogether.
     Fracking moron, just had to be off-duty for three days until now, he
thought with disgust as he kept waiting.
     Finally, he heard the low voice of the heavyset dealer he had spoken
to a sectan ago.  "This is Verrah speaking."
     "Hello Verrah, it's Quanto," he whispered into the telecom in a dead
accurate imitation of the sergeant's voice that he'd practiced almost
non-stop in his spare time for the last two days.  "I haven't got much
time before the match.  There's an important matter concerning our
arrangement we need to talk about."
     There was a brief silence on the other end.  "What do you want,
Master?"
     "Meet me in the training room at 2210 and you'll find out."
     "2210?" he could picture the dealer frowning in disbelief. 
"But...the match won't be over by then."
     "Don't worry about the match, you just be there at that time or else
Security's going to get some information you'd rather they not see." he
tried to inject the right level of low, threatening menace without losing
the precision of the imitation.  "Don't worry," the dealer kept his voice
calm for the benefit of those standing near him in the Chancery.  "I'm
off duty before then.  I'll be there."
     "I hope so," Ohan closed and then quickly hung the telecom up.  The
bartender let out a sigh of relief as he calmly walked back to the
Empyreal Lounge.
     Everything was now set.  He had the time, the place and the means to
carry it out. And now, he'd just been handed a perfect fall guy who'd
insure that no suspicion ever touched him.  All that remained, was the
final implementation.

*****************************

     The triad ball fell into play and the four players from the two
teams broke out of the face-off circle and moved into respective offense
and defense positions.  The lead player on the gold team got to the ball
first and prepared to fight his way forward and get into position for a
pass to his partner, who would then send the sphere into the scoring
circle.  But before he could move, the defender from the blue team had
suddenly boxed him into one of the three triangular corners of the court,
never once threatening to knock the ball away, but keeping his opponent
moving backward, unable to get any meaningful shot off.  Finally, in
desperation the trapped gold player was forced to make a weak shot off
the sidewall in the hope that his partner could get at the rebound.
     "See that Boxey?" Starbuck grinned as he maneuvered his control
stick of the three-dimensional triad computer game.  "That's how the trap
strategy works.  Don't make the obvious move for the ball.  Always play
it carefully and you put yourself in perfect position to keep him from
scoring."
     The little boy shook his head in amazed awe at how Starbuck had
guided his players with such flawless precision.  "Is that what makes
your team the best?"
     "It's got a lot to do with it, I can tell you that right now.  Of
course if your father here weren't such a great partner who always knows
where those weak rebounds are going to come from, the whole point of the
trap strategy would be worthless."
     "How nice of you to remember me, Starbuck," Apollo slapped his
friend on the shoulder good-naturedly.
     "Hey, hey careful, you'll make me lose control of the stick and the
game, buddy." Starbuck mockingly chided.
     "Come on Starbuck, when it comes to a match on this computer against
Boxey, I'm on his side!"  Apollo returned it.  "You save your best stuff
for the real thing. Besides, we haven't got time to finish this I'm
afraid.  Our shuttle for the Rising Star leaves in twenty centons."
     The brash warrior sighed with regret as he set his stick down. 
"Guess that's it for tonight, Boxey.  Tomorrow though, I promise you
another session where I'll recreate exactly how we won tonight on this
machine."
     "Great!" Boxey's eyes lit up.  "And then a best of three match?"
     "That depends on whether or not all your assignments are done, right
Captain?" Starbuck threw Apollo a sly glance.
     "Exactly," Apollo smiled with the air of gentle paternalism as he
knelt down by his son.  "Your Aunt Athena's going to watch the match with
you in your quarters on the IFB tonight, and then she'll be putting you
to bed.  You remember to do everything she says."
     "Can I watch your postmatch interview?" Boxey asked with the edge of
anxious pleading that was typical of any six-yahren old child who wanted
to get an extra centar of time to stay up, and then hope for an extra
centar of sleep the next morning when it was time for Primary Classes.
     "If the match doesn't go into overtime, there should be time enough
for that." he said as he put his hands on his son's shoulders. "But if it
does, you don't give Aunt Athena trouble if she says no.  Okay?"
     "Okay." he nodded and then threw his arms around his father, "Beat
those guys good, Dad!"
     Apollo felt only contentment as he embraced his son to him.  "We're
not going to let you down, son."
     By the time Apollo and Starbuck had left the Rejuvenation Center and
begun their walk to the landing bay, the brash warrior was smiling at his
friend with envy.
     "That's beautiful, you and him," Starbuck said.  "Apollo, you're a
lucky man."
     "I know," Apollo said simply not wanting to elaborate any further on
how important his relationship with his son was to him.  Especially not
after the disappointment Starbuck had gone through during the whole
Jeremiah business when it seemed like for one brief centon, Starbuck had
been on the verge of finding a similar relationship for himself.
     As though Starbuck had read his mind, he said.  "Um...Apollo, I know
that whole business about Jeremiah is ancient history now, but I think I
ought to say this. Watching you and Boxey all the time, it...well I think
the reason why I flew off the handle with you like I did was because I
thought I was losing a chance at the same thing. It was...rank jealousy
at its worst.  I want you to know how bad I feel about that."
     Apollo clapped his hand on Starbuck's shoulder.  "Like you said,
it's ancient history buddy.  Don't ever mention it again.  Besides, the
only friends who never have spats from time-to-time are the distant ones
who treat each other like company instead of family."
     As they reached the Life Station, they saw Cassiopeia and Sheba
waiting for them.
     "About time you two showed up," Sheba smirked.  "We were beginning
to think the pressure had gotten to the two of you and you were going to
default the match."
     "Against Quanto?" Starbuck snorted in disgust.  "Running from him
would be the only crime greater than treason!"
     "That's it," Cassiopeia smiled.  "Show me some of that competitive
fire.  Do you know how many people have wagers on you tonight?"
     "I wish the rules didn't prohibit me from betting on myself,"
Starbuck said as they resumed walking.  After a centon, both he and
Apollo suddenly stopped and eyed Cassiopeia with puzzled frowns.
     "Cass, is it my imagination or is there something different about
you?" Starbuck asked.
     "Like what?" she coyly smiled as she ran a hand through her hair.
     Apollo snapped his fingers.  "You cut it!"
     "That's right," Sheba said.  "This afternoon, she went over to the
Idril where they've got this  beautifier who used to run a shop on Taura. 
She's been talking my ear off all about it ever since she got back to the
Galactica."
     "So what do you think, Starbuck?" his girlfriend continued to run
her hand through her blonde hair, which had always been long and flowed
two inches past her shoulders. Now it was styled in a thick,  short cut
that didn't even reach the top of her shoulders.
     "Well..." Starbuck looked her over, not quite sure what to say.
"It's...different. That's for sure."
     "I know," Cassiopeia nodded as they resumed walking.  "I decided it
was time to stop wearing my hair like a socialator.  It just...well it
just didn't seem right anymore." she looked at Starbuck.  "Does it
trouble you?"
     "Oh no, no," Starbuck said hastily.  Deep down, he was disappointed
that she'd cut it since he'd always found himself
attracted to women with long hair, ever since he was a child.  But after
all that he'd been through with Cassiopeia, he wasn't about to make an
issue of it.  "Cass, so long as you never do what that Sagitarian sect
does and shave it all off, anyway you do it is fine with me.  It's
just...well I just need to get used to it."
     "Obviously," she smiled and nodded.
     "She hasn't done it full justice yet," Sheba put in.  "The next time
she wears one of her formal gowns, that should show it off to its full
effect, right?  Or so the beautifier said."
     "It should," the med-tech admitted.
     "If shorter hair's becoming vogue all of a sudden, does that mean
you'll be paying a trip to the beautifier soon, Sheba?" Apollo grinned.
     "Me?  No way!" Sheba retorted with emphasis as she protectively
touched her brown hair that flowed well past her shoulders.  "Not since
the time my mother cut her hair for a play she was doing so she could
look twenty yahrens older for her part.  She got so self-conscious about
the whole thing that she wore a wig for the next three sectars until it
grew back.  I'm not about to risk the same reaction."
     Apollo kept smiling and found himself suppressing the urge to voice
his approval. He still wasn't willing to admit to himself the feelings
locked inside him about Sheba, but he'd long ago reached the conclusion
that her long hair made her a very attractive woman. He didn't want to
draw a picture of her any other way.
     "When it comes to haircuts though," Cassiopeia playfully touched
Starbuck's thick hair that completely covered his ears, "You look as
though you're overdue by at least a sectar."
     "Aw, c'mon Cass.  You want me to go back to one of those buzz cuts
they used to make all male cadets wear at the Academy?"
     "Hmmmm, that would be interesting."
     "You'll never get a chance to find out," Starbuck vowed as they
entered the turbo lift that would take them down to the landing bay. 
When they arrived, the air of jovial comradeship among them came to an
abrupt halt when they saw Barton and Quanto waiting for the same shuttle. 
An awkward silence set in as the two rival teams eyed each other with
attitudes ranging from cool indifference to outright hostility.
     Finally, Apollo decided to break the tension as he came up to Barton
and extended his hand.  "Good luck.  No matter what happens, let's make
it a match for the ages."
     "I can agree with that," Barton smiled thinly as he accepted the
offered handshake. "Good luck to you too, Captain.  Let the Lords dictate
the outcome."
     The two of them noticed that Starbuck and Quanto weren't even making
a pretense of pre-match civility.  They both were glaring at each other
with angry expressions indicating their mutual contempt.  Before anything
else could be said, Apollo quickly stepped back alongside his partner and
gently tugged his arm.
     "Look," Barton said, trying to keep the civil air intact.  "What's
say we ride in different compartments of the shuttle?  That way, we can
both discuss game strategy in peace."
     "Fine by me, Barton," Apollo nodded. "You two take the front.  We'll
ride in the back."
     "See you on the court," Barton said as he and the implacably silent
Quanto boarded the shuttle first.
     Five centons later, as the shuttle began its journey from the
Galactica to the Rising Star, Cassiopeia finally decided not to hold her
tongue any longer on a matter that had been bothering her for a long
while.
     "Starbuck," she said, "I know that Quanto is probably the least
likable warrior in the entire Fleet, but why do you always look as though
you're ready to pop him a good one anytime you see him?"
     "Because he's constantly asking for it!" Starbuck snapped.  "Tonight
I'm gonna put that snitrod in his place!"
     "Take it easy, Starbuck," Sheba rebuked.
     "She's right," Apollo was concerned to see Starbuck's temper rising
once again. "For sagan's sake Starbuck, don't let him get to you."
     The brash warrior waved a hand.  "Ahhh...it's impossible to not let
a guy like him get to you.  He's been a pain in the astrum ever since the
Academy."
     "You knew him at the Academy?" Cassiopeia raised an eyebrow.  "How
could you have known him there when he isn't an officer?"
     "I knew him in cadet orientation," Starbuck said.  "He got thrown
out after three sectans and then enlisted in the Corps."
     "Were you part of the reason why he got thrown out?" Sheba was
amazed by the information.
     "No more than a small part," Starbuck said with a wary eye on the
compartment door that led to where Quanto and Barton were sitting.  "On
the first night, Quanto went out of his way to start at least three
fistfights.  Then two sectans later we discovered that he'd been stealing
cubits from the lockers of several cadets to try and cover his gambling
debts in every Caprica City Chancery in sight.  That made fifteen of us
sign a petition for the Commandant demanding he get kicked out of our
group and fast. Fortunately, he obliged our request.  Unfortunately, the
expulsion didn't prohibit Quanto from joining the Corps as a regular
enlistee."
     "And Quanto gets on your nerves because he still carries a grudge
from that?" Apollo was slightly incredulous.
     Starbuck shrugged, "How in Hades should I know?  So far as I know,
I'm the only one who signed that petition who's still alive or on active
duty."
     "Don't encourage him by reacting," Apollo's tone grew emphatic. 
"Play him as hard as you can on the triad court and then afterwards,
ignore him.  That is an order, Lieutenant."
     "Right, right," Starbuck waved a hand.  "After tonight, no more
trouble from him. That's a guarantee."

*****************************

     "Commander Adama and Colonel Tigh!" Assistant Chief Steward Talius
grinned broadly as the commander and executive officer entered the
Empyreal Lounge.  "An honor that you should come here tonight."
     Adama looked up at the Lounge's second level where it was clear that
all the tables were filled.  "It appears though, that the Colonel and I
didn't anticipate the size of the crowd you'd be having tonight."
     "Don't worry about that, Commander," Talius said as he led the two
up the steps to the second level.  "When you informed me of your desire
to watch the match from here, I made certain that our only private lounge
would be reserved for you."
     They walked past several tables, where each customer stopped to
watch in silent respect as their commander moved past, and then came to
an opening that led into a wellstocked private lounge.  The darkly
paneled room featured a plush, leather couch positioned in front of an
elegant glass table and a medium-sized videocom on the back wall.
     "Although this private lounge doesn't feature our normal vista, it
is most ideal for those who require more private conversation," Talius
motioned them in. "It should serve your purpose quite well, Commander."
     "Thank you, Talius," Adama smiled as he took a seat on the left side
of the couch.
     "I'll have one attendant personally assigned to you until his shift
ends at 2200," Talius then turned around, "Ohan, could you please come
here?"
     As Tigh sat down on the opposite side of the couch, he and Adama
looked back and saw the assistant chief bartender enter.
     "Good evening sirs," he stood at attention.  "It's an honor to be
serving you this evening.  I'll be happy to bring you anything you need. 
Just press the button on the right side of the couch and that'll turn on
the red light over the doorway and bring me in here in a micron."
     "Thank you, Ohan," Adama continued to smile.  "You don't need to
stand at attention."
     The bartender smiled and relaxed somewhat. "Would you care for a
drink to start?"
     "(Sniffle!) Yes, if you have any white Caprican ambrosia from within
the last ten yahrens, that would be most appreciated."
     "No problem. What about you Colonel?"
     "Ahh..." Tigh took a centon to think about that.  "I think I'll have
some Aquarian twistbrisk.  And if it's possible, I'd love a tray of some
of those Skorpian spiderpies I noticed out there."
     "We've doubled  our supply just for tonight.  I'll have everything
here in two centons."  Ohan bowed again and departed with Talius trailing
him..
     "Well Adama," Tigh said as he settled back in the couch.  "Despite
your mild ailment, this should be an enjoyable evening."
     "Without a doubt," the commander nodded.  "After that whole mess of
the last sectan involving the Fremen and the spare parts theft it's about
time I finally let rank have its privileges for just one evening."
     Tigh nodded.  "And the beauty of it is that we don't seem to have
any new domestic crises looming on the horizon.  The food shortages are
down, industrial production is starting to rise at a steady pace. Overall
morale starting to rise."
     "Yes," Adama admitted.  "All made possible by the fact that the
amount of time since we last saw the Cylons has now reached thirteen
sectans."
     "The one positive legacy of Mr. Morbus's time here."
     The commander shook his head, "I prefer not to think of it that way. 
If anyone's ultimately responsible for why the Cylons have been made to
stay away, I prefer to think the beings of that Ship of Lights were
responsible."
     "Maybe so," Tigh conceded.  "Tell me Adama, what do you think those
beings really were?"
     Adama smiled.  "Probably the closest thing to God Himself that
mankind is capable of seeing in his present state."
     The executive officer said nothing as Ohan returned with the drinks. 
Tigh had been a religious skeptic for much of his life before the
Holocaust, and had only started moving away from those long-held beliefs
over the last few sectars.  But Adama knew that Tigh was still a long
ways from embracing the principles of the Book of the Word with the same
fervor and conviction that he had known all his adult life.  And so, the
commander tried his best to gently prod his friend in what he felt was
the right direction without coming across as overbearing.
     "Looks like the pre-match coverage is starting," Tigh changed the
subject as he sipped his drink and pointed to the videocom.  "I don't
know how much Apollo has told you about Barton and Quanto, but they're
the only triad team next to Boomer and Kulanda capable of giving them
some serious competition."
     Adama kept his lips curled up in a faint smile as he settled back to
watch the proceedings begin.

*****************************

     As soon as the Galactica shuttle had docked with the Rising Star,
Apollo and Starbuck decided to wait several centons for Barton and Quanto
to get off first before they left as well.  When they emerged through the
Docking Ring into the Docking Lounge with Sheba and Cassiopeia, they saw
a familiar face waiting on one of the benches.
     "Jeremiah!" Starbuck grinned as he came over with an extended hand. 
"Nice to see you again."
     "Good to see you too, Starbuck," the elderly man returned it as he
shook hands with the man that only he and Cassiopeia now knew was his
son.  "So much talk's been goin' on about this match, I can hardly wait
to see the outcome."
     "Hope you made a good wager on us Jeremiah, because that would be
the biggest sure thing in the history of wagering."
     Jeremiah sighed, "Alas m'boy, wagering is the one thing I can no
longer engage in, by the edict of my, ahem, rehabilitator."
     "Ah yes," Apollo had a sly expression on his face.  "And how does
Siress Irulan rank as far as rehabilitators go, Jeremiah?"
     He let out a chuckle.  "Well Apollo...I am fortunate that unlike the
poor souls on the Prison Barge, my guard does provide some pleasant
distractions from time to time."
     "Naturally," Starbuck grinned.  "Where is the good siress this
evening?"
     "Among Irulan's more redeeming features is her sense of
understanding.  Since I had but one ducat courtesy of Lieutenant Boomer,
she recognized that it was not possible to accompany me." he then nodded
his head toward Cassiopeia and Sheba who were smiling mischievously. 
"And when both Cassiopeia and Sheba mentioned that they were willing to
act as my chaperones for the occasion, that removed all doubt from her
mind."
     "Really," Starbuck eyed the two women with another sly look. 
"Siress Irulan's not worried that you um..." he coyly trailed off.
     "Starbuck," Cassiopeia chided while Sheba suppressed a giggle.
     Jeremiah smiled.  "Siress Irulan is also aware of what happens when
one gets to be as advanced in yahrens as I am."
     "Come on partner," Apollo motioned to Starbuck, "Let's get down and
get ready."
     "Make sure your triad uniform's securely fastened," Sheba teased as
they moved off.

*****************************

     The training room for triad players was a spacious facility filled
with various pieces of exercise equipment, in addition to lockers and
turbowashes for the players.  Because tensions often ran high among the
opposing players before a triad match, the changing and turbowash areas
for each team were kept on different sides of the complex.  As a result,
when Apollo and Starbuck arrived, Quanto and Barton were completely out
of sight on the other side of the room, hidden by a dividing wall and
doorway.
     "I might try something different tonight," Starbuck said as he
removed his uniform tunic and pulled out his triad uniform from his
designated locker.  "Those guys are the only ones who might know how to
figure out the trap strategy."
     "They'll at least give it a try at the start," Apollo said as he
changed.  "Except for that one time when Boomer acted like a psychopath
on the court, no one's ever effectively gotten around it."
     Starbuck nodded, not wanting to comment on that incident when
Boomer's team had won, largely because of the outside role played by Mr.
Morbus.  "Who've we got as stand-bys for tonight?"
     "Vickers for us, Greenbean for them," Apollo said as he snapped the
shoulder pads into place.  Under the rules of triad, each team was
required to have one player from a lower-ranked triad team act as a
stand-by in the event one was ejected from the match or suffered serious
injury.  It was a rule that in all the sixteen sectans of organized triad
play, had never once been invoked, and usually provoked more ill-feeling
and grumbling from those who were forced to dress in their triad uniforms
and wait for an opportunity that never came.  "But there's so much riding
on this match for them, that I don't think even Quanto would be dumb
enough to risk that."
     His partner's face darkened.  "With him, I'm never sure.  I'd watch
your back, if I were you Apollo.  I trust Barton, but I don't trust him."
     "Just remember this little tip," Apollo put a hand on his friend's
shoulder.  "Don't throw in the towel if he pulls a despicable stunt.  And
don't let him having some grudge over what happened at the Academy keep
getting to you either."
     "I'm not the one you should tell that to, he is," an edge of
bitterness entered Starbuck's voice.
     "You can't help it if he's so stupid," Apollo gently told him off. 
"What you can do is keep making yourself a better person than he'll ever
be." he smiled.  "And that's going to be the key to our winning tonight."
     Starbuck finally allowed himself a smile as he fraternally clapped
his friend's shoulder and they walked out of the training room,
side-by-side, headed for the triad court and the beginning of the
contest.
     At 2000, the match that thousands of people had eagerly awaited for
a sectan finally started.  Apollo had felt somewhat tense when he saw
Starbuck and Quanto exchange cold glances when their eyes first met, but
it seemed to pass and for the first part of the game, the match proceeded
at a tight, competitive pace.  The Gold Team of Apollo and Starbuck took
an early 2-0 lead, but the Blue Team tightened things up with a score
toward the end of the first period.
     In the IFB booth, Boomer found himself wishing he could have kept
his seat and watched the match without having to hear Zed's pompous
commentary ruining the event for him.

*****************************

Transcript of ZED AND Boomer's triad telecast, Part 2:

     ZED: "...what a match this is turning out to be!  The intensity, the
passion, the majesty of triad playing in it's purest form has probably
never been seen by any of these spectators before!  And for this reporter
it brings back such fond memories of twenty yahrens ago, at Caprica
City's Rabroponthy Arena when the legendary team of Ameane and Armusoc
defended their championship title against the spirited challenge of
Baridumo and Ermo! Lieutenant Boomer, at this point as we near the end of
the first half of the match, who do you feel has the momentum at this
stage?"
     BOOMER: "Well Zed, Barton and Quanto have done a brilliant job of
hanging in after they fell behind early.  They've kept the score low,
they've stayed confident and that's what's kept them in a good position
to win.  Most teams when they go against Apollo and Starbuck usually
panic when they fall behind by one or two points early, and as a result
they start pressing too much to even things up again and before you know
it they end up getting routed.  But Barton and Quanto have the know-how
to treat an early one or two point deficit like an even game, and that
could help them in the second half."
     ZED: "Apollo has the ball, being guarded against by Barton.  He
tries to put himself into position for a carom shot to Starbuck, who is
right now literally being smothered by Quanto.  And the shot is, tipped
and missed by Starbuck.  Barton recovers, and now Apollo blocks him off! 
That was an effective display of blocking by Quanto."

*****************************

     The sound of the cheering increased as the buzzer sounded indicating
the end of the first half of play.
     "You okay, Starbuck?" Apollo came over to his partner and managed to
ask over the roar of the crowd.
     The brash warrior was clutching at his side with a look of anger.
"Is that officiator blind or what?  That sniviling slag threw a rib block
on me on that last play!" 
     "I didn't see a rib block either, Starbuck," Apollo said.  "Just
keep playing tough and if he really does pull that stunt again, he won't
get away with it."
     "I'm not so sure," Starbuck retorted acidly as they moved over to
the players exit to drink water and gather their strength during the
three centon rest period between halves.
     "You have to give them credit," Apollo said as he took a long
swallow from his plastic container and looked over at Barton and Quanto
who were getting refreshment further down the corridor that led back to
the Training Room.  "They're giving us a run for the money tonight.  The
way they play, I don't think Boomer and Kulanda are entitled to be ranked
number two."
     "That's their reward for knowing how to play an honest game."
     Apollo decided not to press the point any longer, especially if it
was only going to make Starbuck more angry than he was.  They finished
their rest period in silence and then waited for the first buzzer
signaling a return to the court.

*****************************

Transcript of ZED AND Boomer's triad telecast, Part 3:

     ZED: "The second half is now underway. Two to one, in favor of
Apollo and Starbuck.  The ball drops into play and it's grabbed by
Barton.  He gets the pass off to Quanto, who's instantly smothered by
Starbuck.  It's that trap strategy again that he's noted for!  And, oh
what a beautiful carom shot to Barton who's all alone and it's in for the
score!  The game is tied!  Quanto knew the trap strategy was coming and
got his shot off to his teammate before Starbuck had a chance to put it
into full effect."
     BOOMER:  "Very smart playing there, Zed. Clearly Barton and Quanto
talked this over during the interlude and finally seized on the only way
I think the trap strategy can be negated.  And that is with a dead
accurate carom shot that only a skilled player has a chance of
receiving."

*****************************

     For the first part of the second half, the early score remained the
only one, and as the last round began, the game remained deadlocked.  By
this point, almost everyone in the spectator's galleries were on the edge
of their seats, not wanting to miss the instant when one of the two teams
would finally break the tie game.  All of them sensing that they were
getting their money's worth from the action below.
     Away from the spectator's gallery, in the quiet surroundings of the
Empyreal Lounge, Adama noticed with amusement how the same air of tension
and excitement was visible on the executive officer's face and in his
hunched posture, as his eyes remained locked on the videocom monitor.
     The second half was now entering it's final third, and the noise
level from the spectators had reached deafening proportions, as they
watched a ferocious defensive contest unfold below them.  Finally, it was
Starbuck who managed to briefly elude Quanto's guarding and take a three
bounce shot from Apollo that neatly slammed off two walls before it ended
in Starbuck's hands, and he put it into the scoring circle.
     The crowd erupted in a wild howl that would have taxed the
squeamish.  So loud and deafening that it completely obscured the wild
grunt of pain Starbuck let out as he staggered away from the scoring
circle, mere microns after putting the shot in, as he felt the blow of
Quanto's elbow impact viciously against his ribs.

*****************************

Transcript of ZED AND Boomer's triad telecast, Part 4:

     ZED: "Starbuck's shot puts the Gold up three to two!  The tie is at
last broken, and ladies and gentlemen above this frenzied roar, I don't
know if you caught on your monitors what appeared to happen just after
the shot went in.  But it would appear to this commentator that Quanto
clearly rib blocked Starbuck after the score and the officiator either
missed it above the noise of the crowd reaction, or just didn't see it!
Boomer, how would you have called that?"
     BOOMER:  "Well Zed, I wouldn't like to second guess an officiator,
but Sergeant Quanto is one triad player who likes to play to the limit of
the rules.  Sometimes that can be an asset in making you an aggressive
triad player, but in this case I think he let some frustration set in
over the fact that they've lost the tie game now and he decided to let
some of that frustration out, knowing that he probably could get away
with it."

*****************************

     As the players gathered in the circle to wait for the ball to drop
into play again, Cassiopeia, Sheba and Jeremiah all had their eyes locked
on Starbuck.  They too had seen the rib block and could also see a
furious look on the lieutenant's face as he glared at Quanto with
contempt.
     "I guess it was too good to last," Cassiopeia said with an edge of
concern.  "It looks like they're at it again."
     "Oh dear.  Are they always like that when they play against each
other?" Jeremiah asked, as he recalled the near-brawl that had erupted
between the two of them in the Officers Club.
     "Every time Starbuck plays against Quanto his body ends up looking
like a black and blue Orion seemat the next morning," the blonde med-tech
looked on as the ball dropped and play resumed.
     "Oh?" Jeremiah casually put a hand to his chin in amusement while
Sheba glanced over with a dry, half-smirk.
     Cassiopeia rolled her eyes slightly and didn't bother looking back
at either of them. "As a med-tech, I usually end up having to patch him
up, just like all others who get hurt on the court."
     "Of course," Sheba said with a dry tone to match her expression.
     "Sheba!" she finally looked over and chuckled as she realized the
joke the two of them were having at her expense.
     "Sorry," Sheba grinned, "But from the way things are going, I guess
Starbuck can take care of himself."
     "Maybe," the concerned expression returned to Cassiopeia's face as
she returned her gaze to the triad court, "But if those two keep at it,
they're going to end up killing each other."
     Jeremiah found himself uneasily nodding, "You may be right."

*****************************

     "Some more Aquarian twistbrisk, Colonel, and more Caprican white
ambrosia, Commander," Ohan said as he sat two more drinks on the table in
front of Adama and Tigh.  The executive officer was so wrapped up in the
action unfolding on the videocom that he didn't even acknowledge the
bartender.
     Adama glanced at his friend in amusement and then picked up his
glass, "Thank you, Ohan."  He smiled, "Your service this evening has been
outstanding."
     "It's been an honor sir," Ohan said.  "Commander, I'm due to go off
duty in five centons, so if there's anything else you and the colonel
need..."
     "No, that'll be all." Adama waved his hand.  "You might as well
relax and enjoy the rest of the match, Ohan.  It seems to be getting very
interesting."
     The bartender smiled and bowed deferentially, "Thank you, sir." He
said and left the private room.
     "What did I tell you, Adama?" Tigh's voice had the eagerness of a
child about to devour a plate full of mushies.  "This game's everything
they said it would be!"
     "Indeed," Adama noted dryly as he sipped his drink, feeling slight
distaste over the rib-blocking that hadn't been called, "This Quanto,
does he always play this way?"
     "Oh, he's very aggressive," the executive officer was shaking his
fist in excitement as he watched the action resume, "Hates to lose."
     "Hmmm," Adama pursed his lips slightly, "An attitude like that is
supposed to be an asset in a viper. Yet if memory serves me right,
Quanto's bounced around from one squadron to another over the last few
sectars."
     "Not because of anything that happens in battle or on patrol," Tigh
kept watching the videocom, "From what I hear, it has more to do with how
he behaves off-duty."
     "Ah," the commander nodded as he understood.  He then glanced back
at Tigh, who seemed on the verge of rising from his seat and pacing up
and down in front of the video-com as he had done just before the first
half had ended.  Adama wondered if Tigh wasn't taking the game a little
too seriously.  While he had always enjoyed watching triad matches on
occasion, especially when it was his son who was playing, Adama never
could understand the passion some people had for watching and following
the game.  To Adama, triad was to be watched with clinical detachment,
and seen as an interesting test of how trained warriors could show off
their physical and judgmental skills.  The actual competition between
teams was purely secondary in the final analysis to him.  It certainly
wasn't worth expending the kind of emotional energy similar to going
through a catharsis treatment, as far as Adama was concerned.  Yet he
knew all too well that he was probably the only person in the Fleet
watching at this very micron who felt that way.
     "Do you wish you'd watched things from the gallery?" he inquired
with a half-smile.
     "What?" Tigh abruptly turned toward him and then blushed slightly. 
"Oh.  No, not at all Adama.  This was the perfect set-up.  No crowds in
our faces.  Comfortable seats."
     "And good ambrosia," he held up his glass and lightly rolled the
contents back and forth.
     "Good conversation and company too, Adama," Tigh said, feeling
slightly guilty that he hadn't shown enough appreciation to his friend
for arranging the set-up, earlier in the evening.  "Thank you."
     Adama smiled and the two friends clinked their glasses together. 

*****************************

Chapter Twenty: Free Shot
 
     "The commander says he doesn't need anything else," Ohan said as he
set his empty tray down.
     "Okay," Talius said, "As of now, you're off-duty Ohan.  Thanks for
stepping in."
     "Always a pleasure," the assistant chief bartender smiled and took
an empty seat closest to one of the Empyreal Lounge's video-com monitors,
where Zed's commentary was playing at the half-volume level.
     "What's happening?" Ohan idly inquired of a middle-aged male
customer in a gray tunic.
     "Apollo and Starbuck just got the lead back.  I'm telling you, that
Quanto is really living dangerously."
     "That's for damn sure." Ohan idly glanced at his chronometer.  It
read 2156.  If Quanto was going to deliver on what he'd promised to do,
there wasn't much time left.  The window of opportunity had just begun.
     "Look at that!" another patron suddenly bolted up, "Quanto's in the
open!  It's gonna be tied up again!"
     Their eyes went back to the monitor and saw Starbuck scrambling
alongside Quanto just as the redheaded sergeant deposited the ball in the
scoring circle.  Two male customers in the Lounge that had wagers on
Quanto and Barton let out happy whoops that the game was tied again.  And
then, the happy sounds stuck in their throats just one micron later when
they saw what happened next.
     "Hey!  What the frack?" one of the customers shouted.  "Did you see
that? He walloped him right between the eyes after the score!  What's
that guy thinking?"
     "He just gave them a free shot!" another customer who'd been excited
by the score now sounded glum as well, "Talk about snatching defeat from
the jaws of victory."
     "Quiet!" another patron said brusquely as everyone leaned forward to
hear what Zed was saying. 
     "...what a disgraceful display by Quanto,"  the commentator didn't
bother hiding his disdain and disgust.  "At the most critical centon of
the match, he ties the game up and then that illegal blow to Starbuck all
but negates it. Let's now listen to the officiator's ruling."
     A micron later the voice of the officiator, who watched the
proceedings from an enclosed area above the center section of the gallery
filled the air.
     "Quanto: unnecessary blocking after the score. Starbuck: free shot."
     "As we wait for the free shot, which almost certainly will give the
lead back to Apollo and Starbuck, I should note, Boomer, Quanto clearly
didn't try to hide the infraction that time, as he seemed to do last
time."
     "Very unusual, Zed," even Boomer was baffled that Quanto could have
done something that foolish.  "I've never seen anything like that before. 
That is not the mark of a smart triad player.  But I guarantee you that
another penalty like that and he's going to get himself thrown out of the
game."
     Ohan put a hand up to his chin to hid the smirk that had come over
his face.  All the tension inside him was gone now.  Things were
definitely proceeding according to plan.

*****************************

     As Apollo lined up alongside Barton to wait for Starbuck's free
throw at the scoring circle, he gave the sergeant a cold stare, "Your
friend's really asking for a load of trouble, you know that?"
     "Friend? He's no friend," Barton didn't conceal the disgust in his
voice.  "I fly with him because we're assigned together, and I play with
him because he likes to win.  At least until now, I thought he liked to
win."
     They watched as Starbuck made the easy, unobstructed toss into the
scoring circle that gave the lead back to the Gold team.  Starbuck
grinned and pumped his fists into the air, wishing he could have made an
obscene gesture at Quanto.
     The two teams gathered in the circle again as the ball dropped into
play.  The four players found themselves in a mad scramble in one of the
arena's three corners before Apollo finally got to the ball.  He allowed
Barton to cover him for a centon while he waited for Starbuck to get into
position.  With the game now in its late stages and their team up by only
one, Apollo and Starbuck's game plan called for a quick score to take
advantage of the desperation that would undoubtedly start to set in with
their opponents. It was a psychological reading of the opposition that
had always helped them put a close game out of reach at the very end.
     Apollo saw Starbuck all alone and he almost frowned when he saw
Quanto hanging so far away from him, which was anything but normal
defensive strategy.  He fired the ball over and Starbuck had time to make
another quick, easy score.
     As Starbuck jumped up to slam the ball into the circle, Apollo then
saw Quanto charging at his teammate and he realized right away what the
redheaded sergeant had in mind.  Sure enough, an instant after the ball
went in for the score, Quanto crashed into Starbuck's mid-section like an
unrestrained beast.  Since Starbuck's back was to Quanto at the time, the
lieutenant had no warning whatsoever and he staggered visibly in pain,
almost collapsing to the floor.
     Right away, Apollo knew that for a man of Starbuck's temperament
this would be the final straw.  He alertly dashed over to his friend,
helped him to his feet and tried to shout a warning in his ear above the
roar and boos of the crowd.  But Starbuck seemed totally oblivious to
Apollo as a look of pure hate came over his face.  He shook himself loose
from Apollo and charged after Quanto, delivering a body blow to him from
behind that knocked the redheaded sergeant off his legs and sent him
crashing to the floor.
     In the gallery, Cassiopeia, Sheba and Jeremiah all felt their jaws
open in horror as they saw that Starbuck wasn't through.  He dropped his
knee down on Quanto's chest and grabbed him by the throat with one hand
while using the other to punch him across the face.
     Apollo scrambled over to pull Starbuck away, while Barton grabbed
Quanto's shoulders to try and pull him out from under Starbuck's knee. 
Starbuck managed to punch Quanto once again in the face while the
sergeant struck a blow on the side of Starbuck's head before Apollo
finally managed to pull him away.
     "Get your head out of your astrum, Starbuck!" Apollo shouted as he
got him to his feet and kept his arms locked around his seething friend. 
At the other end, Barton had helped Quanto to his feet and gave him a
look that all but indicated a desire to punch him as well.
     Finally, the sound of the officiator's buzzer rang through the
gallery.
     "Quanto: Rib blocking after the score.  Out of the game," the
officiator's voice was firm and totally dispassionate.
     "Serves you right, you lousy Sagitarian ghozzard!"  Starbuck spat as
Quanto somewhat passively moved toward the exit, while a chorus of boos
and hisses went up from the gallery, from both those who were disgusted
by the sergeant's dirty playing and those who'd bet on the Blue Team and
now realized that their money was as good as gone now.
     The officiator's buzzer then sounded again, indicating that he had
another ruling to make.  Starbuck looked up at the enclosed booth where
the gray-tuniced officiator sat and wondered why he would need to say
anything else at this point.
     "Starbuck: fighting.  Out of the game."
     "What?!" Starbuck whipped off his helmet and seemed ready to throw
it at the officiator's booth, when he felt Apollo grab his wrist.
     "Don't act so shocked!" he jabbed a finger toward his face, "You
know what the rules say about that kind of felgercarb.  I warned you,
Starbuck.  I warned you, and you let him get to you anyway!  Now you take
a turbowash and cool off!"
     Starbuck barely acknowledged him as he started moving toward the
exit.  He was still seething with more venom than Apollo could remember
at any time in all the yahrens he'd known Starbuck.
     The last thing Apollo heard as Starbuck moved away, was one low,
angry sentence.
     "I'll kill him.  I'll kill that lousy snitrod!"

*****************************

     As Starbuck disappeared from view, Cassiopeia promptly got up from
her seat, "I've got to talk him now.  I've seen that look before on his
face, and it only means more trouble if I don't get there fast."
     "Good idea."  The concerned look on Jeremiah's face had intensified. 
"I do believe, however, that I should go and help."
     "Thank you, no," she shook her head, "I think I'd better handle this
myself Jeremiah, but..." she knelt down and squeezed his hand, "But I'm
glad you're concerned.  Really glad."
     Jeremiah slowly nodded in silent understanding.  "Just take good
care of him, Cassie."
     As she left the gallery, Jeremiah leaned back in his chair and
marveled again at how Cassiopeia reminded him so much of Tanannah.  Only
this time, Cassiopeia had demonstrated that side of her that could rein
Starbuck in from his worst behavior, just like Tanannah had done with him
when she'd given him the happiest yahrens of his life.
     Son, he thought to himself, if there's one part of me I hope you've
inherited above all others, I hope it's the part that knows how to listen
to the advice of the woman who's right for you.
     "Jeremiah?" Sheba tapped his shoulder.
     "Oh!  Yes?" he looked over, slightly startled.
     "Are you okay?  You seemed like a million light yahrens away just
now."
     "Oh...just thinking about Starbuck.  I don't want him to make
matters worse."
     "You still feel attached to him, don't you?" she smiled faintly.
     In more ways then you'll probably ever know, he thought.  "I believe
so."
     "He could probably use some fatherly advice for next time," she
leaned back and watched as the two designated substitutes entered the
triad court.  Sergeant Vickers to replace Starbuck, and Lieutenant
Greenbean to replace Quanto.  As soon as they entered, half of the
disgusted spectators got up and made their way for the exits.  Watching a
game with substitutes didn't amount to getting one's money's worth in
most people's eyes.
     "I may try to slip in a word or two to him before the night is
over," Jeremiah said as the buzzer sounded to indicate a resumption of
play.  "As fascinating as this game is, it's not worth paying a steep
price over."

*****************************

Chapter Twenty-One: Pushing, Shoving And Murdering

     When Verrah got off-duty from his work in the Chancery at 2130, he
had gone next door to the Astral Lounge to watch the match on the giant
video-com screen that had been set up.  Trying to figure out the reason
behind Quanto's enigmatic telecom message earlier in the day that told
him to be in the training room at a time when the match clearly wouldn't
be over.
     When he and the rest of the unruly crowd saw the first illegal rib
block, he finally realized that Quanto was setting himself up to get
thrown out of the game.  And that meant that whatever it was Quanto
wanted to talk to him about, it could only be about something very
serious to him, if he was willing to throw away his reputation as a triad
player to do it.
     For a brief instant, he wondered if he ought to not show up.  He
didn't know at this point if he could handle more blackmail demands from
the redheaded sergeant who'd had him in his hip pocket ever since their
paths had first crossed long ago on that terrible night when the Colonies
were evacuated.  Maybe the time had finally come to tell Quanto to take
his demands and stuff them up his astrum.  Even if it meant exposure of
his own transgression, he wasn't sure it would mean as harsh a punishment
for him as he'd always feared it might.  Maybe he could find a
sympathetic opposer who would understand the situation he'd been in as
Caprica crumbled around him in a sea of Cylon fire, and why he had acted
as he had in the name of survival.  Even if it meant the Prison Barge for
him, a part of Verrah wondered if that would ultimately be a small price
to pay in the name of emotional catharsis.
     When he saw the double ejection of Quanto and Starbuck, he remained
the only person in the Astral Lounge who wasn't shouting profane epithets
or throwing snack objects at the video screen.  Instead, he calmly
glanced at his chronometer and saw that his appointment was now ten
centons away.
     He decided that he would show up on-time.  And no matter what Quanto
asked of him, Verrah already knew what the answer was going to be.

*****************************

     "This commentator has covered triad matches for the better part of
thirty yahrens now, ladies and gentlemen, and I can say quite candidly
that I have never seen a more disgraceful scene than what just
transpired.  What had been up to a few centons ago the most exciting
match any of us had seen in yahrens has now degenerated into a total
farce. What Sergeant Quanto and Lieutenant Starbuck have done this
evening does not represent what the game of triad  is supposed to be
about, and I sincerely hope that some action among the organizers of this
league is taken to see to it that nothing remotely resembling this
disgraceful scene ever takes place again."
     "Ah, shut up Zed!" one of the patrons in the Empyreal Lounge got up
and headed for the staircase that led down to the first level exit.
     For almost a centon, Ohan sat in his seat totally frozen with his
hand under his chin.  His master plan that had been proceeding so
smoothly had now been disrupted by a factor that he had foolishly failed
to consider beforehand.  That Starbuck would react to Quanto's illegal
blocks and get thrown out of the game as well.
     That meant that when he went down to the training room to do what
needed to be done, Starbuck was either going to be in the next training
room or leaving the area.  Either way, Starbuck was going to be in a
position to place Ohan at the scene of the crime and make him a prime
suspect.
     Dammit, he pounded his fist against the side of his chair.  It had
all been meticulously conceived down to the last detail.  Quanto would be
alone in the training room waiting for him.  He would kill Quanto.  And
then, Verrah would arrive at 2210 for the appointment he thought was with
Quanto, only to become Ohan's second victim of the night.  Killed and
then left in a position so that when the bodies were discovered it would
look as if Quanto and Verrah had killed each other in a struggle.
     Now, that plan was blown out of the water completely thanks to
Starbuck's presence. But he also knew that he could not call off the
killing of Quanto.  Events had moved too far ahead now.  And with Verrah
due to arrive at 2210, he could not run the risk of what would happen to
him if Verrah got to talk to Quanto.
     He needed to formulate a new plan, and fast.  He had to start moving
for the training room now and have it in place by the time he arrived.
     "Hey Ohan, going to stick around for the finish?"  Talius asked as
he saw the assistant chief bartender reach the exit.
     "No," Ohan shook his head, "Doesn't look like much of a game anyway
now that they're both out.  See you tomorrow, Talius."
     "Good night, Ohan."

*****************************

     "I got a bone to pick with you!" Starbuck shouted as he entered the
corridor that led to the training rooms.
     Quanto, who was halfway own the corridor stopped and turned around
with a contemptuous look.  The last thing he was in the mood for was
conversation with Starbuck, especially since the warrior's presence
undoubtedly would cause complications when Ohan arrived.
     "You want something?" he inquired coldly.
     "You're fracking right I do!" Starbuck marched up to him so that the
two were only inches apart.  "Just let me have one centon alone with you
and let's settle ten yahrens worth of felgercarb right here and now!"
     Quanto suddenly raised both of his arms with clenched fists, "If
that's the way you want it, you grovelling boil wallowing slag, I'm more
than happy to oblige!"
     The two of them had begun to swing at each other when Cassiopeia
entered the corridor and dashed up to them.
     "Stop it!" the med-tech shouted with more authority than she'd ever
summoned at any time in her life, "Both of you!"
     "Stay out of this!" Starbuck glared angrily at her.
     "Why?  So you two can bash each other's heads in?" she held her
ground.
     "I said stay out of this!!" the level of his shout rose.
     "Starbuck, if either of you lay a hand on each other, I'll
personally put you both on report!"
     "You don't carry any authority over warriors!" Quanto jumped in.
     Cassiopeia spun around and gave the curly-haired sergeant an equally
cold stare, "You ought to read the manual again, Sergeant.  Med-techs
have the authority to file reports with the superior officer of any
warrior with regard to their conduct.  I can have you both grounded for
at least a sectan."
     "You wouldn't do that," Starbuck was still breathing heavily,
keeping his hate-filled gaze on Quanto.
     "Try me!" Cassiopeia retorted.
     Quanto suddenly started to laugh malevolently, "Looks like you got
your woman to bail you out just when you needed her, Starbuck.  We'll
finish this another time when you haven't got her around to lead you by
the nose."
     He then turned and disappeared into the training room for the blue
team.  For a centon, Starbuck stood there, trembling with rage.
     "You only delayed the inevitable," he finally forced his words out.
     "Starbuck, will you grow up?" for the first time, she felt totally
disgusted with her boyfriend, "Just stay away from him!"
     "You're asking a lot," he took another heavy breath.
     "Yeah, and that's not all I'm asking," her voice grew colder, "The
Canaris leaves in ten centons for the Galactica.  I'm going to wait for
you in the Docking Lounge and I expect you to be on time to catch it. 
Because if you're not there, then don't try and see me later, or even for
the next sectan for that matter."
     "Come on, Cass!" he protested as she started to walk away, "That's
hardly enough time to turbowash and dress!"
     "Or fight!" she shot back as she rounded the corner and disappeared.
     Starbuck let out another exasperated breath and finally moved down
the corridor toward the door that led to the gold team's training room.

*****************************

     As soon as he heard the sound of the door close, Ohan finally stuck
his head around the corridor and looked.  Not a soul in sight.  To his
relief, Cassiopeia had made her exit by going in the opposite direction
from where he'd been lying in wait.
     In the three centons that it had taken for him to walk from the
Empyreal Lounge to the lower levels of the Rising Star, he had formed a
new plan that would factor in Starbuck's presence.  But it all hinged on
just one lucky break that he would need if it had any chance of
succeeding. 
     He hurriedly sprinted down the empty corridor and entered the door
to the gold team's training room.  When he was inside, he could hear
Starbuck cursing aloud and he felt an edge of panic enter his body.  If
Starbuck saw him, then it would all be over.
     But when he heard the sound of loud jets of water turning on, the
panic faded as he realized that the warrior was already inside the
adjacent turbowash facility.  That meant he still had a chance.
     Now, he needed to see if he would get the lucky break that he
desperately needed. He stealthily made his way over to the lockers where
he could see Starbuck's uniform already laid out on the bench and his
discarded triad uniform lying in a heap on the floor. Starbuck's locker
was wide open.  And hanging inside on the hook was his weapons pack and
laser pistol.
     Ohan broke into a relieved grin.  This was the lucky break he needed
to make this hastily improvised plan work had happened.  Starbuck had
left his pistol out in the open and had just insured that he, instead of
Verrah, would become the perfect fall-guy.
     The bartender gingerly lifted the pistol off the hook and deftly
clicked it to the kill setting.  Holding it by his side, he made his exit
from the training room by walking on the tips of his boots.
     For a centon, he stood in front of the door to the Blue Team's
training room with the pistol in a raised position.  Ready to step inside
the instant he heard any approaching footsteps.  But he knew that his
best chance to achieve the element of surprise was to kill Quanto the
instant the door opened so he could then return the pistol and get out of
the area more quickly.  He would give himself that chance so long as the
corridor remained deserted.
     Finally, he heard the whizz of the door as it began to slide open. 
Instantly, Ohan raised the pistol and cocked his finger on the trigger. 
When the door opened, a fully-dressed Quanto found himself staring right
into the barrel.
     The sergeant stared at Ohan for an instant and then smirked faintly,
seeming to be pleased rather than frightened.  "I always knew it would
come to this."
     Quanto started to whip out his pistol, but Ohan already knew that
the sergeant never would have enough time to get off a shot.  The
bartender didn't bat an eyelash as he calmly pulled the trigger. 
Instantly, Quanto crumpled to the floor, his body protruding halfway out
the door, his hand still grasping his pistol.
     "Nothing personal, Sergeant," Ohan said with a taunting smirk. "I've
just  decided to give you something else instead of a last payment."
     He then dashed down and entered the Gold Team's training room where
he could still hear the sounds of the turbo wash jets at full speed. 
That meant that Starbuck was obliging him in every way right down to the
last detail.  He hurried over to Starbuck's locker, carefully wiped the
butt of the laser pistol and set it back in the weapons pack on the
inside locker hook.  As soon as it was in place, he heard the turbo wash
shut off and the sound of footsteps hitting the wet floor inside.  He
knew that he had less than ten microns to get out of the room before
Starbuck would enter and see him. 
     When Starbuck entered the room, he had no way of knowing that the
door to the corridor had closed shut a fraction of an instant before.

*****************************

     In the Docking Lounge, Cassiopeia took a load off her feet on the
bench as she lazily glanced at her chronometer and at the monitor that
showed the closing microns of the match.  Already, a throng of
dissatisfied spectators who had left at the time of the double ejection
had gathered, anxious to catch the Canaris as well when it left in five
centons.

*****************************

Transcript of ZED AND Boomer's triad telecast, Part 5:

     ZED: "...And there goes the final buzzer, and this game that for so
long this evening represented everything it promised to be and then
degenerated into an absolute farce,  is finally over.  The Gold Team wins
by a final score of six to four.  Lieutenant Boomer, since this is the
first time a triad game has finished with designated substitutes on both
teams, could you please explain for the audience how the league scoring
is affected?"
     BOOMER: "Well Zed, ordinarily this would mean four points in the
standings for the winning team, in this case Apollo and Starbuck. 
However, because one of the two was ejected for a rules infraction, as
opposed to leaving for an injury, two of the winning points are deducted,
and the balance is awarded to the team which the designated substitute
plays for.  If anyone's the real winner tonight, it's Sergeant Vickers of
the number seven ranked team, since as Lieutenant Starbuck's substitute,
he gets to pick up two free winning points for his own team, which has
played poorly in the last few games.  In addition, one point is awarded
to Lieutenant Greenbean's team because he came on for Sergeant Quanto."
     ZED: "And since the substitutes and their teams are the only
beneficiaries of an ejection, that's one reason why up until tonight, the
players in this league have always been so careful not to let anything
like what happened tonight take place.  Again, we just can't understate
how unfortunate it is to the spectators, to the viewers watching, and to
the organizers of the league itself how utterly shocking the performances
of both Starbuck and Quanto were this evening."

*****************************

     Cassiopeia rolled her eyes slightly and glanced at her chronometer
again.  He only had four centons, and if he didn't make it she was
determined to leave without him.
     "Attention.  Attention," the feminine voice that made all
announcements about arrivals and departures filled the Docking Lounge. 
"The shuttle Canaris reports they will be delayed ten centons in their
arrival.  We regret any inconveniences caused by this."
     For only a brief instant, Cassiopeia felt disappointed to realize
that Starbuck was going to make it no matter what.  She almost felt it
would have served his ego right to go through the sting of seeing her
leave him behind after what he had pulled on the triad court.  Gambling
and carousing were vices she could be tolerant of to an extent.  The way
he'd behaved tonight represented a side of Starbuck that she'd never been
exposed to before and had no intention of tolerating ever, if they were
going to continue in a meaningful relationship.
     He still has a lot to learn, she sighed as she got up from the bench
and began to idly pace.

*****************************

     Verrah felt his heart pumping slightly as he left the Astral Lounge
and took the lift down to the lower decks that led to the training rooms. 
Inside, he felt he had summoned the nerve to tell Quanto to go to Hades
if the sergeant planned on making more demands.  What he wasn't sure
about, was how Quanto would react and what the curly-haired sergeant
might do, especially since he was bound to be in a bad frame of mind
already for making a fool of himself on the triad court.
     He stepped out of the lift and had walked five steps down the
corridor when he saw a slightly disheveled Starbuck dashing wildly from
around the corner, heading in the direction of the lift.  The warrior
clearly didn't see the rotund dealer at first as he collided with him.
     "Watch where you're going,, Starbuck!" a surprised Verrah exclaimed.
     Starbuck said nothing as he pushed him aside and made a mad sprint
for the empty turbo lift.  Totally befuddled, Verrah watched him make it
inside just as the doors closed shut.
     That's two crazy triad players, the dealer shook his head as he
resumed walking.  When he rounded the corner, he frowned again when he
saw the door to the Blue Team training room half-opening and half-closing
as though there were some kind of obstruction in the doorway.  But as far
as he could tell at first glance, there was nothing to be seen.
     Verrah came to a stop in front of the door and looked down. His jaw
then fell open in stunned disbelief as he saw the lifeless eyes of Quanto
staring up at him, his had still forlornly clasping his laser pistol.
     "Holy Frack!"

*****************************

Chapter Twenty-Two: Whodunit?

     Ohan stepped off the turbo lift that had taken him back to the Main
Deck of the Rising Star, and nonchalantly wandered over to the Astral
Lounge entrance, where Zumdish stood at his station.
     "Your pass shir?" the white-haired, goofy-eyed and mustachioed Chief
Steward inquired in that peculiar accent of his.
     Ohan flashed his special badge.  As a Rising Star employee, he was
entitled to free access to all leisure areas of the ship.
     "Ach, my apol-oh-geesh Ohan," Zumdish blushed slightly, since he
knew the bartender from his regular visits to the Empyreal Lounge. 
"Eet's been shuch a bee-zee eve-en-eeng, I deedn't rec-og-nish you at
firsht."
     "Did you have a lot of business?" he casually inquired.
     "Much, much, much" the Chief Steward sighed.  "But when that
ee-jeck-shun took plash, eet put them all een a ver-ree unpleashant moot. 
The san-ee-ta-shun detail crewsh weel need an ek-shtra shentar cleen-eeng
up the mesh they made."
     "Fortunately, the Empyreal Lounge patrons are better behaved," Ohan
chuckled lightly.
     "Een-deed," Zumdish nodded.  "I may tell Ta-lee-ush shome day that
we ought to shweetch overshight ree-shpon-shee-beel-ee-tees for a few
sheck-tahns as an eck-shper-ee-ment."
     "I won't tell him you said that," Ohan laughed as he entered the
Lounge.  "Talk to you later."
     Ohan went over to the bar area, ordered a Piscean redstar, and as
soon as it arrived he half-raised his glass in a mocking toast to the
memory of Quanto.
     Rest in peace, Sergeant Quanto, he said to himself and smirked.  May
everything you know be scattered out into space along with your ashes.
     Then, he raised it high and gave a silent toast to himself for his
ingenuity and drank.

*****************************

     "Not a very propitious ending," Adama dryly noted as he and Tigh
rose from their seats in the Empyreal Lounge private suite.
     "Damn right," much of Tigh's earlier enthusiasm was gone as he went
over and shut the monitor off.  "Watching a game as good as that was end
with a double ejection and substitutes is like discovering the spiderpie
you've been eating has gone stale."
     Adama decided not to comment on his friend's distasteful analogy.
"We might as well see if there's time to catch the next shuttle.  I need
to get to bed and start working off this condition."
     They stepped outside back into the main lounge, just in time to see
Talius and two black uniformed guards from Council Security come up to
them.
     "Commander, something very serious has just happened.  You'd better
accompany us," one of the guards said gravely.
     "What's happened?" Adama frowned.
     "Sergeant Quanto has been found dead, sir."
     "Dead?" both Adama's and Tigh's eyes widened in shock.
     "Yes sir," the lead guard nodded, "And from the looks of it, he
appears to have been murdered."
     "Murdered," Tigh could barely force the word out.  Throughout the
long history of the thousand yahren war between human and Cylon, no
concept had come to be regarded as more distasteful and repulsive in
Colonial society than the taking of another human life.  So ingrained was
the concept that it had even led to the controversial decision by the
Council of the Twelve to formally suspend all forms of capital punishment
in each of the twelve worlds one hundred yahrens before.* 
     "Where is he?" Adama inquired, trying to assume a stoic expression.
     "Down by the training room, sir."
     The commander and executive officer then left the lounge at a brisk
walking pace.

*(Initially, the idea was to permanently outlaw it, but when the idea ran
into stiff opposition, it was then agreed that the Council could vote in
special circumstances to restore it some time in the future and that no
decision would ever be made to permanently outlaw it).

*****************************

     Cassiopeia was still pacing in front of the Docking Lounge bench
when she saw Starbuck enter the area, his head wet and his uniform
showing signs of being hastily thrown on.
     "You're on time," she came up to him, "The Canaris isn't.  They just
announced it would be delayed a few centons."
     Starbuck impatiently checked his chronometer, "I hope it won't be
long.  The sooner I get out of here, the better." he then glanced back
over his shoulder.
     She frowned slightly, "Are you worrying about something?"
     "I guess so," he sighed, "The sooner I get off this ship, the less
chance I have of running into Quanto again.  At least for tonight.  And
the way I feel right now---" he clenched his fist angrily and trailed
off.
     She grabbed his fist and gently pried it open, "Don't," she said
firmly, "You know you're better than he is, and the thing that usually
keeps you that way is that you never play to his level.  If you don't
keep remembering that, then it's just going to get worse."
     Starbuck absently turned around and looked back again, "The only way
it'll ever get better is when he just disappears forever."

*****************************

     When Adama and Tigh arrived in the corridor outside the training
rooms, they saw the four players,  Apollo, Barton, Greenbean and Vickers
still in their triad uniforms standing in front of the body in stunned
shock.  Sheba had also arrived and was standing off to one side, equally
stunned.  On the other side of the group, Verrah had his arms folded as
he tried not to let any emotion line his face.
     Adama turned to the guards, "Seal off the corridor and don't let
anyone else in until I've left the area."
     The guards nodded and disappeared around the corner.  Adama and Tigh
moved up to the group of four, each of them staring down at the lifeless
corpse on the floor.
     "I came down here when the game was over to meet Apollo," Sheba
said.  "And I got here---" she trailed off and shook her head.
     "Let's have a look," Tigh knelt beside the corpse and made a
preliminary examination. He gently raised the folds of Quanto's uniform
jacket at the collar and stared underneath.  The blackened scar across
his tunic was all he needed to see.
     The executive officer then carefully pried the laser pistol out of
the dead sergeant's hand, which was still warm.  "One laser blast to the
heart," he said simply.
     "He must have been dead before he started to fall," Adama noted.
     Tigh carefully inspected the laser, "Quanto's laser hasn't been
fired.  He must have been taken by surprise when the door opened.  The
killer was probably waiting outside for him and fired right away."
     "I'd agree with that analysis," Adama then looked over the group of
seven people gathered in the corridor, "Who discovered the body?"
     "I did," Verrah stepped forward, his arms still folded.
     "What's your name?"
     "I am called Verrah," he said, his tone completely neutral.
     "What were you doing here?" Adama inquired.
     "I'm employed by the Chancery," he said.  "When I got off shift and
saw what happened on the monitors with the ejections and saw all the
people leaving, I thought I might get a chance to see the last few
centons of the game from a vacant seat in the galleries."  He had
carefully rehearsed that lie in his mind for the last five centons, and
hoped it sounded as convincing as he'd led himself to believe.
     "Did you see anyone else down here?"
     "I did indeed, Master," Verrah nodded, "I saw Starbuck."
     "Starbuck?" Apollo suddenly interjected as he and Sheba went ashen.
     "Yes," the dealer went on. "When I got off the lift, he came from
this corridor and practically knocked me over.  He didn't say a word to
me and just got on the turbo lift.  I couldn't figure out why he was in
such a hurry---" he then purposefully trailed off.
     Adama didn't change his expression as he glanced over at Tigh,
"Colonel, find Starbuck and run a routine check on his laser."
     "Father," a stunned Apollo came over to him, "You can't possibly
believe that Starbuck did this?"
     Adama knew all too well what his son was feeling.  He could even
feel the same emotions running inside himself as well.  But his position
as Commander dictated running things exactly by-the-book with no hint of
any personal feelings or considerations visible at any time.
     "Apollo," he said in the same neutral tone of voice, "What I think
isn't important. Everyone who watched that game saw what was going on
between Starbuck and Quanto, and Starbuck was seen running away from
here.  Under those circumstances, the sooner Starbuck's laser is checked,
the sooner he can be cleared."
     His son swallowed uneasily and nodded, "You're right.  But let me
look for him. I'll run the check."
     Adama nodded and turned to Tigh, "Colonel, Captain Apollo will find
Starbuck."
     "Count me in, sir," Sheba spoke up.
     "Permission granted."
     Apollo moved off down the corridor, while Sheba stepped through the
group of onlookers to follow him.  She ended up bumping into Verrah as
she reached the end of the group.
     "Sorry," the dealer said apologetically.
     "It's okay," she said and then looked into his face for the first
time.  She had been so stunned seeing Quanto's body that she hadn't given
the dealer much notice before.  For an instant, she frowned slightly
before moving on to catch up with Apollo, who was waiting in front of the
turbo lift doors.
     "Thank the Lords, I told Jeremiah to wait for us in the Empyreal
Lounge after the game," she said, "To think that something like this
could happen." she shuddered.
     "I know," Apollo grimly nodded.  "Boy, will I feel better when we
get this check over and get Starbuck's name crossed off the list of
suspects."
     "That goes for me too," she said and glanced back down the corridor
where she could see Verrah standing with his back to her.
     "Something else bothering you?" he inquired.
     "No," Sheba shook her head, "That man who found the body.  He's got
a face that looks familiar to me but I can't place it."
     "That happens with a lot of people," he impatiently glanced at the
closed doors, "Come on, you fracking boil making bastard, open up!"
     A centon later, the doors opened and the two warriors stepped inside
and rode it up to the Main Deck.  They first went over to the Empyreal
Lounge entrance, where Sheba stepped inside for a word with Talius.  As
Apollo waited outside in the corridor, he started to tap his foot over
and over.
     Finally, Sheba emerged and shook her head, "Not here," she said,
"And I noticed that Jeremiah is still waiting for us.  I'm not about to
tell him a word about this until we get this business with Starbuck done
with."
     "Agreed," Apollo nodded, "Where do we go next?"
     Before Sheba answered, the overhead feminine voice filled the
corridor, "Attention.  Shuttle Canaris now ready for general boarding in
the Docking Lounge."
     "Let's try there," Apollo said as they moved on.

*****************************

     "You're being awfully quiet," Cassiopeia noted as the crowds that
had gathered in the Docking Lounge began to move toward the ring, waiting
for the light to go from red to green.
     "Sorry," Starbuck sighed, "I guess my mind is still back in the
game.  Getting thrown out cost our team at least two points."
     "Your team is still number one, and way ahead of everyone else, so
why worry about it?" she decided to change her approach and cheer him up
instead. "Maybe I can take your mind off all that when we get back to the
Galactica." her voice grew coy and suggestive as she kissed him on the
cheek.
     The lights turned green and the crowd started to move through the
docking ring. Starbuck and Cassiopeia joined the throng as well when they
suddenly heard Apollo's voice calling out from the other side of the
room, "Yo! Starbuck!"
     Starbuck and Cassiopeia turned around and saw Apollo push his way
through the crowd toward him.  Sheba was right behind him.
     Starbuck stepped out of the line and smiled wryly when he saw his
friend still wearing his triad uniform.  "Don't tell me," he said, "We
won.  Or at least you and Vickers did and earned all the points."
     Apollo decided to come straight to the point, "Quanto's been
murdered," he said gravely.
     The blonde warrior's face twisted slightly, "What?"
     "How did it happen?" Cassiopeia's eyes widened in shock.
     "Somebody shot him with a laser," Sheba said, equally grave.
     "Starbuck, someone saw you running from the scene," Apollo was
determined not to mince words with his friend.
     "Well yeah, I was running to get up here and catch the shuttle..."
he trailed off as it finally sunk in, "Now wait a centon!  I had nothing
to do with that!" he indignantly raised his voice.
     "I know you didn't, Starbuck, but the Commander's ordered that your
laser be checked as a precaution or else it's going to look like he's
playing favorites.  This is strictly by-the-book!" Apollo emphasized.
     "It'd be the same for me or Apollo or anyone else," Sheba added. 
"Starbuck, let Apollo check it and we can keep a lot of felgercarb
speculation from breaking out."
     "Gimme a break, Apollo!" Starbuck still seemed indignant.
     "Starbuck, they're right," Cassiopeia nudged him, finding it hard to
come to terms with what was happening.  "Give it to him and get it over
with."
     Starbuck rolled his eyes and gazed skywards as he detached his laser
and handed it to Apollo, "I can't believe this is happening!"
     Apollo looked at the setting and the indicator and almost felt his
heart stop when he saw what he saw.  He stared at it for a micron, unable
to move.
     "Apollo?" Sheba frowned.
     "Neither can I," Apollo could barely bring himself to look at his
friend, "Starbuck, your laser's been fired!"
     The weight of Apollo's words kept the others from saying anything
else.

*****************************

Chapter Twenty-Three: Prime Suspect

     Jeremiah absently toyed with his third drink since arriving in the
Empyreal Lounge to wait for Apollo and Sheba.  He didn't want to end up
drinking one too many, because he knew right away that would mean some
gentle discipline from Irulan the micron he was back aboard the Ourania
to submit to her "rehabilitation."
     At the very least, he had to feel fortunate that Irulan never went
beyond gentle methods of discipline.  It was all too clear that one
reason why the siress had been so anxious to take responsibility for him
was because she was smitten with him and would grab at any opportunity to
be in his company.  That meant that he could always count on Irulan to
not do anything that would get him angry or demand that Commander Adama
assign a new "rehabilitator" to his case.
     In the past sectan, he'd gotten to know more about her and now
understood why she had pursued him with such determination.  Irulan had
married at the tender age of fourteen yahrens and lost her husband after
only five yahrens of marriage; she had been just barely nineteen at the
time. In her grief had never entered another relationship since.  But the
tragedy of the Holocaust had been a sobering experience for her that made
her regret not having remarried and enjoyed life more during the last
twenty five yahrens before the Colonies were destroyed.  It was because
of that new outlook on life that she had decided to test the waters and
latch on to the first man she felt attracted to, which turned out to be
Jeremiah.
     He finally finished off his third drink and let out a sigh of
resignation.  As much as he half-resented Irulan's constant hovering
presence, and the fact that she tended to treat him more like a mother
would treat a wayward son, he also had to admit that the other half of
himself enjoyed it.  From his standpoint, he could never love her, but he
could enjoy her company and also appreciate the fact that she was giving
him a reasonable amount of stability that would keep him from ever
getting into another scary predicament like he'd just been through with
the Fremen.
     "Another refill?" the bartender inquired.
     "Nope," Jeremiah sighed as he pushed his empty glass aside, "That's
all for tonight."
     He decided that he'd waited long enough for Sheba and Apollo and
that it was time he leave and catch the next shuttle for the Ourania. 
He'd just gotten out of his chair when he saw a tight-lipped Cassiopeia
enter.
     "Cassie!" he smiled as he came up to her, "So good of you to stop
by.  If you see Apollo and Sheba, tell them I'm sorry but I needed to get
back before Irulan sends the watch daggits out to retrieve me."
     "Jeremiah," she spoke in a low tone of voice, "I need to talk to you
about something."
     "Yes?" he frowned.
     Before the blonde med-tech could say anything, a heavyset bar patron
who was watching the IFB's post-match coverage suddenly bolted out of his
seat, "Holy frack, he's dead!"
     "What?" several heads from all over darted toward him.
     "Quanto!  Somebody killed him!"
     Jeremiah turned toward the monitor in disbelief and saw that the
sound had been turned up to normal volume.  Inside, Cassiopeia wished she
could crawl under a rock, since she had wanted to break the news to
Jeremiah herself.
     "...the alarming report appears to be confirmed now.  Sergeant
Quanto, who was ejected from the match in the latter stages along with
Lieutenant Starbuck during that on-court brawl you just witnessed, was
apparently shot to death by an unknown assassin while leaving the
training room facility..."
     Jeremiah glanced over at Cassiopeia, "Cassie, are you trying to tell
me that...that Starbuck...." he trailed off, too shocked to consider the
prospect.
     "I'm sorry, but as of right now, he's the prime suspect," Cassiopeia
felt like she was in a living nightmare, "His laser pistol was fired. 
They're taking him back to the Galactica to run tests to see if his laser
is the murder weapon."
     "Do they really think it is?"
     "They don't have anything else to go on," she said, "I wanted you to
know before the IFB said anything.  I...." she shook her head, unable to
keep going.
     Inside, Jeremiah felt a sick feeling spread throughout his entire
body.  Not just a sick feeling about Starbuck, but also a sick feeling
that he might have been partly responsible.  Would he have to face the
prospect that if he'd only told Starbuck the truth about being his
father, he might not have been so reckless as to think about doing such a
dreadful thing?
     He then shook his head and chided himself for thinking the worst. 
Starbuck was his son and therefore no more capable of murder than he was. 
It was horrible to not believe in him right away. That was what he had to
do right now, if he felt any regard for him.
     "Cassie," he finally managed to speak, "Surely there's something I
can do to help him.  Say that there is, please." 
     "There's nothing you can do, not right now anyway."  She shook her
head and let out a heavy sigh, "God, I hope that test straightens this
out once and for all and that'll be the end of it."
     "That makes two of us, woman," he gave her a quick hug, "We know him
better than anyone else, don't we?"
     She looked up and smiled weakly, "I guess so."
     "You go back to the Galactica and give him all the support you can,"
he said, "If you need me for anything, you know where to reach me on the
Ourania."
     "I'll keep in touch," Cassiopeia nodded and left.

*****************************

     One centar later, Apollo, Sheba, Boomer, Adama and a testy Starbuck
were all in Dr. Wilker's lab aboard the Galactica.  The chief scientist
had placed Starbuck's laser on a lab table for careful analysis.  Adama
was not present; as per Dr. Salik's orders, he had retired to his
quarters for some much needed sick rest.
     "You do admit you fired it during the last twenty four centars?"
Adama inquired in the same dispassionate tone of voice he'd used since
hearing about Quanto's murder.
     "Yes, I fired it!" Starbuck was too angry to care about potential
insubordination, "I was on the laser range this morning.  So were Jolly,
Bojay and Greenbean and no one's accusing them of killing Quanto!"
     "But Jolly and Bojay weren't on the Rising Star, and Greenbean was
on the triad court taking Quanto's place, Starbuck," Adama said
matter-of-factly, "The sooner you appreciate the facts that we're dealing
with at this particular centon, the sooner you'll realize that no one's
accusing you of anything yet.  We're running these tests to make sure you
can be cleared before it comes to that."
     Wilker carefully extracted the charger section of Starbuck's laser,
where all the energy was stored, and then emptied the contents into a
sample slide.  He then turned back to Starbuck and asked, "Did you
recharge your laser to full power after you left the range?"
     "Of course I did!" Starbuck waved his arm in exasperation, "That's
standard procedure."
     Wilker moved over to a table across the lab carrying the container
just as the main door opened and tall, medium-fair skinned man in his
early fifties entered the room, wearing the formal purple-violet robes of
the judicial class.  He wore a mustache similar to Jeremiah's except it
was thinner and the tips were pointed upward.  He was mostly bald in
front except for a peculiar rolled tuft of hair sloping down from between
the two meticulously styled masses of hair on the sides of his head and
coming to a point in the middle of his forehead.
     "Commander Adama," he smiled and extended his hand, which Adama
took.
     "Wecome aboard, sire." The commander looked over at Starbuck. "I'm
sure you all know Sire Farnum, our chief opposer?"
     "Only publicly," Starbuck said coldly, "And no offense, Sire, but
I'd like to keep it that way."
     "So would I, Lieutenant," Farnum kept his tone sympathetic.  "But my
position may dictate otherwise, especially since this is the first
instance of a capital offense since the Exodus began and must be treated
with the utmost importance." He turned back to Adama. "I was told that
Dr. Wilker was conducting a laseronics ergon test on the suspected
termination weapon?"
     "It's not the termination weapon!" Starbuck bristled, "It's my
weapon!"
     "Starbuck..." Boomer jumped in to try and get his friend to shut his
mouth, but the Chief Opposer held up a hand.
     "No, no," Farnum said, "He's quite correct.  It wasn't a discreet
way of stating it.  My apologies, Lieutenant."
     At the other end of the lab, Wilker had loaded the container into a
computer bank and then called over to the next room. "Jawhn, is the
Quanto sample ready?"
     "The Life Station took awhile extracting it from his body but I've
got it now," the voice of Wilker's assistant Jawhn, nephew and namesake
of the late Commander Jawhn of the Battlestar Columbia, replied as he
entered the room carrying another container slide.  He handed it to the
Chief Scientist who inserted it into the slot next to where he'd placed
the first slide.
     "I'm ready," Wilker called to the others, who promptly gathered
round him, "One slot has a laseronic ergon scan taken from Quanto's body. 
It shows the amount of laser energy absorbed when he was shot."
     He flicked a switch and a series of numbers came up on the computer
terminal. 683.947182.
     "Now this slide contains the amount of remaining ergons in
Starbuck's laser. Recalibrating from the other direction, if the amount
of ergons missing from Starbuck's laser matches the amount in Quanto's
body---"
     "I think we get the picture, Doc, so knock off with the technical
felgercarb and run the test!" the last thing Starbuck wanted to listen to
was another one of Wilker's longwinded technical lectures, which he
always felt the Chief Scientist was overly fond of boring people to death
about.
     Wilker ignored the remark and calmly pressed the button.  It took
only ten microns for the new number to come up. 
     A number that matched the one on the other monitor precisely, right
to the last digit.
     Starbuck's eyes widened in shock.  Apollo, Boomer and Sheba each
looked as though someone had swung a club and brought it down right on
their heads.
     "That... can't be," Starbuck whispered.
     Wilker was slightly taken aback, not having expected a precise
match.  "Um, I ah, wish the test weren't as precise as it is, so there
could be some doubt, but um..." he awkwardly cleared his throat.  "But
I'm afraid there's no other possible conclusion.  Your weapon terminated
Quanto."
     Apollo, Sheba and Boomer were all looking at Starbuck, waiting to
hear an explanation.  This wasn't something any of them had planned on
seeing.  And now, they needed to hear an answer, especially in light of
all that they had seen happen earlier in the evening.
     "Someone set me up!" Starbuck looked at the results, thinking a sick
joke was being played on him.  "That has to be it!"
     "Lieutenant Starbuck," Farnum turned to him and lowered his voice to
a formal tone, "By the authority vested in me as chief opposer for the
state, I herby  charge you with the murder of Wing Sergeant Quanto of the
Colonial Fleet."
     "No!" Starbuck blurted, "In the turbowash!  That has to be it!  
Someone lifted my laser while I was in the turbowash, used it to kill
Quanto and returned it before I got out!  I remember, my locker was wide
open, anyone could have taken it and I wouldn't have noticed!"
     "That's the only logical explanation," Boomer jumped in.
     Adama sadly shook his head, "There's no report of anyone else down
in the corridor or the training room at that time except for Starbuck. 
The chief opposer can only proceed with the evidence presently available. 
Unless you find a witness who saw someone else down there, there is
presently no room for reasonable doubt on the matter of filing charges."
     "Father," Apollo protested, "You know Starbuck as well as you know
me. You can't believe he could kill anyone in cold blood."
     "Commander," Farnum cut in, trying to smooth things over, "I watched
the game too, and taking into account what happened, along with the fact
that Quanto's weapon was drawn, I'd be willing to accept a plea of
self-defense and move to suspend all potential prison time."
     "Forget it!" Starbuck's nostrils flared as he stepped forward, "I
didn't kill Quanto! Not in self-defense or any other way!"
     "Lieutenant," Farnum's voice grew grave, "Don't answer so quickly. 
If you plead self-defense, the harshest penalty you can receive would be
a dishonorable discharge from the Colonial Service.  As far as prison
time goes, however, you would receive a suspended sentence, that much I
can guarantee.  But if you are convicted of a premeditated murder charge,
then I can also guarantee that you'll spend the rest of your life in the
Prison Barge."
     "I'm not going to plead self-defense for something I didn't do!"
Starbuck emphasized harshly.
     "Very well then," Sire Farnum sighed, "How do you plead?  Guilty or
not guilty?"
     "Not guilty!" Starbuck snarled.
     Adama drew up his shoulders and took a breath, "Security."
     From the back of the room, two guards from Colonial Security, the
military police, stepped forward.
     "You will escort Lieutenant Starbuck to the Galactica brig to await
Tribunal."
     "The brig?" Starbuck's face twisted.
     "I'm sorry Starbuck, but the law is the law,"  Adama said with equal
parts empathy and firmness.
     "Father," Apollo stepped forward, "I want to defend him."
     "That goes for me too," Boomer added.
     "This is most unusual, Captain," Farnum gave them a quizzical look,
"You can't possibly have enough experience as a protector to handle this
matter, especially when the evidence against Starbuck is particularly
overwhelming."
     "I'm afraid he's got you there, Apollo," Adama was equally
perplexed.  "They had us study the judicial code at the Academy, but they
graduated us all as warriors, not protectors."
     "He said he didn't kill Quanto and I believe him," Apollo retorted
firmly.
     "Your devotion to your friend is insufficient to defend his life,"
Farnum stressed.
     Starbuck looked at the middle-aged opposer with a defiant
expression, "It's sufficient for me."
     An uneasy silence filled the air, as Adama bit his lip slightly.
Sheba stared at Apollo with a dubious expression.
     "As commander of the Galactica, I grant your request, Captain,"
Adama said. "But I must remind you,  Apollo, that the codes governing
Tribunal for capital offenses are entirely different from the norm, as
part of the concessions that were made for having the death penalty
suspended from Colonial jurisprudence.  Tribunal must take place no later
than forty-eight centars from now with all available evidence presented. 
Failure to produce exculpatory evidence by the time Tribunal is convened
can only be interpreted as an admission of guilt. You'd better get
started now."
     Adama and Farnum turned and departed, followed a micron later by an
uneasy Sheba.  Apollo and Boomer both came over to Starbuck and patted
him on the shoulder.
     "We'll do all we can," Boomer said, "We've been in tighter spots
before."
     For the first time, Starbuck decided to allow some of his caustic
humor to emerge, "We have?"
     "Sure we have," Apollo said reassuringly, "And we're going to get
out of this one too.  That's a promise."
     It took nearly a centon for Starbuck to relax slightly and nod his
head in agreement.  When he did, the three friends clasped their hands
together in a show of solidarity and strength.

*****************************

Chapter Twenty-Four: Questions And Answers

     As soon as Apollo and Boomer were out in the corridor, the magnitude
of what lay ahead for them seemed to set in, "Where do we begin?"
     "Don't you have an idea?" Apollo said, "Quanto was in your
squadron."
     "I made a point of knowing as little as I possibly could about him,"
Boomer emphasized and then rubbed his chin. "If you want an expert on the
late, great Sergeant Quanto, I suggest we try Barton."
     "Then let's go find him."
     "Apollo!"
     The two of them turned around and saw that Sheba had been waiting
outside in the corridor.
     "Yes?"
     "Can I talk to you alone?" her arms were folded.
     "Uh, Sheba, Boomer and I really need to..." but the dark-skinned
warrior grabbed his arm and shook his head.
     "I'll find Barton and meet you in the Officers Club." he turned and
disappeared. As soon as he was gone, Apollo looked back at Sheba, "Yes?"
     "Why in Kobol did you suddenly volunteer to become Starbuck's
protector?" Sheba was still baffled.  "There are plenty of professionals
in this Fleet with yahrens of experience.  People who know the codes
right down to the last detail.  You should have tried to get him one of
them."
     "Sheba, I really don't have time to talk about this," Apollo felt
slightly exasperated.  Occasions like this were the only time he didn't
enjoy being around Sheba, when the shadow of their early confrontations
seemed to hang over them.  "We've only got forty eight centars before the
Tribunal begins.  It'd probably take me all that time just to find one
with enough experience, and then it would be too late for him to get
familiar with the case.  Boomer and I did Starbuck a favor by
volunteering for this."
     She seemed indifferent to his words, "You'd better be right," she
finally said, "But it seems like whenever there's an impossible crisis to
deal with, you just always have to put yourself in the middle of it and
solve it yourself.  Sooner or later, that kind of attitude is really
going to backfire on you."
     She then turned and walked away from him, leaving Apollo more than a
bit confused.

*****************************

     Ten centons later, Apollo entered the largely empty Officers Club
where Boomer was already waiting at a table with Barton, who looked as
though he were anxious to get some sleep.
     "Can we finally get started?" Barton stifled a yawn as Apollo seated
himself.
     "This is really important, Barton," Apollo said, "Starbuck's been
charged with murdering Quanto.  The only chance we have of clearing him
is to find out if anyone else had a reason for killing Quanto too."
     "That'd be anybody who'd ever had the misfortune to come into
contact with him, Captain," Barton said as he rubbed his eyes.
     "Don't get cute, Barton," Boomer leaned forward, "You were his
partner on and off the triad court.  You had to have known some of his
friends or at least the people he mingled with."
     "He didn't have any friends, Boomer, as you well know.  He was a
loner.  I got the feeling that the only people who knew him well were the
workers on the Rising Star since he seemed to spend more spare time there
than anyone else I know.  Most of us warriors need to save a sectan's pay
to get a gold pass for maybe a day or two aboard there.  But it seemed
like he always had enough money to be there any time he wanted."
     "So he probably spent a lot of time in the Chancery?"
     "I imagine," Barton shrugged, "Me, I avoid the Chancery like the
dread Piscean Dermatophilus, just like I always avoided him when we
weren't flying together or playing triad."
     "So you don't know anyone specific who had a reason for wanting to
kill Quanto?"
     "No," he shook his head.
     "Did Quanto ever say anything about people who might want to kill
him?" Apollo felt an edge of desperation entering his voice.
     "Quanto and I always had a silent understanding that whenever we
weren't working together, we'd keep our mouths shut and stay out of each
other's way, Captain. We never indulged in idle conversation."
     Boomer felt deflated, "I guess that's it, then," he sighed.
     "Can I go now?" Barton tried to hid the impatience in his voice.
     "I guess so." Apollo waved his hand and looked down at the floor.
     The warrior was halfway out of his chair when he suddenly snapped
his fingers and resumed his seat, "Captain, I'm sorry, I just remembered
something."
     "Yes?" Apollo tried not to let his hopes rise too far as he and
Boomer leaned forward.
     "It was last sectan, when you assigned me to run that deep patrol
with Quanto after the near-brawl he had with Starbuck here in the club,
Boomer." Barton leaned back in his chair as the memory returned to him,
"I was really mad at him for how he'd wrecked my evening by forcing me to
share his punishment and I must have spent the first centar of the patrol
letting him have it.  I remember, I said something about how if he didn't
learn to control himself, someone would snap some day and kill him, even
suggesting that it might someday be Starbuck."
     "How did he respond to that?" Boomer prodded.
     "He was still kind of half-drunk, and he started to chuckle and said
that Starbuck didn't have the guts to kill him, and that none of his
so-called enemies had them either except for one man."
     "Did he mention a name?"
     "Yeah, he did. It was a funny sounding name.  He said it was good
old, um..." he snapped his fingers, trying to remember, "Charybdis.  That
was it."
     "Cha-ryb-dis," Apollo repeated, breaking the name down into
syllables.  "Did he say who he was?"
     "Sorry," Barton shrugged, "After that, he suddenly shut up like a
Canceran magind.  I think he started to realize that he was shooting off
more than he usually did because he was still recovering from a hangover. 
I remember asking who this Charybdis was, but all he said was that he was
a man of mystery, who once made the mistake of letting him find out why
he was a man of mystery.  After that, I got nothing else out of him."
     Apollo nodded.  It wasn't enough, but at least it was a promising
start.  "And that's all?"
     "That's all," Barton nodded.
     "Okay," Apollo said, "Barton, I want you to be ready to repeat that
at Starbuck's Tribunal in forty eight centars.  At the very least, I
might have an alternate scenario constructed that will buy us some time."
     "I'll be there," the warrior let out another tired yawn as he rose
and departed.
     "Char-yb-dis," Apollo repeated the name, "Better check that name out
right away.  You feeling up to a trip to Fleet Personnel Records?"
     "You just try and stop me from going down there!" Boomer said as he
rose from his chair.

*****************************

     Corporal Komma, the Colonial Security guard in charge of the
Galactica's Main Computer Control Center glanced at his chronometer for
the tenth time in the last several centons, as though he were trying to
will it to get closer and closer to the top of the centar.  His duty
shift had lasted two centars longer than he would have liked, and the
sooner he got off-duty and got some sleep, the better he'd feel.
     When he heard the door open, he rose from his chair, hoping that his
relief had decided to show up a few centons early.  When he saw that it
was Apollo and Boomer, a crestfallen expression came over him for a brief
instant.  That meant he'd have to perform some actual work before he
finally got back to the warmth of his bunk.
     "Hello Captain, Lieutenant," he tried not to let any of it show,
"What brings you both here at this time of night?"
     "Something important," Apollo said, "We need to access Fleet
Personnel Records from the Main Computer."
     "Sure," Komma felt relieved that it was nothing strenuous that would
require him to do a search.  "Just log in and take a place at Station
One," he motioned to the security screener that did a voice and handprint
check on all those who wanted to use the system.  As soon as Apollo and
Boomer had gone through the normal preliminaries, a green light went on
the machine indicating it was okay for them to proceed.
     As Apollo took a seat at the station, Boomer shook his head in awed
admiration at the row of computer terminals lining the facility.  "I'll
tell you, these things get more elaborate all the time, yet somehow at
the same time they're simpler to use than anything we ever had at the
Academy."
     Apollo half-chuckled, "The way you talk about electronic equipment,
I sometimes get the feeling that if you weren't a warrior, you would have
entered Wilker's line of work."
     "You may be right," the dark-skinned warrior admitted.
     Apollo switched on the terminal and then heard a pleasant female
voice ask, "Yes?"
     "Request complete file on Char-yb-dis.  K-A-R-I-B-D-I-S.  Current
status and location within the Fleet."
     The faint noise of the computer mechanism sounded, followed an
instant later by a reply from the programmed voice.
     "There is no profile on anyone named Karibdis.  K-A-R-I-B-D-I-S."
     Apollo lifted an eyebrow and frowned slightly.
     "Apollo, try it with a c instead of a k," Boomer suggested.  But
before Apollo could repeat the request, the computer voice was speaking
again.
     "Or anyone who's name is phonetically spelled like Charybdis."
     Apollo's frown deepened and he turned to Boomer, "You think Barton
lied?"
     "I can not answer that question without further input," the computer
suddenly spoke again.  "I would need to know what Barton---"
     "I wasn't talking to you!" Apollo turned back to the terminal and
said with exasperation.
     "Sorry."
     "That's all right," and then shook his head when he realized the
absurdity of it all, "I mean that's all.  Disconnect."
     "Disconnecting." the lights on the terminal went dark, as Boomer
suppressed the desire to laugh.
     "Those frackin' female computer voices," Komma sighed as he looked
on, "I sometimes think they were designed by a programmer who never had a
meaningful social life.  They'll drive you crazy after awhile."
     "Strictly a keyboard and printout man, eh Komma?" Boomer grinned.
     "You'd better believe it," the security guard resumed his station. 
"Will that be all for you two?"
     "I guess so," Apollo rose from the terminal and he and Boomer left
the complex.  Once they were alone in the corridor, he repeated the
earlier question, "So do you think Barton lied?"
     "Barton had no reason to lie," Boomer shook his head, "He must have
just gotten the name wrong."
     "No.  He sounded pretty sure of the name.  Maybe it's not with a k,
but I'm sure that's the one he meant."
     Boomer snapped his fingers, "Didn't Barton say that Quanto referred
to this Charybdis as a kind of mystery man?"
     Apollo nodded, "That's right, I should have realized that might mean
that Charybdis could be the real name of someone who's using another
name."
     "I think I'm beginning to sense the outline of a motive here,"
Boomer noted. "Let's assume the name is correct.  That might mean that
whoever this Charybdis really is, Quanto knew something about him and had
to be quietly eliminated."
     "Makes sense.  But that's not enough to present a good alternate
scenario that will buy us time during the Tribunal.  We need a lot more
than that."
     "So what's our next move?"
     "We get some sleep and start anew at 0600 tomorrow," Apollo said,
"And when we do, our next move's going to have to be on the Rising Star."
     Boomer groaned, "Apollo, it could probably take days just to
interview every worker there who might have known Quanto.  We don't have
that much time."
     "I think we can narrow down the list of places to check.  And I know
someone who can help us do that.  Jeremiah."
     "Jeremiah?" he lifted an eyebrow.  "How can he help?"
     "Who else knows all the trade secrets about what goes on inside the
Rising Star Chancery?" Apollo asked rhetorically, "If he did a lot of
wagering himself there, he's bound to have noticed Quanto at one time or
another, and what places he was apt to frequent.  It's worth a check."
     "You may be right."
     "Let's hope it pays off," Apollo patted his friend on the shoulder,
"Get some sleep and have a hearty breakfast tomorrow morning, Boomer. 
We're both going to need it for what we have to do in just one day."

*****************************

Chapter Twenty-Five: Sire Farnum Goes Public
     
     When Apollo returned to his quarters, he was mildly surprised to
find a weary looking Athena sitting in the outer area that separated
Apollo's room from Boxey's.  She still had the videocom on, it's sound
muted.
     "Athena, what---"
     His sister rose from her chair, "I've been waiting all night for
you," she said and pointed at the monitor, "It's already all over the
IFB.  Starbuck's been charged with killing Quanto."
     Apollo glanced at the monitor and shook his head in mild disgust,
"Sire Farnum sure didn't waste any time going public."
     "Apollo is it really true?" her voice was filled with disbelief.
     "You mean did he really do it?" he gave her a cold stare, "Athena, I
know you and Starbuck have been on the outs for a while now, but has your
opinion of him stooped that low?"
     "Of course not!" she snapped and then winced slightly, "Damn you,"
she lowered her voice, "Do you want me to wake up Boxey?"
     "Sorry," Apollo sighed and sat down on the large couch.  "It's just
been one long, fracking evening," he glanced up with a look of concern,
"Did Boxey find out about Quanto being killed?"
     "No," she said more calmly, "He went to bed right after the double
ejection.  Said it wasn't worth staying up just to watch the game end
with substitutes."
     "That means I've got to tell him about the whole thing when he gets
up tomorrow," Apollo sighed, "And that I'm defending Starbuck, and will
make sure he's cleared."
     "Farnum said you and Boomer were handling that," Athena shook her
head in disbelief, "Apollo, aren't you out of your element?"
     "When it comes to finding out the truth, no one is ever out of his
element."
     "That's a nice sounding platitude, but absolutely worthless for when
you and Boomer stumble over every procedure in the book during Tribunal,"
Athena retorted, "You ought to be getting him an experienced protector to
handle that."
     Apollo didn't feel like going through a repetition of his
conversation with Sheba. "Look Athena, all I need to do is gather enough
information to present a reasonable alternate scenario that will insure a
long enough hearing for the truth to come out.  And so far, I think
there's a good chance we can do that.  Trust me."
     His sister decided not to press the matter any longer, "You'd better
be right," she folded her arms, "Because a lot's riding on this, Apollo. 
And you'd..." she suddenly cleared her throat as though she were trying
to choke something back, "You'd better be right."
     Then, without saying anything else, she left his quarters.  As soon
as she was gone, Apollo found himself wondering if Athena was trying hard
not to let any emotion slip out that would reveal how she still felt deep
down about Starbuck.  Whatever the case, that was something he couldn't
concern himself with until after it was all over.
     Assuming it ended with a positive outcome.

*****************************

     After being escorted to his holding cell in the Galactica brig,
Starbuck spent a restless night, totally unable to sleep.  His mind
wasn't willing to cope with the possibility of dreaming about life as it
always had been for him, and then waking up to discover that he was still
going through what he regarded as the biggest nightmare of his life.
Something that he regarded as worse than anything he'd gone through in a
combat situation, and even worse than the occasion when he'd been taken
prisoner by the Cylons.  That was a situation his warrior's mind had
always been trained to accept the possibility of.  Not this scenario. 
Being arrested and facing imprisonment for a crime he knew he did not
commit was enough to make him wonder for the first time if the reason why
he'd become a warrior was nothing more than a giant fraud.  Like all
others who'd been motivated to join the Service, he'd believed that he
was fighting for a system that was decent, right and fair.  Now, that
system he had risked his life for so many times had conspired against him
in the worst way possible.  And if events continued to conspire against
him, he faced the prospect of spending the rest of his life in a cell
more lonely and isolated than this one.  With no purpose left at all in
life except to waste away for decades until his body finally gave out. 
And no doubt, long before that his mind would have ceased to function
anyway.
     It was enough to make him spend the better part of a centar during
the night railing inside against all the bleeding-heart liberals who had
lobbied for the suspension of capital punishment a hundred yahrens
earlier.  "Putting someone to death, no matter what he's done,
constitutes cruel and unusual punishment" they'd said.  As far as
Starbuck was concerned, what he now faced was something far more cruel. 
At the very least, if an innocent man was executed, he could right away
be transported to the life beyond and receive the reassurance of
Absolution from his Maker.  Not so the man forced to wallow in the
never-ending injustice of it all in a prison cell, with no hope or faith
that somehow the injustice would someday be corrected.  If the System
couldn't safeguard against making a mistake the first time, how could he
ever have any faith that System would recognize the injustice and free
him?
     The words of comfort Apollo and Boomer had tried to give him earlier
now rang hollow in his ears.  Not because of any lack of faith that they
could rise to the challenge of being Protectors, but because of his own
lack of faith in the System that he'd given his entire adult life to, and
which he felt had let him down at the most critical time of his life.
     He didn't know how many centars he'd spent sitting on the bench of
his cell just staring off into space, letting bitterness and anger
control every one of his thoughts, before he heard a familiar voice.
     "Starbuck?"
     It took him a centon before he forced himself to raise his head and
saw Cassiopeia standing outside his cell.
     "Why are you here?" he felt ashamed that she would have to see him
in this position.
     "Because you need me," she looked him straight in the eye, "And I
want to do all I can to help you when you need me most."
     She then turned back to where Sergeant Kulanda was standing guard
ten feet away, "Sergeant, could I please go in and talk to him alone?"
     The muscular security guard, regarded as the best in the Colonial
Security detail, nodded in understanding as he came up and pushed the
buttons that unlocked the door to Starbuck's cell.  It slid open and
Cassiopeia stepped inside.
     "Did you get any sleep?" she didn't want to lose her composure in
front of him, and found a silly question the only way to keep herself
from doing so.
     "No," his tone was quieter, as he looked back at the floor.  "I
didn't want to."
     She took a breath, "Look, you ought to know that Apollo and Boomer
are doing all they can.  I tried to get in touch with them after I woke
up, but I found out they were already out working on the case."
     "It's not going to do any good," Starbuck's tone suddenly grew
forlorn as he kept staring at the floor.
     "Don't say that Starbuck!" Cassiopeia protested.  "You need to have
faith in them!"
     "I know they can handle flying through a Cylon task force," he still
didn't look up, "but getting this thing fixed, when it's been stacked so
much against me..." he then shook his head and trailed off.
     Cassiopeia found herself unable to say anything else.  Worried that
her composure was going to crack, she impulsively went over to the
video-com monitor located on the far wall of the cell and switched it on.
     An instant later, the sight of IFB's lead co-anchor Zara filled the
screen.  For once, she wasn't flashing one of her customary fake smiles
that had threatened to drive Starbuck out of his mind during the
interview he'd been subjected to ten days earlier.

*****************************

Transcript of Zara's interview with Sire FArnum:

     ZARA: "Good morning.  Today there is only one subject of discussion
throughout the entire Fleet.  Namely, the shocking murder of Wing
Sergeant Quanto in the wake of last night's triad match, and the arrest
of his bitter triad rival Lieutenant Starbuck, whose laser pistol our
sources say has been conclusively identified as the murder weapon. 
Joining me now in our IFB Studio is Sire Farnum, Chief Opposer of the
Fleet, who last night formally charged Lieutenant Starbuck with
pre-meditated murder, and who will personally represent the Colonial
Nation during Tribunal, which is scheduled to convene forty centars from
now.  Sire Farnum, thank you for joining us."
     FARNUM:  "Thank you Zara.  I can't say that it's a pleasure for me
to be here talking to you over a matter as grave as this, and especially
when it concerns a warrior as beloved throughout the Fleet as Lieutenant
Starbuck is."
     ZARA: "Sire Farnum, we've been told that Lieutenant Starbuck
rejected the opportunity to seek experienced counsel and instead accepted
the offers of Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer to act as his Chief
Protectors.  Can you explain what might have compelled him to take this
extremely unorthodox step?"
     FARNUM: "Zara, given Lieutenant Starbuck's adamant refusal to
consider any plea of self-defense, I've little choice but to assume that
he was quick to accept the offers of Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer
because he knew right away he could count on them agreeing completely
with his strategy.  A skilled Protector would have pressed Starbuck very
hard for a self-defense plea, but, ah, this is the first case for both
Apollo and Boomer and they're placing a great deal of faith in their
friend's word.  It's an admirable trait and speaks highly of their
friendship, but, ah, very foolish in light of the overwhelming evidence
against the defendant."
     ZARA: "Then would it be fair to say, Sire Farnum, that you do not
believe Lieutenant Starbuck has a chance for acquittal?"
     FARNUM: "No, it would not be fair to say that.  He has a chance,
albeit a slim one.  At the very least, if his Protectors can provide
enough mitigating evidence to point to a plausible alternate scenario
during the first phase of Tribunal, he at least guarantees an extended
process where all of the evidence must be carefully considered.  Lacking
that, he has another avenue of hope."
     ZARA: "And could you tell us what that is?"
     FARNUM: "Commander Adama himself.  As you know, he'll be one of the
three overseers there. Most of us are aware that Starbuck is like a son
to him.  And some might question his impartiality."
     ZARA: "Are you among those questioning his impartiality, Sire?"
     FARNUM: "Absolutely not.  Frankly, Zara, since I have brought the
subject up in this interview, I believe that, even with Adama on the
Tribunal, the case will have to be decided on the evidence alone.  And
I'm sure that even Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer would both agree
that under those conditions, Lieutenant Starbuck will be found guilty."

*****************************

     "That's it!" Starbuck suddenly shouted as he reached out and slammed
his fist against the knob that shut the video-com off.  "That wanker's
got me convicted before I even get a chance to be heard!"
     "Starbuck!" Cassiopeia trailed him as he stormed off back toward the
bench on the other side of his cell, "That's just typical Opposer
rhetoric and you know it.  What did you expect him to say?"
     Starbuck ignored the question and spun round, "Why the frack isn't
Apollo or Boomer being interviewed?  Why aren't they defending me before
the Fleet?"
     "Because they're doing something more important than wasting time in
front of Zara and her stupid questions and that's gathering evidence for
the Tribunal, where it counts more!" she raised her voice.
     "No!" Starbuck interrupted and pointed at the blank video-com.
"They're not there because they don't have a defense." he then moved away
from her again and his posture slackened visibly, "They're not going to
have one for the Tribunal.  Oh sure, they'll try their best, but they
won't find felgercarb.  I know it." 
     He warily moved back to the bench and sat down.  Cassiopeia saw
right away how the anger in Starbuck had vanished and been replaced by
something that seemed to border on fear.
     "Cass," he struggled to look up at her, "They're going to convict
me."
     She swallowed uneasily and sat down beside him.
     "Starbuck," she whispered as she squeezed his arm, "if you really
believe that, then change your plea to self-defense before it's too
late."
     Starbuck looked at her and felt like he'd been kicked in the head,
hearing that suggestion come from her, "Cass, I didn't do it," he felt
too hurt to protest loudly.
     "I know, I know," the blonde med-tech said hastily, "But if you're
convicted you're going to spend the rest of your life on the Prison
Barge.  If you can avoid that, you..." she broke off.
     He looked away from her, "You're not...you're not sure I didn't do
it." he shook his head, "God Almighty Cass, I hated that guy but I
learned a long time ago you don't wish something like that even for a guy
like him."
     "Starbuck," she knew right away that she needed to restore his
confidence, "I love you.  If you say you didn't do it, I believe you,"
her voice cracked slightly.
     Starbuck let out a mirthless chuckle, "You, Apollo, Boomer, even the
Commander.  You all want to believe me, but you all have your...doubts."
     He then got up from the bench and began pacing in front of the door,
"Since all of my friends have doubts, it doesn't make things look better
when I face a Tribunal that isn't composed of my friends."
     Cassiopeia bit her lip as she rose from the bench and came up to
him.  This time, she didn't hesitate to put her arms around him.
     "Starbuck," she said with an almost pleading tone,  "Will you change
your plea even if you didn't do it?" she then decided it was time to play
her strongest card, "At the very least, you'd get your life back. 
You'd..." she then paused and corrected herself, "We'd still have a
future.  There'd be nothing to stop you from making your case afterwards
that your plea was just a legal technicality to avoid maximum punishment
for something you didn't do."  She put her hands on his head, "Can you at
least consider that?"
     For the first time she could remember, Starbuck seemed totally lost,
"I don't know," he sighed, "I just don't know."
     She then kissed him tenderly on the lips.  It continued for nearly a
centon as Starbuck relaxed slightly and reciprocated.
     "No matter what happens," Cassiopeia said when they finally,
reluctantly let go of each other, "I love you."
     Starbuck allowed himself a brief smile, "I love you too," he said. 
And he meant it. There was little doubt in his mind that what he'd said
to Jeremiah privately a sectan ago about Cassiopeia was the most sincere
thing he'd ever said about any woman he'd been involved with.  He knew
that he had said similar things in the past about Aurora, and then
Athena, but he'd come to feel with hindsight that when he'd said those
words to them, it was less from the heart, and more from the standpoint
of looking for a crutch to justify continuing those relationships when
the natural course of events would have meant seeing them both fizzle out
sooner than they did.  All of which only ended up making things worse
further down the road when the end finally came.
     "Look," he sighed, "I ah, I just need some time alone to think. 
Okay?"
     "Okay," she nodded as she kissed him on the cheek again and made her
way over to the door.  A micron later, it slid open and she stepped out.
     Starbuck went back to the bench and sat down with his fingertips
folded together, trying to let himself think calmly about the only other
option that he felt was open to him. Pleading self-defense and avoiding
the Prison Barge with a dishonorable discharge from the Service.  On the
surface, it almost seemed tempting, given his total lack of faith in the
System to make things right and let the truth come out.  He would have,
as Cassiopeia had put it, a future back.
     But a future to do what?  Spend the rest of his life saying it was
only a technicality and he didn't really mean it when he pled guilty? 
That would be his first instinct after the Tribunal passed down it's
sentence.  And how would Sire Farnum treat that?  Already, he had a
vision of Farnum filing a new charge of perjury to Tribunal, in effect
forcing a retrial of the murder issue.  And then, he could envision
Farnum moving in for the full sentence of life imprisonment once again.
     And even if, by a miracle, he was able to keep quiet after pleading
self-defense, how could he ever really hope to have a normal life again? 
His career at the thing he loved best would be over. 
Everywhere he walked, he'd be looked at and instantly branded as a
killer. Would there ever be a centon's peace for him in a life like that? 
And what would happen to Cassie if she tried to brave things out with
him?
     It didn't look good to Starbuck either way.  If he took what he
regarded as the coward's way out and pleaded self-defense to something he
knew he was innocent of, then he was only putting off the inevitable or
condemning the people he loved to eternal harassment and outcast status
just because they wanted to stand by him.  He didn't see honor in either
solution.
     But at the same time, he wasn't  planning on going to the Prison
Barge either.
     A third option was now entering his mind.  One that however painful
it might seem at first, very likely represented the only way out for him. 
As he sat and continued to feel sorry for himself over his plight, he
found himself coming up with fewer reasons to think of not doing it.
     He absently went back over to the video-com, wondering despondently
if he might see something that could give him some ray of hope that would
get his mind off the difficult third option.  When he flicked it on, he
saw that the interview with Sire Farnum was over, and Zara was delivering
her commentary.
     "With the Tribunal only forty centars away, it would appear to this
reporter that barring a miracle, the brilliant career of Lieutenant
Starbuck will tragically pass into history."
     Starbuck felt all his inner rage boiling up against Zara, who had
put him through one torment a sectan earlier in her interview, and was
now only adding to the greater one he was going now.  He slammed his open
palm against the monitor, which suddenly caused the picture to disappear
in a burst of static.
     As soon as Zara's image disappeared, he realized that he suddenly
had the opportunity to put the third option into effect.  Probably the
only opportunity he would ever get.  Now, he had to make the quickest
decision of his life.  One that he found more difficult than any
situation he'd been in during seven yahrens of service as a combat
warrior.
     He decided that he would do it.
     Starbuck absently straightened himself, and then slowly breathed out
so he could summon the calmest possible demeanor.  He went over to the
cell door and called over to where Kulanda was standing guard with
Corporal Creb.
     "Hey Kulanda," he said calmly, "Something's wrong with my video-com. 
I need it fixed."
     "I'll call for a vid-tech as soon as I can, Starbuck," the muscular
sergeant said.
     "Kulanda, it's gotta be fixed now," an edge of urgency entered
Starbuck's voice, "They're talking about my case on the IFB.  I have to
know what they're saying."
     Kulanda turned to his fellow guard, "Creb, do you know how those
things work?"
     "A smidgen," Creb nodded, "Want me to take a look?"
     "Go ahead," Kulanda leaned forward and unlocked the door.  It slid
open and the young corporal stepped in.
     "Can't figure out why it fracked out on me," Starbuck motioned
toward the screen, "It just..."
     Before he finished his sentence, Starbuck abruptly grabbed Creb in a
hammerlock position around the neck.  The guard gasped for breath as
Starbuck quickly stripped away his laser pistol and then pointed it at
Kulanda.
     "Drop it Kulanda!" Starbuck snarled, "Drop it or he's dead."
     "Starbuck don't do this," Kulanda had pulled out his own laser
pistol and had it trained on the warrior, "I'm one of those who believes
in your innocence for sagan's sake.  This isn't going to help you at
all."
     "I don't give felgercarb what you think, Kulanda.  Drop it!"
Starbuck raised his voice.
     Kulanda's eyes burned with anger on the warrior, not wanting to give
in.  But as he heard the sound of Creb choking violently under Starbuck's
tight hold around the guard's neck, Kulanda reluctantly decided that he
couldn't live with the death of one of his men on his conscience.  He
slowly dropped his laser pistol and it clattered to the floor.
     "Get inside!" Starbuck waved the pistol at Kulanda.  "Inside now and
give me the Security access key."
     "You're not going to get anywhere even with that, Starbuck," Kulanda
said with contempt as he stepped inside and handed the key that would
give Starbuck free access to all areas of the battlestar.
     "We'll see about that," Starbuck snarled as he grabbed it and then
shoved Creb toward the bench.  As soon as Kulanda went over to attend to
his fellow guard, the warrior bolted out the cell door and quickly locked
it, leaving the two guards trapped inside. Then, they heard the sound of
Starbuck's feet as the warrior rapidly dashed out of the Brig area.

*****************************

Chapter Twenty-Six: Escape To The Stars

     Apollo had awoke early and discovered to his embarrassment that he
still couldn't think of what he could say to Boxey to explain what had
happened with Starbuck, and what he was doing to try and help.  For
nearly five centons, he tried scribbling a note to leave for his son, but
soon discovered that he couldn't think of the best way to explain it on
paper either.
     Realizing that he'd been given too little time to work with, he
reluctantly decided that he would have to put off explaining the
situation to his son until much later in the day.  He knew it wouldn't be
easy for Boxey to go off to his classes and hear all kinds of secondhand
stories about what had happened, but at the very least, by the time
Apollo returned, he would have found some information that would help
clear Starbuck and allow him to speak with greater optimism and
confidence to his son.
     Now, a centar later, he was speaking to someone he desperately hoped
could provide him with the first bit of information that could lead to
Starbuck's exoneration.
     "Thanks a million for coming over, Jeremiah," Apollo was saying as
he and the old man sat in the Warriors Mess Hall over a largely
unappetizing breakfast that neither had bothered to touch.
     "Irulan was good enough to tell me about your telecom, so I caught
the first shuttle over from the Ourania," Jeremiah's eyes were slightly
red, by and large from a sleep deficiency and also because he had allowed
himself a centon alone in his turbowash to cry over his son's plight. 
Wondering if he had made a horrible mistake in asking Cassiopeia to keep
the test results a secret.  "I was told that I could do something to help
Starbuck's defense."
     "You were told right," Apollo nodded, "Jeremiah, in all the time
you've been in the Rising Star's Chancery, did you ever happen to notice
Quanto?"
     Jeremiah leaned back in his chair and frowned slightly, "Apollo, I'm
afraid I haven't the foggiest notion what you're trying to get at."
     "This is important, Jeremiah," an edge of pleading entered Apollo's
voice, "Quanto was a habitual visitor to the Chancery.  Now that's not
typical for most warriors. You had to have seen him there sometime."
     Jeremiah shrugged, "Now that you mention it, I always did notice one
warrior who seemed permanently wedded to Table Number Three, but---" he
trailed off and suddenly snapped his fingers, "Of course, that was
Quanto!  I don't know why I didn't make the connection when I saw him in
the Officers' Club last sectan and he and Starbuck nearly had that brawl. 
But I never took much notice of him, because usually when I saw him in
the Chancery he had his back to me.  Always seemed very committed to that
table."
     "Table Three," Apollo said, "You're sure of that location."
     "I hope so Captain," Jeremiah said pointedly, "because that's the
same table you and Starbuck were playing at when I first approached you."
     Apollo slowly nodded, "I see.  And that was the only location you
ever saw him at?"
     "Whenever I'd leave the Chancery after a centar or two, that greedy
warrior was always either still at Table Three or gone altogether.  It
was as if he had no enthusiasm for any game other than Pyramid."
     Apollo got to his feet and patted Jeremiah on the shoulder, "Thank
you very much, Jeremiah. This is a big help for Boomer and me because it
lets us narrow down who to approach on the Rising Star."
     "Your welcome, of course.  But then...surely there's more I can do
to help?" Jeremiah wished he could have provided more than he had,
because he was convinced that it wasn't enough to exonerate Starbuck just
yet.
     "No, but believe me Jeremiah, it's a big start.  I've got to get in
touch with Boomer and he and I are going to pay a little visit to the
Rising Star."
     Before Apollo could move away from the table, he saw a severe
Commander Adama approach.  Already, Apollo felt the sick sensation that
his father was about to deliver some bad news.
     "Apollo," Adama said quietly.  "We have a very grave situation on
our hands.  You'd better come with me."
     "Father? What's happened?" Apollo braced himself.
     "Not in here," Adama said as he glanced over at Jeremiah.  "Out in
the corridor, where it's more private."
     "Okay," the black-haired captain nodded and turned back to Jeremiah. 
"We'll be in touch if we need you again."
     "Fair enough." Already Jeremiah had the sinking feeling that what
Adama was going to tell Apollo was not good news about Starbuck.  Inside,
he decided that he was going to find that information out no matter what.
     And if circumstances dictated it, he was now prepared inside to
abandon the lie and tell the truth.

*****************************

     As soon as Apollo and Adama were out in the corridor, the
Galactica's commander wasted no time.  "Starbuck's escaped from the
Brig."
     "He what?" Apollo's face flushed in shock.  This wasn't something
he'd counted on at all.
     "He overpowered his guard, pulled a laser pistol on Kulanda and
escaped.  And to put it bluntly Apollo, I'm furious with him.  I've
already put out a full Security Alert and had the Galactica sealed off as
quietly as we can, but with a security key to all sections, he can elude
us pretty damn well."
     "Frack," Apollo whispered, "Has this been broadcast?"
     "Not yet, but if Starbuck doesn't turn himself in in the next twenty
centons, it's going to be made public and I can guarantee you that this
little stunt will all but finish his chances before the Tribunal."
     "Attention Commander Adama," an overhead voice sounded over the
Galactica's unicom system.  "Please contact Colonel Tigh on Beta Channel
immediately."
     "Maybe something's happened," Apollo said as he and his father went
over to a security telecom.  Adama picked it up, punched in the security
code for Beta Channel and spoke into the mouthpiece, "This is Adama."
     "Commander, we've tracked Starbuck down to Alpha Launch Bay on the
security monitors," Tigh's voice was stern.  "He's evidently planning on
making a run for it."
     "Apollo," Adama thundered, "you have just three centons to get down
to Alpha Bay and stop Starbuck from launching.  Because the micron he
leaves, I'm going to have no choice but to launch a pursuit force of
vipers after him, with orders to shoot to disable and even kill if it
becomes necessary."
     Apollo didn't bother to say anything as he dropped the telecom and
sprinted down the corridor towards the nearest turbo lift.

*****************************

     When the turbo lift came to a stop at the bottom of Alpha Launch
Bay, Apollo immediately noticed one viper with the canopy up.  And the
unmistakable form of Starbuck locking his helmet into place.
     "Starbuck!" he shouted as he stepped off the lift and began to dash
toward the viper.  Almost immediately, the blond-haired lieutenant
whipped around and pointed his laser pistol at him.
     "Starbuck, it's me!  For sagan's sake don't..."
     "Don't come any closer!" Starbuck snarled, wondering why Fate now
had to deal him this difficult hand as well.
     "Come on!" Apollo retorted as he drew closer to the side of the
viper.  "Is that anyway to talk to your Protector?"
     "I mean it buddy," his voice dropped to a whisper, but was still
full of angry rage.  "I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you try to
stop me."
     It was clear to Apollo that Starbuck meant it.  He decided that for
now, he'd have to play along on that point.
     "I'm not going to stop you," he said calmly, with all the
reassurance he could summon.  "I just want to talk."
     It took Starbuck nearly ten microns before he slowly lowered his
laser.  Apollo came up and mounted the side that led to the cockpit.
     "That's close enough!" Starbuck abruptly raised the pistol as he saw
Apollo draw to within three feet.  "Now talk!"
     "Starbuck, why are you doing this?" Apollo kept his voice calm and
gentle.
     "Because I've got no other choice," he retorted.
     "You think this is going to help?  Where are you going to go?"
     "I don't know!" Starbuck threw his head back against the cushion of
his seat.  "I'll worry about that after I get away from the Fleet.  There
has to be a planet somewhere I can find.  Someplace I can just disappear
to forever.  I don't care if it's empty and abandoned, if it's livable
I'll go there.  Just anyplace but the Prison Barge!"
     "You don't have to go the Prison Barge," Apollo kept trying to sound
reassuring, "I know you didn't do it."
     "That's not much consolation to me," Starbuck said bitterly, "You
and Boomer aren't on that Tribunal."
     For the first time, Apollo let some anger creep in, "You don't have
much faith in us, do you?"
     "In you and Boomer, yes.  In the Tribunal and Colonial
jurisprudence, no.  I don't have any faith in a system I've risked my
life for, for the last seven yahrens, and then chose to treat me like
this!" the angry snarl returned to his voice, "Now get off.  I'm
launching."
     "Starbuck, if you launch, Tigh's going to send Blue and Red
Squadrons after you, if that's what it takes to get you back!"
     "I'll deal with that when the time comes." Starbuck looked away from
him and began going over the pre-flight checklist.
     "And then what are you going to do?" the anger increased in the
captain's voice, "Fire on Sheba, or Boomer, or Jolly or me?"
     "If I have to, yes!" Starbuck shouted.  "Now get the frack off!"
     Apollo decided that playing the part of a friend was no longer
possible.  Now it was time to try a new tact.
     "I don't think you have the guts to do that," Apollo snarled with as
much ferocity as Starbuck had, "Just like you don't have the guts to
stand on your own two feet like a man and face that Tribunal!"
     "I didn't kill Quanto!" Starbuck suddenly flailed in exasperation. 
But right away, Apollo could tell that the sudden change in tone from
anger to defensive exasperation meant that he'd struck a nerve.
     "Then trust me, damn it!"  Apollo bore in, "Give Boomer and me the
chance to prove that!  Because if you go down that launch tube, you're
going to have a lot more on your conscience to bother you for the rest of
your life than the bum rap the system's giving you.  If you make it to
some little planet to stay safe and comfortable on for the rest of your
life, then you can spend your nights wondering about the shame every
person who thought of you as a friend has to bear for the rest of their
lives!" he then paused, "Not to mention what someone like Cassiopeia
would have to go through."
     Starbuck suddenly glared at him, his nostrils flaring and his
temples throbbing intensely.  In an instant, Apollo knew that playing
that card had made an impact on him as well.
     "Get off," Starbuck said as he powered up his engines, "I don't want
to take you down that launch tube."
     "That's exactly what you're going to have to do, Starbuck," Apollo
said defiantly. "And if I have to meet the Almighty and explain to Him,
and to my mother and Zac and Serina why I let that happen to me, the only
answer I'll give is that I had more faith in Starbuck than he ever
deserved from me or anyone else."
     Unfortunately, Apollo couldn't make good on his threat.  He could
see Starbuck remain as stone faced and haggard as before.  Starbuck's
finger tapped the button that locked the canopy into place.  A micron
later, his viper roared down the launch tube and into the starry
blackness of space.
     But it was barely five microns later when Boomer's viper had emerged
and pulled up just behind him.

*****************************

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Shot Down

     "Okay, Bucko," Boomer said with a casual air, "I'm going to take you
home so you can deal with your troubles like a real warrior.  If you give
me any felgercarb, I'll shoot out your tubros and personally tow you back
to the Galactica."
     "I've had it with all of you!" Starbuck said wildly.  "You and the
damn system have ruined my life!"
     "You're not exactly lending any luster or credibility to your
reputation by running away," said Boomer.
     "You don't know any more about the murder than Apollo does, so don't
give me that felgercarb!" snapped Starbuck.
     "Jeremiah gave us a slim lead we can follow," Boomer informed him. 
"He told us Quanto had a tab with Table Three of the Rising Star's
Chancery.  Now, I can't promise anything, but if we approach the dealer
at that table,  it's quite possible he can lead us to who really killed
Quanto."
     They flew on for microns in silence.  Not a word out of either of
them.
     Boomer became impatient for an answer from Starbuck.  "Whaddya say,
Starbuck?  I know it's hard to just sit and wait, but if you want Apollo
and me to help you, that's what you've gotta do to help us."
     The black lieutenant's finger was poised above the red firing button
on his joystick, seeming to hover above it for a near eternity.
     Finally, Starbuck spoke up. "Boomer, I just reached a big decision."
     "If it's a suicide threat, I can pass on it," Boomer said flatly.
     "No, no. I want to talk straight." Starbuck looked off to the left. 
"See that red star forty degrees to port?" 
     Boomer, always sensititve to a friend's mood, responded in a
friendly and quite gentle voice, his finger moving away from the firing
button. "Gotcha. What's the big decison?" 
     "I just suddenly remembered something old Chuckabob used to say at
the Academy, during the first flight instruction session."   Starbuck
said, his eyes still on the sun.  Then he began to assume the mock drawl
of an Aquarian accent, " 'Men.  Always remember that ultimately, a
warrior only flies three Vipers: the one he trains in; then the one he
escapes from... and finally the one he dies in.' "
     Boomer paused at the moment before speaking again.  "So what are you
trying to tell me?"
     Starbuck said, "You and Apollo are right.  If I don't have the
backbone to stand up and face that Tribunal I'm just going to make every
person who thought of me as a friend ashamed to have known me,
particularly Cassiopeia."
     "Look, Starbuck, in that narrow cockpit you can't even hustle a good
game---and unless you've got a beautiful stowaway on board, this
conversation gets pretty nasty---as of now."
     "I'm serious, Boomer."
     "All right," Boomer shook his head, willing to give his friend the
benefit of the doubt.  "Does this mean you're coming back to the
Galactica?"
     Starbuck sighed.  "Yes---I'm coming back to the Galactica.  Let's
get it all over with."
     "Glad to hear it, buddy."  The smile on Boomer's face indicated he
meant what he said.  "Now, if you'll just form on me, we'll...."  He
suddenly became alert. "Starbuck... the scanner!" 
     Starbuck glanced down at his scanner and saw a thick patch of blips
that unmistakably indicated Cylon raiders bearing down on them.  He
tensed his body and saw one of them appear near him as if by magic.  The
attacker was swooping down at him, highside.
     "Look out, Starbuck!"  Boomer shouted, just before a massive
flowering of laser bursts filled the space around him.  Miraculously, not
a single shot hit the mark.  Starbuck maneuvered his viper out of range,
then whipped it around and went after his attackers.  The Cylons in the
raider could not react in time and Starbuck's shots hit their ship, first
in the tail then amidships, and then finally in the nose. A brilliant
flash and the Cylon ship had become miniscule pieces of space trash.
     "Starbuck! I'm in trouble!" shouted Boomer.
     "Oh God!  This is my fault!  If only I hadn't run away...."
     Starbuck made quick destructive work of the pair of Cylon ships that
were trying to trap Boomer, but suddenly the space around him seemed
crowded with Cylon spacecraft.  For a moment, the battle seemed to
Starbuck like one of the simulation games in the Rejuvenation Center,
where a series of optional kills materialized on a trio of screens and
the game-player had to choose which one to dispose of in an instant or be
zapped by all the attackers.  Split second timing won the game.  In this
very real battle, Starbuck's split-second timing obtained a pair of
kills, but he was a shade to slow with the third marauder.  As he went
after it in a high-G turn, it got off a number of shots at him and
suddenly his viper was rocking with the impact of a resounding lowside
hit.  The gauges and scanners on his control panel started throbbing,
needles racking across all the numbers, flashing erratic rows of
information.  Red danger lights pulsed rhythmically, indicating that the
main damage was in the viper's underbelly.  Frantically, Starbuck's
fingers hit switches and punched buttons, trying to engage system that
would bypass the ruined area.  But the damage was too extensive, the
bypass network could not function.
     "Boomer!  I'm---"
     "I can see.  But I've got some problems of my own, ol' buddy. 
Momentarily.  And here they come now.  Okay, fellas, line up.  Oh, fine. 
You're fulfilling your secret fantasy of becoming sitting targets, right?
One...two...three....ah, a good maneuver for a Cylon. Congratulations! 
The smart Cylon's the one that runs away.  Bye-bye, red eye!"
     Starbuck had no time to observe any of Boomer's victories,
but---knowing his wingmate's considerable flying skills intimately---he
easily envisioned the lightning quick and delicately accurate maneuvers
that had brought about the triple kill.
     "Okay, Starbuck, pressure's off....for the moment.  Now, let's go
back and prove you didn't kill Quanto, huh?  Oh, my, my.  You okay?"
     The concern and caution in Boomer's voice frightened Starbuck more
than the impact of the hit had.
     "I'll answer that after you get a visual check of the damage," the
blonde warrior knew he needed to stay absolutely calm.  "My gauge says
I'm dumping fuel." 
     Boomer swung his viper underneath Starbuck's and looked up at the
damage.  He could see a large hole ripped through the underside of the
viper extending from just aft of the cockpit region all the way to the
tail.  He shook his head grimly as he realized what it meant.
     "Boomer?  How does it look?  No lies, just give me the blunt truth."
     "Your gauge isn't wrong," Boomer said, trying to keep himself calm. 
"You're spewing fuel rapidly.  Indications are that the lines got severed 
by that shot.  If he'd hit you a half metrone to the rear he would have
hit the tank right flush and you'd be gone."
     "Thanks a lot.  What else do you see?  Power levels are starting to
drop too."
     "That's where the worst of the damage is.  The electrical conduits
clearly took the worst of the hit."
     "Well with the electrical and fuel conduits damaged or gone, there's
no way I can fly this thing much longer.  And in another centon I won't
be able to maneuver."
     "Starbuck, assume heading to mark four-three-three, now!"   Boomer
barked.  "According to my navigational computer, you should be able to
make it to a small  category 4 world which identifies, according to our
recently updated Star Chart memory database, as the planet Ursus
Spelaeus.  And you lucked out, don't know how you did it.  Stats on my
chart indicate Ursus Spelaeus is a veritable garden spot.  Breathable
atmosphere, forests primeval, everything.  I'm putting you on course for
a landing there."
     "Great," Starbuck said as he hastily made the adjustment, "So you've
given me a place to set her down, but if that last Cylon came from there,
it means they've got some kind of garrison or base set up on the planet."
     "One thing at a time, Bucko.  You don't want to run out of fuel in
space and then find yourself drifting in a powerless hulk forever until
your air gives out."
     "True," Starbuck conceded.  "Okay, I'm on course."
     From above, Ursus Spelaeus was an impressive sight, its land areas
looking something like a patchwork quilt in pastel colors.
     "Okay, Boomer, take off.  Report back."
     "Not until I know you're down."
     "Down?  Where else I got to go?  If I don't make it, I promise
you'll be the first to know."
     "I'll be back with a clean uniform for your Tribunal before you know
it."
     "On the uniform--make sure it's the one with the blue piping.  If
I'm going to have my professional head lopped off, I want to at least
look nice when it happens."
     Boomer started to laugh, then stopped abruptly.
     "What'm I laughing about.  I think my best shot is to come down with
you.  I'm tired of being the messenger, while you---"
     "Boomer!"
     "Okay, okay.  I'm going."
     "Be seeing you.  I hope."
     "No doubt about it."
     Starbuck did not even look up to see Boomer peel off and head into
the distance.  He was getting woozier.  The ship seemed to bounce roughly
as it passed into Ursus Spelaeus' atmospheric envelope.  With half its
systems out of whack, it was lucky for Starbuck that his viper didn't
simply burn out when it encountered atmosphere.  He tried the joystick
again.  It slid around aimlessly in its square slot.  He found if he
pressed it forward he could make the nose of his ship dip slightly, a
maneuver he performed as he slipped by a thin cloud layer.  Below him the
patchwork quilt seemed to fade a bit and change into greenery, water,
forest.  Looked like he was headed for the forest part.  He pulled the
joystick back, hoping against hope that he could level the viper off and
choose his own landing spot.  There was no response from it.  If he
pulled at it, he felt it would slide upwards right out of its slot.  The
nose of the ship seemed pointed downwards, at too precarious an angle. 
This wasn't going to be a crash landing, it'd be a full-fledged crash. 
When will I learn to be careful what I wish for, Starbuck thought.  I
wanted to run away from the Fleet, start over again on an unknown planet
and---
     Starbuck blacked out just as his ship seemed to reach the
luminescently green tops of the trees in this bizarre Ursus Spelaeusian
forest.

*****************************

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Dracula's Garrison

     For the third time this work period, Dracula's chief aide broke
down.  First its red light slid to a gradual stop and blinked out.  Then
its arms and legs stopped functioning, leaving it in a grotesque pose
that might have been amusing had it not been so inconvenient and
irritating.  One of its arms pointed forward, the other flung back;  one
leg was raised to take a step, the other was flat to the ground.  Dracula
watched it teeter for a moment then slowly, agonizingly fall forward,
landing on the ground with a loud thump and a series of small pings. 
Dracula had a momentary urge to kick the out-of-commission centurion in
the chest with his heavy metal foot, but then he might do something
damaging to his own circuits.  The Cylons of this garrison would be
working correctly if were not for the excruciating humidity of Ursus
Spelaeus.  Dracula didn't mind that his aide had malfunctioned,
malfunctioning was a fact of life here, but the series of small pings
annoyed him greatly.  They meant that this Cylon construct would have to
go into the shop to be worked on.  It would probably be out of service
for at least another work period.  Dracula's garrison was already
understaffed.  Almost half his centurions were down, all at various
stages of being fixed in the shop.  Most of the repair technicians, whom
Dracula had taken care to keep in a controlled-atmosphere environment,
were fortunately in good working order, although occasionally subject to
leaks from the outside air.
     Dracula beeped his thumb and a nearby pair of centurions came
running.
     "This one is suffering from a torso malfunction, I would say," he
said to the team.  "Take this fool to a pulmonary circuit specialist."
     Obeying instantly, the centurion medical team lifted the body of
their fallen comrade and, at a lumbering walk, carried him away.  Rasing
and beeping his thumb again, Dracula called for another aide, and one
joined him quickly.
     "Identify yourself," Dracula commanded the new arrival.
     He usually forgot the names he had given his creations.  How could
he remember?  They were all assemblages of machinery decked out in
identical Cylon uniforms.  He had tried name tags for a while, but the
printing tended to be quickly obscured by mudstains and rust. This planet
was against him, clearly.  Days of rain, continual mud; muddy, rusting
centurions; an army of muddy children making their loathsome sneak
attacks on the fuel dumps and artillery depots. Those damned
children---they'd even taken to ambushing patrols.  Dracula had to cut
down on the number of patrols, since he could not afford to lose
personnel that way.  The children dragged their victims into the bushes
and undergrowth, threw them into the murky waters of the swamps,
sometimes even dismantled them---all of which made repairs impossible and
further depleted Dracula's depopulated garisson.
     The new aide announced that his name was Hiltop--an acronym
actually, which stood for Half-Integrated Logical Technology-Oriented
Patroller.  Dracula didn't even recall naming this one.  Obviously, when
he had completed the circuit that animated it, he must've glanced outside
a window and caught sight of the top of a hill.  Dracula often concocted
acronyms to justify his pedestrian method of naming his creations.  It
was easier than thinking about it, and certainly preferable to preserving
the appellation of the actual Cylon who had once inhabited the Centurion
outfit, before dying of one of the numerous diseases that the Cylons had
been so susceptible to on Ursus Spelaeus.  In order to maintain his
garrison at minimum acceptable strength, Dracula had had to build his own
robot versions of Cylons---and good jobs they were, too, except for their
tendency to break down at odd times.  He could have requested higher
commands to assign more centurions, but he did not want the Alliance to
know of his rebuilding efforts and, anyway, replacements would just have
succumbed to the dangerous Ursus Spelaeus climate.  Besides, the loss of
combat personnel was generally viewed as a significant weakness in
command and could become the kind of detail included in a report that
would seriously affect promotion.  Dracula, true bureaucrat that he was,
wanted no bad marks on his personnel file.  So, it had been preferable to
stick with his own creations.  The machines were more efficient than
their sentient originals, anyway.  Dracula, one of the most versatile
ambulatory cybernetic sentiences ever manufactured, had always believed
in the superiority of his kind.
     "By your command," Hiltop said in the polite, if a bit scratchy,
voice that Dracula had programmed for ultimate obedience.  Obedience was
important to Dracula, and he enjoyed the sound of it.
     "You are to supervise the shifting of the main fuel dump closer to
headquarters.  The children's attacks have come too near to it lately,
our recent losses in personnel make it impossible to guard effectively. 
We can ill-afford to lose valuable fuel."
     Acutally, they could afford to lose a significant amount of fuel. 
Dracula, like another I-L Cylon named Specter, was a hoarder par
excellence.  During his tenure on Ursus Spelaeus, he had
managed---through adroit manipulations of supply forms and clever
insights into the habits of supply officers everywhere---to stockpile
materials of all kinds, shapes, and forms.  He had rooms filled to the
ceiling with items he had acquired.  Some materials were not even useful
at the present time,  but Dracula believed in storing away for the future
and covering all contingencies.  Still, the fuel, by his standards, had
become something of a problem, even though he had requisitioned enough of
it to power a larger headquarters than his, plus a fleet quadruple the
size of the few outdated flying vehicles he had managed to obtain.  It
wasn't easy to pull the wool over the Cylon Spacecraft Bureau's eyes,
and, to make matters worse, the Bureau was notoriously stingy in its
allocations.  Dracula had yet to find a way around their latest set of
limitations. He would eventually, he was sure.  He was superb at finding
ways to get what he wanted without offending superior officers.  He
understood bureaucracy so well, and his data banks were so replete with
bureaucratic information, that he could discover a route to any type of
supply so long as he had an urgent need for it and such a route existed. 
Dracula had been designed to be the perfect bureaucrat and, when the
dampness of Ursus Spelaeus was not damaging his circuits or creating a
bypass where none was supposed to be , he was the ultimate bureaucrat.
     He adjusted his anti-rust shield as he left his office and walked
into the morning mist that lay like a shroud across this swampy area of
Ursus Spelaeusian landscape.  It was important that he stay operative---a
healthy leader was an efficient leader.  Long ago, when he had been an
advisor to an actual Cylon commander, his superior had been meticulous in
seeing to the care and protection of Dracula.  After that commander had
succumbed to a particularly ugly plague, a sickness that so affected his
brain (or, in his case, brains), that he removed a real Cylon from the
chain of command and installed Dracula in his place. Dracula became an
executive officer, a position he held for only a short time, since the
officers preceeding him died of several interesting and various Ursus
Spelaeus diseases.  Ursus Spelaeus was an unattractive backwater planet
and a low priority assignement, Dracula knew, but where else could he
have risen legally and officially to command of a garrison?  Even though
he truly despised the place, he hesitated to put in for a transfer.  Real
Cylons might bust him back to a lesser rank, and he liked being
commander, liked it very much.
     A pair of centurions detatched themselves from the fuel dump work
detail to report to Dracula and Hiltop.  Behind them, other warriors of
the garrison were busily and mechanically moving fuel drums and gear from
their former unprotected location to a place inside the garrison walls.
     "I deem your work satisfactory," Dracula told the centurions after
they had formally made their report.  The red light on their helmets
brightened momentarily, a signal of satisfaction which Dracula had
programmed into his creations.  Since one could never know a real Cylon's
opinions from observation, Dracula had installed this improvement on his
own creations.
     "Hiltop!" Dracula called.
     "By your command!"
     "After the fuel and materials are safely inside the fortress walls,
fortify the walls.  Fill in cracks, increase guard posts and devise
ingenious traps."
     "Not advisable."
     "What was that?"
     "Not advisable," Hiltop repeated.  "It will be dangerous for the
garrison buildings to have so much volatile fuel in proximity to them."
     "It will not be dangerous.  The containers are triple thick with
impenetrable metals.  Spontaneous explosions within are extremely rare
and usually minimized by container thickness.  We must protect our
supllies from our enemy, especially since their raids have increased.  Go
to it, Hiltop."
     "By your command."
     Dracula watched the centurions labor for some time.  Their work was
admirable, timed precisely and with a meticulous teamwork that sentient
beings were capable of only rarely.  That was why he preferred his
recycled Cylons to the genuine article.
     "Commander," interrupted another centurion.
     "Yes.  Identify yourself, please."
     "Tree, sir.  Transmitted Redundant Environmental Engineer."
     "State your business, Tree."
     "Guard patrol craft in the middle trisector intercepted two Colonial
vipers, sir.  Communications Center officer requests your presence for
his report."
     "Yes, at once."
     The centurion gave the complicated four-stage salute that Dracula
had invented to replace the overly brusque stiffly regular ceremonial
regular Cylon salute.  Tree accompanied his leader through the garrison
gate and to the communications center.  The news that there were Colonial
vipers in the area pleased Dracula.  There were scant military reasons
for his garrison's existence, after all, and this news would fortify any
report he made enabling him to justify the garrsion's continued presence
on this bleak planet.
     Inside communications center, the news did not please him so much. 
Six of the seven raiders on patrol had been obliterated by the pair of
vipers, much too great a loss of personnel.  He would have to alter the
casualty numbers on any dispatch pertaining to the incident.  Better yet,
he would not mention the loss of personnel vechicles.
     However, the results of the battle had more dire ramifications. 
This patrol represented the last set of Dracula's Cylon constructs that
were programmed to pilot.  The lone survivor of the patrol could not
defend the planet alone, and the garrison had already sustained too many
losses to detach any more centurions for piloting duties.  They would
have to get along without pilots for a while until he could figure out
how to manufacture a few---perhaps he could work out something in a new
design from his stockpile of materials.  For the moment, the best he
could do was listen to the report of his communications officer.
     "One viper escaped, sir, and it is presumably returning to origin
point.  The second was crippled by a hit on its underside and was last
observed heading towards Ursus Spelaeus.  We are tracking the craft." 
     "Order the patrol to return."
     Dracula wondered, as the communications officer turned to his
console to follow the order, whether such a primitive  construct could
appreciate the irony in calling a single surviving raider a full patrol. 
After the officer had transmitted the order, Dracula commanded: "Contact
the base star."
     He did not particularly want to communicate with the base star at
this time, but official procedure said he should.  Right now he should do
his best to impress the superior officers with his efficiency and
military prowess.  That might mean embellishing the data a trifle. 
Dracula didn't mind that.  His career had progressed so smoothly
precisely because of his abilities to embellish information.
     He was also pleased that the base star, commanded by Flight Leader
Crox, was too far away to intervene at this time.  But his deputy could
pose something of a problem.  He was an IL named Lucifer, a construct of
a later series than Dracula's---and Lucifer never missed a chance to
remind his presumed inferior of the difference in their respective
classes.
     Still, as long as he kept them at a distance, Dracula could handle
them.  By keeping ahead of whomever he had to deal with, Dracula could
handle anybody.

*****************************

     Lucifer had been congratulating himself on how well everything was
going.  The ship was in perfect running condition, and operating
efficiently at all levels of procedure.  Flight Leader Crox, the new
commander of the base star now that Baltar had surrendered to the
Galactica, was staying out of Lucifer's way.  The area of space they were
patrolling was quite peaceful.  True, they had lost track of the
Galactica thirteen sectars ago, but Galactica was Imperious Leader's
obsession.  Lucifer was not obsessed with the human's sole surviving
battlestar and did not care if they ever located it again.  But orders
were orders and if he must concern himself with Galactica's extremely
resourceful crew again, then he must.
     And yet, he did have some fond memories of one of them, a brash
young lieutenant they had held prisoner on the base ship for a short
time.  What was the human's name?  Starshine?  Starluck?  Something like
that.
     Aside from the minor annoyances, matters seemed so much in order
that Lucifer considered shutting himself down for a while and letting
subordinates take over.  There appeared to be nothing to disturb the even
flow of events aboard ship, and Lucifer felt content.  Had he been human,
though, he might have worried, since most humans know that such
contentment is dangerous, that just when you feel everything is going
well, that's the time for something to go wrong.
     And something did go wrong.
     That something had a name.
     Dracula.
     As soon as Lucifer saw the familiar visiage on screen, and recalled
what a scheming, deceptive, ambitious representative of their species
Dracula was, Lucifer knew, without even a review of his memory banks,
that he was in trouble.  His first inclination was to break abruptly the
communication and pretend that it had not happened.  However, he was
programmed for a meticulous attention to duty---a program he had designed
for himself, after all---so he had to listen to Dracula's report.
     Flight Leader Crox swaggered into the command sphere, his golden
armor shining brightly in the lights, while Dracula was beginning to give
his report. 
     "Request identification of IL-Series Cylon communicating with the
ship, Lucifer," Crox said.
     "That's the Ursus Spelaeus garrison commander reporting."
     "There is nothing in my memory banks of an...Ursus Spelaeus,
Lucifer."
     Lucifer ritualistically explained that Ursus Spelaeus was an obscure
outpost in the distant Jororon Sector.  "Its commander's name is Dracula,
I believe.  Yes, Crox, he is an IL-Series like me, but from the same
series as Spektor, which dates from before my time.  Rather limited in
ability, actually."
     "Illogical," Crox retorted.  "Even the command of an out-of-the-way
outpost is quite an achievment for an IL of an earlier series."
     The Flight Leader gestured Lucifer out of his seat and replaced him
at the console, his helmet light narrowing in the electronic equivalent
of a squint at the visage of Dracula on the screen in front of him.
     "Flight Leader Crox requesting your report, Commander Dracula."
     Although an ambulatory cybernetic sentience could not duplicate a
human or Cylon facial expression, Lucifer noticed that Dracula tilted his
head slightly, raised his left shoulder, and leaned toward the recording
camera.  A trio of movements that gave the illusion of an expression of
sincere concern.  Lucifer now remembered just why the sudden appearance
of Dracula had disturbed him.  Dracula was even less trustworthy than was
Specter.
     "Honored Crox, sir.  I recognize the privelige of reporting to you
directly.  You honor myself and my series."
     "Report, Dracula."
     The tone of Dracula's voice became more obviously regulated.  The
limb that was out of sight had probably made an adjustment in vocality in
order to present the illusion of conversational intimacy.  Lucifer,
fortunately, never stooped to such mechanical tricks.  
     "Sir, we have intercepted two viper fighters and captured one."
     "Excellent, Dracula.  Has the pilot of the captured craft been
interrogated?"
     "Ah....the patrol that apprehended him has not yet returned.
     Why, Lucifer wondered, am I so sure that he's lying?  Am I so
bigoted against a different, albeit inferior, class of ambulatory
computer that I cannot judge it fairly?
     "I would remind you of the general order concerning captured human
pilots, Dracula," Crox said.
     "No need for that, sir.  I read and record every general order and
memorandum that it sent out from Cylon.  You wish me to discover, through
intense interrogation, even including the risking of the prisoner's life,
the present position of the Battlestar Galactica."
     "Affirmative."
     "Understanding such orders perfectly is second nature to me, Flight
Leader."
     If Lucifer had been human, he would have cringed at the moment.
     "I shall await your next communication," Crox said.  "And Dracula?"
     "Yes, sir?"
     "You have a wonderful opportunity here.  Use it wisely."
     "I will sir.  You can depend on me."
     "My sensors tell me that I can, Dracula.  I will be waiting...."
     "By your command."
     Dracula's image faded gently from the screen.  Another effect
controlled by Dracula, Lucifer thought.  But then, early models have
their uses---not counting the uses I have in mind for him.

*****************************

     Dracula turned away from the communications console to find Hiltop
now standing at his side.
     "Were you listening?" Dracula asked his new aide.
     "Yes, Commander sir.  You did inform them that we had captured the
pilot when in fact we don't know where he is."
     "I know, I know.  That is called command privelige, Hiltop.  Learn
it well.  We shall require a search party."
     "I have already sent out a search party, sir."
     "Marvelous.  You do learn well."
     "Suppose the pilot evades the searchers?"
     "That's not possible on this planet."
     Although Dracula was aware that of course the pilot could evade his
centurions, he had also calucalted that, since the human was unfamiliar
with the terrain and was quite possibly injured, the odds were on
Dracula's side.  Like the true bureaucrat he was, he had learned that a
confident attitude and demeanor could cover up an array of minor errors
of detail.  In fact, Dracula believed that he had postulated all the
possibilities already and had devised an explanation, diversion, or
prevarication to cover any eventuality.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     Another dead rondor.  One of the wild ones.  I think it had been
attacked, perhaps by a nectospondylus, although there were no wounds or
marks of battle on the parts of it I could see.  It looked peaceful,
really.  Its head was lying at the base of a tree along the bank of a
stream.  Its horn had hooked into a gnarled, snakelike root and its body,
prevented from sliding any further, was half-in and half-out of the muddy
water.  I knew if I cut off its horn, the heavy animal would slide all
the way in.  But I needed the horn; it emits strange radiations that can
cure any wound or deadly illness and I've almost my supply of those.  It
is sad that such a beautiful animal has to die in order for me to make a
curing potion.  I cut through the horn.  As always, my knife slid easily
through it.  Instinctively, I made a grab at its head as it started to
slip away from me.  It went beneath the water so gently that I was unable
to see any ripples through the thin mist that clings to the water.
     I heard sounds on the other side of the stream, the unmistakable
squeaky sounds of the tincans stumbling through underbrush, on patrol no
doubt.  I decided to spy on them, see what kind of strange event could
remove the tincans from the security of their fortress.  They so rarely
leave it these days.  They don't even come out to trap us anymore.
     When the sounds of the patrol had somewhat receded in the distance,
I placed the rondor's horn in my pack, found a free vine and swung across
the stream.  I thought I saw, in a dim outline, the shape of the dead
rondor resting peacefully just beneath the surface of the water.

*****************************

     Earlier I had heard sounds in the sky, but the morning mist had been
too heavy for me to see anything.  The sounds were definitely mechanical,
suggesting a flying vehicle of some sort.  Grod says they are spacecraft
and can fly across vast reaches of space, like the spaceship that brought
us here.  Grod tells a lot of stories.  I don't always know which ones
are true.  Grod is younger than I, after all, and children like tales.
     The sounds in the sky ended with a strange high whistle and the
rustle of something heavy falling through trees far away.  I thought I
felt the ground vibrate slightly beneath me when the sounds ended in a
muffled thud.  Normally I'd have investigated, but I had more important
business to attend to---tracking the path of the fleeing rondor.
     I stayed right behind the patrol for a short distance, noting that
they were heading toward the area from which the sounds of the falling
vehicle had come.  Sometimes I was right behind the rearmost guard and
could have touched him, given him a nudge that would have undoubtedly
pushed him over, but I didn't want the patrol to know of my presence. 
After a while, they took a wrong turn, one definitely away from the area
of the earlier sounds.  Tincans are lousy at tracking, so I decided to
see if I could locate whatever it was that had fallen from the skies
before they did.
     It wasn't too hard to find.
     The wreckage was on a spit of sand surrounded by reeds, in the
middle of a swampy area.  Metal, in hunks, sections and jagged shards,
lay strewn about.  The main craft, what was left of it, sat at an angle
and it looked as if one touch could unbalance it and send it plunging
into the water.
     I was about to investigate when there was a movement in the upper
part of the wreckage.  A transparent canopy atop the ship shifted a bit,
then slowly rose into the air.  Framed by the mist, the movement spooked
me and I scrunched down where I was, in a clump of bush.  A head seemed
to emerge out of the wreckage and for a moment I thought it was floating
alone, bodiless.  But that was an optical illusion, for the head was
actually connected to a body.  Laboriously, the man pulled himself out of
his ship.
     He was a big man, thin but with a definite hint of solid muscle. 
His hair was as long as Grod's, but blonde.  His face, well, I thought he
looked like a god.  I had not seen a man that attractive in some time, a
good long time.  After all, except for my clandestine visits to the
prison, I never see an adult.  All my time is spent with children much
younger than I.  For whatever reason, libidinous or otherwise, I liked
this young pilot immediately, even though he was in a dazed and nearly
unconscious state.
     He virtually tumbled out of the opening in his ship and into swampy
water.  I thought of the rondor sliding so gently beneath the water's
surface, but this time I was ready to spring forwardd and save the man
before his head went under.  Fortunately, he recovered a bit and propped
himself up against the side of his vehicle, his spaceship, as Grod might
call it.  With his right hand he felt his leg and winced.  Even from my
distant vantage point, I could see that the leg was bleeding, possibly
broken.  He looked around, eyes bleary.  He was clearly trying to get his
bearings, trying to figure out what he was doing in this dismal, misty
swamp.
     I was about to reaveal myself to him and offer my help, when I heard
the sound of the tincans' patrol, clanking through the forest behind me. 
The man obviously heard the same sound, for his head lifted and, his eyes
now clearer and somewhat frightened, he leaned a bit toward the sound. 
Before I could call to him, he pulled himself around his ship, moving
very quickly for a man who had to drag a hurt leg behind him.  I wanted
to call out to him but couldn't.  The patrol might detect my position,
although tincans weren't usually adept at finding anything.  The safer
course for me was to remain concealed and silent.
     I could hear the man splashing through the water, then some muffled
noises on the opposite bank.  The patrol was getting closer.  I
definitely could not call out to him.  Nor could I swim across the water
without leading the patrol right to the pilot.  Instead, I had to watch
the pilot disappear into the mist.  No matter, I knew.  I could locate
him again later.  For the moment I held my position.
     The patrol appeared, not far from my original hiding place.  A
tincan arm pointed toward the wreckage and a different tincan head nodded
in agreement.  They took a package from a shoulder pack, an inflatable
boat, and rode across the narrow passage to the wreckage.  It was clear
that they were deliberately keeping their arms high from the water's
surface.  Tincans fear rust, Grod says, that's why, if they go near the
water at all, they act so oddly.
     I watched them inspect the wreckage.  One of them climbed through
the hole from which the pilot had emerged.  Another took a communicating
device out of a compartment in his arm and spoke into it.  I couldn't
hear what he said, but obviously he was reporting that the pilot escaped. 
A third tincan noticed some trampled down reeds and pointed toward the
bank.  Quite accurately, actually.  It was almost exactly where the man
had pulled himself out of the water.
     I realized I could help the man not one bit by crouching and
watching the enemy track him down and corner him.  My best move was to
find Grod and the rest of his band.
     As soon as I was far enough away from the patrol, I started running. 
Grod would be in the cave, I knew, and it was there that I found him,
looking as petulant and surly as ever.

*****************************

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Everything's Okay---In Dreams

     Starbuck woke up to find the bottom of a leaf dangling in his face. 
At first he couldn't focus upon it, nor could he figure out what he was
doing staring up at a leaf.  Slowly but surely, feeling the wet soil
beneath him and seeing high curved tree roots and  maroon, mushroomlike
fungi around him, he realized that somehow he had fallen asleep in a
hollow  at the base of a tree.  His head rested against a thick lumpy
patch of moss on the tree's trunk.  He felt something like he had felt
years ago when he used to curl up in a big  armchair back home, an
ancient piece of furniture that had been his foster father's favorite. 
Chas had won it in a raffle, and, even though it was far too lumpy and
was covered by a grainy hard-textured upholstery, he had convinced
himself that it was the best chair in the universe.  Starbuck was not
sure whether or not he was pleased.  Actually, the chair had never been
too comfortable and the hard lumpy soil and the uneven surface of the
moss was a trifle too much like the original.
     Slowly the leaf, drooping down at him from a low hanging branch,
came into focus.  He was fascinated by the leaf's bluish green color and
its almost perfect triangular shape with rounded corners.  He reached up
and touched it.  Its surface was furry, with miniature thorns all over
it.  The thorns, little spikes, really, were not sharp enough to puncture
his skin, but they did create a mildly painful tingling sensation in his
fingertips.  Touching the other side of the leaf gently, he pulled it
closer to him.  The branch didn't yield easily, but he was able to move
it enough to bring the leaf into a better light.  He saw that it was
really more blue than green, and that there was a speckled effect caused
by a deeper shade of blue at the tips of the tiny thorns.  The veins of
the leaf were unusually thick, almost as thick as human blood vessels. 
He wondered if a liquid would spurt out if he punctured one  its viens
with his thumbnail and if the liquid would be something drinkable.  On
this strange planet---which he wouldn't be on had he only been willing to
let Colonial jurisprudence work for him--- he could imagine becoming a
vampire of leaves, a vegetarian vampire.  He decided it was best not to
puncture the vein or to mar the leaf  any further.  He let it go, watched
the branch vibrate a couple of times upon release, and then come to a
quick, almost rigid, motionless.
     What in Hades am I doing taking up botany now, with a platoon of
Cylons scouring the forest for me? Starbuck wondered.  As the memory of
his flight from the Cylons came back to him, he realized that he had been
listening for some time to clanking and rustling sounds---evidently
Cylons making havoc of greenery.  It sounded like the search party was
coming near.
     He tried to scrunch down further into the hollow.  But that, he
perceived immediately was not going to work.  If they came anywhere near
the tree, there was a good chance they would see him.  The roots were not
high enough, the single overhanging branch not enough cover.
     Trying to pull himself up, he felt again the throbbing pain in his
leg.  Each throb felt like a fist inside his leg ramming at the same
already hemorrhaging area over and over.  Grabbing at the drooping
branch, he found it to be remarkably firm and unresilient.  Using it as a
lever, he stood up.  The effort exhausted him, however, and he could not
move for a moment.  Looking outward, at the weird wilderness complex,
teeming with blue, turquoise green and purple vegetation, he suddenly
realized that the gray and black color at the center of his view  was not
vegetation at all, but a Cylon centurion looking right at him.  His heart
started beating faster and it was all he could do to remain motionless. 
The Cylon didn't seem to be seeing him, even though he was looking right
at him.  There was something wrong; what was it?  It was like a missing
piece of one of those Tauron holographic puzzles---you could tell a chunk
of it was missing but the three dimensionality of the images obscured the
location of the vacant area.  Just then it hit him---The red light! 
There was no red light!
     Actually, there was a red light, but it wasn't functioning, not
moving from side to side on the Cylon helmet as it would normally do. 
This Cylon centurion was not moving at all.  It had reached this part of
the forest, right next to Starbuck's tree, and died on its feet.
     Despite the pain in his leg and the proximity of the patrol,
Starbuck's easily aroused curiosity was piqued.  He had to solve the
mystery behind this apparently stalled Cylon.  Carefully raising his hurt
leg over the lowest root with his hands, taking care to place it gently
on the ground on the other side, he managed to take a step away from the
tree.  The ground between him and the Cylon was fairly level, just a few
strange small funguslike plants that flattened like a sponge beneath his
bootheels, and he found he could limp to the Cylon without appreciable
difficulty.
     He came at the Cylon from the left side, cautious because he might,
after all, be mistaken---this apparently lifeless being could actually be
using some devious new combat trick, luring the enemy by pretense of
complete inertia.  When he stood next to it, he reached out and touched
the Cylon on the shoulder.
     "Hi, big boy, wanna dance?" he whispered.
     Clearly, this wasn't a dancing Cylon.  Starbuck's nudge did,
however, cause it to move.  It rocked forward and backward, nearly fell
over, then righted itself.  Touching the centurion more gently a second
time, Starbuck traced a path from its helmet, checking the unmoving red
light, down its metallic tunic to its ammo belt.  The surface was smooth
and cold everywhere.
     Starbuck wondered what, in the interests of science, he should do. 
This was, after all, the first Cylon that anybody had encountered that
had died a natural death.  There were scientists on the Galactica who
would donate the key to their medicine cabinet to have a shot a examining
a naturally dead specimen.  This moment could be historic, even.
     Yeah, he thought, so could the moment the Tribunal finds me guilty
of Quanto's murder and sentences me to the Prison Barge for the rest of
my life.
     Still, he had to try, even though he really didn't have a single
notion of how to take advantage of the opportunity.  He reached an arm
around the figure and found that he could lift it easily.  If it weren't
for his hurt leg, he could have carried the damn thing on his shoulders. 
Now, that made no sense.  A Cylon killed on the battlefield could only be
lifted by two or three humans.  How could this one be so light?  It felt
as if there were nothing inside its uniform, almost like the suit of
armor of an ancient Caprican knight devoid of the presence of the knight
himself.  Could it be that this was not a dead Cylon at all, but merely
an abandoned uniform?
     Setting the centurion, or centurion-shell, down, he continued his
investigation.  At the lower center of the torso he found a small thin
box welded to the body.  He'd never seen anything like that on any dead
Cylon.  He pried at it, but the sealing was too firm.  Whatever this
creature was, it was lighter than a real Cylon and if, as Starbuck
suspected, the box contained a cybernetic programming device, it was
apparently powered electronically.
     The clanking sound of the search party trudging through some nearby
foliage interrupted Starbuck's research.  As he started to move away,
looking for a suitable hiding place, he became acutely conscious of the
leg pain.  It was getting worse, as if whatever was affected was growing
or spreading.  Struggling over a fallen tree, he caught his bad leg in a
branch and fell forward, his face sliding into a tangled growth of blue
and purple flowers.  These were not the kind of blooms you took to a
loved one or a sick friend; their odor was noxious, and he almost gagged
and choked on it.  The effort of disentangling his leg from the branch
made his leg hurt even more and he nearly passed out.  Wincing, he
painfully and slowly slid his leg off the trunk of the tree. But now he
could not stand up again, and the Cylon patrol seemed to be getting
closer.  What did he care?  The pain would take his life first and
besides, he was giving in to the need to be unconscious.  Blissfully
unconscious.
     He slid easily into a dream.  His foster mother, Pear, was chatting
with Cassiopeia, who was nodding her pretty blonde haired ead vigorously
and often.  Starbuck crawled closer to them (they were seated on the edge
of his childhood bed, the one decorated with the decals of early-series
vipers).  When he got in range of their voices, he heard Pear advising
Cassiopeia about the kind of foods he liked and how to prepare them. 
That's not fair, he said to them, it's a conspiracy.  I'm not the
marrying type.  Besides, it's highly likely I'm going to be spending the
rest of my life on the Prison Barge for a crime I didn't commit.  But
they paid him no attention; he was invisible to them.
     Abruptly they changed.  Pear became Chas and Cassiopeia became
Athena.  Chas told Athena she had wasted her time with Starbuck.  Even if
things had worked out between them and they'd gone on to be sealed, life
with Starbuck would be dreadful because he had no conception of real
love.  Love for him was a kind of fantasy game where you rode horned
rondors and pretended to be a hero.  Starbuck could not communicate with
Chas and Athena either.  A moment later, they, too, had disappeared.  In
their place was a rondor with an unusually long, curved horn and a white
hide.  It was prancing nervously but slowly toward him, swishing its long
tail to and fro.  He was no longer in a forest.  Now he lay in a pleasant
green meadow.  The rondor's head leaned down toward him and sniffed at
him.
     "Don't worry," Starbuck said to it, "I'll make a first class dinner.
Colonial warrior, medium rare."
     He fully expected the rondor to talk back, since, after all, this
was a dream. The animal only continued to stare and sniff.  Joining it
was another rondor, this one with a mottled gray and white hide.  It
touched Starbuck's shoulder briefly with its horn.  Starbuck sat up with
a start and shook his head unbelievingly.  He could have sworn the rondor
had spoken.  Reaching up, he grasped the rondor's horn with one hand and
concentrated.  Well-being was communicated, and friendly concern. 
Suddenly, he knew he would be all right.
     "Sure," he said, "everything's all right---in dreams!"
     "You're not dreaming."
     At first he thought that the gray-white rondor had spoken again, but
looking up he saw a young man sitting on a hard leather saddle on the
white rondor's back.  This youngster had obviously been the speaker.  His
otherwise naked body was trapped with a jewel-encrusted harness from
which there hung at one side an ornate knife and at the other that was
clearly of Cylon origin.  There was a flat green cap on his head under
whose brim flowed fairly long black hair.  He looked no more than
fourteen or fifteen yahrens old.
     "You'll be all right," said the other rider, a strikingly attractive
young woman, who resembled the young man and wore  a similar harness and
a jewel-encrusted halter top.  She seemed, however, to be older than the
boy, and a little taller.  Her slim figure was suggestive of health and
physical perfection--the effortless harmony of faultless coordination. 
Her blonde hair reached almost down to her waist.  She was lovely, just
right for a pleasant dream of a pleasant meadow.  But wait, both said
this wasn't a dream.  They were right, it wasn't.  Chas advising Athena
to avoid Starbuck like a plague had been a dream, but he had awakened
from it.  To see rondors?  That made even less sense.
     He would have worried about it further, but the pain in his leg
interfered.  He moaned, winced, closed his eyes, and was immediately
asleep again.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     We had a close call rescuing that pilot. Grod, who hadn't wanted to
come back for the man in the first place, continued to be sullen all the
way to the clearing where we finally located our quarry.  The man was
startled awake, but looked at us as if we were but merely another episode
in a dream he was having, and quickly went back to sleep.
     "Guess I'll have to heft him up onto Soran," Grod muttered, his
voice sarcastic and angry.
     He had a tough time lifting the man, who outweighed him a good bit,
onto the back of Soran.  The task would've been easier had I only helped
him.  But he has to ask me for help, he knows that.  I won't help him
unless he asks.  He didn't ask.
     Once the man lay limp across Soran's tough white back, Grod swung up
behind him and said, "Let's ride, my sister."
     He's taken to calling me sister.  It provides him some sort of
childish amusement.  Anytime he says something with the word sister in
it, he's able to deepen his voice until it sound unmistakably adult. 
Most of the time his voice cracks whenever he becomes highly emotional,
and he's always getting emotional about something.
     We had hardly turned around to head back for the cave,when a tincan
voice, that obnoxious noise which reminds me of a metallic gargle,
ordered us to halt.  Grod leaned forward, his hands gripping Soran's
reigns tightly, and was about to make a run for it.  Typical of him,
ready to act before thinking, before assessing the situation. The tincans
surrounded us, their monstrous bulky rifles pointed at us.  We might've
been able to escape on our own, but I thought it was a fool's run.  The
only thing that made it possible was Grod's tendency to act the fool when
he could put action into a heroic light.
     One of the tincans said to the apparent leader:
     "The commander will be pleased.  Not only do we capture the Colonial
warrior who is our objective, but we also trap the two biggest pests
among the children."
     "Yes, Mudhole," the leader said.  "This will definitely bring us
praise from Dracula."
     It is almost impossible to discern anything particularly meaningful
in the tone, pitch, or rhythm of a tincan's voice, but I was sure I heard
a distinct squeak of self-satisfaction from this one.
     The patrol, marching in clumsy uncoordinated step, started to close
ranks around us.
     I looked at Grod.
     He looked back at me.
     I nodded my head.
     It was time to call in the reinforcements.
     Grod lifted his horn quickly to his mouth and blew a long steady
blast.  The tincans, who should've known by now what the sound signified,
merely kept on advancing.  Behind them the children of Grod's band
started dropping from trees, squirming out from under bushes, running
into a clearing from hiding places where they'd been silently watching
and waiting for the signal.  I caught a glimpse of my sister Ona,
swinging a branch almost twice her size---she's twelve and small for her
age---with which she felled a tincan by ramming it against the back of
its legs.  I saw my twin brothers Brun and Goov, ganging up on the tincan
leader together, one aiming at the upper part of the body, the other at
the lower.  Another tincan clanked to the ground.  I saw Laughing Zoug
and Chubby Catkins and Mog-ur and Uthia and Gahan the Singer and Tara and
Gathol and the Sprite; I saw members of the band whose names I couldn't
easily recall; I saw twenty-seven children, ranging in age from six to
thirteen, all of them assaulting the tincan patrol, each with a clear
objective and all working deftly and murderously.  As soon as the tincans
were grounded---they have great difficulty in righting themselves with
any speed---Grod blew a short blast on the horn and we cleared out.  Grod
and I on our rondors, the children vanishing quickly into the depths of
the forest.
     From a prone position, a couple of tincans managed a few shots, but
the beams went well over our heads.
     Touching the back of Old Plutonium's head, I urged him to go faster. 
Picking up the thought, he raised his snout and bellowed at the top of
his big lungs and we lumbered forward.  Past Grod on Soran.  Grod had the
man as extra weight and, besides, has no telepathic link with Soran, a
rondor who would likely reject any of his orders anyway.

*****************************

     We took the man to the cave instead of base camp.  Although the
tincans had not discovered the present camp, it was too open and didn't
afford the proper situation for the curing of the pilot.  The tincans
would never find the cave simply because they would have to pass through
water to get to it.  Tincans avoid water.
     As we rode along I could sense some of the advance guard of Grod's
band, using vines to swing from treetop to treetop, their movement a
barely detectable rustle all around us.  Three horn blasts in the
distance---Gahan the Singer informing us that we were not being followed. 
We took the most direct route to the cave, crossing the lake by the
curving pathway of rocks we had carefully placed in it, then we rode up
the hillside, and through the middle waterfall.  Once in a while, the man
stirred and looked around, but, dazed by his pain and confused by the
landscape, he quickly lost consciousness again.  I was eager to get him
inside the cave and onto a straw palette where I could take care of him
properly.  From his wasted pallor, I didn't have much time before he
would slip beyond the point where the radiation from the dead rondor's
horn would work.
     Mog-ur had reached the cave ahead of us and set a cookpot on the
fire.  The tantalizing odor of scethroot stew came to us as we entered
the cave's main chamber.  I realized how hungry I'd become. But before
eating, I had to attend to my new patient.
     Mog-ur helped Grod take the man off Soran's back.  Grod, as usual,
didn't even speak to her.  Mog-ur, who is two years younger than Grod and
quite in love with him, will do anything he asks.  She is usually
mooneyed and always redcheeked.  Her body is as thin as a swamp reed. 
She rarely speaks.  For a long time we thought she was mute, until one
day Grod asked her to bring him his boots and she said, quite
articulately and with a practiced servility, that she would be happy to.
     She came to us mysteriously.  We woke up one day and she had curled
up near our campfire in the dead of night.  She never said where she had
come from, and nobody remembered her as being from our colony.  Because
she is so attentive to Grod, I shouldn't like her as much as I do.  But I
do.
     After the man had been settled onto a palette, Mog-ur helped me
gather up some blue green vines from a molochait tree.  The man slept as
I tied the rondor horn to his leg with the molochait vines.  He woke up
finally after the horn's radiation began to go to work on his leg.
     Before focusing on me, he looked around the cave, taking in the
cookfire where Mog-ur still stirred her stew; the racks of dried fish,
salted meat, wild vegetables; and the crates of equipment, guns,
grenades, bombs, etc. that we have stolen from the tincans' garrison and
their ammo depots.  When he didn't look at me, he stared me right in the
eye.  For the first time in my life, I was a bit embarrassed by the way a
man looked at me.  I had read of maidenly blushes in my mother's books,
but was somewhat ashamed to react so conventionally now.
     "You're beautiful," the man said.
     "Don't try to move right now, pilot.  You have been hurt."
     "Oh, that's a fact.  My leg keeps sending me reminders. Say!  What's
this tied to---
     "You'll feel better soon, I promise you.
     "Okay, I'll accept your marker."
     "I don't understand, pilot."
     "Marker.  You know---a document that records a promise."
     "We can't possibly make a document.  Paper's scarce.  The only paper
I have I use for my book."
     "Your book?"
     I write down each of my days in a blank book I found.  I record
things in it."
     "Oh, you keep a diary.  Well, we don't really need paper for a
proper marker.  Your word'll do."
     "You have my marker then.  You'll be well soon."
     When he smiled, his eyes seemed to light up a bit.  He brushed away
a falling lock of his light blonde hair with his right hand.  I felt
funny, both pleased and uncomfortable at his friendly smile.  The smile
was not general, you see, it was specific.  For me.  But I wasn't ready
for it.
     "I'm beginning to remember.  A meadow or something, looking up and
seeing you and another person, a boy...."
     "That would be Grod.  Don't call him a boy to his face, though.  He
likes to think of himself as a man."
     "I understand.  When I was his age I could create quite a fuss about
just that.  I thought I was a man at thirteen yahrens, until Chas took me
down a peg with the back of his normal hand, the hand that was not an
electrohand, thank God.  I started feeling like a kid again then, I'll
tell you."
     "Chas?"
     "My father.  Foster father, actually."
     "Oh."
     I didn't like to talk about parents, so I said nothing about my own.
     "I don't know what you've got tied to my leg, but since it seems to
be saving my life, I'd like to know your name."
     For a moment, I found myself not wanting to tell him.  The
particular sensation I felt was too intense and complicated to put into
words.
     "Ayla," I finally responded.
     "Hello, Ayla.  I'm Starbuck."
     "Good to meet you---Starbuck."
     "Always glad to get formalities over with. Before, when I was being
carried here, I woke up a couple of times.  There were children..."
     "There are many children, sometimes as many as fifty.  From time to
time a few disappear into the hills and don't return for some time. 
Right now there are less than forty in the band...."
     "Band?  You guys are organized?"
     "In a manner of speaking.  Most of the children have formed a band. 
An outlaw gang, really.  Grod's their leader.  I don't exactly approve of
their actions, so I don't belong."
     "Why are you with them now?"
     "I was concerned with rescuing you and tending to your injury.  I
was forced to engage Grod's help."
     "But you don't like Grod very much."
     "I like him.  He's my brother.  I just can't join his group.  I'd
rather be an outsider."
     "And Grod is the leader of this---gang of children?"
     "Yes."
     "But he's only a boy himself.  I know, don't say it.  He thinks he's
a man.  But he's really only a boy."
     "That's what I tell him sometimes.  Still, he's the only leader the
children have."
     "Why do they need leaders?  Where are the adults?"
     "The colony dispersed when the tincans arrived.  Some of the adults
were captured, some were killed, others fled.  Only Grod and his band are
left to fight the tincans."
     "I'm not clear on all this.  You said colony.  Tell me about the
colony."
     "I don't want to talk about ancient history."
     "Ancient!  How ancient can it be?  You're only, what, sixteen,
seventeen?"
     I felt an irrational anger that he could so misjudge my age.
     "I am eighteen," I said.  "Do I look younger than my yahrens?"
     "Well, you look good for your age, whatever it is, I'll give you
that much.  You're getting red.  Flirting bothers you, does it?"
     "Yes, a little."
     "Don't worry.  I'll try to curb the impulse, but I warn you,
flirting is something of a habit with me, part of my nature.  Please tell
me about the colony."
     I sighed. This Starbuck was impossible to refuse.
     "All right," I said.

*****************************

     I have neglected to record much about our past in this book.  I
don't know if I can remedy that unfortunate oversight readily.  My mother
has answered many of my questions and I have vague memories from my
schooling, but my knowledge of history is probably a blend of
misunderstood facts, exaggerated legends, and imagined events.  I'm not
sure I want our history to be more attractive and more noteworthy than it
truly is, but I'll make this vow: I'll find out more and record it in
detail in another book---if I can ever find another source of paper.
     Ours was a society of pariahs, outcasts forced to leave their homes
and strike out on their own, escaping persecution by braving the
hardships of an unknown planet.  The original leaders of the pariahs are
direct ancestors of myself and Grod---and of Mog-ur, Uthia and Gathol. 
In fact, the woman had the same name as our mother, Iza.  The first Iza
and her husband (we've always said husband and wife, although of course
there are no formal marriages in our society, and relationships do shift
from time to time) were both creative individuals on the planet Scorpia. 
Broud was a writer who specialized in political allegories of an
adversarial nature.  Iza painted, using the type of Scorpian oils that,
once applied to canvas, could be adjusted to such respects as color and
texture by telepathic influence from the artist's brain.  Only a few
artists possessed the telepathic gift, and even fewer could use it to
influence the properties of Scorpian oils.  On Scorpia this ability was
invaluable and very profitable.  Even though Iza used her art, like
Broud, for political purposes, the government never moved against her as
it did the other.  When the group was ordered into exile, Iza was given
the opportunity to stay, subsidized by the government with a generous
sinecure.  Government functionaries said right out that they would not
interfere with the poltical messages of her paintings, that's how
desperate they were for telepathic art.  Iza refused the offer, accepting
instead the intense discomfort of a dilapidated starskater, crammed with
Broud and his fellow exiles into its only cargo hold.  She produced some
fine paintings after the colony was established here on Ursus Spelaeus,
although some of her colleagues claimed that the vitality went out of her
art when its political content changed.
     I know I have some telepathic ablity.  I communicate with Old
Plutonium easily.  Then again, maybe Old Plutonium is just a rondor who
transmits well.  Still, once in a while, I pick up a wandering thought
from Grod or one of the children and, though I don't attempt to verify
it, I often find out I was right about what they were thinking.  But I'm
digressing from this rather messy history of our colony.
     The pariahs were political activists.  Although they concerned
themselves with many and disparate social issues in the bleak, cold, and
emotionally remote world of Scorpia, there main fight was against the
war, a war that had been raging nearly a thousand years even at that
time.  It was not their intention that the war should become the primary
issue in what was essentially a social philosophy based upon humanism and
good works, but it was their opposition to war that the government chose
to emphasize when it launched its campaign against them, a campaign that
led eventually to their exile.
     In truth, as Iza tells it (my mother Iza, that is), the pariahs were
not specifically against the thousand yahren war.  They regretted it,
true, but they understood some of the imperatives behind it.  War was so
much a fact of life for everyone in the Twelve Colonies that it seemed
almost impossible to suggest alternatives to it.  While the pariahs were
pacifists who would not serve in the Colonial Service, they did often go
to war and serve on medical, food service and clerical crews.  Many of
them died in Cylon attacks, all the same. What they were against on the
home front was the set of militaristic attitudes that governed Scorpian
society.  And not only on Scorpia, for that matter---their ideas spread
to the variously militaristic societies on all the Twelve Colonies.  The
increasing popularity of their ideas made them especially dangerous to
the Scorpian government, which after its most recent elections (mere
ceremonies really, because all opposition was squelched) had become even
more warlike in its policies.  So higher levels decreed that the pariahs,
who pointed out such obvious facts, had to be in some way silenced.
     Fortunately, this wasn't a murderous government (in Scorpia's past,
there had been many tyrannies based on the poltics of assassination), and
it chose first to harass its political opponents, then to persecute them,
then to attract the most prosperous of the artists to work within the
society in jobs that essentially defused their revolutionary artillery. 
When harassment, persecution, and economic temptations failed, exile was
commanded by a narrow vote of the Scorpian legislative body. I'm sorry I
can't be more specific about the mechanics of  government on Scorpia, but
political science is just not my strong point and the details of the
history of that time remain a muddle to me.  So Iza, Broud and the others
were transported to Ursus Spelaeus in a starskater so foul that a quarter
of their group died aboard ship from diseases and despair.
     Ursus Spelaeus proved only slightly more hospitable than the
starskater.  I will admit, the planet does have its beauties.  There are
areas where the vivid and provocative colors remind one, Iza says, of the
kinds of effects created with Scorpian oils.  On the other hand, Ursus
Spelaeus, with its wretched humidity, tangled forests, poisonous swamps
and dangerous waters, brought more disease and more death.  Until the
colony's medical people devised immunizations for some of the most common
diseases, the colony's population was further reduced.  Additionally,
they found that they could not wander far from their settlement (a
settlement now inhabited and defiled by the ugly tincans for their
garrison) because of the many predators that roamed the forests and
swamps.  Nectospondylusi, leechfuries, ratsnakes, plus many beasts for
which there were no previous designations.
     Not all Ursus Spelaeusian animals were forbidding, however, and the
survival of the colony can at least partly be attributed to the help
received from the great rondors.  There had been no rondors on Scorpia,
and so they were mysterious creatures to the colonists.  They're
mysterious creatures to everybody, always have been, always will be. 
Nobody knows why the rondors came of their own free will to the
settlement.  It was certainly not that they were a domesticable animal. 
No rondor is ever domesticated.  It becomes a steed for human riders by
its own choice.  Even now, one of our rondors, Bandit, won't accept a
human on its back, although it willingly pulls plows and picks fruit of
the higher branches by ramming the tree with its horned snout for us. 
Some say that the rondors are actually an intelligent species of Ursus
Spelaeus who have formed this symbiotic alliance with us as a defense
against the native predators and the climate.  The rondors, after all,
are not exactly thriving here either.
     Some rondors are able to link with humans telepathically, as with
myself and Old Plutonium.  (Sometimes I think Bandit communicates with
me, but when I turn toward him and flash a thought back, he becomes
aloof, pointing his horned snout straight upward, pretending to have
transmitted nothing.)  People like Grod say the telepathic link between
human and rondor is imaginary, and does not exist at all.  They are just
animals, he says, and like all good animals they respond to human
signals, and what seems like an exchange of thought is accomplished
through physical movements and gestures rather than through the minds of
human and rondor.  I gave up arguing with him on that subject long ago. 
I prefer not to argue with him at all if I can.  He's repulsive when he
loses his temper.  His steel-blue eyes turn stormy gray and his nose
wrinks and adds another bump, and his mouth becomes a twisted piece of
metal.  It's best to leave him in peace, let him enjoy his game of
leadership, and look for ways to fix his mistakes and correct his
miscalculations when they occur.
     The pariah colony finally got through their original difficulties
and set up a society based on the ethical principles that had
precipitated their exile.  My Iza says that the Iza of that time, always
the iconoclast, spoke against the way the colonists were establishing
their society.  She was alone in her protests.  Even her husband Broud
turned against her and their marriage ended by mutual agreement.  She
never took up with any other man or woman.  Her argument with the colony
was that the ethical principles were  fine but not sufficient to hold a
government together.  One should venerate ethics and strive for ethical
behavior, but a society must be built on firmer foundations, she
believed.  They couldn't, for example, just slap together a constitution
that said, in essence, that everyone must treat one another according to
a rather restricted set of ideas.  There must be more practical
approaches, she claimed.  Every man cannot be a legislator, she said, any
more than every man can be a king.
     Talk like that, I'm sorry to say, got her nowhere except for a sort
of exile among her own people.  She retired to her cottage to paint
pictures with her last remaining Scorpian oils.  These last paintings are
magnificent.  They're hidden, along with other hastily-preserved artworks
in the passage I use to visit my mother, my Iza, in the garrison prison. 
Among the earlier Iza's paintings, I have a particular favorite.  It
shows a woman dressed in a gown that has many telepathically created
shades of purple in it.  (The real advantage of telepathic art is that
colors you can imagine, yet cannot mix, are possible.)  The woman is
sitting in a leisurely fashion on a rondor.  The animal is so fully
textured you think, if you touch the canvas, you'l feel its coarse hide
and the sweat beading down that hide due to the heat.  You think you
could pull off its horn, or pluck the hairs from between its ivory
toenails.  It is a sort of blue-white rondor and the blue and white
shades change easily with but a simple change of light.  Behind the
rondor and the woman (she isn't an extraordinarily beautiful woman, as
one finds in the more sentimental art of the colony's later period, the
period of political and social decline, but she's angularly attractive,
something like my Iza) is a dense forest scene in which you can see hints
of nectospondylusi, leechfuries, other animals.  On some visits to the
passage, I think I see an avian on a particular branch, then it isn't
there the next time I view it.
     Getting back to the original Iza: she died while the society was
still smug and self-satisfied about its apparent success.  She probably
thought she had been mistaken, that a society based solely on advanced
ethical principles could survive just fine.  The deterioration came after
her death.  Corruption, petty crimes, more than petty crimes, and---above
everything else---a substitution of selfishness (a kind of
take-whatever-you-want-because-it-might-never-come-your-way-again
philosophy) for the orignal idealism reduced the colony to a sorry state. 
Even then it might have saved itself.  My mother and father, Iza and
Meronele, were making headway in a revision of the colony's laws.  Their
revisions would've initiated a system based on the original Iza's
beliefs.  But then disaster struck.  The tincans.  We had no reason to
expect them.  We kept no skywatches. And, anyway, we were in a star
system too far away from the Colonial Frontier. Ursus Spelaeus has no
military value as an outpost and there are thousands of other planets
with better resources.  The climate here is bad for the tincans, who are
dispensers of death, after all.  And their impulse for conquest
apparently includes even unexploitable and valueless planets.
     So the tincans came and the colony was finished.  Some colonists
escaped and are hiding in the distant hills, satisfied to scrounge like
rats for their daily existence and happy that tincan patrols never bother
with them.  Some, Grod's band of children, inhabit the jungle around the
garrison and attack the tincans whenever they can.  And some, like my
mother (my father was murdered by the tincans, but I have never described
his death and never will.  Ever.) are captives of the tincans, kept in a
damp darkness and declining gradually in health and spirits. 

*****************************

Chapter Thirty: You...Attack Them?

     Mog-ur kept forcing spoonsful of stey on Starbuck while he listened
to Ayla's calmly-related history of the Ursus Spelaeusian colony.  The
stew tasted vaguely sweet, as if there were a hint of fruit in it.  The
pain in his leg was subsiding; its throbbing had become irregular. From
time to time he glanced down at the horn tied to his leg with the
blue-green vines, wondered what powers were contained within that weird
ivory appendage.
     The colony's history interested and perplexed Starbuck.  At first he
regretted the oppression of the Scorpian civil government, but then the
Scorpians were notorious even among the Galactican fleet survivors for
their eager support of oppressive measures and their volatile
temperaments when things didn't go their way.  What Ayla said about the
suppression of thought in all the Twelve Colonies was simply not
supported by fact.  On Caprica, Starbuck's home planet, the government
had not been particularly militaristic in its ways.  Nor was the society
repressive.  Yet, he recalled, he grew up thinking almost obsessively
about the war and the role he would play in it, so perhaps the state
control was more subtle on Caprica.  Still, Caprica would not have sent
this group of pariahs in a wretched starskater to unknown space, he was
certain of that.  Whatever else might be said, Caprica was definitely not
Scorpia.
     I wonder, he thought, if there are always hidden threats to any
apparently peaceful society, even for people as idealistic as the Ursus
Spelaeusian pariahs.  Did humans in groups always threaten their own
well-being by such splits into factions, and the inability to hold firm
to their best thoughts and most attractive ideals?  Or did this group
simply fail, not so much because of its beliefs, but because the nature
of human progess was not in maintaining a rigid adherance to enclosed
philosophies but instead in a successful response to change.
     Starbuck's reflections on Ayla's telling of the history, together
with the warm food and especially the numbing of his pain, relaxed him so
much that he drifted gently off to sleep, just as Ayla was beginning to
describe the Cylon invasion of Ursus Spelaeus.  He dreamt of his
childhood.  In it he was about eight or nine yahrens old.  He was
crouched behind a rock, his attention riveted on a toy instrument panel. 
Not far from the rock his scale-model viper flew toward the model of
Cylon raider, which was being operated by a playmate who himself was
hiding somewhere nearby.  The playmate, like all children who played this
game, did not like to take the part of a Cylon, but somebody has to be
the enemy when you play Vipers and Raiders.  It was truly more fun to be
the controller of the viper, since---in addition to the superior
maneuverability of even a toy viper---you also had the psychological
advantage over the already dissatisfied manipulator of the enemy
spacecraft.  As the two toys approached each other, Starbuck abruptly
plunged his into a quick turn and short dive.  He intended to come up
alongside the raider from beneath and try for a direct hit lowside.  But
his playmate anticipated the moved and set the raider into a modified
pinwheel spin.  Starbuck awaited the raider's emergence from the spin,
and he pressed the button on the miniature joystick of his toy panel to
fire a shot.  He was too eager and missed the raider by a light-yahren. 
That was all right, he could line it up easy for the second volley.  But
there was no second vollely.  Starbuck almost always got in two bursts of
laser fire before a playmate could get off his first shot, but this time
his playmate showed extraordinarily quick reaction time, and a beam from
the raider split the viper in two.  The viper dropped into tall grass,
and, for a moment, the mock-fire flared.  All systems on his panel
clicked off with a flash of light and a low grumble.  The child Starbuck
had always resented losing, but he had to congratulate the playmate.  As
was his custom when he was eight or nine, he leapfrogged over the rock
that had concealed him. Climbing out from under a bush on the other side
of the playing field was his playmate.  But it was no one Starbuck
remembered from his childhood. No, but he knew him.  It was Grod, looking
arrogantly triumphant and ready to continue the battle with bare fists.
     He came awake suddenly, expecting to see Grod starting to swing at
him.  But nothing inside the cave chamber had changed.  Mog-ur was still
sitting beside him silently, spoon in stewpot.  And Ayla was still
standing near the cookfire.  The fire was dwindling to ash, but that was
the only difference.
     "Was I sleeping long?"
     "Not long.  Probably long enough to help your leg get better."
     He stretched the leg.  Amazingly, there was little pain left, just a
twinge when the leg was held straight out.
     'You cured me. How'd you do it?"
     Ayla shrugged.
     "It's just the power of the rondor horn.  I don't know what
nomenclature is given for the radiations it sends out.  I just know that
they can heal any serious wound, cure any deadly illness.  Iza says I
have a knack for medicine."
     "Iza?"
     "My mother.  She's---"
     "Dead," Grod said, striding into the room.  "Our mother's dead,
killed along with our father when the tincans came and responded to our
flags of truce with artillery fire.  The tincans killed many of us before
we were finally subdued."
     Ayla seemed about to protest but her mouth hardened into a firm
line. 
     Uh-oh.  She's holding back something, Starbuck thought.
     "You don't look subdued to me," Starbuck said.  "You all seem to be
surviving very well, for children."
     Grod's voice broke as he shouted: "We're not children, fool!"
     Starbuck knew he should be amused by this adolescent's posturings,
but instead he was angry in return.  My God, he thought, and I thought
Quanto was the only one in the universe with a battlestar-sized ego.
     "What are you then, all you eight and ten and fourteen yahren olds,
if you're not children?"
     "Warriors!"
     Starbuck laughed, and that laugh did more to infuriate Grod than any
words could.  For a moment his arms flailed and he could not speak. 
Mog-ur ran to him and touched his arm, but he pushed her away.  She
stayed slightly behind him, ready to help if he ever acknowledged a need. 
Ayla watched Grod's anger passively.
     "I knew you wouldn't understand," Grod said.  "We've been robbed of
any sense of childhood.  We are at war, that makes us warriors."
     Starbuck's anger immediately left him at these words.  Proclaiming
his adulthood, Grod seemed more childlike than ever.
     "All right, I get the picture.  But your thinking's dangerous, Grod,
for yourself and the others. Even if you're right and you have somehow
achieved manhood prematurely, they're just children---little boys and
girls.  But not young warriors!"
     "That's exactly what we are, lieutenant, just as you say, young
warriors."
     "You sound like a leader, Grod, I'll give you that.  But don't you
see how you're endangering the oth---the children.  They can be killed or
captured."
     Grod laughed, a bit too proudly for Starbuck's taste.
     "We're too fast for the tincans," the young leader said.  "Our
attacks are too precise, too well-timed, too well-planned."
     Starbuck was shocked.
     "You...attack them?"
     "Why not?  They're the enemy," Grod said laconically.  "They took
all we ever had, set up their station in our settlement, killed many of
our parents.  So now we hurt them.  We strike at their ammunition depots,
fuel dumps, patrols.  We saved you from one of their patrols today,
lieutenant."
     "And I thank you for it. But---"
     Starbuck held his tongue, realizing that anything he could say would
only antagonize Grod further.  The young man's defiant stare made him
uneasy and, although his leg was without pain now, he was feeling too
tired to argue.
     Two children, twins from the look of them, rushed into the cave and
announced that a tincan patrol had been diverted from pursuit with a
false trail the twins had laid down.  Grod crisply thanked them for their
report.
     "I apologize for the lack of discipline in their demeanor,
lieutenant," Grod said.
     "Actually I thought they were quite disciplined---for a couple of
kids," Starbuck replied.
     Grod glared at him.  "Excuse me, lieutenant, I have my duty to
attend to."  He placed special emphasis on the word "duty," and he left
the cave chamber, his raised shoulders clearly displaying the anger he
was holding back.  Seeing the wound to Grod's pride, Starbuck immediately
regretted the sarcasm of his remark.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     Starbuck watched Grod go.  When he looked back at me, there was a
hint of sadness in his eyes.
     "Please excuse Grod," I said.  "He thinks he's so, well, grown up
since he's had to assume responsibility for the other children.
     "Hey, I'm sorry I was so hard on him, okay.  It's just that...well,
I wasn't in a good mood to begin with.  I've got serious troubles of my
own."
     "Nobody's been hard on him for a good long time.  It might just do
him some good."
     Mog-ur offered Starbuck another spoonful of food.  He waved it away. 
Mog-ur's reaction was disappointment, as it usually was when someone
refused her help.  She needs to serve.  I've tried to talk her out of it,
make her a bit more independent, but I soon realized that she was not
happy unless what she did had a clear benefit to someone else. 
Especially Grod---although our newcomer seemed to have immediately
charmed her too.
     "I'm stuffed," Starbuck, observing her pout, said.  "Really.  I
didn't realize how hungry I was.  It's good.  Really."
     His praise satisfied Mog-ur.  She carried the bowl away with the
pride of a soldier just awarded a distinguished service medallion.
     Starbuck gestured toward the high pile of books against the near
wall.
     "Who reads?" he asked.
     "We all do.  Books and paper are prime commodities on Ursus
Spelaeus.  Quite scarce at the moment, although the tincans have a room
full of unused paper in their garrison.  I stole some of it for my book
that last time I---"
     I stopped talking abruptly, wondering what it was about Starbuck
that made me so chatty.  I didn't usually give away secrets that easily. 
Not even Grod knew about the storeroom of paper.  I wanted to keep that
discovery to myself for the time being, not let anyone find out I hoarded
paper in order to record my secret thoughts.  A vain project,
perhaps---vain both in the sense of futility and vanity---but, if Grod
ever does need paper, I'll give him some.  He has this odd passion for
writing cryptic messages on oilskin, anyway.
     I also doubted the Grod would want me to inform Starbuck about the
secret passage into the garrison.  He had already, after all, told
Starbuck that Iza was dead, when in fact she was in the tincans' prison. 
I sneak into the garrison regularly to see her.
     "I can tell there's something you don't want to talk about,"
Starbuck said gently.
     I nodded.
     "Well, if you won't ask me about my problems, I won't ask you about
yours.  But about the books, you say you all read them?"
     "Except for a couple of the youngest children who haven't learned to
yet.  They choose war games over education."
     "You sound bitter about that."
     "That's because I am bitter.  A little bit.  I want them to have
some knowledge, something else to understand besides the ways of this
awful planet and the details of warfare.  Most of Grod's band feel they
don't need any education, but Grod forces them to attend my classes as
part of their routine duty."
     "Classes?  So you're their teacher, then?"
     I felt myself blushing, because he seemed so impressed with that
small feat.
     "I do the best I can," I said.
     "I always like to meet a woman as long on brains as she is on
beauty."
     Now my face was really red, I was sure.  And for two reasons. 
First, because I'm as susceptible to smooth flattery from a good-looking
guy as anybody, but, second, because of the veiled insult to women
attached to the compliment.  At that moment he seemed as arrogant as Grod
when Grod boasts about male superiority.  I always rankle at Grod, and,
for a moment, I felt a similar anger at Starbuck.  Yet, the grin that
went with the words was ingratiating, and I thought that he simply might
be trying to please his nurse.  Men are like that sometimes, Iza told
me---when they're sick, it becomes the primary goal in their life to
please the nurse.  I decided not to be angry with him.  I liked him so
much, anyway, it would have disturbed me to fight him.
     "So," I said trying to be as matter-of-fact as I could, "you think
I'm pretty?"
     "Ayla, when you arrive on the Galactica, you'll have suitors
galore."
     I started to say that 'suitors galore' was not my idea of a
worthwhile goal, when I realized all of what he'd just said.
     "When I arrive on the Galactica?" I said, shocked.
     "You can't stay here.  You and Grod and the whole band of children,
we'll get you off this backwater hideous planet.  It's the best thing. 
Especially with your parents, well, gone, and the settlement in shambles,
as it will be after I take charge and we make the attack on it, myself
and whoever comes to my rescue.  The children can just retire from
warfare as of now. There'll be no reason to---"
     "Wait a centon, wait!" I cried.  "You're talking too fast. We can't
go!"
     "Why not?"
     I couldn't answer without divulging information that Grod wanted
kept from him---about Iza and all.
     "I can't tell you now," I said weakly.
     I didn't know what to do.  I would have to sneak into the tincans'
garrison again.  I had to talk with Iza.

*****************************

Chapter Thirty-Thirty-One: Dracula's Anger

     Dracula was so furious that he considered scrapping the entire
mud-splattered patrol.
     "Did I hear right?" he said to its leader.  "You were all sprawled
on the ground, pushed there by a mob of little children, and you could
not get off a single good shot?"
     "Yes, honored commander," said the leader.  When one of Dracula's
minions appended the honored to his automatic response, it was clear he
was apprehensive.  And Dracula had disassembled centurions for smaller
mistakes than this.
     "And the pilot escaped."
     "We are tracking the guerillas, but you know how effectively they
lay down false trails, sir."
     Angrily, Dracula dismissed the patrol and told Hiltop to send out
another search party immediately.  Hiltop announced that the new patrol
had already been formed and dispatched.  Dracula was impressed.  This
Hiltop was proving to be a fine aide, a very fine aide.  He might shift
him from temporary to permanent duty.
     His consideration of Hiltop's promotion was rudely interrupted by
the sudden whummp of an explosion outside the garrison walls.  The floors
of his office rocked with tremors.  Rushing outside, he saw that a part
of the original fuel dump was now engulfed in flames.  Hiltop, his outfit
gleaming from reflected fire, sped forward demanding explanations for the
explosion and fire.  When he had received them, in addition to a sealed
packet handed Hiltop by a centurion, he reported back to Dracula: "Fuel
dump sabotaged, sir."
     "The chidren?"
     "Yes, so it appears.  They left this packet behind, actually threw
it to one of our centurions."
     Hiltop handed the packet to Dracula, and he carried it back to his
office before inspecting it.  Inside the animal-skin wrappings was a
rolled up oilskin.
     "A message, Hiltop.  For the first time the children's army is
communicating with us."
     "Perhaps an offering of peace, sir.  A truce."
     Dracula perused the message.
     "No, I'm afraid it's hardly a matter of peace, unless stabbing
somebody in the back has become a pacifistic strategy all of a sudden. 
But this is better than a truce, Hiltop.  It is an offer than we can turn
to our advantage.  Follow me."
     "May I ask our destination, sir?" Hiltop said, as he struggled to
keep up with his fast-glding commander.
     "The prison, Hiltop.  Our business is at the prison.  I must talk
with one of the humans there.  One Iza, do you know anything about her?"
     "Wasn't she a leader of the colony here?"
     "One of the fiercest, Hiltop.  I've been trying to break her for
some time.  If you humiliate their leaders, you reduce the courage of
your enemies.  I've never been able to humiliate Iza.  She is sick and
weak.  She can hardly talk.  But in her weakest voice, she remains
defiant.  It will be a pleasure to observe this final humiliation.
     They reached the prison, a grain silo before the Cylon takeover. 
The prisoners were kept in some makeshift cells in the silo's upper
reaches.  They had named their prison the tower.  All of its windows were
covered over, and even though Dracula was a mechanical being, he could
still feel a hint of gloom when he entered its bleak, dark interior.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     Getting to Iza proved more difficult than I'd anticipated.  When I
left Starbuck, I found Grod at the mouth of the cave, standing stiffly in
one of proud-leader poses, no doubt conscious of the impressive figure he
cut in the varying light filtering though the waterfall.  He was
discussing strategy with his two chief aides (the oldest of the
children), Gahan the Singer and Tara.  Gahan the Singer, although blessed
with a sweet tenor voice and a knowledge of---it seems---every song ever
composed, is otherwise not one of my favorite people.  Every time I
glance at him he seems to be indulging in another of his odd
habits---picking tiny insects out of his hair or scratching his ankles to
the bone.  Tara, on the other hand, is quite possibly the loveliest girl
in the entire outlaw band, and her cheerfulness often builds up our
spirits.
     A report came in from observers sent to the settlement area that the
tincans were busily moving materials from the fuel dump to piles inside
the garrison.  Grod ordered that we send in the smallest children to the
remaining section of the dump and plant some timed explosive charges
there, right under the tincans' noses.  I protested, said he couldn't
risk their lives that way.  It was too callous.  He glanced at me oddly,
a big smugly, I thought, and said I had never objected before when he
sent out any of the children on any mission.  Then he ignored me
pointedly and, in that deep growl of leadership voice he used around his
aides, he gave the rest of the orders.  I volunteered to accompany the
mission team, hoping that I could slip away from it and into the secret
passage, whose entrance was beneath a false bush not far from the fuel
dump area.
     But I wasn't able to reach the passageway entrance.
     I watched the group of our four smallest children,  Brun and Goov,
slither their way through the platoon of tincans working around the fuel
dump, then plant the explosives (explosives, incidentally, which we had
stolen from the tincans' supplies on earlier raids).  After they had
slithered their way back to us, Grod whispered the countdown for the
timed charges, which went off right oon schedule.  The explosion itself
was spectacular.  Licks of fire topped the tall trees.  Flames slithered
along the ground in a way that reminded me of the children's earlier
movements.  After making sure that the explosion had destroyed an
impressive amount of material, Grod called for retreat.  I split away
from the group and made for the secret entrance.  Unfortunately, the
explosion had thrown some debris too near the entrance and there were
tincans already engaged in clearing the area.  I knew there was no sense
in trying the passageway right then and, if I waited too long for the
tincans to leave, Grod would notice my absence and get in a snit about
it, so I returned to camp with the mission squad.
     Starbuck had been moved from the cave to the camp at Grod's orders. 
He was walking almost normally, with only a slight limp.
     "Well," Grod said, "you look fit, lieutenant."
     "Whatever radiation that rondor's horn emits, it's working.  I
picked up a leg wound in a fracas on a planet called Kobol not long ago,
and, even with the help of the Galactica medical team, I didn't improve
this fast."  He turned toward me, smiled.  "Thanks a lot, Ayla."
     And, damn it, I blushed again.
     "We have been busy," Grod said.
     "Yes," said Starbuck, "I heard the big explosion.  Mog-ur told me
what you guys were up to.  You accomplished your objective?"
     "We did, lieutenant."
     "Well, congratulations, I guess."
     I would have thought that Grod would puff up with pride at a genuine
Colonial Fleet warrior's approval, but his sidelong look at Starbuck was
guarded, and he muttered sullenly:  "Thanks, lieutenant."
     At that time, I should've sensed that Grod was planning something
underhanded, but I was so intent on my own obsessions, my abnormal
feelings for Starbuck and my need to consult Iza, that I missed the sings
that he was hiding something.
     "Feel up to riding, lieutenant?" Grod asked, his voice close to
friendly.  "There might be another mission soon, and you might be useful
to it."
     "Well, I don't know about missions, but I can ride."
     Grod seemed a bit miffed that Starbuck displayed some reluctance to
his offer, but he remained polite to him.  I should've seen that as an
omen, too.  Grod's almost never polite.
     "Do you have a mount for me?" Starbuck asked.
     "We have only one rondor available at the moment.  His name is
Bandit."
     I'm sure my mouth dropped all the way to the ground.
     "Bandit?!" I shouted.  "But Grod---" 
     "Ayla," Grod said harshly.  "This isn't your affair.  You mustn't
spook the lieutenant.  I'm sure he and Bandit will get along together
fine."
     "Grod!"
     I made his name into two syllables, as I always do when I'm
maddeningly angry with him.  Starbuck seemed to laugh.
     "Let's not have any sibling rivalry here.  I gather from Ayla's
response that this Bandit isn't exactly the gentlest creature around
here."
     Grod, taken aback by the lieutenant's accurate perception, waited a
couple of beats before answering: "Bandit is, well, just a tad
tempermental.  He's all we have for you to ride.  However, if you can't
handle him, then I'll lend you my rondor, Soran, and ride Bandit myself."
     What a boastful bluff!  Grod had often tried to ride Bandit in the
past and, each time, the rondor gently but firmly threw him off his back. 
I could see Grod's game.  He wanted to humiliate Starbuck, so that the
combat-experienced warrior wouldn't be tempted to take over leadership. 
I could have told Grod that Starbuck was not such a threat, any fool
could see that.
     "Where is this Bandit?" Starbuck asked.
     Grod pointed.  Bandit stood near the command tent, one of his paws
jerkily molesting the ground, making a series of even circles in the
dirt.  He didn't look friendly.
     Starbuck went up to him, slowly walked around him, patted him on the
forehead beneath his horn.
     "Bandit, hey?  I always dreamed about riding a beautiful animal like
Bandit."
     "You're not dreaming now, lieutenant," Grod said sneeringly.
     "Well, Bandit, are you going to allow me to ride you?" Starbuck
whispered, his mouth close to the hole in the side of Bandit's head that
served as his ear.
     Grod made a scoffing sound in his throat; he obviously felt his ploy
would work.  Then the most extraordinary thing happened.  Bandit's head
bobbed up and down ever so slightly.  Starbuck laughed and turned toward
us, looking quite pleased.
     "I could swear I just heard this animal say it'd be all right with
him.  It'd be all right with him for me to ride him."
     "But Bandit's never allowed any---"
     Before Grod could complete his protest, Starbuck had smoothly swung
himself onto the black rondor's back.  There was a long nervous pause as
Grod and I and the children stared at Starbuck, who sat quite relaxed
atop Bandit.  I expected Bandit to rear up and cast Starbuck away at any
second.  Instead, he glanced toward Grod and trotted a few steps with
Starbuck firmly remaining on his back.
     "This is weird," Starbuck remarked, "but I do believe he sort of
welcomed me aboard."
     Grod looked ready to kiss his ankles.  I laughed.  I had heard the
same message from Bandit in my own head.  Grod, as untelepathic as ever,
had of course heard nothing.
     "He likes you, Starbuck," I hollered.  "Bandit's telepathic, you're
the first one to ride him, and he likes you."
     Then, pleased by Grod's embarrassment, I laughed all the harder. 
Starbuck whispered to Bandit, who seemed to nod, then took his rider on a
fast run around the periphery of the camp.  Bandit's horn was held high
and Starbuck rode him as if, simply, he'd always rode him.  When he told
me later that he'd hardly ever ridden any kind of animal, I couldn't
believe him.  No tenderfoot could have ridden Bandit.

*****************************

     Grod veiled his jealousy well.  He watched impassively as his little
band became more and more infatuated with our pilot from a distant
battelstar.  When Starbuck had finished his ride on Bandit, the Sprite
performed the best of her magic tricks with more flourishes than usual. 
He said her slieght-of-hand was masterful, and he himself was a master so
he should know.  The Sprite, usually magical and mysterious herself,
positively glowed with pleasure.  Uba and Chubby Catkins did one of their
quaint folkdances which they claim they reconstructed from ballet
archives kept by the adults in the hills.  Gahan the Singer gave Starbuck
a rendition of a mournful dirge recounting the slaughter of our colonists
by the tincans.  As usual, the song brought a tear or two even to Grod's
eyes.  Durc and Ovra fought each other over who could be Starbuck's
servant and valet.  Starbuck settled the dispute by giving both of them
the job, then said there were no duties attached.  At first they were
puzzled, then he told them such a position was generally considered
honorary.  They became puffed with pride.  Even Mog-ur reduced her
attention toward Grod to find ways to push more food on Starbuck than he
actually required.  Grod observed all this without a hint of jealousy
crossing his face.  I should've realized that he had something up his
sleeve, but I merely thought he had adjusted tot eh pilot's presence and
popularity.  I even believed that he could learn something useful from
Starbuck's vast experience with warfare.  God, I shoud've known better. 
Grod passive is Grod devious.
     My need to see and talk with Iza kept me on edge.  I knew if I
sneaked away now, while the camp was in souch an uproar of excitement
over Starbuck, Grod might suspect I was up to something, and send someone
to follow me.  I needed an excuse, so I asked Laughing Zoug to accompany
me on a foraging patrol, to look for curative herbs.  Laughing Zoug has
an instinct for locating hard-to-find plants, and so the expedition had
the appearance of being businesslike and logical.  Zoug was also loyal to
me, and I could trust him to cover for me after we cleared camp and I
went off on my own.
     As soon as we were far enough away, I asked Zoug to go searching for
the herbs and to take a good long time in doing it.  He nodded at me in
his usual dolorous way.  We call him Laughing Zoug because he never does
laugh, never even cracks a smile, and in fact his long narrow face makes
him look ever more mournful than he is.
     I left Old Plutonium in a clump of trees at the edge of the
clearing.  He'd keep himself concealed, come at my call when I reemerged
from the passage.  This time there were no tincans around the passage's
entrance.  They had cleared away the debris from the fuel dump explosion. 
The area did not even show that a fuel dump had once occupied that space.
     I passed the alcove where the art works are stored, each one in its
heavy cloth wrappings to protect it as well as possible from the cloying
underground dampness.  This time I was so in haste I didn't even stop to
take the woman/rondor painting of the orginal Iza's out of its wrappings
for my customary viewing.  I also passed chambers in which our library,
records, and documents were kept.  There was also an alcove containing
medical supplies but, except for bandaging material and other small
items, I never pilfered it for anything because I simply didn't have the
proper medical knowledge.  It's a pity there's not even a med-tech among
the prisoners.
     The passage's exit was through the back of a fireplace in a room
which the tincan commander had turned into a warehouse of diverse
supplies.  This commander was a hoarder, no doubt about that.  He had
collected such surprising supplies as powdered food (which the tincans
don't seem to require), epidermal massage creams (also unused), soap
(unused), plant seeds (unused), metal polish (used, but enough boxes of
it to make ten tincan armies dazzlingly shine), and who knows what other
ridiculous items.  I slid back the fireplace panel carefully. 
Occasionally, one of the tincans was in the room, but so far none had
ever spotted me emerging from the fireplace.  This time the room was
empty, and I crept around cartons and metal boxes to the warehouse
doorway.
     Opening the door a crack, I could see only a few tincans in the
yard.  One group was engaged in one of their silly jerky marches, others
were cleaning guns, still others were doing things that apparently made
sense only if you were a tincan.
     This was the hard part of my journey.  The courtyard which I had to
cross to get to the prison tower was often heavily populated with
tincans, sometimes too many of them for me to even make a try.  I always
had to take a roundabout route, clinging to walls, crouching behind the
few low objects that afforded me some cover.
     This time the crossing was easy.  Never before have I seen so many
of the tincans so intent on their duty.  None of them even so much as
looked up.  There must be some kind of shakeup going on, I thought.  When
I reached the tower, I nudged its main door oopen a little ways to make
sure none of the guards was near the door.  Again my luck held out.  The
usual guards were occupied with tasks in other areas of the prison. 
Carefully but hastily, I made my way up the narrow iron flight of stars
that led to the block of cells where my mother, along with several other
survivors of the tincan invasion, was imprisoned.  Fortunately, Iza was
in the last cell of the row or I might have never been able to get to
her.  There was a little depression in the wall next to her cell where I
could secrete myself from any passing guards.
     Iza was standing at the rear of the cell, which she shared with
there other prisoners.  Two of them were asleep, the other looked dazed
with insanity.  
     "Mother," I whispered.
     She turned slowly and nodded.  I was about to say something more,
but suddenly I heard the clanking sounds on the iron stairway.  Quickly I
retreated into my tiny alcove, trying to make myself as small as
possible.
     I did take a peek out to see what was happening.  Approaching Iza's
cell was the odd-looking commander of the tincans, a blue-robed figure
with a metallic face, who seemed not so much to walk as to glide.  His
name, I  knew, was Dracula.
     I huddled into the alcove as I heard Dracula call Iza's name.  What
could the lice-ridden rust-streaked lump of metal possibly want with my
mother?"

*****************************

Chapter Thirty-Two: Iza Will Be Freed Tonight.

     Some time during the last couple of days focusing her eyes had
become extremely difficult and painful.  That was something new to Iza. 
Even though she had always been a voracious reader, she had never needed
corrective lenses.  She wondered now, however, if seeing everything
blurry really made any difference.  What was there to look at?  The only
breaks in the monotony of the gray cell were the dirty yellow of the
straw that served as bedding for her and the other prisoners, the
blackness of the iron bars, and the occasional burst of light when one of
the Cylons opened the entrance door two levels down.
     Certain prisoners had tried to remove the boarding over their narrow
silo windows.  For a while it had least given them a cause, but, of
course, once the boarding had been pushed away (the prisoners cheered as
they squeezed their heads through the small aperture and watched boards
fall to the ground below), the Cylons came and replaced it.  After two or
three such attempts, the project had collapsed of its own futility.
     Her long-sleeved tunic of pink velvet had once been stitched with
butterflies, but the filthiness of the cell had turned her clothing to
gray as well.  Perhaps the present problem with her eyesight was a
blessing.  Blindness might just be preferable to this overwhelming
grayness.
     She ran her right hand through her thinning hair.  A few gray
strands stuck to her fingers.  She had lost a lot of hair during her
confinement, and she had no idea how she might look now.  Broud, who had
admired her hair and loved to touch it, whould probably cry if he were
alive to see her.  On one of Ayla's visits, Iza had asked her whether her
balding was obvious, did the scalp show through, but Ayla had dodged the
question with one of her clever urgent changes of subject.
     As usual her head throbbed with that vague center-of-the-forehead
headache that had plagued her even before her confinement.  She missed
Ayla's soothing touch.  A few strokes of her daughter's dainty fingers,
up and down the brow, rubbing steadily but gently, had nearly always
cured Iza's headaches.  Ayla had occasionally reached through the bars
and stroked her mother's forehead, but the remedy had never worked well
lin this damnable damp cell, which created its own pains.  Now her
stomach was unsettled  by a dull pain, too.  That was at least
explainable.  Not only did the Cylons serve their prisoners meager food
portions, they had not the slightest interest in how to prepare human
food.  Some prisoners had volunteered for kitchen duty, but Dracula said
he saw no utility to that.  Prisoners were not supposed to eat well, he
said, with that odd sneer he could delicately infuse into his otherwise
nasally metallic voice.  To complete her catalog of pain, her legs were
steadily weakening from an apparent arthritic condition.  She forced
herself to walk around the perimeter of the cell several times a day. 
The exercise was helping the ailment during the day, but the steady ahce
during the nighttime centons disturbed her sleep.
     She had just completed one of her regular walks when she heard
Ayla's whisper.  As she turned to walk to the iron bars, on the other
side of which her daughter stood, a flash of light appeared behind Ayla,
followed by the sounds of Cylons coming up the stairs.  Ayla scampered to
her alcove hiding place.  Just in time, as it turned out, for Dracula
appeared on the cell block level, flanked by two of his centurions.
     "You've been neglecting me, Dracula," Iza said.  "I was beginning to
feel rejected."
     The commander, who---surprisingly enough---appreciated human irony,
emitted a gurgling sound that Iza presumed indicated pleasure.
     "That's because I've had no use for you lately, Iza.  Now I do."
     "Oh?  Why do you bother with me at all?  I'll die long before you
get anything useful out of me."
     "I've realized that.  So, I've decied to end my efforts with you."
     "Termination?"
     Iza inadvertently glanced toward Ayla's hiding place, hoping that
her daughter would not angrily reveal herself if it did prove that
Dracula was here to oversee Iza's execution.
     "Not at all.  I'm not a tyrant, Iza.  No.  I came here today to tell
you that you'll  be freed tonight."
     For a moment Iza could not speak.  Dracula often surprised her, but
this shock was the biggest yet.  At first, she felt irrationally pleased. 
Anything to get out of the cell---she needed freedom, needed to be
reunited with her children, needed to find ways to oppose these invaders. 
But that was imprudent thinking, all of it.  This Dracula would not free
her without some deplorable undisclosed motive.  Dracula would only offer
a deal with strings attached, enough strings to girdle Ursus Spelaeus'
equator.  Therefore, her reply was wary: "Did you say freed?"
     "Yes.  I received this just moments ago.  It was secretly placed at
our gate while...while a diversion of sorts was occurring."
     "I believe I felt the tremors of that....diversion of sorts,
Dracula."
     Dracula held out an oilskin and carefully slipped it between the
bars of the door.  Iza accepted it hesitantly, afraid it might be
concealing a bomb or be treated with a transdermal poison.  When it
proved to be a normal unadulterated oilskin, she unrolled it and read the
message.  The neat structured printing was definitely Grod's.
     " 'We have the Colonial warrior your patrols are searching for so
clumsily.  We will exchange him for you prisoner Iza after sunset tonight
at Violetmont Point, where the river's rapids become calm.  We will wait
on the north side of the river, your party will arrive from the south. 
Before you arrive, sound the usual signal.  Place Iza on a raft and send
her to us.  At the same moment, we will place a raft holding the pilot
onto the river from our side.  The signal to launch rafts will be three
short blasts of our horn.  Betray us and our revenge will be awesome. 
Grod.'"
     Tears flowed freely from Iza's eyes as she read the message.
     "Lords of Kobol no!" she whimpered.  "What in Hades does he think
he's doing?"
     "Isn't it obvious?" Dracula said.  "Like all good loving human
children, he wishes his mother back.  Fortunately it can be done.  I
would say that this offer of trade is shrewd, yet perhaps the most
intelligent thing he can do."
     Iza violently threw the oilskin at the iron door.  It hit a point in
the bars just in front of Dracula's face.  She wished it had struck
Dracula, even though he no doubt was devoid of a circuit for pain.  He
clearly had no circuit for flinching.  A guard reached through the bars
and retrieved the oilskin from the gray floor.
     "What do you take me for?  A damn fool?" Iza hollered at Dracula. 
"Do you think you can hoodwink me into accepting this deal? Work on a
mother's love?  Use my affection to make me come willingly to Violetmont
Point? Well, I don't believe you.  I don't believe you'll ever go through
with this trade, Dracula."
     "What you believe is not important.  However, it may surprise you to
hear it, I do intend to go through with the trade.  That pilot has a
certain....value to me.  A value superior to your utility to me, if your
overwhelming sense of your own importance can allow you to accept that. 
I want to pilot, you may go free.  The trade will occur but only....only
if you cooperate with me in a manner that---"
     "Hah!  I should've known there was a catch.  Naturally.  And if I
don't cooperate with you?"
     "Then I vow to slaughter your son, your other offspring, and their
whole band of dirty renegade children at the exchange site and wherever
else I may locate them."
     Iza laughed.
     "That's a vow you'll likely have to break.  You haven't been able to
catch them yet, and you've been scouring the forest for them desperately. 
Grod and the other children are too smart for you."
     "Is that so?  Your Grod proposed the trade.  I would say that it is
he who is getting desperate."
     Iza had to admit to herself the possibility of Dracula's claim. 
Grod was so young.  It was wrong for him and the other children to
continue waging guerilla warfare when they should be---they should
be---her head hurt so much she could not even pursue her thoughts to
their natural conclusions.  She must get rid of these Cylons so she could
talk to Ayla.
     "If you think he's getting despearate then why tell me, Dracula?  If
you're going through with this exchange, you can do so without consulting
me.  Just do it!"
     "I would like to, but..."
     "There's always a but with you, Dracula.  Out with it."
     "I want your word that, once reunited with your family, you will
take them away from this area.  Join the refugees in the hills.  Stay out
of danger.  I want you to tell Grod to stop these senseless harassing
attacks and evacuate the immediate area."
     Iza realized that the attacks could hardly be senseless and must be
more than mere harassment if Dracula was so eager to go this far to stop
them.  No, he was hurting.  He was clearly ineffective in coping with the
gang of children, and it would not do for ambitious wretch like Dracula
to be ineffective.  It might even short out his programming.
     "You'd take my word?" she asked.
     She thought she heard a satisfied hum pulsing beneath Dracula's
words: "I've come to learn that the word of some humans are as binding. 
Once given, they are stronger than Cylon chains.  You are such a human,
Iza.  You are tough and your word is trustworthy."
     God, this machine could lay it on as thick as a Scorpian bricklayer,
she thought.  Her word was good, that much was true, when given to
another of her species.  Why should he believe it was so binding with a
nonhuman enemy?  Well, better to go along with him.
     "What about this pilot?  What are your intentions with him?"
     "That is not your concern."
     But it was her concern.  Who could even suspect what torture Dracula
might have in store for the trapped warrior?  It would be better for the
trade not to take place, or for Grod to work out a trick---but what? 
There was no time to work out such matters now.
     "Do I have your word?" Dracula asked.
     For a moment, she contemplated defying him, but nothing was gained
by rejecting the plan outright.  Perhaps she could work with it.
     She nodded her agreement, trying to appear as defeated as possible. 
Dracula, in his own emotionless way, seemed pleased.
     "Excellent," he said.  "We'll arrange to travel to the site.  We
shall leave just before sunset.  I'll see that you have clean garments. 
I wouldn't want your children to be....distressed by your appearance."
     Dracula gestured to his guards.  He glided to the top of the
stairway, where they picked him up to carry him down.  When he was out of
sight, and the outside door had clanged shut, Ayla slipped out from her
hiding place, a look of perplexed puzzlement on her face.
     "What was that all about?" Ayla asked.
     Iza told her daughter the details of Grod's message.
     "That fool!" Ayla muttered.  "He knows better than to trust the
tincans."
     Iza leaned closer to Ayla, her pale hands clutching the iron bars.
     "Tell him that, Ayla.  Tell him I said he should not go through with
the exchange."
     Iza's silence was definitely suspicious.
     "What's wrong, daughter?"
     "It's Grod.  He never believes I come here to see you.  Whenever I
tell him anything, he says I'm making it up.  He doesn't trust me."
     "You have to make him believe this time.  You've got to try, Ayla. 
I can't allow that warrior to take my place."
     "You're a fool, Iza!" came a deep voice from one of the straw beds. 
One of the sleepers, a former colony councilman named Norg, had awakened. 
He had obviously overhead everything.  Iza had never liked Norg.  He had
always been a bit too preposterous, a bit too smug.
     "Why do you care about a Colonial warrior, Iza?" Norg muttered.  "He
represents everything we were against, everything that caused our exile
from Scorpia.  He's a walking war machine, just like these filthy Cylons. 
What difference does it make?  Make the exchange.  Make it, return to
your children and run to the hills.  The rest of us'd do it.  There's no
point in dying here."
     Norg's words were like a message from her own subconscious.  Of
course she had been considering it as a real possibility, considering her
freedom, her reunion with her family, an escape from the Cylons.  But she
could not sacrifice another human being for any of that, even a
warmongering Fleet warrior.
     "No, I can't do that," she whispered to Norg.  "There is a point in
dying here.  It's running away that has no point.  Go to Grod, Ayla.  Do
what you can."
     "Mother..."
     "Do it!"
     There were tears in Ayla's eyes.  She said no more, and instead
walked stealthily to the stairway, looked down, and I a moment had
vanished into the gray darkness.
     Iza almost cried.  She wanted to hold her daugher close to her
again, without the iron bars in the way.  If she could only choose the
exchange, the opportunity for that embrace was close, tempting.  Why
couldn't she be selfish, put her own cares and wishes first, especially
in place of a man whose life represented the antithesis of her beliefs? 
Norg would not have given the exchange a second thought.  Even now he
stared at her in disgust.
     The ache in her head throbbed harder and the growing pain in her
legs made it necessary for her to sit.  She pulled at the cloth of her
filthy prison garment.  A piece of it broke off like rippled paper from
our home, which they now use as a command center."
     At least for a while she might have the feel of fresh new clothes on
her ravaged body.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     Mother's face preoccupied me as I made way back down the iron
staircase, flitted from shadow to shadow in the courtyard, and slipped
through the fireplace entrance into the secret passage.  She had looked
so worn-down, so drawn.  Her eyes, even when she wasn't angry at me, were
bulging.  They were as round as planets.  And she didn't seem to blink. 
I could see by the odd way she held her body, straight but not quite
straight enough, that she was in terrible pain.  How could I allow her to
go on in such pain?  How could I allow her to remain I nthat wretched
prison celll?  I didn't have to.  All I had to do was leave Grod alone,
let him trade Starbuck, disobey mother.  Why not?  As Norg had said,
Starbuck was a warrior, he knew the consequences of his actions.  It was
the duty of a soldier to lay down his life if necessary.  Whatever she
said, that was definitely not Iza's duty.
     I was confused, my head in an absolute muddle.  I wanted to save
Iza, but I had been told by her to prevent the trade that would save her. 
At the same time, I wanted to save Starbuck, didn't want Grod to go
through with his plan.  Yet, I was willing to look the other way, let
Grod get away with this betrayal.  And what, I wondered, was in Grod's
mind.  Did he really think the trade, even if it brought back our mother,
was a properly heroic act?  Did it fit his overblown image of himself as
the leader of an army?
     Alone in the secret empty passage, I felt like screaming.  There was
no simple answer, no revelation of logic that would miraculously allow to
occur all I really wanted---to have mother back without sacrificing
Starbuck, without Grod making such a repulsive fool of himself.  There
was no way, it seemed, I could straighten out my world.
     I passed the alcove hideaway where the colony's art works were
secreted.  I wasn not going to go in, then I felt I must.  The picture
was there, still covered.  As usual, I undid the wrappings and stared for
a long while at the peaceful woman on the benign rondor, at the beautiful
but threatening forest swampland in the background, at the bird on the
branch that, on this viewing, was present.  Was there an answer in a
beautiful work of art like this, I thought.  If Iza was to be restored
and look like the woman in the painting, would everything else
miraculously right itself?  The colony reunited, the ideal life striven
for, the people at peace? I laughed to myself.  No, I thought, there'd
always be the forest, the hidden predators.  At the same time, there'd
always be the lovely birds and the beautiful trees.  You could have
everything, but you could not just cout out that one little part of the
overall picture that you wanted.  You couldn't close your eyes and
pretend that evil didn't exist.  You might not be able to fight it, you
might not choose to fight it, but you had to admit its existence.
     I carefully replaced the painting in its wrappings and returned to
the passage.
     I had to try what Iza aksed.  But trying was the best I could do.
     As I slipped out from the bush that concealed the outside entrance,
I saw that the tincans milled about just inside the garrison walls.  They
were busy.  Preparing fo the exhange of prisoners, no doubt.  I recalled
Iza's horrifying physical weakness, and I hoped that the tincans wouldn't
push her too hard, crossing the dense swampy expanse that led to
Violetmont Point.  I did not like to think of her suffering any further.
     I summoned Old Plutonium and we headed back toward camp.  We came to
a rise that overlooked the trail to Violetmont Point, and saw that Grod
and his band had already set out on their mission.  They rode single-file
along the wide path.  As usual, Grod, on Soran, led the way.  Starbuck
rode Bandit, not far behind Grod.  It was clear Starbuck hadn't been
informed of the exchange.  He was not tied up or even guarded.  I sent
Old Plutonium the though that we had better see what Grod was up to, and
we slipped and slid down a narrow hillside path to the trail, arriving
just in front of the caravan.
     Grod was annoyed when he saw me inf front of him.  He could tell
from my look that I knew something and was about to confront him with it.
     "What's wrong with you?" he growled.
     I told him.
     "We can't do it.  Even mother says so."
     "You always pretend to talk to mother when you want to question my
judgement."
     I wanted to kick, scream and hit.
     "You make me so angry, Grod.  I'd like to strangle you!"
     "By all means try, sister."
     "Grod, this is no time for a childish quarrel between siblings.  I'm
telling you that this exchange is not even logical.  Iza doesan't want
it, it's not even sensible.  You can't trust the tincans."
     "This time I can.  I have something they want desperately.  They'll
make the trade."
     "But, Grod---"
     "What's wrong with you, Ayla?  Don't you want mother back?"
     I could not hold back my tears any longer.
     "Yes, of course I do."
     "And aren't you willing to do whatever it takes to get her back?"
     "Of---of course--of course I am.  But we shouldn't---"
     "There is nothing to discuss, Ayla.  We trade Starbuck to the
tincans for mother.  Tonight.  It's all arranged."
     I looked back toward Starbuck, who could hear none of what we had
said.  If I went to him and told him now, I'd be a traitor.  If I became
a traitor, it might mean that Iza would die, that my selfish sense of
---what would you call it---ethics or honor or whatever had killed her.
     I didn't know what to do, and I couldn't stop crying.
     I rode on, beside Grod, Grod keeping a watchful eye on me to make
sure I was not urged toward betrayal.  I tried to think of some solution. 
Tried desperately to think of something.

*****************************

Chapter Thirty-Three: Grod's Lie

     Occasionally, Starbuck perversely hoped the Galactica rescue team
would never come.  He had not had this much fun in ages.  In addition to
making him feel less like a desperate man, Ayla's treatment had cured his
leg.  New energy surged through veins, his muscles were relieved, and his
mind was clearer and less troubled than before.  And what was waiting for
him back at the Fleet, anyway?  A murder accusation, a Tribunal, the
Opposer Sire Farnum, and a possible life sentence to the Prison Barge,
that's what.
     He could swear that many of his good feeling emanated from Bandit. 
They actually seemed to flow from into him, a strong surge of, well,
power from this bizarre black rondor.  Bandit was some fine animal, with
a strong, tough hide.  Still, one felt compelled to stroke at it
regularly anyway.  To continue patting Bandit's head, encouraging him,
letting him know your confidence in him.  Starbuck's hand might wind up
raw and blistered, but the persistent surges of good feeling made it all
worthwhile.
     It was difficult to figure just how this telepathic link with Bandit
functioned, but Starbuck had arrived at some conclusions about the
tempermental rondor, Bandit, though clearly a sentient, even highly
intelligent being, was not somebody you'd take to a party and expect to
mingle.  He had a quick temper, and independence fierce enough to scare
off bullies and a willingness to pursue a goal beyond its its limits.  He
was also ready, even eager, to take risks, to bluff, to twist any
restriction or rule to his own favor.  All of this knowledge about the
animal came to Starbuck intuitively, in waves, blocks and lightning
flashes, but never in understandable words, coherent language or clear
sentences.  He just seemed to absorb the information as if it just
settled like snow (and sometimes driving rain) into his mind, injecting
itself into his vascular system, invading his emotions.  The only clear
rationally expressed "thought" that seemed to come from Bandit was, "You
and I are much alike, Two Legs."  Starbuck assumed that the similarity,
whether the thought itself actually originated from the animal or merely
emerged from his own subsconscious, was the reason that the
previously-aloof rondor had chosen Starbuck as its rider.  He also
assumed that any change in that attitude would result in Starbuck being
abruptly launched into the air and thrown through the trees by this
massively well-muscled beast.
     So engrossed was he in his theories about Bandit, he nearly did not
see Ayla ride up to Grod, who rather aggressively and pointedly had taken
up the leadership position on the trail.  That was all right with
Starbuck.  Grod knew the terrain, therefore he should ride point.
     The brother and sister had a rather animated and angry discussion,
but their whispered and urgent words did not carry to Starbuck.  Ayla
frequently looked Starbuck's way, her lovely eyes troubled.  Grod
appeared to declare an end to their dispute and they rode on together. 
Again, Grod edged his rondor forward, as if to show his sister that his
place was at the front of his troops.
     Finally, they reached a clearing beside a river and Grod held up his
hand to halt the line of riders.  The children on unicorns immediately
dismounted.  They briskly began opening packs and setting up a camp. 
Mysteriously, other children appeared from out of the forest and joined
the main troops.  These others must have been keeping pace with the
riders all the way, or arriving at this chosen destination by their own
special routes.  Starbuck recognized Mog-ur, who of course immediately
began supervising food preparation.  The Sprite, her fingers working as
deftly as they did on her magic tricks, manipulated the guy ropes of a
tent.  Laughing Zoug gave the other children orders without saying a
word, communicating through looks and gestures.  Bickoik, a shy sweet
child who always had a book sticking out of a corner of her backpack,
started a group of children on assembling a raft from logs and leather
thongs.  Starbuck wondered briefly why they were building a raft.  For
that matter, all the activity around this temporary camp indicated a
prearranged schem, one they were concealing from Starbuck for a purpose. 
Grod had said only that they were setting out on a ride to better
acquaint Starbuck with the local terrain.  All this busy work suggested
something beyond a tourist trip.  As if to verify Starbuck's suspicion,
Grod drew out his horn and blew a trio of short blasts on it.  In the
distance a watchtower bell responded.
     Starbuck rode to him.
     "Look," he said, "I don't like to interfere with your setup here,
but what you are you trying to do with those horn blasts?  They can be
heard from here to forever.  Why go to all this trouble and preparation
if you're going to give away our position?"
     Grod regarded Starbuck with a cool disdain.
     "I'm sending a challenge.  It's our way.  You don't understand. 
We'll move again soon anway."
     "Move again?  You're pounding in tent poles, for Sagan's sake!  And
what's the point of this challenge?  I thought you were just showing me
around the countryside.  You didn't say anything about inviting a guest
list of Cylons."
     Anger rushed into Grod's eyes.  His voice sounded quite adolescent
when he responded: "Don't tell me how to command!"
     In frustration, Starbuck raised his hands.  There was no point
talking to Grod.  He took everything as a challenge to his authority over
this kiddie band of his.  Ayla, attracted by the anger in Grod's voice,
rode up, her eyes concerned.
     Bandit seemed to be transmitting a feeling of calmness, telling
Starbuck to leave Grod be.  It was perhaps unfortunate that Starbuck had
not yet learned to take advice from a rondor.
     "You're grandstanding, Grod.  There's no time for that in this---"
     "Because you wear a uniform and fly a fighter you think you should
be in command here."
     The peevishness in Grod's voice had an odd calming effect on
Starbuck.  Everything was now so evident.  He should've seen that Grod
was afraid of him, should've seen that Grod saw him as a threat to his
role as leader.  What in Hades did Starbuck care about leadership over a
troop of children?  He was a warrior and he did warrior's jobs, but he
never cared who was in charge.  Leader's didn't matter that much to him. 
He usually did pretty much what he wanted to do anyway.
     "I get it," he said to Grod.  "You're afraid I'm going to steal away
your command."
     Grod glanced quickly away, his stare concentrated on the forest.
     "I fear no such thing."
     "Grod, you know what he says is true," Ayla said.
     Grod's shoulders tensed and he whirled Soran around to face her.
     "I should've known.  Should've known you'd side with anyone who's
against me.  Especially a Colonial warrior!  He smiles at you and you
choose him.  Him over me!  Him over mother!"
     "Mother?" Starbuck asked.  "You said your mother had been---"
Starbuck hung his head in bleak despair.  In this impetuous youth, he'd
discovered the worst of both worlds: the egotistical malice of Quanto,
the dishonesty of Jeremiah.  "You lied to me about that, didn't you?"
     Grod and Ayla stared at each other for a long time.
     "Tell him, Grod!"
     "No!  I don't have to do anything, anything you say!"
     She turned to Starbuck.
     "He wants to exchange you for mother.  Tonight."
     "Ayla!"
     "Go to Hades, Grod!  I told you what mother said.  You wouldn't
listen.  Starbuck has to know."
     Grod snapped his fingers and Starbuck found himself surrounded by
members of the band.  They held weapons, Cylon rifles, spikes and swords. 
Grod leveled a rifle at Starbuck and sighted him right down the barrel. 
It was all so pathetic and childish.
     "It won't work, Grod," he said.  "These are Cylons you're dealing
with.  They'll never make a fair trade.  You can't trust them."
     Suddenly, Grod's coolness, his posture of leadership, disintegrated.
     "We must have our mother back," he said, his voice obscured by
tears.  "We must.  I've got to take this chance.  For her sake.  I don't
care about you.  You're nothing but a hotshot pilot fallen out of the sky
and trying to take over where he's not wanted.  When have you
sky-screamers from the Galactica or from anywhere else in the Twelve
Colonies ever cared about us on Ursus Spelaeus?  Where was your fleet
when we transmitted signals for help?  Where were your precious warriors,
Lieutenant Starbuck?"
     "I'm afraid we were having a little mess of our own.  A mess created
by Cylon treachery, incidentally.  If you agree to any sort of pact with
them, it'll be just like the peace offer they made the Quorum of Twelve,
a peace offer that was merely a cover for an ambush of all our worlds."
     "I don't want to hear any more!" Grod turned to the strongest
children, Laughing Zoug and Gahan the Singer. "Bind him," he ordered.
     "Grod!" Ayla shouted.  "I don't think---"
     "That's an order!"
     Starbuck knew there was no point in resistance.  As Gahan the Singer
and Laughing Zoug lifted Starbuck off Bandit, the rondor reared and
pushed at the two large children.  He lunged between them, propelling
Starbuck toward the nearby forest.  Grod raised his gun and aimed it at
Bandit's head.
     "No, Grod!" Ayla shouted.
     Bandit looked at Ayla with the eye on the right side of his head. 
He scuffed the ground with his right forefoot and charged into Grod,
butting him with his head, knocking him to the ground.  Starbuck found
himself shouting, "Get away, get going, you can't help me now!"  There
was understanding in Bandit's dark eyes as he looked toward Starbuck, and
suddenly stampeded head first into the forest.  He was out of sight
before Grod, after rolling around clownishly on the ground, could
retrieve his rifle and fire.
     "Grod, if you'd killed Bandit, I'd have---"
     "Shut up, Ayla."  He shouted to Laughing Zoug and Gahan the Singer,
"Lash Starbuck to a tree."
     As Starbuck passed Ayla, cooperating with his two captors, Ayla
leaned down toward him and whispered:
     "I'm sorry.  I could've--"
     "Shush, Ayla.  I understand.  This trade may make some sense after
all, if you can trust your enemy.  I just doubt it."
     "So do I."
     Ayla's eyes were tearful.  Starbuck could not look at her anymore. 
He allowed himself to be taken to the tree, where Laughing Zoug and Gahan
the Singer, their fingers working defly, bound him in astonishingly tight
knots.

*****************************

Chapter Thirty-Four: Dracula's Second Report

     Lucifer's spirits might have risen a bit if he had known that
Starbuck was the Galactican pilot who had crashed on Ursus Spelaeus.  He
remembered Starbuck well, even a bit fondly---at least as fondly as an
ambulatory sentient computer was capable of.  It was, after all, not long
ago that Starbuck had been a prisoner on the Cylon base star.  The brash
young lieutenant, at ease among his enemies, taught Lucifer a popular
human game called pyramid.  Pyramid was basically a game of melding, of
forming unique combinations, and---above all---of bluffing.  Witty, even
unscientific, bluffing.  Starbuck said that, for most pyramid players
skill was the most important factor, except for the few who had been
blessed with the uniquely human ability that ranked above skill, an
ability they called luck.  Starbuck was one of the lucky ones, at least
he claimed to be, and he proved it more than once to Lucifer in their
sessions of playing pyramid.  Lucifer had filled the precise details of
all of these games in his memory banks and occasionally he reviewed them. 
Now he thought he had figured out a system that would counter Starbuck's
luck.  All Lucifer needed was the reappearance of Starbuck so he could
test out his theories to him.  He would've easily convinced himself to
alter course for Ursus Spelaeus if it meant that he could snatch Starbuck
for some rousing games of pyramid.
     Back in the days when Baltar was in charge here, he'd once suggested
that the two of them could engage in a round of pyramid.  Baltar had
sneered and said that games were for the unrational being.  Lucifer had
argued that, since logic played its part in pyramid, a large of
rationality did go into the game.  Baltar, sneering further, said that
rationality of such games was an empty one, futile moves toward a
meaningless goal.  Games were for children, Baltar said, then added with
one of his characteristically recent cybernetic advancement, perhaps he
could be considered a child.  Lucifer decided Baltar didn't deserve a
response and glided rapidly out of the man's sight.
     Lucifer glided into the command room.  Flight Leader Crox lounged in
the communications console chair.
     "Still no word from Ursus Spelaeus?" Lucifer asked.
     "You are becoming obsessive about Ursus Spelaeus, Lucifer.  One
might say that you could use a few sessions of what the humans call
therapy."
     "Therapy?"
     "A bit of analysis of your thinking and feelings---though I know
that feelings are meaningless to Cylons, even when we do have them.  A
bit of help to aid you in adjusting to your troubles, problems and
irrational leanings."
     "I am not subject to any of those things."
     "It is not necessary to get in a snit," Crox said.  "It is very
likely that Dracula will contact us when he has something to report."
     "It has been a long time since his least communication.  He should
have something by now.  Or else he feels his information will not be
received satisfactorily by a Cylon executive officer such as yourself,
Crox."
     "What are you implying, Lucifer?"
     "It has come to my attention," Lucifer said, "that Dracula is a
master at requisitioning materials.  He has supplies on Ursus Spelaeus
that no garrison that size would require except in the most extreme
situations.  He has managed, for example, to acquire more fuel than any
other garrison in the sector, and his is the smallest garrison in the
sector."
     "If you think you're distressing me, you're mistaken.  I'm even more
impressed with Dracula.  Obviously he's an efficient stockpiler, a
marvelous trait in a garrison commander."
     "But he also keeps ordering military hardware, laser rifles and
electron bombs."
     "So?"
     "He alleges that the colony on Ursus Spelaeus was completely
destroyed.  He has no reason for that much military hardware to defnd
what is essentially an out-of-the-way outpost."
     "This is astonishing, Lucifer.  Amassing circumstantial evidence to
cruelly demean the work of an efficient fellow officer."
     "It is important that---"
     "I do understand what you're saying, Lucifer.  You mean to imply
that, if his records are of such a questionable nature, that he is also
capable of submitting false reports to us."
     "He belongs to the same series as Spector.  Falsehoods are not
beyond Spector's programming, or Dracula's for that matter.  Yes, I would
say he is capable of falsifying his reports."
     "Lucifer, I do believe you are jealous."
     "That is not part of my programming."
     In fact, though, it was.  Lying was also a part of his programming.
     "If Dracula is as efficient as you say," Lucifer said, "then we
should have much more information about the captured Colonial warrior by
now."
     "That perhaps shows Dracula's meticulous efficiency.  He is not
ready to report prematurely anything that---wait, a signal is coming in
now.  From Ursus Spelaeus, Lucifer.  I am not surprised."
     Lucifer suppressed saying that he was.
     "Commander Dracula reporting, sir," said the image of Dracula as if
formed on the screen from dots into a reasonable facsimile of the
individual.
     "Ah, Dracula," Crox said.  "We have just been discussing your
abilities.  Do you now have the present coordinates of the Galactica?"
     Dracula hesitated a beat.
     "Well, not exactly."
     "Hmmm," Lucifer mumbled softly.
     "Explain," Crox demanded.
     "I'm afraid the Colonial warrior was seriously injured in the crash. 
We are attempting to repair his body in order to extract the required
information."
     Repair?  Lucifer thought.  Dracula talked of this pilot's injury as
if it were merely circuitry to be worked on and reconnected.  Humans were
not as easily fixed as computers or droids, after all.
     "Understood," Crox said.  "What is your estimate for the time the
repair process will take?"
     "Not long.  As soon as we can improve him physically, he should
respond to torture."
     That seemed peculiar to Lucifer.  First you "repair" the man, then
you wreck him again.  Sometimes he wondered if information was worth the
trouble one went to in order to get it.
     "The fate of the Colonial warrior is of little consequence to me,
Dracula," Crox said.  "But I'm counting on you to get the information
about the Galactica.  The sooner our hide-and-seek game with that
battlestar ends, the better."
     "I understand your needs sir, and let me say that it is a distinct
honor to serve the illustrious Flight Leader Crox."
     "It is?"
     "Sir, you are a legend to us."
     "Oh my," Lucifer muttered.  He had not realized that the earlier
series had ever been programmed for such obvious and overmannered
obsequiousness.  Obvious or not, it apparently worked. 
     "Thank you, Dracula."
     "I will report again soon, sir."
     "By all means."
     "By your command."
     And Dracula's image faded from the screen.
     "You see, Lucifer," Crox said, turning away from the console,
"Dracula has provided us with logical explanations."
     "Yes, I see," Lucifer said.  His doubts must have somehow
communicated themselves to Crox, for the Flight Leaders commented: 
"Lucifer, you'd be surprised to find out that this jealousy between our
Cylon classes is nothing compared to that among classes of humankind."

*****************************

     As Dracula switched off his transmitter, Hiltop appeared beside him,
as usual.
     "If I may say so, honored sir, I had not realized that such
deceptions were possible within the chain of command."
     "Oh, they are, Hiltop, they are.  In some ways, they are what keeps
the links in the chain solid."
     Hiltop seemed ready to express further doubt, but Dracula waved him
away.  He was feeling pretty proud of himself, proud of the way he was
turning an untenable situation to his advantage, proud of the way he was
clearly impressing Flight Leader Crox.  There was a place for him in
Cylon chain of command, he was positive, and its position could be
considerably higher than commander of a tiny garrison on an
out-of-the-way, edge-of-the-universe, bleak, ugly, miserable, damp,
beyond all rationality planet.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     Grod set several of the children to work binding together the raft. 
I could sense his eyes on me as I checked Starbuck's injured leg.  The
gash had just about healed, as I had expected, but I decided to keep the
leg bandaged and so rewrapped the rondor horn around it.
     "You needent worry about an infection," I said to my patient.  "I
applied the horn in time. Your leg looks almost healed."
     "Terrific," Starbuck muttered.  "I can walk with dignity to my
execution."
     I wanted to reach out and hold him to me, but Grod would interfere
if I showed Starbuck any affection.  Anyway, I knew he feared I might
untie the lieutenant and, to tell the truth, if I could have figured out
a way to untie him quickly, before Grod could respond, I would've done
it.  But the knots had been made by Gahan the Singer and Laughing Zoug. 
They were thick and secure.
     "Actually," Starbuck continued, "Cylons aren't exactly quick to
execute.  They like to see what little pains they can inflict on---"
     "Please don't," I said.  "Perhaps they won't..."
     "Kill me?  Ayla, you lived through their invasion, you've been
spying on them long enough.  You know what they do to people."
     "They haven't executed mother or the other prisoners."
     Starbuck sighed.  I felt like a child and briefly resented him for
making me feel that way.
     "Maybe not," he said.  "But, if that's so, they're saving their
lives for a reason.  To get information, to research the capacity of the
human body for pain, to---to make just such an exchange as this.  Don't
make the mistake of thinking they see us the way we see each other. 
We're just dumb animals to them, and it doesn't much matter whether they 
kill us or experiment on our bodies."
     "Then we'll attack them and get you back.  Or maybe we can trade
again for you."
     "You mean trade another human being for me?  No thanks.  I couldn't
live with that."
     "That's what mother said about this trade.  I was supposed to stop
it.  But Grod wouldn't listen.  I don't know how to help.  I just don't."
     "I do.  Keep talking."
     "Why?"
     "Just keep talking."
     Gradually, I perceived what was happening.  Bandit, blending in with
the forest's darkness, had returned.  He was standing just behind
Starbuck.  I don't know how Starbuck knew that.  He had not even glanced
back in the direction of the forest.  He must've picked up a thought from
Bandit.  I started talking rapidly about mother.
     "Iza says we have no right to trade in human beings.  Another
prisoner argued with her."
     Bandit pointed his horn toward Starbuck's bound wrists.
     "Keep talking, Ayla."
     "I don't---I can't think of---there's this picture in this
storeroom.  It's a rondor.  A woman on it.  It's beautiful, so beautiful
that I don't know how to describe it."
     Bandit worked at the knots on Starbuck's wrists, the sharp tip of
his curved horn slipping into the first knot-loop and laboriously
loosening it until, with a jerk of his head, he had untied it.  Shaking
his head, he started working on the next loop and unknotted it faster.  I
babbled on about the picture, not even sure of what I was saying.  I
nearly shrieked as Bandit freed the last strands of rope from Starbuck's
wrists.
     Starbuck kept his wrists together, but began to work his way
sideways around the tree.  He slowly brought his legs under him in a
crouch, ready to stand and spring onto Bandit's back.
     Just then Grod screamed with rage.
     The other children, alerted, raced to us.  Starbuck started to make
a leap toward Bandit, but Laughing Zoug managed to get in his way, and
successfully block him.  Starbuck nudged Zoug a bit, but the other
children were all over him, pushing him to the ground, holding him down,
pygmies using their weight collectively to keep the giant from moving. 
Bandit tried to interfere and pushed at Zoug, who wisely let himself be
edged forward.
     Grod shot his rifle.  Its beam came close to Bandit's head.  Bandit
whirled and immediately vanished into the black forest.  I almost grabbed
Zoug's pistol from its holster to shoot Grod.  That time I think Grod
really had meant to kill Bandit.
     Grod told Zoug and Gahan not to bother with retying Starbuck to the
tree.  He had them replace the younger children in holding Starbuck down
on the ground, then he strode to the river bank, checked the raft by
pulling at its leather bindings, then setting it afloat to see how it set
in the water.  Satisfied, he returned.
     "The raft is ready.  It will soon be time."
     "The trade won't work, Grod," Starbuck said, his voice a little
breathless since Zoug was sitting atop his chest.
     "You underestimate me, pilot.  That's been your problem all along. 
It's why I was able to trick you.  I've planned this trade rather well. 
The tincans will put mother in a boat and launch her toward us.  We'll
simultaneously launch you toward them.  Neither side can take advantage
of the other, you see that?"
     "I'll take all the action and any side bets you want to make that
there's a catch in this somewhere."
     "He's right, Groud," I said.  "That's what mother said about this
being a mistake."
     "Don't you drag mother into this!  We need her back."
     "You need her back."
     "And I suppose you don't?  You've gotten hard, sister."
     "Of course I want her back but not this way."
     Grod's eyes turned icy.
     "It's a necessary tactical move," he said.
     "Necessary tactical move?  You've totally lost your mind with all
this military felgercarb.  We're talking about human beings here, not
tactics. We're talking about trading Starbuck-"
     "For our mother!  Ayla, I know what I'm doing."  A whine had come
into his voice.  "Haven't I led well since the invasion?"
     "Yes, but we're not an army!  Look around you.  These aren't
warriors.  They're just children. Go on, look!"
     For a moment my words got to him.  He glanced toward the stream
where the younger children were anchoring the ragt, some of their
movements in the water playful.  He looked over at the older children,
who held their various weapons at the ready.  He looked back at Zoug and
Gahan holding Starbuck down on the ground.
     "Yes, they are children.  Children who need their mother back."
     "Grod," Starbuck said.  "This might surprise you, but I do agree
with you.  I can see that you all do need Iza, plus any of the other
parents of these children who are still alive.  But---"
     "Grod!  Ayla!  Children!" interrupted the voice of Iza from across
the river.  The tincans had lit a small fire and brought her next to it,
so we could see her.  She was dressed in a fresh blue blouse, creased
darker blue slacks and shiny black boots.  There was a bright yellow
scarf around her head, undoubtedly chosen by Dracula to conceal her
thinning hair from us.
     "Mother!" I cried, unable to help it.
     The other children cheered, Grod looked prouder than ever.  He
stared down at Starbuck and said, "I'm sorry, but I have no choice."
     "If you'll just listen to me...."
     "It's past time for listening.  I won't hear a word you say,
lieutenant."
     Surprisingly, there was pain in Grod's face as he turned away from
Starbuck.  He hadn't always been like this, and I think he knew it
wasn't' in his nature.  Still, he was a strong commander---maybe too
strong--and never avoided a hard decision.  He raised his horn and blew
three short blasts.
     The signal to exchange.
     I wanted to run, follow Bandit into the darkness of the forest, lose
myself there, never come out.  At the same time, I wanted desperately for
the boat to cross the river and hold Iza close to me again.
     Heal her wounds.
     Have her heal mine.

*****************************

Chapter Thirty-Five: Dracula's Trap

     Iza cursed herself for calling the children's names first.  She
meant to say more, to shout to Grod to give up this misguided idea, but a
Cylon grabbed her by the arm, pulled her out of the firelight and clamped
a metal hand over her mouth.
     She watched Dracula glide toward the fire and consult with a
centurion.  Across the river, Grod blew his horn three times.
     "That's the signal," Dracula said.  "We can commence the exchange."
     He tilted his head toward Iza.
     "Take the woman away!"
     Take me away? Iza thought. I was right all along; Dracula had never
intended to go through with the exchange.  He was tricking Grod in order
to obtain the Colonial warrior.  The damned rust-box!  Desperately she
began searching her brain for a way to warn the children, but, silencing
her with his hand, the guard maneuvered her away.  She could no longer
see the outlines of Grod, Ayla, or the other children across the river.
     She was placed roughly against a tree, gagged, then forced to sit.
Irrationally, she noticed how crisp and fresh her new garments felt and
she wondered if they would allow her to wear the clothes back in her
cell.  But did it really matter?  They would only become dirty and gray
instantly.
     Maybe they would kill her, execute her and the captured pilot
together.  That might be all right, if only she could die in fresh
clothes.

*****************************

     Dracula's voice was mechanically professorial as he instructed his
aide on the art of being devious.
     "Observe, Hiltop.  We have removed the prisoner Iza from the
immediate area."
     "Yes, honored sir.  I did notice that."
     "Good.  However, that still leaves the problem of the exchange. 
What do you suppose we're going to do about that?"
     Hiltop said nothing for a micron.  A couple of tricky whirring
sounds, emanating from somewhere inside his aide, disturbed Dracula. 
This was not a good sign, as it was often a prelude to major circuitry
dysfunction.
     "Do we default, sir, then attack the enemy in a widespread assault?
     Dracula liked Hiltop's response.  It showed the aide could at least
think strategically.
     "No, Hiltop, but not bad. While you were busy earlier, mustering the
patrol in the courtyard, I did a little construct job.  I made a copy of
Iza in my laboratory."
     At a gesture from Dracula, a centurion unwrapped what was
essentially a doll-version of Iza, life-size.  For a hasty makeshift
rendering, the likeness was remarkably accurate.  A craftsmanlike job
indeed, Dracula thought.  The expression on its plastic face was gaunt
and disturbed.  Its clothing duplicated the new garments given the real
Iza to wear for the occasion.
     "A very impressive duplication, honored sir," Hiltop said.  "I had
not realized such a model was possible."
     Dracula leaned toward Hiltop.  A strain of amusement came into his
voice.
     "I can build anything, Hiltop.  We I-L Cylons are experts at
cybernetic mechanics.  It's programmed into us.  Don't forget, I built
you, Hiltop."
     "Oh yes, sir.  I would assume that, however, this copy is not, like
me, animate."
     "No it isn't.  Put scientifically, Hiltop, you are not exactly
animate yourself.  However, I did not need to give the doll circuits for
thinking or speaking.  It's just a shell, merely a hollow replication."
     "I am continually impressed, sir, by the methods with which you
utilize our supplies of materials to accomplish the most astonishing
effects."
     Dracula stared a long time at Hiltop, the red lights of his eyes
almost at a standstill.
     "What?" he said.  "Did I program flattery into your model?"
     "No, but I am quite sincere, sir."
     "Of course you are.  Yes, of course you are.  Anyway, place the
replication in the boat and launch it."
     "By your command."
     Mist had collected quickly on the surface of the dark river.  Wisps
of it rose like gray flames.  The centurions lifted the replication of
Iza onto the boat and, at Dracula's command, pushed it into the water. 
It floated slowly toward the opposite shore.
     "We've kept our part of the bargain," Dracula shouted to the
children.  "Our boat is heading your way.  Now, where is the Colonial
warrior?"
     There was a short pause, a loud splash, and a call from Grod:
     "The bargain is complete.  Here's your pilot, tincan!"
     In the misty darkness, the passing of the two craft was barely
visible.  Dracula was pleased to see the bent-shouldered outline of the
Galactican pilot tied to a raft.  He was already planning his next
transmission to Flight Leader Crox.  This time, Lucifer would squirm. 
That is, if he had been programmed for that response.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     We had not seen Iza since her too-brief appearance in the firelight. 
The children grew steadily restless, milled about the river bank like
predators without prey.  The dark night was like a blanket thrown hastily
over us.  But why?  Was it to smother us or to shield us from truth. 
After Grod blew the signal on his horn, all we could hear from the other
side of the river were the common mysterious Cylon clanking sounds.
     Grod raised his left hand, a signal for Laughing Zoug and Gahan the
Singer to bring our captive foreward.  My own eyes misting over with
tears, I stared into Starbuck's eyes.  They were cool and resigned.  He
showed no fright, no grimness, not even any anger at us for decieiving
him and using him as a pawn in a power game.  And he must've seen the
power game as precisely that: a children's game played with plastic
pieces on a cardboard slab.  If I had had the strength, I might've
grabbed Starbuck away from his guards, and run with him into the forest. 
He was clever, a warrior who knew strategy; he could've devised a plan to
rescue mother without this kind of human sacrifice.  And I realized
suddenly that was what this act was.  A human sacrifice.  An offering of
a life to our invader-gods in order to have our prayer answer.  It was
hideous for us to have reverted to this primitive state in so short a
time.  We had come to Ursus Spelaeus as a group of worldly-wise
intellectual rebels with firm ideas for sensible progress, and we had
regressed to a shabby outlaw band of children eager to sacrifice a man. 
Why didn't we just throw him alive onto a burning pyre and dance to these
evil metal gods?
     At last the return signal came.  The wretched voice of Dracula came
to us from across the river.  I could've sworn that the dampness of the
air added an undertone of static to its already wavery sound.  He
announced that he was launching the boat holding mother.  Grod answered
that we were keeping our part of the bargain, and he gestured to Zoug and
Gahan to place Starbuck onto our makeshift raft.  Starbuck stepped onto
the raft without a pause, confidently, as if he were in complete control
of the situation.  Mog-ur appeared suddenly from behind Zoug's large body
and took a couple of steps toward the raft.  She seemed determined to
accompany Starbuck on the crossing, but Grod, seizing her by the
shoulders, held her back.  The Sprite idly shuffled a pack of cards.  I
suddenly realized that they were Starbuck's cards.  I'd seen them earlier
in his flight-jacket shoulder pocket.  Uthia stood by our fire and made
odd gestures in the light of the flames, a delicate dance with her hands,
her thin flexible fingers.  The twins, Brun and Goov, hold each other,
managing to look hopeful and terrified simultaneously.
     Quickly, Zoug and Gahan secured Starbuck to the raft and, at Groud's
command, pushed it outward.  The mists rising from the water looked to me
like bars already imprisoning Starbuck.  He didn't look back.  He became
a shape, a dark outline, drifting away from us.  In the middle of the
river, another dark outline appeared and, for a moment, it looked as if
the two boats were on a collision course, or link up and start on a new
course downstream together.  After they'd passed, Starbuck called back:
     "Ayla!  Your mother was right.  They've---"
     But the rest of what he'd said was lost as the tincans started
making strange noises among themselves, talking together as if commanded
to.  Brun, Goov and Ona waded out in the water, shouting:
     "It's mother!  It's mother!"
     Grod sent me a very haughty look.  For the moment, he was
inordinately proud of himself.  I ignored him and stared out at the
river.  First I saw that the clothes on the raft figure were the same new
garments I had seen on Iza in the firelight.  Then I recognized Iza's
face---or what I thought was Iza's face.  Yet there was an emptiness
about it.  A blank stare, an unmoving mouth.  Good Kobol! I thought,
they've killed her first.  That's the catch to their deal.  They'd sent
us our mother, but killed her first.  I looked at Grod.  Some of the
pride had vanished from his eyes.  He seemed to be seeing the same thing
I was.  This was our mother and she looked lifeless.  I wanted to scream
and so, I suspect, did Grod.
     Grod rushed out to the water, his legs churning up gigantic
splashes.  He joined Brun, Goov and Ona, and all four of them pulled with
all their combined might at the raft, brining it shoreward.  Grod
splashed around to the rear of the boat, and with a powerful shove,
pushed it up on land.
     "Mother," I cried, "we're---"
     Then I saw the truth.  I wasn't Iza, wasn't even the corpse of Iza. 
It was a duplicate, a replication, a clever reproduction of our mother
meant to deceive us.  Starbuck and Iza were right.  I was right.  Dracula
had no intention of keeping Grod's bargain.  This was the Cylon style of
trade---one living human being for a mockup copy.  It was akin to the
bogus peace offer Starbuck had described to me, when the Cylons had
tempted the human side with peace while they were actually setting up the
immense destruction of not only the fleet but all of the twelve colonial
worlds.
     "Oh, Grod," I said.  He looked stunned, like a child who'd just been
cheated in a war game, whose pieces had just been knocked off the table
by his opponent.  He looked ready to cry.  My words to him, which were
intended sympathetically, were taken by him as a rebuke.
     "Don't talk to me, sister," he muttered.  "Don't even look at me."
     I wanted to hold him, soothe him with words or a song, minister to
his sorrow.  But I, the healer, was powerless to do anything.  All I
could do was stand there and do what he said.  I didn't speak to him or
look at him.
     Then a thought forced its way into my head--no, not really a
thought, more a feeling.  Don't despair.  Then the thought became
clearer, forming into words.  The Two Legs with the light hair is just
reaching the other side.  He is not yet in the tincans' prison.  It will
take them time to move.  I can save him.
     Then I realized where the thought was coming from.
     Bandit.
     He was back there in the darkness, calling to me.
     The thoughts ceased.  I knew he'd gone to help.  I would follow,
help him if I could.
     Edging backwards silently, I summond Old Plutonium, told him to wait
for me at the edge of the forest.  Mounting him quickly, I urged him into
the forest.  As we cleared the border of trees, I sneaked one look back. 
Grod was standing as before, staring at the reproduction of Iza.  Just
then, he knelt down and picked it up, held it to him, began to cry. 
That's the last I saw of him as the darkness of the forest enveloped me.

*****************************

Chapter Thirty-Six: Bandit Rescues Starbuck

     Even through the thick mist, Starbuck could see that the figure on
the other raft was not real.  He tried to shout the truth back to Ayla,
but a sudden, obviously calculated explosion of noise from the Cylons'
riverside drowned him out.  He strained at his bonds but the two strong
boys had tied him up too efficiently.  Not only was he tightly bound, but
he was also secured to the raft so he couldn't tip it over.
     All he could do was lazily float toward the opposite bank.  The
shapes standing there became gradually distinct.  First he saw a pair of
red lights directed right at him, but these light's did not belong to a
typical Cylon.  This one was bulb-headed, phantomlike.  In fact, he
resembled Lucifer, the walking computer Starbuck had encountered, and
rather liked, aboard Baltar's base ship.  This one was clearly a more
primitive model, not fitted with all the doohickeys and gizmos that had
adorned Lucifer.  Other Cylons gathered around this figure, apparently
awaiting his orders.  Was he their commander?  Their deference certainly
suggested that he was.
     They allowed the raft to hit the bank before even reaching for
Starbuck.  They were oddly delicate about shoring the raft, as if they
didn't care to pollute their metal bodies with swamp water.  He had never
known Cylons to be so fussy before.  This group, in fact, did not even
move like Cylons he 'd seen.  If anything, their movements were more
graceful, more supple, than the normal Cylon.  Clumsy, yes, but their
awkwardness seemed to have a dramatic flair all its own.
     As soon as they had freed him from the raft, keeping his hands tied
behind him, they forced him to stand up and step to shore.  They pushed
him toward their leader, who glided up to Starbuck in much the same
manner Lucifer had so many sectans ago.  The leader made a signal for the
guards to halt, then said to the prisoner: "Salutations and greetings to
you, my friend.  I have not before met a colonial warrior face to face." 
     "Pleased to meet you too."
     "How gracious of you."
     "How sarcastic of me."
     "I appreciate sarcasm and irony.  Delightful human traits, I think. 
I am Dracula."  Dracula waited for Starbuck to respond, but instead the
human focused on the leader's moving eyes.  "What is your name, pilot?"
     "That's for me to know, and for you to find out."
     "But you're from the Battlestar Galactica.  I can see that from your
insignia."
     "This moth-eaten patch?  I won it in a card game.  No, really.  I'm
from a sanitation vessel called The Pooper Scooper.
     "Ah, a human joke.  I enjoy those too, even when they're difficult
to understand."
     "Good.  I'll drag out my worst material for you."
     "Oh do, do.  Take him away, centurions."
     His guards hit his shoulders roughtly and he was again shoved
forward, away from the river.  From the other side of the water, he heard
disappointed groans.  The children must by now have realized that the Iza
delivered on the Cylon boat was a phony.  Poor kids, they'd learned a
very scary lesson in deceit.  Too bad it was going to cost Starbuck his
life.
     His guards led him up to Iza, who sat dazedly beneath a tree.  She
looked up at Starbuck with blank eyes.  Her mouth was covered by a gag. 
A centurion forced her to her feet and the removed the gag.  She could
just barely walk and Starbuck put his arm around her to hold her up.  She
was thin and light.  The weightlessness of her body was suitable with the
bony look of her face.  Still, one could see the beauty of Ayla in Iza,
despite her prisoner's pallor and the ravages of illness.  Iza seemed to
want to talk desperately, but was unable to work her mouth.
     "Don't you guys have any land vehicles?" Starbuck said to the
nearest guard.  "Don't you even have a rondor-drawn wagon, for Sagan's
sake?  This woman's been through enough, she doesn't have to be forced to
walk like---"
     "Silence, human," the guard said.  There will be a land transport
when we reach the road."
     "Thanks for trying," Iza whispered, her voice scratchy and weak. 
"But---I think I can make it."
     "Are you sure?"
     "They've been pushing and shoving me around for some time now.  I'm
still moving on my own, aren't I?  I will admit, just barely though."
     "I can see where your daughter gets her courage."
     Iza smiled.  Her teeth were yellowed and coated.  She tried to say
more, but again her voice failed her.
     They reached the "land transport;" a crude, three-wheeled
contraption that pulled a rickety small cart.  Starbuck and Iza were
pushed to the floor of the cart, onto a thin layer of straw.
     "They believe in luxury, I see," Starbuck said.
     Iza nodded.
     "Nothing but the best for their prisoners," she managed to whisper.
     She lay back and immediately fell asleep.  She's so thin, Starbuck
thought.  She looks ready to waste away at any moment.  No wonder there
was such urgency on Grod's part to save her.  He must've sensed that they
had to rescue her soon.
     She came awake suddenly, after they had ridden quite a distance. 
Her eyes were less yellow in the corners, and a spot of color had
appeared in each cheek.  The color was not the proper red of healthiness,
but at least it was color.
     "I feel better," she said, her voice stronger.  "I have periods of
health, it sseems.  I'm sorry, warrior, that you were caught in this
trap.  Grod meant well, I'm sure, but---"
     "It's okay.  My name's Starbuck, Iza.  You don't have to call me
warrior."
     "I'll try not to.  But in a way, you're as much my enemy as Dracula
and his Cylons.  We fled Scorpia in the first place because of warlike
humans."
     "Lady, I'm the last person to be warlike.  At least not in the way
you mean.  I fight the battles, yeah, but that's not the same as being
warlike."
     "I fail to see the difference."
     "Warlike people love war.  I don't.  Where I come from we're all
sick of war; maybe the warriors even more than the rest.  We've been
fighting all our lives for our lives.  The art of war has no attraction
to us.  Did I say art?  Naw, it's not art; it's a job and a pretty
miserable but highly necessary one at that."
     "Where do you come from?"
     "The Battlestar Galactica."
     "I've heard of that ship.  It had a great reputation, according to
what news got through to our colony of the war.  Its commander is much
admired, I believe."
     "Yes.  Commander Adama.  He still speaks of peace with a twinkle in
his eye.  He expects to find it on a planet called Earth."
     Iza appeared impressed.  She leaned closer to Starbuck.
     "Isn't Earth just a legend?  Like Jackpot, Lancelot and all those
other utopian planets?"
     "It's not just a legend to Adama.  He claims he has the proof.  Some
words he read on the wall of an ancient tomb before Cylon bombs destroyed
it.  I don't know what he read, but whatever it was, it's given him great
faith that we'll find Earth, and I have faith in him."
     "Such loyalty.  Characteristic of the military spirit."
     "Slipping into dogma comes naturally for you, Iza."
     "Forgive me.  I didn't mean that it wasn't an admirable trait, only
a characteristic one.  You were just talking of faith yourself.  I
suppose we each respond to our own dogma."
     "I suppose so."
     Iza's eyes cleared for a moment, becoming youthful, less fatigued.
     "Do you think we failed here on Ursus Spelaeus?"
     "I really don't know enough about it to---"
     "We did fail.  But not because we were against war or even because
the Cylons invaded us.  The threat of evil coming from the outside was
always real, always possible.  But the work inside the colony was
worthwile and, even at it sworst, productive.  We were beginning to find
our way back to the old ideas, those that had gotten us kicked off
Scorpia to begin with.  We can do it again.  That's what colonies like
ours are all about, really---striving, trying to get a sense of something
more than living out one's life in tedious quests.  Or in war.  Would you
like to bite my head off now?"
     Iza could not tell what Starbuck was thinking, especially since he
smiled through her attack on him.
     "I'm not against you," he said.  "I admire what you people tried to
do here.  It may surprise you to know wthat there's a part of me that'd
probably enjoy living and working in a useful society like yours.  But
then---that goes against my programming."
     "I don't appreciate the way you put that, Starbuck.  Programming is
for machines, not humans."
     "I'm not and I am.  We all are, in a sense.  We're all presented
with various programs at various times of our lives.  Sometimes we accept
them, sometimes we kick them back, sometimes we just go along without an
conscious decision.  Look, I was brought up in a less warlike society
than Scorpia's.  Caprica was---"
     "They were all warlike, all the Twelve Colonies."
     Starbuck shrugged.
     "From your vantage point it must seem that way.  But there were
differences.  If I had been born on Scorpia, perhaps I'd be the fiercest
fighter in the fleet and not entertain occasional doubts, not wish for my
peaceful home back on Caprica to be restored.  But, see, my programming's
for war and I've accepted that.  I'd like to get out sometime and get a
better scam, but---"
     "But what?"
     "I don't know.  It's a....problem I haven't been able to resolve. 
Maybe I'll never resolve it."
     "My namesake was born on Scorpia and she didn't become a fierce
fighter."
     "Didn't she?  Didn't you?"
     Iza looked at him, puzzled, then got his point.  She laughed.
     "I suppose you're right.  In my own way, I've fought pretty fierce
battles here, even before the Cylons came.  Maybe it's just a question of
rechanneling resources."
     "Or of reprogramming."
     "Whatever you want to call it, warrior."
     "See, you even use the word warrior as a weapon.  Fierce.  I think,
if we can get you out of this jam, you can really make a go of your
colony.  At least if you take charge, Iza.  You can do it.  I know that,
feel that. 
     She smiled.
     "Now you, the warrior, are encouraging me to return to my peaceful
ways."
     "Please do."
     "Would you stay with us, help us to restore the colony?"
     A wistful look clouded Starbuck's eyes.
     "I wish I could.  I really do. But I've got problems of my own I
have to resolve. And I have to go on with my own quest, if you will."
     "To rejoin your ship, solve your problems and search for this
mythical Earth?"
     He nodded.
     "In a way, yeah.  We've got to keep going, searching.  We even have
to keep fighting the Cylons.  You only have a taste o their evil here. 
But I have a feeling..."
     "Yes?"
     "I just can't see myself making it to Earth.  Maybe others will make
it, but I just think that a lot of us will merely keep the quest goin,
while others---descendants perhaps---willl be the discoverers."
     "Perhaps you're just depressed.  A kind of battle fatigue.  Or
nonbattle fatigue. Stuck here, away from your ship and all."
     "Yeah, maybe."
     They rode on in silence for a long while.  Behind them the Cylon
guards walked, their pace rapid even through the treacherous terrain.
     "They just don't look right," Starbuck said.
     "What?  I'm afraid I don't understand."
     "These Cylons.  The outfits are right, the red lights move right,
but there's something different.  They move more easily, more---"
     "That's Dracula's doing."
     "Their commander."
     'Yes.  He's a cybernetics expert, proficient at making other models
more or less in the same model series from which he originates.  He makes
them less clever, of course, and programs an absolute obedience into---"
     "Wait!" Starbuck interrupted, recalling the Cylon in the forest that
he thought was just an abandoned uniform.  It had been so weightless. 
"You're saying that some of these Cylons are not the real thing?  That
they're not genuine aliens at all, but cybernetic devices?"
     Iza nodded.
     "I'm beginning to suspect that none of them came from the original
landing party," she said.  "When they came, Cylons were more susceptible
to the wretched diseases of this planet than ever our colony was.  I
can't be sure, but I think they've all died off, and Dracula has built
these fake Cylon centurions to take their place."
     "But why?"
     "I can't be sure.  Perhaps he realizes that reinforcements would
just contract the planet's diseases and die just as quickly as the
originals.  Perhaps he prefers an army over which he has absolute control
without worrying about his position being  usurped by a real Cylon who
outranks him.  He wasn't the first leader here, you know.  Whatever the
reason, they all serve the same purpose for him.  He maintains his power,
his position as commander is not threatened, and nobody transfers him
away from a post where he enjoys the kind of power that a cybernetic
creation rarely achieves.  But all tlhese are just suppositions.  He
doesn't choose to confide in me.  Just never trust Dracula, that's all I
can say for sure.  He's worse than a killer soldier, he's a power-hungry
bureaucrat."
     "This place gets crazier all the---"
     Starbuck was interrupted by a sudden movement among the marching
Cylon guards, followed by a shout from Dracula who was sitting at the
front of the three-wheeled vehicle pulling the wagon.
     "What's wrong back there?"
     As if in response, three Cylons fell over.  Trampling them, mashing
them into scrap metal, was Bandit, his black hide darker than the night
itself.
     While watching the rondor's act of aggression against the Cylons,
Starbuck received a thought from him:
     Swing onto my back as I race by the wagon!
     "Get to your feet, Iza," Starbuck whispered.
     "Why?"
     "Never mind.  Just get up!"
     Bandit had disappeared into the darkness on the opposite side of the
road.
     Another thought: I'm about to make my run now.
     Wait for Iza, Starbuck returned.  Take both of us.
     No time. Save her later.  Here I come!
     Iza almost got to her feet then a lurch of the wagon sent her
falling backward against the wagonside.  Dracula shouted orders to his
troops, telling the ones on the ground to get up, telling those still
standing to prepare for another attack.
     Bandit appeared near the wagon.  As soon as he saw the rondor,
Starbuck started his leap over the side.  It was perfectly timed.  He
came down on Bandit's back just as the animal passed the wagon.  Starbuck
nearly slid backward and off the unicorn but managed to hold on for dear
life.
     "We'll be back for you, Iza!  Starbuck yelled as Bandit bounded back
into the forest's darkness.  Starbuck heard the shrilly mechanical voice
of Dracula fading as they trotted away.
     We must go back and save Iza, he thought.
     No.
     Please.
     Pause, then: All right, one try.  Only one try.
     Bandit swung around without breaking pace and headed back toward the
road, where the sounds of turmoil were just beginning to subside.  Iza
still clung to the side of the wagon, looking outward.  As they halted
near the edge of the trees, Starbuck thought:
     She's very light, almost weightless.  You stop next to her side of
the wagon, I'll lift her out.
     It won't work.
     We'll try.
     All right, the one try and the one try  only.
     Timing his jump perfectly, Bandit was out on the road again, just
behind the patrol.  He stampeded right through the patrol, scattering
Cylons left and right, most of them plunging to the ground.
     "Iza!" Starbuck shouted.  "Reach for me!"
     She held out her arms as Bandit came to an abrupt stop.  Putting his
arm around her shoulders, Starbuck half-lifted Iza out of the wagon. 
Dracula shouted an order to shoot.
     "Use your feet, Iza, scramble over the side," Starbuck cried.
     "I can't.  I'm too weak.  I---"
     The Cylons started firing.  A shot hit Iza immediately, and Starbuck
felt her go limp in his arms.  He almost lifted her all the way out, but
her clothing had caught on a metal outcropping on the inside of the
wagon.
     Let her go, Bandit thought.  We can't stay like this.
     But I---
     LET HER GO!
     Starbuck released his hold, and Iza fell back unconscious into the
wagon.  Bandit immediately started to trot away, and they were quickly
surrounded by darkness agin, although this time the night was interrupted
by lines of light from Cylon rifles.
     They were out of range quickly.
     Are you all right, Bandit? Starbuck thought and, in response, he
received waves of feeling from the animal, informing him that everything
was okay except for a couple of grazing wounds on his tough hide.
     I may have killed her.  I may have killed Iza just for a fool act
of---
     No, she's alive.  I can sense her life force.  She is hurt but she
is alive.
     Thank the Lords.  We must try again to rescue her.  We must---
     No, Two Legs.  My promise was for one time only.
     Are promises that important to you?
     Promises are everything to me.
     There's something magical about you, Bandit, even if you are kinda
ugly.
     Starbuck received warm waves of pleasure from the rondor.

*****************************

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Bad Animal

     If he had closed his eyes, Starbuck wouldn't have known he and
Bandit were racing furiously through a tangled forest.  Bandit was
surefooted and he avoided obstacles effortlessly.  He seemed to pick out
his route by a kind of internal radar, never stumbling, hardly even
brushing a leaf when he hurtled through a narrow space between trees.
     Starbuck could not get his last view of Iza out of his mind.  He
regretted that he had almost caused her to die as a result of his
blunder, his botched less-than-heroic attempt at a rescue.  He hoped
Bandit had received his sensory impression correctly, hope that she was
all right.
     Bandit: Of course she's all right.
     She might be all right now, but her condition was definitely weak. 
Even if the Cylon shot had only grazed her, it would be just another
contribution to her deteriorating state.  There was no question about it:
she had to be rescued and soon.  He could no longer wait for the
Galactica's search part to show up and help him storm the fortress.  For
that matter, what guarantee did he have they would ever show up? 
Something might have happened to Boomer.  Starbuck didn't like the idea
much, but he had to admit to himself it was possible.  His comrade
could've encountered more enemy ships and not even reached the home base. 
Even if he had, the situation aboard the Galactica---with the subsided
yet continuing threat of Cylon's breaking through the fleet's erratic
defensive force field, or a destructive malfunction on any of the fleet's
ships, or any other disaster---might prevent the Galactica form sending a
rescue party.  Sire Farnum might even talk the commander into deeming
Starbuck expendable, dispatch no rescue ships.  Anything could happen.
And starbuck didn't have time to waste on wating for an official rescue.
     He could not attack the fortress alone---Dracula and his robotized
Cylons were too numerous, the garrison close to impregnable.  That left
him with an unpalatable but practical course of action.  He could use the
children.  He would have to ally with Grod, who had, after all, stabbed
him in the back, deceived him, and delivered him as a gift package,
wrapped, to the enemy.  He didn't like enlisting the aid of children, but
it seemed the best and most feasible plan.  Grod's braggadocio might be a
handicap, but he was a brave young man, and he did want Iza rescued, so
he might just cooperate.  He just might---
     Bandit came to an abrupt halt, almost heaving Starbuck over his
head.
     What is it?
     Bad animal is near, sensing us.  Very near.  Stand on my back.
     What?
     Stand on my back.  Pull yourself onto the large limb.  Now! 
     Starbuck obeyed Bandit quicker than he had ever obeyed an order from
a superior on the Galactica.  He pulled himself up to the branch, hung
there for a micron, then worked his way around to the topside of the
branch.  The branch firmly held his weight.  Beneath him, Bandit braced
tensely, pointing his horn, his large human-like eyes searching the
perimeter of the small clearing ahead for a clue to the whereabouts of
the beast of prey.
     He is on the other side.  Watching.  Watching me.  He is ready to
spring.  
     Bandit was right.  From out of the darkness, with a leap that seemed
impossible for such a massive and heavy animal, a dragon-like
nectospondylus, with green scales and vacant purple eyes, sailed through
the air across the clearing.  Bandit lowered his head and rushed toward
his attacker.  Clearly, he intended to gore the nectospondylus to death
with his orn, but he just missed.  The nectospondylus landed on the
ground in front of Bandit and immediately lunged for the rondor's throat. 
Starbuck's stomach churned as he saw a small bloody chunk of Bandit's
hide come away in the nectosponylus's hideous mouth.  Bandit twisted
away, trotted sideways as if looking for an escape, then suddenly whirled
on the nectospondylus and came at the green-scaled monster from the side. 
Bandit's horn cut a rip in the nectospondylus' flank that virtually tore
the animal open from neck to tail.  In a frenzied leap, the
nectospondylus tore again at Bandit's throat.  This time, its horrible
fangs went deeper and it was able to hold on, cling to the rondor's body. 
Bandit rose on his hind legs, attempting to throw the nectospondylus off. 
Instead, the huge reptile hung on, bouncing against Bandit's hide like an
ugly bloody necklace. As Bandit came down, the nectospondylus finally
released its grip, landed on its feet, and staggered backwards, toward
the dark forest from which he'd materialized.  Intending to find a warm
place and die there, it appeared.  But Bandit wanted the beast to die now
and he lowered his horn, blood still streaming from his throat, and
charged right at the nectospondylus.  With the last of its strength, the
nectospondylus fell sideways, out of the rondor's path.  Bandit couldn't
stop---he kept charging forward.  He collided with a tree at the forest
periphery, and his horn stuck there, deep in the bark.  He tried to pull
it out, struggling backwards furiously, but his wounds had drained the
strength from his body and his strenuous efforst to remove the horn
failed.
     "Bandit!" Starbuck called out loud.
     The telepathic impression he received in response was faint,
muddled.  IT had something to do with dying, but Starbuck couldn't
understand it.
     Then, his enormous body slumping, his horn still imbedded in the
tree bark, Bandit died.  The flow of telepathic images in Starbuck's mind
ended abruptly.
     Starbuck, helpless, stuck on a tree branch, feeling that he had now
failed twice in a row, yelled a long howl that resembled more the sound
of an animal than a man.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     After searching for Starbuck or Bandit for a long while, I finally
heard the faraway noises of animals fighting.  A moment later, as I rode
toward the ferocious sounds, I picked up a thought from Bandit.  Not so
much a thought as a surge of agony, a brief flash of pain, the awareness
of death coming, then an abrupt end to the whole telepathic impression. 
After a micron of silence, with even the birds falling silent, there was
a long pained howl, a man's howl.  I became frightened that the predator,
having disposed of Bandit, was now attacking Starbuck.  Get there, I
thought to Old Plutonium.  Fast!  Old Plutonium virtually flew through
the forest ahead of us.
     As I came into the clearing, I saw first the corpse of the
nectospondylus.  Its side had been ripped open, in a neat, almost
surgical, gash.  Then the odor of blood showed me where Bandit was,
hanging limp from the point where his horn had become imbedded in a tree. 
Aside from the bleeding wounds in his neck, Bandit appeared peaceful.
     I circled the clearing, looking for a sign of Starbuck.  I was so
afraid that I'd find his corpse too.  When I didn't see him anywhere, I
thought that maybe he'd fled.  I looked for a trail, but the only
track-signs I could find were the ones that showed Bandit coming to the
clearing.
     "Ayla."
     Starbuck's voice.  I looked around again, still unable to see him.
     "Up here."
     I followed the sound of his voice.  Starbuck was sitting on a thick
branch, most of his body obscured by its bushy leaves.  His head seemed
to float above me, bodiless.  Then he jumped off the branch, landing
beside Old Plutonium.  His eyes were saddened.  He glanced toward
Bandit's body.
     "There wasn't anything I could do.  He planted me up there, ordered
me onto that branch, left me helpless."
     "Probably because he wanted to protect you."
     "All I did was watch, all I--"
     "You're right.  There's nothing you could've done.  He had to battle
his natural enemy.  This nectospondylus must've been fierce.  Bandit's
already killed many of them."
     "Yeah, I suppose this is all natural to you.  Animals and predators. 
I just, well, never cared much for a particular animal before.  I wasn't
much for---"
     "I understand, Starbuck.  I'm sad too.  I loved Bandit.  Sometimes
he sent thoughts to me.  I was glad when he chose you.  And this isn't
natural for me.  Never."
     I rode over to Bandit and, taking out my knife, began cutting off
his horn at the base.
     "What are you doing?" Starbuck cried, running to me, shocked.
     "The horn emits curative radiations.  We will need them.  The
radiation from the rondor horn that's healing your leg is natural.  What
are you looking so angry about?"
     "I don't know, Ayla.  It seems---some kind of desecration of the
body.  To cut off a part of it while it's still warm.  There's a kind of
butchery in that."
     "Not at all, Starbuck.  It's our custom.  The rondors understand it
as well.  Old Plutonium, for example, is content, knowing that his
comrade's death may save another life.  His sadness is mixed with
approval for removing Bandit's horn."
     As my knife swiftly slashed through the horn's base, Bandit's body
collapsed heavily to the ground.  Starbuck knelt beside it.  I could see
in his eyes that he still hoped that Bandit could receive his thoughts. 
I said nothing.
     When Starbuck was ready, he stood up and said to me: "Are we just
gonna leave him here?"
     "I'm afraid so.  We have no time.  When we can, we bury them or cast
them into deep water, which is the rondor's chosen burial site, so
they'll not be carrion for further predators.  But we cannot do that
now."
     "Let's go back to camp."
     I swung up onto Old Plutonium's back.
     Old Plutonium says it's all right for you to ride on him behind me."
     "Tell him thanks."
     After we had ridden for a while, with me feeling a strong awareness
of Starbuck's presence behind me, even of areas where necessity did not
force us to touch, Starbuck said suddenly: "We have to make plans."
     "Plans."
     "I'm afraid for your mother."
     He told me of an attempt to rescue Iza and how she'd been wounded.
     "She may be too weak for us to leave her in that damned cell any
longer.  I was waiting for my buddies from the Galactica to arrive. 
However, it's occurred to me there's a good chance they may never get
here.  So we have to attack immediately.  Tonight, if possible."
     "We have to attack? You mean Grod's band?"
     "That's what I'm thinking."
     "But they're just children, you said so yourself."
     "I know what I said."
     "They could get killed."
     "I know that too."
     "But you can't just send them out like that, like a real army. 
They're not really an army, no matter how much Grod struts or how much
they enjoye their little raids."
     "Believe me, I realize all of that, Ayla.  My plans don't call for
them getting killed.  I'm trying to work out a way to attack the fortress
and not have anybody killed.  Nobody but Cylons anyway.  And these Cylons
are just machines."
     "Just how do you plan to do that?"
     "Give me time to think.  I have the beginning of a strategy, if only
I can work out the details."
     I was as furious with Starbuck as I usually was with Grod when he
started such warlike talk.
     "What?  Arm the children, give them guns and let them shoot their
way in?"
     I could hear Starbuck laughing quietly behind me, and, more than
before, was aware of his arms around my waist.  Acutely aware.
     "No, that's not the way.  My thinking was running more in the line
of children's games."
     "Children's games!  But---"
     "Hush up, Ayla and let me put on my thinking cap.  I may be on to
something."
     I didn't know what to think.  But I was afraid.

*****************************

     Before we entered camp, Starbuck asked me to stop.  We both
dismounted, to give the overworked Old Plutonium a much needed rest, for
which he sent me waves of gratitude.  Standing beside Old Plutonium,
Starbuck interrogated me for a long time.  He wanted to know the layout
of the Cylon garrison, the location of the tower, the dimensions of the
secret passage, the whereabouts of the command room, and many other
details I remembered until his questions.
     Then we rode into camp.  Gathol was the first to see us and her
pretty face broke into a bright smile.
     "We thought you boondogglers were never coming back," she said,
running to us.  I dismounted and hugged her.
     Soon, all the children were gathered around us, asking what had
happened.  Grod hung back, his face morose.  Starbuck's voice broke
several times, first as he told of Iza's physical condition, then when he
described the failure of his rescue attempt, and finally---on the verge
of tears---when he described the death of Bandit.  Some of the older
children were visibly affected by his narrative, while many of the
younger ones treated it all as a story and stared wild-eyed at Starbuck
as if he were merely telling tales around a campfire.  When he had
finished, there was a long silence.  Finally, Ona whispered:
"Mother...what will happen to mother?"
     Brun touched Starbuck's arm and tears rolled down from his eyes as
he said, "They'll...kill her this time, won't they?"
     Starbuck glanced at me, then responded to Brun gently: "No, they
won't kill her.  I think they even know how valuable she is to them. 
They'll want to keep her alive, maybe bargain again to stop your raids."
     "Are you sure, Starbuck?" Ona asked.
     "Of course I'm sure."
     But I could tell by the catch in his voice as he said it that he was
not at all sure.  He told the children to gather around and gestured Grod
forward.
     "Iza is all right now, but we can't wait much longer.  Can't let her
waste away in that tower.  I have some ideas about---"
     "No, Starbuck!" Grod interrupted.
     "Grod, I'm on your side. Please don't get your nose out of joint
again."
     "Starbuck, before we discuss your ideas, I have something to say. 
Publicly.  The exchange was a grave tactical mistake.  I see that now. 
I'm relinquishing my command to you."
     Starbuck's reaction to Grod's offer was clearly mixed.  His eyes
were sad, but he was also on the verge of smiling.
     "I'm not trying to fight you for command, Grod," he said quietly. 
"I never intended to."
     "I understand. But it is important that...certain procedures take
place.  I'm no longer fit for command.  I want it official that you take
over leadership."
     Grod stared at Starbuck, his eyes desperately eager for the pilot's
response.  And approval.  Slowly, Starbuck nodded.
     "Okay scout, you're on.  But on one condition."
     "Name it."
     Starbuck went to Grod, put his right hand on  Grod's shoulder, and
said softly: "That you be my lieutenant."
     Grod grinned. He couldn't help it.  It was the first warm smile I'd
seen from him since I don't know when.  It made me smile too."
     "With pleasure, sir," Grod said, his stiff body displaying his
pride.  He could't quite avoid the habits of pomposity even in his new
subordinate role.  "What are your orders?"
     Starbuck paused, then addressed everyone: "Tonight, we will organize
to infiltrate the Cylon encampment and rescue Iza!"
     At first there were cheers, and Starbuck spread his hands to quiet
down the excited children.
     "Now don't get overexcited.  The important thing you all must
remember is to be calm, at least as calm as possible under the
circumstances.  First, we've got to make plans."
     "Shall I prepare to distrube the weapons?" Grod asked.
     "Negative.  We're not going to use guns if we can help it."
     Grod looked scared.
     "But it's dangerous to go up against the Cylons without weapons!"
     "We'll have weapons; they just won't be rifles and pistols, that's
all.  Anybody here good with a slingshot?"
     "I am!" Ona shouted eagerly.
     "Do I have a job for you!"
     Ona was pleased.
     "Starbuck!" Grod protested, "we can't go against them with
slingshots!"
     "Not only slingshots, but jump ropes, tin whistles, balloons, bubble
pipes, whatever---maybe a few good old-fashioned and well-aimed rocks."
     "I don't understand," Grod said weakly.
     "I'm not saying we'll be entirely weaponless.  But I won't allow
young children to fight this battle with laser weapons and bombs."
     "They've used them before."
     "Not under my command, they haven't."
     Grod looked angry enough to take back his offer of relinquishing
leadership.
     "And we're not children!" he cried.
     "You've said that before.  But you know deep down as well as I do
that you are children, all of you."
     "Starbuck---"
     "All of you, Grod."
     Grod's shoulder slumped.  The gesture was a kind of admission of the
truth, or at least as close to one as Grod could get.
     "I'll make this one concession.  Some of you, the more able among
the older children, well be allowed to carry weapons.  But to be used
only for defensive purposes or to help the younger ones.  Let's see. 
Laughing Zoug, I think you can handle yourself with that pistol you're
already toting.  And Gahan, you can requisition a weapon from supply. 
And Gathol, you'd beter arm yourself."
     Starbuck paused.  Grod looked sheepish.  Starbuck smiled.
     "And of course Grod.  You'll have to have a weapon to make your
disguise look accurate."
     Grod grinned, then turned it into a frown."
     "My...disguise?" he said.
     "Grod, my boy." Grod flinched slightly at the word boy, but nodded
anyway.  "Grod, you're going to be a Colonial warrior tonight.  In full
regalia.  You are, in fact, going to be Lieutenant Starbuck of the
Battlestar Galactica."
     Grod beamed with pride.
     Starbuck picked up a stick and began drawing a rough map of the
garrison on the ground.
     "Now listen carefully.  Each of you will have a job.  I figured
you'd all been playing war games long enough.  You haven't had enough
time for children's games , so I remembered some from my youth.  We're
going to use a few of them."
     Grod came to my side and smiled.  I locked my arm in his and we
waited for Starbuck to present the drill.

*****************************

Chapter Thirty-Eight: What Colonial Warrior?

     Lucifer, gliding into the command room, was greeted once more by
Flight Leader Crox.
     "Another transmission for Ursus Spelaeus, Lucifer.  Right on
schedule, as always.  Here's Dracula now."
     "I apologize for the delay, honored sir," Dracula said as soon as
his image had formed on the screen.  "I'm afraid I have to report
setbacks.  Temporary, of course, but setbacks nevertheless."
     "Yes, go on.  I'm sure your reasons are sound, Dracula."
     As sound as a discarded power pack, Lucifer thought.
     "The captured warrior is still unconscious," Dracula said.  "I am
afraid he could even terminate."
     "Terminate?  Explain!"
     Lucifer was surprised by Crox's sudden angry reaction.  The first
moment of discontentment with Dracula.  A good sign, a very good sign.
     "Unfortunately, Flight Leader," Dracula said, "my unit is programmed
with absolute enthusiasm about their duties.  They can be a little bit
rough on the enemy.  It may be that their knowledge of human anatomy is
too limited."
     "That is unfortunate.  But I understand fully.  The exingencies of
war sometimes force extreme actions."
     "Still, sir, I do not offer excuses.  Despite my securing this
planet in what I may without modesty say was accomplished with great
efficiency and speed, if it should happen that this warrior does
terminate, then I can only say I have failed completely.  Myself and my
mission would have been total failures.  For, in failing you, Flight
Leader Crox, I will have failed one of the greatest leaders of our task
force."
     Lucifer recalled an expressionof Starbuck's, which he now muttered
to himself: "The felgercarb is so thick you couldn't fly a viper through
it."  He was not sure exactly what that expression meant, but it did seem
to apply to Dracula's open flattery of Crox.  Apparently, Crox was
programmed to like felgercarb, for he answered Dracula gently: "Don't be
discouraged.  From the reports I've read, you've done a brilliant job
there and I may add a few laudatory comments to your next efficiency
report."
     "I do not know what to say, honored sir.  Of course I will continue
to do my best and I will spare no effort to save this pilot's life, at
least long enough to extract the information you seek."
     "I ask no less, Dracula.  I know you're a Cylon of your word."
     "Thank you sir.  By your command."
     "Goodbye Dracula."
     Dracula's image faded to dots, then vanished from the screen. 
Lucifer could not resist saying: "You actually believed all of
that...fantasy."
     "Lucifer, this jealousy is simply not like you.  Perhaps you need an
overhaul, a restructuring of your programming.  Dracula is doing a fine
job and he will receive the proper commendations, despite your petty
envy."
     Lucifer decided not to carry the issue any further.  After all,
Crox's threat to change his programming was genuine.  Lucifer could wind
up as underhanded and foolish as Dracula.

*****************************

     With a trained scientific detachment, Dracula watched life come back
into Iza's eyes.  She had been staring lifelessly at him for some time
and at least twice he had been certain that she had died, then awareness
seemed to sweep across both her eyes.  Of course the reason for the
effect was that she had been in a daze, virtually unconscious, and now
she was awake, conscious of him staring down at her.  From the look of
hatred in her eyes, he deduced that she was the last being of any kind
that she wanted to see at this moment.
     She glanced down at the dressing which Hiltop had hastily applied,
after carrying her himself into the command room.
     "Your shoulder is adequately repaired," Dracula said.  "I'm sorry we
have such meager medical capability.  For humans, at least.  But that
bandage should at least keep your bodily oil inside, and I believe there
are no dangers to your life.  My centurions, I'm afraid, could be
somewhat better shots than they are."
     Iza glared at him.  Clearly she did not understand much of what he
said.  It looked to Dracula as if the woman would not survive much
longer, but it would not be the wound that killed her---it would be
something else, something too human for him to understand.
     "I'm all right," she whispered.  "Your aide's work was...efficient. 
He learns quickly.  He had to tear the blouse, which is a damn shame,
since I like the blouse.  I told him that.  He apologized.  I thought
that was quite unique in a Cylon.  Apologies."
     Her voice seemed to be drifting off, fading.  It was obvious that
she could not concentrate on what was said to her.
     "I told him not to be sorry.  He followed my orders very well about
how to treat the wound.  Ayla would have done better, of course.  But
your aide has medical ablities.  Very capable for tincan."
     Dracula glanced at Hiltop, who was steadily keeping his own gaze
elsewhere.  Although there was no way Hiltop could have displayed
embarrassment, there was nevertheless a definite aura of uneasiness
around him.  What would cause such an effect? Dracula wondered.  Had he
constructed his creations more effectively than he had suspected?  Or had
he made this one somehow better than the others?  He would have to
disassemble Hiltop at the first opportunity to obtain clues about what
made him different from the others.
     "What did you learn from the Colonial warrior, Iza?" Dracula asked.
     Iza looked puzzled.
     "What Colonial warrior?"
     Then she appeared to remember.
     "Oh, him?  Aren't I supposed not to tell? Isn't that the warrior's
code?  Name, rank and classification number?  His name's Starbuck, I can
tell you that."
     Starbuck.  Well, that was more information about the pilot than
Dracula had previously obtained.
     "But I really learned little else about him, little of value to you
anyway.  You'd waste time trying to find out any more.  He's a...a
pleasant man.  For a warrior.  He's got misgivings.  I could almost like
him.  Ayla likes him.  You like him."
     "I like him?  I hardly saw the man."
     Iza's eyes were dazed again.
     "Did I say you?  I meant Grod.  How did I get you confused with
Grod?  I don't even know why I would have said Grod.  I never saw Grod
this time.  But Starbuck seemed sympathetic to Grod, to the children.  I
liked Starbuck, I told you that.  Would you like to hear more about him?"
     "No, I believe I would not.  Take her back to the cell."
     Hiltop started to pick her up and carry her to the tower himself.
     "Hiltop!"
     "By your command?"
     "I didn't mean for you to take her back.  You are command personnel. 
You leave such jobs to menial personnel."
     "I do not object to carrying---"
     "Give her to the guards, Hiltop!"
     Hiltop obeyed in his usual brisk manner.  A pair of centurions took
charge of Iza and took her away.  Still, Dracula thought, Hiltop's offer
to take charge of Iza himself seemed definitely aberrant.  Yes, he would
have to take Hiltop apart one of these days.  If he could ever get the
time.
     He considered whether to transmit to Crox again, this time admitting
the truth, that he had only had the warrior in custody for a brief time
and it appeared he might never capture him again.  Unlike most Cylon
commanders, Crox was known to be conciliatory, therefore he might treat
an admission of failure lightly.  Yet he was crafty and still upheld
Cylon rules to their absolute letter.  No, it would not do Dracula no
good to admit failure to him.  But Dracula did not feel confident.  Since
the pilot had already slipped through his manipulative digits once. 
Dracula wondered if he was ever fated to capture this---what had Iza
called him?---this Starbuck.
     Hiltop broke into his meditation by shouting: "The warrior has been
sited outside the garrison walls, honored sir!"
     "What?  We've captured him?"
     "No.  He's is just there, outside the walls, astride a white rondor. 
Just sitting on his mount ans staring at the walls. Waving to us."
     "Waving?"
     "Yes. Should we kill him?"
     "No, by all means.  We must capture him alive.  Send a patrol out to
take custody of him."
     "By your command.  I have a patrol waiting."
     Dracula followed Hiltop out of the command room.  Taking a ramp he
had ordered specially built for him, he glided up to the platform that
ran all around the inside of the walls to see the phenomenon for himself. 
The warrior was, indeed out there.  And he was, indeed, waving.  Not a
wave, exactly.  A challenge of some sort."
     "Do you surrender, human?" Dracula shouted, as the garrison gates
opened and the patrol, holding their rifles forward, marched out.
     "Not on your life, bulbhead!"
     Dracula almost ordered the man shot for the racial slur.  But he
needed him alive, if only to display him to Crox and Lucifer.
     "Bring him to me!" he shouted at the patrol.
     "It'll take more centurions than that to subdue me.  C'mon fellas,
we're gonna play follow the leader."
     The white rondor reared and charged into the forest.
     "Take him!" Dracula shouted.
     The patrol pursued their quarry intot he forest.  Dracula watched
for a long time, eventually became tired of seeing nothing but landscape,
and was about to turn and return to the command room where he belonged in
such a crisis, when the man on the white unicorn appeared again at the
forest edge.  This time he looked different, smaller.  Was it possible
there were two Colonial warriors crashed on the planet?
     "Not good enough, bulbhead," the warrior shouted.  "It's gonna take
more of your ratteltrap soldiers to catch me!"
     "Dispatch more centurions," Dracula said to Hiltop, "a larger
patrol."
     "Are you sure that is wise sir, to deplete personnel like---"
     "Carry out my order, Hiltop!"
     As he watched Hiltop assemble the larger patrol, Dracula imagined
the step-by-step procedures he would take in disassembling an aide who
was obviously on the verge of malfunction.
     The Colonial warrior waited for a time at the edge of the forest,
then bolted back into the darkness when the gates opened again and the
new patrol emerged, this time firing their weapons.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     We all searched out hiding places in the trees, behind bushes, under
arched tree roots, while Gathol took charge of taking themounts back to a
safe clearing.  Only Soran was left behind, on Starbuck's orders.
     The Cylon garrison looked peaceful.  Guards, walking slowly,
patrolled the platform at the top of the wall.  It seemed ironic to me
that a wall built originally by the colonists to keep predators out of
the settlement now functioned as protection for the predators who had
taken over the settlement.
     In an area just in front of the garrison gates, a few tincans worked
at a task that didn't make any sense to me.  It seemed to involve them
each taking pieces of themselves and exchanging them for othe rparts
whichthey then put into, upon, or against themselves.  Was it a game or a
religious ritual?  I may never know.
     Starbuck sent Gathol and Brun, our most adept climbers, scampering
up a pair of strategically located trees.  They observed from high
perches for a while, as commanded, then came down with the report that
inside the garrison everything looked routine.  Cylons doing what Cylons
do.  Gathol said she thought she saw Iza, escorted by Centurions,
entering the door to the prison tower.  Starbuck questioned Gathol and
Brun at length and in detail, concentrating especially on information
regarding the number of warriors and their observable armaments.
     "There are too many of them inside there, that's certain," he said
finally to Grod and me.  "We can't lead any kind of group through the
secret passage and expect to make it across the courtyard unobserved.  As
it stands now, it's a sucker's move."
     "It may be impregnable," Grod mumbled, dispirited.
     "I didn't say that."
     "Starbuck, when the tincans invaded, the colony held out a long
time, before the Cylons finally crashed through with their superior
firepower.  We were already evacuating through the secret passage when
the massacre started. That's why mostly children got out.  There're
always two or threescore of the tincans roaming about the yard.  Sure,
Ayla and I can sneak in once in a while, work her way across the yard to
the twoer, but a whole attack squad?  Never!  We'd be mowed down in
microns."
     "Ah, but the games haven't begun yet."
     "Starbuck---"
     "Faith, Grod, faith.  It's time for phase one.  Or the first move,
if you want to preserve the gaming metaphor."
     "Of course we'll try."
     "Atta boy, Grod.  I'm encouraged by your doubts.  A little caution
never hurt any strategy.  Okay, like I told you, be ready for the
quick-change when I return."
     "I hope I can manage to look like you to them."
     "Of course you will.  All humans look alike to most Cylons.  Hold
Soran,while I get on him.  I want him to know you approve, Grod."
     Grod stroked Soran's neck while Starbuck mounted to his back.  Soran
accepted Starbuck as his rider without any perceivable qualm.  I don't
know if Grod was please or not.
     "Well, folks, Starbuck said to those of us gathered around him, "the
first stage of gameplaying is the challenge.  At least one person must
challenge at least one opponent.  Except for solitaire, and solitaire
never brought anybody any cubits.  Think I'll go out there and hustle up
some action.  Those of you with phase-one duties, go to  your positions.
     Starbuck rode out to the clearing in front of the garrison, and
started shouting and waving in a beserk fashion.  My heart started
beating rapidly.  I prayed that none of the guards would get anxious and
start shooting at him.  For this part of his strategy to work, he had to
be right when he said they would want him bad enough not to kill him
outright.
     There was a great deal of commotion and confusion among the garrison
walls after they had seen Starbuck on Soran.  Finally, Dracula came to
the platform and returned Starbuck's challenge by inviting him to
surrender.  Starbuck mocked him and wheeled Soran around, riding him back
into the forest.  After considerable cacophonous noise inside the
garrison, the gates opened and a patrol came rushing out, racing past the
tincans that had been exchanging parts, who seemed to see no logic in
what was going on around them.
     Meanwhile, Starbuck rode Soran up to us and dismounted hurriedly. 
Quickly he took off his flight jacket and trousers, exchanging them for
Grod's outfit.  Grod's jewel-encrusted harness and cap fit Starbuck
snugly, while the warrior's uniform hung a little loosely on Grod.  The
clothing had been exchanged before I realized that I had watched it all
without a laxar of embarrassment.  I had been living with an outlaw band
in the forest too long for modesty to hold much sway over me, I suppose.
     Grod leaped onto Soran and rode away.  He deliberately placed
himself in the patrol's path, made sure he was observed, and raced off.
     "Game number one: Follow the Leader," Starbuck muttered. "That's it,
guys, you're all playing it just fine."
     The patrol was soon out of sight.  The Sprite asked Starbuck if they
should now start sneaking into the secret passage.
     "Yes, a few at a time," he answered, "but wait for Ayla and me
before going exploring.  All right?"
     "Yes, sir!"
     "And you can drop the military courtesy.  This is a keepers game and
there's no time for frills."
     The Sprite nodded stoically and went off to organize the children
who were assigned to the passage.  I sensed them sneaking into the
entrance under the bush but---to give them credit---I did not actually
observe a single member of the squad enter.  Starbuck had stayed in the
darkness at the edge of the forest, awaiting Grod's return and keeping a
lookout on the garrison walls, where Dracula remained, the red lights of
his eyes scanning the landscape in front of him.
     Although I feared unforeseen complications, in my mind I imagined
this part of the operation working perfectly.  I saw Grod leading the
patrol deeper into the forest, where the children delegated to the ambush
detail waited up in trees, tangled in greenery, and in any other position
that gave them surprise-attack leverage.  I imagined Tara and Gahtol, who
had the only jump rope we could scavenge, waiting for the patrol to pass,
then tripping up the rearguard Cylons and kicking away their weapons,
while the other children jumped from their positions ont, against, and
beneath the rest of the patrol, making the tincans fall over each other
in confusion.  Then, as the ambushers skittered out of the way, the net
hurriedly sewn by Ona's seamstress-platoon would be spread over the
fallen Cylons by the remaining members of the detail.  Leaving a couple
of children to stand guard over the secured and unresistant Cylons
(Starbuck's theory, proven correct, was that the tincans would
malfunction under pressure), Grod would return to us.
     Before I could recall all the details of this phase, Grod had
returned to us, with the news that the ambush had worked like clockwork. 
He looked to Strabuck for the signal to begin phase two.  Starbuck gave
it, and Grod went just to the edge of the forest, where he would be
sufficiently in shadow not to be easily recognized as a substitute for
Starbuck.  Grod shouted the second challenge, as per Starbuck's
instructions.
     "And now game number two commences," Starbuck muttered.  "Blind
Man's Bluff.  The underwater version this time, fellows, give or take
some mud."
     Starbuck and I ducked as the second patrol, larger in number,
crashed out of the garrison gates with the weapons at the ready and
firing.  Beams of laser light seemed to be everywhere above us.
     Grod laughed brashly as he and Soran rode off, this time in a
different direction than before, the patrol following at their clumsy but
amazingly rapid pace.
     As soon as they were out of sight, Starbuck whispered:
     "Okay, Ayla, time to join the others in the tunnel.  I think we'll
call this game, let's see, Maze.  It's a paper kinda game, really.  We
enter here, point A with an arrow, and make our way through tunnels and
past obstacles in order to find the true way to our objective, in this
case, the prison tower, point B if you like."
     I shuddered involuntarily.
     "I'm not sure I really like treating all this as a game," I said. 
"Especially this part of it."
     Starbuck regarded me sympathetically.
     "I expect you wouldn't.  You're right, Ayla.  But I'm really trying
to protect the children by making a game out of this.  It's a lot better
than sending them in with guns and bombs, and training them to think of
themselves in heroic terms.  Maybe just as dangerous but I suspect we can
make it work, you and I.  That's part of our job, really, protecting the
children while we rescue your mother and the other prisoners.  We can do
it."
     "I wish I could be so confident."
     "When you've been in as many scrapes as I have, you learn how to
fake confidence."
     "But you're brave."
     Starbuck smiled.
     "So are you, Ayla.  C'mon, into the tunnel."
     I almost looked for the arrow saying point A as I sneaked beneath
the bush as I had done so many times before, with Starbuck right behind
me.

*****************************

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Blind Man's Bluff

     Grod had some trouble holding down Soran's speed so that the Cylon
pursuers could keep him in sight. Soran did stick firmly to the zigzag
pattern that kept the Cylons from getting off a good shot at them
although a few leaves uncomfortably close to Grod's head were singed inn
passing.
     The zigzag move was Grod's addition to Starbuck's plan.  The
individual Cylons each had a fairly good directional system and they
might be able to discern where Grod was heading too soon.  Erratic
trails, however, tended to confuse the tincans, or at least Grod was
counting on that.  The zigzagging did seem to be working.  The patrol
showed no awareness of how close they were to the dangerous swampy area. 
He hoped that the children assigned to this detail had devised, as
ordered, an effective camouflage.  He had not had time to go there to
inspect their work.
     "All right, Soran," he whispered out loud.  "I think we've just
about netted these rotten wankers.  We'll make our move in just a while."
     For the first time since he had begun riding Soran, Grod received a
telepathic message from him, a wave of agreement and the information that
the timing of the final jump could be left to Soran himself.  Grod felt
elated.  After all this time, Soran had finally broken his mental
silence.
     Why? Grod wondered.
     Had to wait until I was sure you'd listen, came Soran's response. 
All right, this is it, time for the final run.
     Soran broke out of the zigzag pattern as he reached a wide trail. 
At first he trotted slowly, to give the Cylons an opportunity to catch
up.  When they had reached the path and started to propel themselves
faster toward Grod and his rondor, Soran increased the pace.  Grod looked
back.
     Good, he thought, they're going faster too.
     Soran accelerated to a fast trot, but Grod thought: Slower, they're
beginning to fall behind again. We have to make sure they maintain their
top speed, or else they'll be able to stop in time.  Soran understood and
kept the rate of speed just right.  On the open road the Cylons could
move much more swiftly.  These robotized versions were fast, and their
lighter weight allowed them to be speedier than genuine Cylons.
     Okay, Soran, I think we've reached the point of no return.  As soon
as we get around that curve, you---
     I'll be the judge of that.  Just a little more time.
     You're cutting it pretty thin.
     I do so out of necessity.
     Soran began trotting faster, working up speed for the jump to come. 
Rounding the curve, briefly out of sight of their pursuers, Grod saw the
camouflage ahead.  At the point where the road actually came to an abrupt
end at the edge of the swamp, the children had been able to pain on dried
animal hide a good illusion of a road, one that seemed to proceed a
little further, then curved into a gradual right turn.  He was sure the
Cylons would be fooled.  He almost was.  He didn't have time to see if
Durc and Ovra, two of the strongest among the younger children, were
securely in position so that they could jerk the camouflage and spoil the
whole plan.  Soran lifted suddenly into the air, sailing oveer the rather
high bundle that was the top of the camouflage painting.  They came down
sharply on the other side, Soran's front hooves landing just short of the
beginning of the swampy area.  Grod could see reflections in the muddy
water a few feet below, down the steep bank.  It felt for amoment as if
Grod would be pitched forward but Soran was in control.  As soon as his
hind legs touched ground, he was leaping again, this time sideways and
into a thick patch of forest, where he and Grod would be temporarily
concealed as the Cylons rushed past.  In a perfectly timed move, just
before the swift Cylon warriors, now accelerating because they didn't
have their quarry in sight, had reached the barrier of the road painting. 
Durc and Ovra pulled it up and away.  The momentum of the patrol leader
carried him forward, and the patrol, obedient warriors all, followed
right after.  By the time he had reached the edge of the bank, and his
sensors had perceived that there was only swampy and muddy water ahead,
it was too late, he could not halt his forward propulsion.  He fell down
the steep bank, tumbling metal head over metal heels.  All but two of
them rest of the patrol stumbled right off the bank on top of him.  As
they came in contact with the water, without the time to protect
themselves in any way from its harming effects, sparks started to fly. 
The water gradually covered them.  Other centurions were not affected by
the water and were able to partially recoever and stand up, but were
trapped by the underlying mud which Grod knew was, in this part of the
swamp, virtually quicksand.  Their movements to squirm out of the mud
only sank them deeper.  Their leader, flat on his back in the water but
still functioning, called an indiscernible squeaky order to the two
centurions who had avoided falling off the bank.  His words were
obviously commands to lend a hand, rescue them.  The two centurions
seemed confused, but their bewilderment didn't' last long, for Durc and
Ovra sneaked up behind them and, laughing gleefully, pushed the
centurions into the water.  A centurion imbedded in much but with his
arms free, raised his weapon, aimed it at Durc.  Grod, reacting quickly,
had his pistol out.  He shot the rifle out of the Cylon's hand.  The
rifle fell into the water and its subsequent short-circuiting sent a
chain reaction of electrical waves from Cylon to Cylon.  Soon they all
seemed to have malfunctioned.  They fell against each other and soon
looked like a floating junkpile.
     The trick had worked better than Starbuck, with Grod's aid, had
planned.  Grod rode out from his hiding place and told Durc and Ovra that
they it was not necessary to post a guard.
     "Let's go back and see if we can help the others," Grod whispered.

*****************************

     Iza drifted in and out of sleep.  When awake, she discovered that
her problem with focusing her eyes had become worse.  She could make out
little that was distinct, and she found it better to sleep.  She wanted
to sleep, and that was all she wanted right now, maybe all she would ever
want from now on.  Dimly, the pains in her shoulder throbbed, felt like a
miniature ballet ensemble laboriously rehearsing a new and difficult
piece of choreography all along her nerves.
     Once she awoke and Norg was standing over her.  She could see him
distinctly, no blurred edges---so distinctly that she wondered if perhaps
this was merely a dream.  How perverse to dream of the cell she lived in
and the straw bed on which she slept.
     Norg's eyes were unusually concerned.
     "I don't think you're going to make it, Iza," he said
compassionately.  "Something's happening to your wound, your dressing is
bloodier than it was when that gallmonging tincan brought you back here."
     "I'm...all right.  I just want to sleep."
     "Don't sleep.  Try to get up and walk around."
     "Had...enough exercise...went on a trip...let me sleep."
     "Try to sit up."
     He took her hands in his and pulled her to a sitting position but,
no matter how much he struggled wither, that was as far as he could go.
     "Can't, Norg.  Let me sleep, please."
     "Damn them!" he muttered bitterly.  "Here, let me see if I can bind
that dressing any tighter."  He stood up and called to the other
prisoners of the cell block, "Anybody here got bandages or any other
medical equipment?"  Silence answered him.  "I need some strips of cloth,
anything."  The silence remained but it was interrupted by the sounds of
ripping cloth.
     Soon, Norg was holding several soiled fraying strips of cloth,
passed along from several prisoners.  Carefully, he started working at
Iza's dressing.  Soon he was cursing himself.  There seemed nothing he
could do to stem the small but steady flow of blood out the wound.  As he
tried to press his makeshift bandaging tighter against the wound, Iza
slipped easily again into unconsciousness, mumbling something odd about a
ballet company and how they were never going to get it right.

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     "Ayla," Starbuck exclaimed, "this isn't just a secret passage.  It's
a labyrinth, a real maze.  I've seen catacombs that looked like simple
caves compared to this!"
     For some illogical reason, I was pleased by his astonished remarks.
     "I'm so used to following my one route, Starbuck, that I'd forgotten
how many corridors there were down here.  Now I remember how long it took
to find that route, how many times I found myself in blocked off
corridors, dead-ends, or passages that were no use to me."
     In the torchilight, the uneven craggy surface of the passage's walls
suggested all the dangers we were heading toward.  Starbuck had asked me
to lead, while he followed directly behind.  The children, as ordered by
Starbuck, lingered behind and came forward in surges at his command.
     As we passed the room that hid all we had salvaged from the
settlement museum, I said to Starbuck:
     "The woman on the rondor painting is in there.  We hid away a lot of
our art."
     "Hope I get a chance to look at it."
     The air inside the passage was still and cold.  Colder than I'd ever
remembered, or else my imagination, out of fear, was making it feel
colder to me.
     At last we came to the fireplace entrance.  I explained to Starbuck
how it worked.
     "Let me reconnoiter first, see if there's anybody in the warehouse,"
I said.
     "No, I'll do it.  I'm the---"
     "I'm smaller and I'm used to it.  I know the terrain, remember?  My
job."
     "Good point."
     Sliding the fireplace panel sideways, I scanned the immediate area
in my usual fashion.  I saw nothing.  However, a thud on the other side
of the first row of boxes told me there was somebody else in the
warehouse.
     "Wait here," I whispered.
     "Be careful, Ayla."
     "Always."
     I tiptoed to a pile of boxes near where the sound had originated. 
Peeking around them, I saw two tincans opening cartons.  I reported back
to Starbuck.
     "Two of them.  Working on cartons."
     "Okay.  We don't want to attract the attentionof anybody from
outside.  Ona?"
     "Yes, Starbuck?"
     "I'll need you.  Gahan and Zoug too."
     "Right."
     My hands felt odd.  I looked down at them.  They were trembling.  I
didn't remember trembling before."
     "Starbuck?" I said.
     "What is it, Ayla?"
     Ona, Zoug and Gahan reported for duty.  I did not like the look of
fun in Ona's clear green eyes.
     "The cartons the tincans are opening," I said.  "They were never
there before.  I think they hold rifles."
     "Interesting.  Somebody's ordered out more arms.  We must be
spooking them.  Good."
     "What's good about it?"
     "It means our diversions are working.  Okay, Ona, got your trusty
slingshot?"
     She held it up for him to see.
     "Okay, you know what to do."
     "Sure, Starbuck."
     I wished I could be as confident as twelve-year-old Ona looked and
sounded.
     "Zoug," Starbuck said.  "We'll use the clubs here, you and I.  Not a
good spot for pistols.  Remember the drill?"
     "Yep, Starbuck."
     Starbuck motioned for me to slide open the fireplace panel.  He
looked out cautiously, then crept forward, gesturing Ona, Zoug and Gahan
to follow. I took up the rear, telling the other children to stay put.
     They reached a pile of boxes which Starbuck looked around.  The
tincans were stillt here.  They had stacked many rifles already. 
Starbuck nodded toward Ona who---after Zoug had given her a lift---nimbly
climbed to a place atop a pile of boxes.  She drew out her slingshot,
squinted her eyes to take careful aim, put a stone in the wellworn pouch
of the elastic band (I recalled finding that elastic band for her in this
very warehouse), pulled the sling back and fired.  The stone bounced off
a Cylon shoulder with a small pinging sound.  Ona scrunched down as the
Cylon glanced upward and saw nothing.  He went back to work.  Ona placed
another pellet into the sling and flung it.  This one landed at the back
of the other Cylon's leg.  Same small ping.  The two struck Cylons looked
at each other, the red lights in their helmets moving almost in
synchronicity.  A third shot, hitting the first Cylon again, in his back. 
The two of them started hollering things to each other in that bizarre
usually metallic speech.  They arrived at their decision and began
clumsily to walk in our direction, each of them holding up one of the
unpacked rifles, ready to fire.  I thought my heart had stopped beating. 
Starbuck and Gahan edged sideways, pressing against the boxes.  Zoug
crouched on the other side of the narrow space the Cylons were
approaching.
     After they had passed without seeing any of us, Zoug and Gahan
jumped on the lead Cylon, while Starbuck attacked the other.  After
shoving the tincans down, Starbuck and Zoug performed the maneuver they
had planned during the briefing.  They each raised their clubs and hit
terrific blows against the lower chests of each Cylon.  As Starbuck had
predicted, the droids' power packs were located there and the blows sent
the tincans out of commission.  They lay silent, now just piles of metal
that, even if repaired, would never be the same beings.
     "How did you know the power packs were there?" I whispered to
Starbuck as we all cautiously made our way to the warehouse entrance.
     "I got a chance to inspect one for a long time in the forest before
you guys found me.  I told you about that."
     "But what if the power packs hadn't been located there?"
     "Then we would've had to improvise."
     "Starbuck, you're not exactly building up my confidence in you."
     He stopped, held both my arms.
     "Ayla, I'd like for this to be easy.  Of course there are risks. 
I'm conscious of them.  And, believe me, if I see we're in extreme
danger, I'll surrender."
     "Surrender?"
     "Yes, that's my ultimate contingency plan.  If you and the children
are hopelessly trapped, I'll give myself up.  They really want me anyway. 
Their commander needs me for his service record, I think.  That'll give
you and the others a chance to hid or get away while the Cylons are
fussing over me.  So, see? I've got it all covered."
     "But Starbuck, I don't want to sacrifice you."
     "It'd be in a good cause.  Now, c'mon, your job--what's next?"
     "I'll check the courtyard."
     The number of tincans in the yard was obviously depleted.  Still,
there seemed too many of them for our team to get across to the tower
successfully.  While I made my observation, I heard Grod's voice coming
from outside the garrison gates.  He was challenging the Cylons again. 
Right on schedule.  Starbuck's order fo rthis maneuver was that Grod
should lead the next patrol on a merry chase.  He was not even sure
they'd bit a third time, he had said.  He had been wrong.  They bit.  A
tincan officer rushed out of the command room and assembled another
patrol.  The gates were opened, Grod whooped and blew his hunting horn,
and I heard the rumble of Soran's feet.
     "What d'ye think, Ayla?" Starbuck asked after the gates had closed.
     "Still a lot of tincans out there.  But fewer than usual. I think
the three of us can make it."
     "Okay.  Jake, you ready?"
     "Ready."
     "Gahan, you know your job.  Get to the fuel dump and wait for the
signal from Zoug's torch.  A circle.  Then hurl the bombs and get out of
the way.  The rest of you, be ready here.  You all know what to do and
you all know the contingency plans."
     The children nodded together, as if all controlled from the same
source.  Starbuck told me to proceed.
     Opening the warehouse door slowly, I slipped out first, then
Starbuck, then Zoug.  As we moved from dark place to dark place, I
noticed that I had never seen the yard in such chaos before.  The tincans
didn't seem to know what to do next, didn't' even seem sure of what they
were doing at the moment.  I wondered if our diversions were bewildering
them, maybe putting them on the verge of malfunction.
     Suddenly, Dracula appeared in the command room doorway, his outline
highlighted and given an extra blue aura by the bizarre Cylon lighting
behind him.  I gestured for the others to halt.  Dracula appeared to
stare right at us, and I thought the game might be up, all our games
might be up, but I suppose it was just my imagination working overtime,
for Dracula turned around and reentered the command buiding.
     I gestured for Starbuck and Zoug to stay back while I checked out
the first floor of the tower.  We were lucky.  None of the tincan guards
were on ground level, although I heard some of them clanking around above
me.  I also thought I heard Iza groaning and I almost panicked right then
and there.
     Starbuck and Zoug, running low, raced to the tower doorway across
the open area, and slipped in behind me.  Zoug stayed by the door,
looking out.
     "Nobody saw us," he informed Starbuck.
     Starbuck drew his laser pistol and said to me:
     "Okay, Ayla, it's up to you and me now.  Be ready to duck if a Cylon
gets in front of us.  Lead the way."
     Leaving Zoug behind to stand guard, I led Starbuck up the narrow
iron staircase.  We climbed it as carefully as we could, ever little
metal squeak sending waves of fright through my body.  Apparently, the
Cylons inside the tower were as discombobulated as the ones outside.  Not
one of them heard our approach.
     On the first cell block level, where Iza's cell was located, two
guards were busily taking food trays off a cart and sliding them under
cell doors.  I was surprised that nobody in the cells paid any attention
to their food.  No one so much as made a move toward a tray.
     I tried to control my breathing.  The air inside the tower seemed
thinner than usual, as if it were in the final stages of being used up
before everyone inside succumbed to suffocation.  I could hardly think.
     Starbuck brushed by me, keeping his back against the bars of the
cells as he edged toward the two tincans.  None of the prisoners inside
the cells he passed even looked up.  He was apparently as unimportant to
them as their food trays.  The last thing they were expecting at that
moment was rescue.  Would they be ready for it?  I wondered.  Or would
they reject our help, tell us to go away?
     "Hey guys," Starbuck called to the guards when he was practically
standing next to them.  "I asked you for an extra dessert."
     As the guards dropped their trays and spun around toward him,
Starbuck delivered two well-aimed shots which sent sparks flying outward
from their power packs.  They fell in a heap, the heavy clanking sound of
their fall interrupting the echo from the dropped trays.  The light from
the laser pistol briefly lighted up the whole tower and attracted the
attention of the guards on the next level.  Four of them came down at us. 
Fortunately, the iron staircase was so narrow, they had to come single
file.  A couple of shots whizzed by Starbuck's shoulder, but he squeezed
the trigger of his pistol four times and the four attackers fell all over
each other to create a ragged metal junk pile.
     "Iza!" Starbuck called.
     "She's over here," Norg called back.  
     Starbuck ran to her cell.  But I ran faster and passed him.  Iza was
lying on her straw mat.  Her eyes were closed.  A bulky and messy
dressing was inefficiently wound around her shoulder, covered with blood
spots.
     Starbuck shot off the cell door lock, and it sprang open.  Before we
could get inside the cell, Norg slithered past us, and crouched by one of
the fallen jailers.  From a compartment in one of the tincans' arms he
removed a set of keys and began frantically to open the other cell doors.
     I knelt by Iza.  She was still alive. Up close I could see that
immediately.  But she was fading.  I could see that too.
     "We've got to get her out of here quickly, Starbuck.  I've got to
get my rondor horns."
     "We're doing the best we can."
     There was a great deal of noise out in the courtyard, tincans
attracted by the commotion in the tower.
     "Zoug give Gahan the signal," Starbuck called down.  He knelt and
picked up Iza.  He stoop up so easily that she seemed like a light sack
in his arms.
     Down below, Zoug swung his torch in a circle, the signal to Gahan. 
Gahan must have responded immediately, for the explosion from the fuel
dump came soon, sending tremors across the floor of the tower.
     "Follow me, Ayla," Starbuck said.  I stayed right behind him as he
carried Iza out of the cell, into the corridor and down the staircase.
     "They're all running toward the fuel dump fire, most of them," Zoug
said calmly as we came up to him.  "Only one tincan still kept running
this way and I picked him off.  Sorry for the aggressive action,
lieutenant."
     "In this case, you're excused, Zoug."
     Behind us, the staircase clattered loudly with the sounds of
prisoners running, sliding, falling, crawling over themselves to get down
to ground level.  Norg was in the lead.  The way they came at us, I
thought for a moment they intended to keep right on going, rush across
the yard, past the blazing fuel dum, and out the gates.  Their eyes
seemed that frenzied.  But Norg held up his hand, and the other prisoners
stopped in a bunch behind him.
     I looked back at Starbuck.  He held Iza tightly to him.  Her head
rested on his shoulder.  If her wound had not been obvious, and all her
other illnesses had not so weakened and depleted her, she and Starbuck
would've looked like lovers during a moment of peace.
     My body was trembling again.  I took several breaths to calm myself.
     Starbuck looked out the door at the virtually empty yard.
     "Time for game number three," he muttered.  "It's called Running the
Gamut.  Zoug, you lead the way.  Ayla, stay close to me.  In case we're
attacked, you'll have to grab Iza away from me."
     He turned to the prisoners.  They all stared at him expectantly.
     "We're going across to that warehouse," he said to Norg.  "There's a
passage out of the settlement there, you probably know about it.  Whoever
among your people can make a break for it, let them.  I suggest that
anyone too weak or too fearful remain here.  I promise we'll try to come
back for them."
     "Promises mean nothing when you've been in here long enough," Norg
said, "but I'll pass the word back."
     After the instruction had gone through the ranks of prisoners,
Starbuck nodded off to Zoug.
     "Okay, Zoug, your move."
     Zoug hurtled through the entrance.  Staying right next to Starbuck,
wanting desperately to touch and hold Iza myself, I ran out into the
yard.
     The fuel dump cast eerie lights on every surface, and I was
momentarily disoriented.  Everything looked so different.  I didn't think
I could find my way back to the warehouse any more.  Running ahead
anyway, I took one look back.  Prisoners were pouring out of the tower
doorway and following us on their weak but determined legs.  We looked,
I'm sure, like a mob out to kill the king.  Fortunately, the king was in
too much trouble already to pay much attention to the masses, and we made
the dash across the courtyard without attracting any attention from the
tincans.
     Mog-ur threw open the door of the warehouse.  Gathol and the Sprite
had taken charge and their lovely smiling faces greeted us as we plunged
into the building.  I'm sure they must have looked like angels to the
prisoners as they stumbled through the doorway.
     The children had set up a line leading to the fireplace panel, and
Mog-ur pointed the way.  I stopped Starbuck in order to take a good look
at Iza.  She was just barely breathing.
     "I've got to tend to here, Starbuck."
     "Back at camp."
     "There's not enough time.  It can't wait.
     "You can't do anything now, not here."
     "Not right here.  But in the passage somewhere.  In the art
storeroom, there's plenty of space to work there."
     I told Starbuck to follow me. At the same time I drew Bandit's horn
out of my pack before entering the passage.

*****************************

Chapter Forty: Abandon Ursus Spelaeus!

     When the next message from Ursus Spelaeus came in, it was all
Lucifer could do to remain silent, hold in his distaste for Dracula.  He
refused to look screenward.
     "Any progress, Dracula?" Crox asked, his body leaning in toward the
screen.
     "Ah....I regret to report, honored sir, that the Colonial warrior
has terminated."
     "That is unfortunate.  I was hoping, but---did you get any
information at all out of him prior to his termination?"
     "Only his name, sir."
     "That could be significant, Dracula.  We have records on many of the
enemy's military officers.  What was this one called?"
     Dracula appeared to pause, as if searching for the answer.
     "I believe it was Starbuck, sir."
     Lucifer whirled around, hoping that his auditory circuits had
malfunctioned.  Starbuck!  No!  It couldn't be!  Not Starbuck!  He could
not terminate.  It would not...would not be like him.
     Crox appeared to be happy at this unexpected news.  "Starbuck," he
said.  "One of the Galactica's finest, Dracula.  You have done well."
     Lucifer thought, It seemed that this Dracula could fall into a vat
of acid and come up shining like a new model.
     "But I obtained no strategic information from this pilot, sir."
     "No, but you got Starbuck.  Let me rephrase---you got rid of
Starbuck.  We are all well-rid of Starbuck.  Isn't that so, Lucifer?"
     For a moment, Lucifer thought he had entirely malfunctioned and
somehow this was cybernetic hell.
     "Lucifer?"
     "Yes, Flight Leader Crox.  Well-rid."
     It couldn't be Starbuck.  Lucifer had counted on seeing that man
again.  If only to test out his new system for Pyramid.
     "Well then, Dracula, what else have you to---"
     From the speaker beside the screen came a loud sound, unmistakably
an explosion.  Behind Dracula, Lucifer could discern centurions racing
furiously about.
     "Identify that noise, Dracula," Crox commanded.
     "By your command."
     Dracula conferred with an aide.  Both their heads bobbed from side
to side energetically.  Either something is wrong on Ursus Spelaeus,
Lucifer thought, or Dracula is not operating on all circuits.  Perhaps
the explosion has somehow unnerved him.
     "Sir," Dracula said, "we have found a small guerilla unit of humans
we had missed in our initial conquest.  The noises you heard were the
final explosions of our mopping-up operation."  There was another
explosion.  Dracula glanced sideways.  "Almost the last sounds of our
mopping-up operation."
     Lucifer, who could interpret auditory phenomena even when distorted
through a speaker system, could have sworn that the explosions were
larger in nature, not the kinds of sounds associated with the removal of
humans.  To him, they sounded more like fuel dump explosions. 
     "Excellent," Crox said.  "Mopping up, good work.  You are a credit
to our kind, Dracula."
     "Thank you, sir.  I am, as usual, proud to serve."
     "Well, Dracula, I'll be looking forward to hearing from---"
     "Sir?"
     "Yes?"
     "I have one more observation.  A request, actually."
     "Proceed, Dracula."
     There were some uninterpretable noises in the background, and
Dracula again glanced sideways.  He seemed to be recieveing a report, an
important one, apparently, because the noises ceased briefly while
Dracula closed down the sound part of his transmission.  When he came
back on, he said, "Sir, I have many ideas, most of which are wasted here
on Ursus Spelaeus, where the main military tasks are, as you see, already
accomplished.  Additionally, the climate here, moist and erratic, is
injurious to my circuits.  I propose that you could have better use for
me at a post elsewhere in the Alliance."
     Crox nodded, impressed by the sound logic.
     "Good, Dracula.  Abandon your post there when the mopping-up
operation is complete.  It sounds to me as though the post could be
closed down completely."
     Dracula again glanced sideways.
     "I agree with you on that matter, sir."
     "Good.  Report to me here whenever you can reach the base ship and
we'll discuss reassignment."
     "Thank you, sir."
     "Of course.  I'm looking forward to seeing you, Dracula."
     "By your command."
     Dracula's image faded.  Lucifer though he had heard the beginning
rumblings of another explosion just as Dracula signed off.
     Crox swung around on his chair.
     "If you have any thoughts on that, I would like to hear them."
     "I prefer to say nothing."
     "Still envious.  I thought you would've worked that out of your
systems by now."
     "I am not the least bit jealous."
     "Good.  Then you won't mind if we keep this Dracula around the ship
for a while.  To lend us his expertise.  As your aide, of course."
     Lucifer thought that, if the present state of affairs had been a
game of pyramid, this would be the strategic time to thrown down one's
cards in disgust.

*****************************

     The base star command to abandon Ursus Spelaeus could not have been
timed more strategically for Dracula.  Outside, the fuel dump explosions
had started fires in most of the other garrison buildings.  The wretched
children still ran free, still meted out damage.  The prisoners had been
let out of their cells.  The courtyard was in chaos, centurions
programmed for duty trying their best to be dutiful, and failing.
     In a very real sense, Dracula's world was falling apart around him. 
He turned to Hiltop.
     "I have signaled the pilot of our single remaining raider to make
the craft ready for immediate launching off Ursus Spelaeus."
     "By your command."
     "Hiltop, you and I are leaving this miserable planet."
     "Only the two of us, sir?  We're leaving the rest of the troops
here?"
     "Yes.  We don't have room on that small vehicle.  And, if I send for
a transport ship, they'll know how I've failed here.  Our best policy,
Hiltop, is to take the escape route.  We can be of more use to the
Alliance elsewhere, both of us."
     "You sir, perhaps, but not me."
     Dracula glided close to Hiltop.
     "Meaning what?"
     "I intend to remain here, sir, on Ursus Spelaeus.  I am not coming
with you."
     "I order you to accompany me. I need at least one centurion class
Cylon with me."
     "But not me, sir."
     Again, Dracula noticed strange whirs emerging from somewhere within
Hiltop.
     "Very well, Hiltop.  You may remain here."
     "By your command."
     "But it is not, I am sorry to say, in my best interests to allow you
to remain functional."
     In a swift move, Dracula managed to touch the fasteners of Hiltop's
power pack and he deftly removed its cover.  Reaching inside the pack, he
separated three wires from their terminals, and tore them out completely,
flinging them away over his shoulder into a corner of the command room. 
The light in Hiltop's helmet stopped functioning, and his body slumped
over until the torso was parallel to the floor and his arms dangled like
a doll.  With the wires to the sentient circuits separated and thrown
away, nobody would ever be able to activate Hiltop again.  There was no
way he could ever divulge any of Dracula's secrets.
     Centurions rushed in and out of the command room, reporting new
disasters occurring outside.  None of them took any special regard of the
deactivated Hiltop.
     "You're nothing but a shell now," Dracula said to the slumped form. 
"You should have decided to come with me, Hiltop.  Centurion!"
     The most recent message-bearing centurion responded immediately.
     "By your command."  
     "Accompany me to the launch field.  You and I are going on a trip."
     "By your command."
     Dracula took one look back at Hiltop before leaving the command room
forever.  The supernova-bright light from the fuel dump flames gave an
eerie look to the room, especially with the ghostly shell Dracula was
leaving behind.
     After Dracula had been gone from the doorway for a sufficiently long
time, the form of Hiltop straightened up and began to move again. 
Methodically, he reached into his power pack and made a few adjustments.
     It had been a shrewd decision, he realized now, to exchange with a
fellow centurion for the bypass capability insert, a shrewd decision. 
Dracula could not have known that the trade had been made and that the
pulling out of the three wires did nothing but disconnect an already
unused power source.
     Hiltop replaced the cover on his power pack and went slowly to the
command console.  He summoned a centurion officer into the command room.
     "Tree," he said, "Dracula has left us.  I have assumed command.  You
will be my aide."
     "Thank you, honored sir."
     "Inform the troops to make ready for the surrender."
     "Surrender?"
     "Tree, a good commander knows when he is beaten.  We will surrender
to the humans with honor."
     "Honor, sir?"
     "Don't worry, Tree, a minor reprogramming and you will understand."

*****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     Starbuck lay Iza gently onto the storeroom floor while I took out
Bandit's horn.  I forced myself not to look at her as Starbuck removed
Iza's dressing with a delicacy I would not have expected of him.  When
the wound was visible, I inspected it.  I tried not to look up at her
face, but caught one terrifying glimpse of its pale lifelessness.
     The wound, though ugly---black around the edges, a thin trickle of
blood still flowing copiously from it---would not have been mortal in a
healthy person, but Iza's condition made quick treatment vital.  She did
not have the energy to sustain life if her condition worsened.
     Gahan the Singer came into the room.  Starbuck greeted him warmly.
     "It's all over, Starbuck," he said with glee.  "The garrison
commander's flown off, and his replacment's surrendered to us.  Norg has
taken charge of the Cylon centurions.  We await your orders."
     "I'm afraid now it's the colony's problem.  The Cylons of Ursus
Spelaeus are merely cybernetic devices, all of them.  Perhaps they might
be useful to you---I mean, if you fooled around with their nuts and bolts
a while."
     "I'll tell Norg that, although he might not be happy."
     "Oh?"
     "Yes.  He's in a mood to line them up and blast them to
smithereens."
     "I thought your colony was devoted to peace."
     Gahan shrugged.
     "They've been held captive a long time."
     "Good point.  I see."
     Mog-ur, whom I'd sent to the medical supply alcove, came back with
fresh bandages for Iza's wound.  With her help, I proceeded to apply
Bandit's horn to it.  She assisted me enough times to know what I wanted
her to do before I told her.  It was essential that the horn be placed at
just the right angle for the radiation to do its work.  My fingers still
trembled.  I did not know if I could do the work.  I had positioned
rondor horns so many times it should have been routine.  But not when my
fingers wouldn't work.
     I cursed loudly.  A hand touched my shoulder.  I looked up.  It was
Starbuck, saying soothingly:
     "You fixed me fine.  You can do it again, for her.  There's time."
     His confidence cured my trembling.  My fingers started working more
deftly and soon I had achieved the proper angle I wanted for the horn. 
Mog-ur handed me the bandages to fasten the horn to the wound itself. 
Iza flinched at my touch, a good sign.
     "Now we wait," I said to Starbuck."
     "For how long?"
     "I have no way of knowing.  Sometimes these horns work, sometimes
they don't.  We won't know on this one until she lives or dies."
     Iza looked peaceful.  That was good, too.  Her face had displayed
such pain before.
     Starbuck told Uthia to started organizing the children for an
evacuation back to camp.  When Iza was ready to be moved, we would move
her, he said.  Uthia nodded and went out.  The Sprite stood to the side
and moved her fingers nervously, as if they needed some item she could
use for a magic trick.  Perhaps she was seeking some magic to help Iza. 
Mog-ur sat beside Iza, her hand cupped, as if she were just waiting for
Iza to wake up so she could feed her.
     Grod came and joined Mog-ur in the vigil beside Iza.  He held Iza's
hand in his own.  He did not speak nor did he volunteer a single detail
of his escapades.  How ironic, I thought, here he'd played the role of a
real hero, and he didn't even choose to talk about it.
     I tired of sitting and watching Iza breathe, tired of looking for
signs of improvement.  Sharp pains ran up and down my back as I stood up.
     "Let me show you something," I said to Starbuck, who had been
sitting silently, too, watching the rest of us.  "I think I promised to
show it to you when I had time."
     I picked up the package and worked off its wrappings, which were
already quite worn from my many viewings.  Without commenting, I held it
up for Starbuck to look at.
     "Impressive," he whispered.  "You're right, the woman on the rondor,
she is like Iza.  It's not a physical resemblance exactly, but it
suggests something of her spirit.  Not only her spirit, but her serenity,
beauty and strength."
     "All that in one picture."
     "Yes.  Don't you see it?"
     "Of course I do.  I just wanted for you to say it."
     "It's a lovely painting, Ayla, as you said.  A very lovely
painting."
     "Perhaps we should consider giving it to him," came a weak voice
behind us.  Iza!  We both whirled around.  Her eyes were open.  Not only
open, but quite lively.  She was almost smiling.  Grod could not help it,
he started to cry.  So did I.  So perhaps did Starbuck, although, if he
did, he walked out of the room so quickly I didn't have a chance to
observe it.

*****************************

Chapter Forty-One: The Rescue Party!

     Two Spelausian days later, when her mind was clearer, Iza again
offered the painting to Starbuck.  They sat in the cave, where Ayla
believed that her mother would recuperate best, removed at least from the
worst aspects of the planet's climate.
     "No," Starbuck responded.  "I think the picture means too much to
Ayla for me to have it."
     "We've discussed that.  Ayla wants you to have it, too."
     Ayla, busy feeding her mother an herbal tea by the spoonful, looked
up shyly and nodded in agreement.
     "Ladies," he said, "let me tell you, I'm what's known in the fleet
as a wagering fool.  If I get anything of value I sell it to get betting
money.  I'll bet neither of you have the slightest idea how much a
painting done in Scorpian oils would fetch back on the Galactica.  That's
why it's safer here."
     It was a pretty lie, and both Iza and Ayla realzed that, but they
let him get away with it anyway.
     "Iza," he went on, "you know you're looking more and more like the
woman in the painting by the centon.  I've never seen health return to a
person so fast."
     "Well, she said, with a loving look at her daughter, "I'm getting
the best of care.  Ayla's taught us more about the radiations of the
rondor horn in the last couple of days, ways to use them than I'd
expected possible."
     Ayla didn't know whether to laugh or blush, so she just kept feeding
her mother tea.
     What Starbuck said was right.  Iza looked much better.  Her paleness
was gone and her cheeks had reddened with health. Her hair was looking
fuller, shinier.  There was a new straightness in her posture.  Starbuck
recalled the woman he had first seen just a few days ago, in the
wagon---remembered vividly the look of death on her face as she fell away
from his grasp.
     Suddenly he was glad he had crash-landed on Ursus Spelaeus and,
thinking about what he'd have to face upon return to the Galactica,
secretly hoped the rescue team would never arrive.  The saving of Iza's
life seemed worth his exile.
     "You have a strange smile, Starbuck," Iza said.
     "I'm just....pleased you're doing so well."
     "I'm going to take a walk today.  I promised Ayla.  Anyway, it's
time to get the colony going again.  I'm eager to get to it."
     "So am I," Ayla said.  "We need that, Grod, myself and the others. 
The children need a chance to be young again."
     "You're going to try to recreate that 'ideal' society?" Starbuck
asked.  "Your people were eager to organize firing squads a couple of
days ago, y'know."
     "Yes, I know," Iza said.  "And I think what you mean makes some
sense.  The first colony here made insufficient allowances for human
nature.  Ideal societies tend to do that.  We can't make a perfect
society, I think we all know that, but we'll do our best.  Mainly, we
must attend to the children.  That's my---our first priority. 
Circumstances have turned them into warriors, young warriors, they need
other ideas for balance.  No slurs intended, Lieutenant."
     "None taken.  Look, Iza, you find a way to ban war throughout the
universe, and I'll happily be your chief administrator."
     "You'd probably make a pretty good one."
     "Probably?  You mean after all this time together the best you can
say is probably?  Why---"
     Starbuck's mock tirade was interrupted by Hiltop, who had entered a
concealed rear entrance to the cave.  (He always avoided going through
the waterfall.)
     "This is a surprise, Hiltop," Starbuck said.  "I thought you and
your troops were busy rebuilding the garrison back into the settlement
colony."
     "The work still goes on, honored sir, but---"
     "I thought you were deprogramming that 'honored sir' out of your
vocabulary."
     "It is not that easy, sir.  Details can be easily changed in us, but
habits take more work with the mechanisms.  I am here, however, to make a
report that may be of interest to you.  A fighter has been detected
coming toward Ursus Spelaeus.  Preliminary scanning reveals markings
which you have described to us as the insignia of the Galactica."
     "The rescue party!" Starbuck shouted.  With his confidence renewed,
Starbuck now understood that going back to the Galactica might not be so
bad after all.
     "No," Ayla whispered after Starbuck and Hiltop had left the cave. 
Iza heard the whisper and touched her daughter's cheek with the back of
her hand.
     "He'll never come back here," Ayla said, tears welling up in her
eyes.
     There was so much Iza could have said, so many lessons about life
and loss, so many consoling philosophies.  At one time, she would've
spoken them immediately.  Now she knew it was better to wait.  Better for
her daughter and for herself.
     "No, he won't," was all she said, then she hugged her daughter close
to her.

     *****************************

From the Book of Ayla:

     Starbuck could not even stay an extra night.  Hampered by a serious
breakdown in its defensive force-field system, the Galactica was passing
as close to Ursus Spelaeus as it could safely get.  Starbuck was ordered
to leave with his buddies immediately.  On the double, as they said.  His
reluctance to leave was evident to his comrades, who anyway were already
confused from the experience of landing on a planet to find
child-warriors had secured the garrison and apparent Cylons who were no
longer enemies.
     Starbuck's friend Boomer was the first out of the shuttle.  He had
his pistol drawn.  A captain named Apollo was right behind him, also
armed.
     "Starbuck," Apollo cried as Starbuck dashed toward him.
     "Apollo, Boomer," Starbuck shouted back.  "Hey, about time you guys
showed up."
     A pretty blonde woman came out of the shuttle, holding a med-tech's
bag.
     "Boomer told us your landing incline was so steep we should be lucky
if we found you in several pieces," she said.  "As usual, Starbuck,
you're the lucky one."
     She ran to him and hugged him.  She was so sensual in appearance, I
felt a definite twinge of jealousy.
     "I'm okay, Cassiopeia," Starbuck said.  "Thanks to the miracles
wrought by this lovely young woman."
     He pointed to me.  Cassiopeia's look was simultaneously grateful and
suspicious.
     "Starbuck," she said in a husky voice, "wherever you go, you always
manage to find the prettiest woman there."
     He ignored her sardonic observation and called to Boomer, "Hey,
buddy, where's the clean uniform you were gonna bring me?"
     "The clean uniform?  Right.  In the shuttle."
     Before I knew it, they had told Starbuck he couldn't stay, not even
for a short timel onger. The word got around among the children.  Soon
Starbuck had a crowd gathered around him.  Brun and Goov begged him to
stay.  He said he was sorry, but he had no choice, he had to go.  They
cried.  As did many of the children.  Mog-ur seemed inconsolable, until
Grod put his arm around her and did console her. Gahan, the Sprite,
Uthia, Gathol, Tara, Chubby Chatkins---all of them were visibly affected
by Starbuck's impending departure.  Even Laughing Zoug kept looking away
whenever anybody looked at him.
     "I don't suppose I can convince you all to come to the Galactica
with us," Starbuck said, desperately trying to make light of the matter.
     Iza, who had left the cave accompanied by Ona, came forward and
said, "You know we can't do that, Starbuck."
     "Yes, I do."
     "And we'll succeed."
     "I don't doubt that."
     Starbuck glanced at Ona and said, "You're going to be competing with
your sister in the beauty department sooner than you think.  And you'll
have the additional qualification of being a slingshot expert."
     Ona managed to look both pleased and unhappy at the same time.
     Grod came up to Iza.  Like me, he was trying to be strong and hold
back tears.  Starbuck unpinned a medal from Boomer's chest.
     "You don't need this anymore, Boomer.  Didn't you win it in a card
game, anyway?"
     Boomer seemed to protest, but said nothing at a stern look from
Starbuck.  The medal looked like a star cluster.  With a flourish,
Starbuck pinned it on Grod.  Boomer's anger vanished and he smiled.
     "You earned this, Grod," Starbuck said.  "Your whole band earned it. 
Wear it for all of them with pride, lieutenant."
     Grod beamed.
     "Thank you, sir.  It's been a pleasure serving under your command."
     Apollo touched Starbuck's shoulder.
     "I'm really sorry, buddy but---it's time to go back to your trial."
     "I know, I know.  At least let me get into my clean uniform before I
say goodbye."

*****************************
 
     Starbuck emerged from the shuttle in his clean uniform.  It looked
crisp and fit him snugly, nothing like the dirty ragged outfit we'd seen
on him, and briefly on Grod, since the crash.  Boomer praised his
appearance with obvious mockery, but also obvious affection.  The engines
of the shuttle began revving up.  Starbuck, in a hurry now, ran to me and
said, "Ayla, I wish we could take you with us."
     I noticed Cassiopeia regarding us with suspicion.
     "Starbuck, we've been over this already."
     "I know, I know.  I just wanted to say it's a pity you're not going
with us.  You could've broken half the hearts on the Galactica."
     He walked away a few steps, then turned and said, "Including mine."
     He joined his fellow crewmembers.  They got in the shuttle, there
was a lot of bright fire, and they were gone.  We all watched the vapor
trail of the shuttle as it evaporated upward.
     I had realized that Starbuck was not for me.  I didn't mind that.  I
just didn't want him to forget me.  Perhaps that was why, as he was
changing clothes, I sneaked the woman-on-rondor painting aboard the
shuttle and stowed it with the rest of his gear.

*****************************

Chapter Forty-Two: Who Is Charybdis?

     When Adama entered his office, the first thing everyone noticed how
angry he seemed. To Apollo, who stood off to one side with Boomer
alongside, it took him back to the days of his childhood, that dreadful
look he'd seen on Adama's face whenever he had to discipline him or Zac
with the leather strap.
     Adama sat down behind his desk and then glared at both Starbuck and
Sire Farnum, who were seated in chairs alongside each other, directly
across from Adama. 
     "I expected better from you, Lieutenant," Adama said coldly. 
     "I'm sorry," Starbuck muttered as he fought back tears.  "I didn't
know what I was thinking." 
     "Unfortunately, your remorse comes a little too late.  You are
guilty of insubordination, unauthorised use of a viper, reckless
endangerment and conduct unbecoming an officer," Adama glared.  "I 
happen to be a firm believer in the sanctity of the Tribuniary function. 
Do you understand that?" 
     "Yes, sir," Starbuck gulped. 
     "Acting as Chief Overseer during such an occasion is one of my
principle responsibilities as commander of this fleet.  That is why I
cannot, and will not, stand for the demeaning of that process before it
even has a chance to begin."
     "Permission to speak freely?" Apollo jumped in.
     "Granted."
     "With all due respect, Commander, the record does note that
Lieutenant Starbuck's escape led him to discover a lost human colony on
Ursus Spelaeus and neutralize a far-flung Cylon outpost on that planet
before it could detect us and summon reinforcements. Furthermore, he now
recognizes his error and is now ready and willing to defend himself by
whatever means necessary."
     "It has been so noted, yes.  However, I cannot ignore what he's
done, Captain Apollo," Adama raised his voice, not letting a hint of
familiarity pass between them.
     He then focused his attention on Starbuck,  "Lieutenant Starbuck,
your service on this ship has been exemplary. I really believed you were
above this kind of conduct.  But your choice of escape as an option makes
you unworthy of any praise whatsoever.  It is an insult to the entire
process of Tribunal, and disrespectful of the principles of Colonial
Justice that we have all taken sworn oaths to uphold."
     Starbuck managed a weak "Yes sir."
     "Lieutenant Starbuck, until Tribunal convenes, you will be held in a
state of maximum isolation in the Brig.  You will only be permitted
visits from either of your two designated protectors during that time
with all other privileges accorded prisoners revoked until further
notice.  Also, the painting that was found stowed away among your gear on
the shuttle is forfeit, to be designated property of the Battlestar
Galactica.  Do you understand this completely?"
     "I do, Commander," Starbuck's tone was uncharacteristically meek and
totally compliant.  The heartbreak about having his only reminder of the
beautiful Ayla confiscated was also evident in his voice.
     Adama then turned his attention to Sire Farnum.  Apollo and Boomer
were both surprised to see that the anger hadn't faded from the
Commander's face, "I have this to say to you, Sire Farnum.  I consider
myself a patient and a fair man who regards the oaths I took as a warrior
and as a member of the Council of Twelve to uphold the principles of the
Colonial nation as the most sacred I have ever taken.  But by going on
the IFB, as you did some days ago, and openly questioning my ability to
uphold those oaths, you, sir, have sorely put that patience to the test.
It was not your place to raise such a question, especially since I had
taken no actions toward Lieutenant Starbuck that would have justified
your doing so."
     The Chief Opposer stiffened somewhat, totally caught off-guard by
the harshness of Adama's tone.
     "Hear, hear, Adama.  I meant no..." 
     "I'm not finished!" Adama quickly
cut him off.  "I also have no patience for an opposer who decides to
shape the court of public opinion on the nature of the evidence while the
process remains ongoing, not to  become fully clear until Tribunal
convenes.  If I chose to have your conduct investigated further, Sire
Farnum, I believe that charges of reckless opposer conduct and your
removal as the Colonial nation's representative in this case might very
well be in order."
     Farnum's milky-white complexion turned almost reddish-brown from
embarrassment. "As I started to say, Commander, I meant you no harm."
     "I'm sure you think not," Adama refused to relinquish the upper
hand, "But since I have chosen to take punitive actions against
Lieutenant Starbuck for his conduct, I think in the interests of
maintaining the impartiality of the Tribunal process, I must also
officially admonish you Sire Farnum not to give out any more interviews
to the IFB until the process has at last reached its final conclusion.  I
would like to add---" he paused for effect, "Any attempt to introduce  to
introduce Lieutenant Starbuck's escape to Ursus Speleaus as part of the
evidence against him will be immediately ruled inadmissible. From this
centon forward, I expect you to  consider this and all other unfortunate
incidents of these past few days to be closed and therefore irrelevant to
the matters that lie before us when Tribunal convenes."
     Farnum bowed his head slightly, trying to shake off the sting of
Adama's words, "Of course, Commander.  You have my assurance of that."
     "That's all then," Adama leaned back in his chair and rang the
intercom for the two security guards waiting to escort Starbuck back to
the brig.  After they had led him away, Farnum then rose from his chair
and departed, leaving Adama alone with Apollo and Boomer.
     "You two are fortunate that Sire Farnum got himself into trouble
with that interview days earlier.  Otherwise, I would have had no
legitimate basis to block Starbuck's foolish stunt from being introduced
as evidence against him." Adama said.
     "It's all his fault when you come right down to it, Commander,"
Boomer said.  "If that gallmonging snitrod had kept his mouth shut on the
IFB, Starbuck wouldn't  have done it."
     "That's not for you to decide," Adama said coldly. "Or me, for that
matter.  As I am committed to impartiality in this matter, I will not
pass judgment on what's really going on inside his head until Tribunal
begins." he paused, "Do you anticipate having an alternate scenario to
present?"
     "We're looking into that, Father," Apollo said, "We might need more
time to come up with what we need though."
     "Out of the question," Adama said flatly, "I had to bend the
Tribunal law for capital crimes requiring that proceedings begin no more
than 48 centars after charges are filed because of Starbuck's escape. 
The clock has now started ticking again, and technically you have only 36
centars left."
     "I'm just not sure that's going to be easy.  Boomer and I are on our
way to the Rising Star to pursue the only lead we've got so far, but it
might not lead us to the source of what we're looking for."
     "What are you looking for?" Adama leaned forward with curiosity.
     "Someone named Charybdis."
     Adama suddenly froze.  "Charybdis?"
     "Yes," Apollo suddenly frowned, "You know that name?"
     "I certainly do," the commander's voice became a mixture of surprise
and grave seriousness, "And the two of you should be familiar with it as
well.  It was at the top of a circular that was distributed to all
warriors during the cross-checking of survivors following the Holocaust."
     Boomer suddenly snapped his fingers, "Wait a centon, I think I
remember that. Wasn't he on the list of the names of all the men in
Baltar's inner circle?"
     "Exactly," Adama nodded, "Charybdis: Baltar's personal pilot and
electronics expert."
     Light suddenly dawned on Apollo, "He's the one that helped Baltar
get off the Atlantia before the Cylon attack on the Fleet began!"
     "Yes.  But Charybdis did more than just that.  He was also
irrefutably identified as the one who sabotaged the entire Colonial
Defense Network.  He was the reason why Colonial Ground Forces weren't
able to get a single fighter off when the baseships rained their
destruction on all the Colonies."
     "And why nothing ever showed up on the scanners until they were
flying overhead." Apollo was shocked by the sudden turn of events.
     "Perplexing.  What is the connection between Charybdis and Quanto's
murder?" Adama rubbed his chin.
     "Barton is prepared to testify before the Tribunal that the only one
with the guts to kill him was someone he called 'good old Charybdis,'"
Boomer said.
     "Not only that," Apollo interjected, "He also said that Quanto
called Charybdis a 'man of mystery who once made the mistake of letting
Quanto find out why he was a man of mystery. ' "
     Adama found himself nodding fervently, "If true, then I'd say you
have a strong alternate scenario as far as motive goes.  The fate of
Charybdis after the attacks ended was never learned.  It was assumed that
he and the rest of Baltar's inner circle got left behind to the cruelties
of the Cylon occupation forces when they were reported unaccounted for
among the survivors in the Fleet."
     "Which means that Charybdis may be living in the Fleet under a new
identity, and Quanto, because he knew who he really was, had to be
silenced."
     "It's possible," the commander admitted but then added a note of
caution, "But even though you can present an alternate scenario with
regards to who had reason to kill Quanto, it still puts you a long ways
from getting Starbuck off the hook.  You will now have to prove that
someone else had the means and opportunity to steal Starbuck's laser
pistol and use it during that short interval of time."
     "He's right, Apollo," Boomer conceded.
     "Okay," Apollo held up a hand as he tried to sort things out, "Okay,
let's work under the theory that Quanto's killer is Charybdis---"
     "If he is alive and in this Fleet, I know I'd love to get my hands
on him," Adama cut in with an edge of bitterness, "His treachery ranked
second only to Baltar's that night. Sabotaging the Colonial Defense
Network guaranteed a death toll of at least five to ten billion."
     Apollo nodded and resumed, "If Charybdis is our killer, then it's
safe to assume that he has to be someone from the Rising Star.  That's
the only place Quanto could develop any acquaintances, and only a Rising
Star employee could have gotten easy access to the training room areas
without attracting attention.  If we ran a check of Rising Star employees
against a complete description of Charybdis---"
     "Out of the question!" Adama raised his voice again. "The circular
had no file hologram of Charybdis and there never was much of a
description to go on.  As the one member of Baltar's group who always
stayed behind the scenes he was the ideal candidate to carry out the
assignment of sabotaging the system."
     "But surely someone knows what he looks like," Boomer frowned,
"Someone must have seen him then, or he would never have been identified
as the man who sabotaged the system."
     "Someone heard him," Adama said, "It says as much in the full
investigative report I commissioned after the Holocaust.  One of the
survivors was the security guard on duty at the main complex for the
Defense Network in Caprica City, which as you recall was the central
agency that controlled the systems for all of the twelve planets."
     Apollo and Boomer both nodded.
     "It's difficult to understand how this scenario developed, but I'm
sure that we remember the jubilation all and sundry were going through at
the time over the peace treaty that we all thought was at hand, and
caused us to let our guard down.  That night, with everyone on Caprica
getting ready to celebrate, there was only one guard on duty at the
complex.  He told us later that during the afternoon, there was one
visitor to the Complex, who got in using a special Council ID pass.  That
visitor specifically identified himself over the unicom as Charybdis,
personal pilot of Count Baltar, the Council's delegate from Piscera."
     "I think I can guess the rest," Apollo decided to finish, "When the
guard let him in, he was knocked out, and Charybdis went to work."
     "Precisely," Adama nodded.
     "All right, we'll look for the guard then, and see if he can
identify him.  Even if he never saw his face, he'd at least recognize a
voice, or have some idea of his build, height, or something that could
help us narrow things down."
     "I don't suppose you'd have his name in the file?" Boomer felt his
hopes starting to rise.
     "Why, yes, I should have it." Adama got up and went over to a large
wall cabinet on the other side of his office.  When he opened it, large
quantities of both paper and computer disc files could be seen inside. 
"We put it together on such short notice, and in the haste of everything,
I don't think it was ever transferred to a computer file."  He then
pulled out several folders, "Ah, yes, here it is.  The final report on
the cause of the sabotage.  This was also used when the Council tried and
convicted Baltar in absentia."
     He handed the folders to Apollo, who quickly opened them and began
flipping through the pages.  After studying them for more than a centon,
his expression grew disappointed and he almost dropped the file to the
floor.
     "What is it?" Boomer asked with concern.
     "The guard can't help us now," Apollo sighed, "I recognize his name. 
Shields.  He transferred to viper duty after the Battle of Kobol and got
fried by the Sesmar pulsar at Equis."
     A somber silence came over the room, as they realized what that
meant.
     "Boy, are we knee-deep in the felgercarb now," Boomer said.  "Our
alternate scenario's not even worth thinking about it if we can't find
anyone from among the Rising Star employees who can identify Charybdis."
     "It would seem so," Adama sat down again, "But I think the two of
you have forgotten about the other source you can consult."
     "Other source?" Boomer frowned.
     Apollo was staring at his father, and saw him slowly nodding his
head with a mirthless half-smile.
     "Father," he said, "Do you mean---?"
     "Yes," Adama's tone was matter-of-fact, "And at this stage, you
really have don't have any other choice."

*****************************

Chapter Forty-Three: Baltar

     For thirteen sectans, Baltar had known nothing but the emptiness of
his dull cell aboard the Prison Barge.  Unable to do anything except eat
the three meals slipped through the cell door each day, sleep, pace about
or lie down on the uncomfortable bed. Where too often, he simply brooded
and wondered whether or not he was going through the last day of his
sanity.
     He still could not come to terms with how he had come to this
shameful end.  Thirteen sectans ago, he was at the height of his power. 
In command of a Cylon basestar, personally entrusted by the Imperious
Leader to seek out the last remnants of the race he had betrayed and
destroy them.  Granted, he had been through some brutal setbacks of late. 
The loss of two basestars at the hands of Commander Cain at the Battle of
Gomoray had still lingered heavily, but Baltar still had the means to
chase the Galactica and her rag-tag Fleet with his own ship.  At some
point, a new opportunity would arise.
     But that was before the lights had come.  Those mysterious white
lights that traveled faster than the eye could comprehend had somehow
compelled him to leave the safety of his baseship and seek out the
Galactica under a sign of truce.  He had literally expected his fellow
humans to honor the rules of truce and treat him with respect while he
presented the case for a temporary alliance.  But instead, he had been
greeted with cold contempt as the Council of Twelve carried out a
sentence they had agreed on long ago when he had been tried in absentia. 
The rules of truce would not be honored, and Baltar, now that he was in
the hands of Colonial authority would be sent to the Prison Barge for the
rest of his life in total isolation.
     He had tried to protest.  But someone, no something had stopped him
and caused him to drop to his knees in weak horror.  Some scarlet-clad
being calling himself Mr. Morbus.
     And then, days later, that same bizarre figure had appeared in his
cell,  speaking in the familiar tongue of the Cylon Imperious Leader and
further deepening the air of mystery about him.  And then, one last
parting word of what had sounded like reassurance.  He had actually felt
Morbus's hand touching his shoulder.  But how?  Hadn't Morbus been
standing outside his  locked cell, telling him not to give up hope, that
his imprisonment had only been a temporary necessity?
     Since that day, though, there had been nothing but endless
isolation.  None of the privileges normally accorded to prisoners had
ever been granted to him.  He was never allowed out of his cell even for
meals or merely to stretch his legs in the corridor.  And, since the
guards who patrolled outside his cell never could stand the sight of him,
he had very little conversation with anyone. 
     He'd long ago given up any hope that he would wake up one morning
and see the fighters from his baseship launching an assault on the Fleet
in a bid to rescue him.  One benefit of his imprisonment was to spend his
lonely centars realizing how dangerously unreliable Lucifer had been to
him as a second-in-command.  The streak of ambition that had guided him
nearly all his life rested within the IL Cylon as surely as it did within
himself.
     Once that reality had set in he'd wondered how long it would be
before he'd go mad for the rest of his life.  Instead, he found that the
easiest way to fight off insanity was to keep his hate directed at the
ones he felt most responsible for his plight.  And from Baltar's
standpoint, no one was more responsible for his predicament than Adama. 
When Adama had rejected his offer in the tomb of the Ninth Lord of Kobol
to set a trap that would turn the tables on the Cylons, Baltar knew that
his status as an outcast from his race had been cemented for a time
without end.  With no chance to ever achieve what he'd really wanted,
which was revenge against the Cylons for double-crossing him and
destroying his own colony of Piscera and everything that had meaning to
him.
     Thirteen sectans of isolation had served to prove his instincts
right.  Only his hate and a determination to stay alive long enough to
one day act on that hate, was the only thing that had preserved his
sanity.  Could he make that last forever, in a universe where there was
no hope of ever being able to act on that hate?  That was an unanswered
question that frightened him each day.
     "Hey, Baltar. Stand by for a couple of visitors."
     Baltar looked up from his bench at the door where Sergeant Reese of
Council Security stood outside.  There was an aura about Reese that
always managed to keep Baltar convinced that his treason against humanity
had been the right decision.  To him, the whole of human society was fast
becoming a society of Reeses' in the yahrens leading before the
Holocaust.  Unimaginative, dimwitted, and therefore incapable of
summoning the strength necessary to win the war against the Cylons.  With
humanity on a fast track in that direction, it was little wonder that
he'd concluded that the species was doomed unless someone took the
initiative of approaching the Cylons to preserve one enclave.
     Reese was one person he could always feel superior around.  "I have
visitors?" he inquired sarcastically. "Thank Kobol for that.  I'm sure
the company will exceed anything I've had from lower order animals like
yourself."
     The guard felt his muscles tense, but found that he didn't have an
effective retort to use.  Instead, he opened the cell door and motioned
his hand.  "Go right in."
     A micron later, Baltar raised an eyebrow when he saw Apollo enter,
Boomer tagging along behind him.  Baltar didn't know the dark-skinned
warrior, but he was already well-acquainted with Adama's son from that
fateful encounter in the Ninth Lord of Kobol's tomb.  For one brief
micron, Baltar had sensed that Apollo might have been receptive to
Baltar's proposal for striking back against the Cylons.  But the cold,
harsh refutation by his father had seemingly intimidated Apollo, keeping
him from challenging Adama on that point.  And that was something that
made Baltar hate Apollo with as much verve as he hated Adama.  Apollo
could have been his instrument to salvation but he had failed to do what
he should have done.
     "Well, well, Captain Apollo," Baltar increased the sarcasm in his
voice, "How nice to see you again.  It's been a long time since Kobol,
eh?"
     Apollo flinched for only a brief instant as the unpleasant memory of
seeing Serina shot down by one of Baltar's centurions outside the tomb of
the Ninth Lord flashed through his mind.  "This isn't a social call,
Baltar.  We're here because we need some information."
     Right away, Baltar sensed the faintest trace of desperation in the
warrior's voice. In an instant, he knew he had reason to feel good inside
and that he could maintain the upper hand throughout the entire
conversation.
     "You need information from me?" Baltar inquired dubiously. "Now what
could be inside of my skull that would prove useful to you?"
     "It's got something to do with an old friend of yours," Apollo
folded his arms. "Charybdis."
     The sarcasm and taunting suddenly disappeared from Baltar's face as
he heard a name from his past that he had long ago tried to blot out from
his memory.  The memory of a man who had piloted his shuttle off the
Atlantia microns before the Cylon attack began and waited with him in the
"safe zone" while the destruction of the Fleet and the Colonies took
place.  And then, they had flown to Piscera and been the first to realize
that the Cylons had double-crossed them both.  They had landed in
Piscera's devastated capital where Baltar had insisted they wait for the
occupation force to arrive, since Baltar was determined to raise havoc
with the Imperious Leader over the planet's destruction.  But Charybdis
had found an excuse to leave the shuttle, and once he left, Baltar had
never seen him again.  At the very micron when Baltar had needed his best
lieutenant the most, he had been abandoned again.
     "Charybdis? Who's that?" he took on a quizzical aura.
     "Cut the felgercarb Baltar.  You know who we're talking about." 
Apollo raised his voice. 
     Again, Baltar sensed the desperate edge in Apollo's voice, and
wasted no time in reassuming the upper hand.
     "Yes, the name is familiar," he said.  "But what has that to do with
anything?"
     Right away, Apollo went into a five centon summary of Quanto's
murder, Starbuck's arrest and the belief that Charybdis was responsible. 
As Apollo talked, Boomer found himself wishing he had the strength to cut
him off.  Judging from the expression on Baltar's face, Boomer had the
distinct impression that Apollo was making a tactical error in laying
everything out.  But Boomer also knew that if he spoke up and undercut
Apollo in front of Baltar, it might cause even more problems.
     Frack! Boomer thought.  I guess this is the kind of scenario where
our lack of formal protector training really begins to stick out like a
sore thumb.
     "Let me see if I understand what you've just told me, Captain,"
Baltar now seemed amused, "You believe that Charybdis is alive, that he
murdered your Sergeant Quanto and framed Starbuck for that murder?"
     "You're understanding is correct," Apollo said bluntly.
     The human traitor didn't bother to conceal his smirk.  If Starbuck
was in trouble, that was okay with him.  Starbuck was yet another object
of Baltar's hate, since the blonde warrior had been a key component to
his failed dream at Kobol of uniting with Adama to take revenge on the
Cylons.  And how ironic that a man so close to Baltar would have been
responsible for that.
     "You're trying to locate Charybdis, Captain," Baltar kept sneering.
"As you don't know what he looks like, you need my help. You need me to
describe him so you can ultimately identify him."
     "That's it."
     For the first time since his imprisonment, Baltar began to laugh in
that smug tone that he had always reserved for Lucifer.  "You actually
need me.  How ironic.  How pathetic it must seem to you.  Your friend's
life hangs in the balance and I alone am his potential savior."
     Boomer's disgust had reached the point where he wanted to turn
around and walk out.  But Apollo was the one calling the shots, and he
was certain that the captain was determined to try this avenue for as
long as he possibly could.
     "Baltar," Apollo tried to conceal any hint of the desperation he was
feeling inside, "Are you willing to tell us what he looks like?  Are you
also willing to identify him once he's found?"
     The human traitor turned away from the warriors and walked to the
other side of his cell.  His back was still turned to them when he said,
"If it will make you happy, Captain, then I'm willing to do it---"
     For the first time, Apollo felt a sense of relief feel his heart. 
But an instant later, it stopped when Baltar turned back to face them and
flashed a malignant smile their way.  Right away, Apollo knew exactly
what the traitor was going to say.
     "---if you agree to pay my price," Baltar finished his sentence.
     Apollo's shoulders sagged.  "I suppose I don't have to guess what
that is, do I?"
     "Bright lad," Baltar grinned. "You are clearly destined for great
things."
     "I don't have the authority to promise you a pardon or a release
from the Prison Barge," anger now replaced the desperation, "If you
cooperate with us and Charybdis is convicted, then I'm sure the Commander
will see to it that some of the restrictions you live under be lifted."
     "Do you think I want to to eat my meals with all the other dorays
inhabiting this dung heap, Captain?"  Baltar gently retorted.  "There is
but one--only one--- price I am interested in, and that is my legal
recourse for the injustices done to me when I was apprehended in
violation of the rules of truce.  I was convicted and sentenced without
any opportunity to state my defense for the record.  Do you wish me to
continue?"
     "Yes, I wish you to continue," Apollo felt the contempt rising in
his tone, "But in an empty room.  Reese!" he called out, "Open up and let
us out of here!"
     As the guard's footsteps approached, Baltar remained unaffected by
Apollo's defiance. "You'll be back, Captain," the traitor said.  "The
fact that you've come to me only tells me how desperate you are to save
your pathetic little friend.  Oh, Captain, the things you will do to save
him---even if you must pay the price of setting me free!"
     Reese arrived outside the cell and pushed the button that opened the
door.  Apollo and Boomer wasted no time leaving.  Once the door had
closed again, Baltar went up and looked out down the corridor where he
could see the two warriors walking away.
     "Till we meet again, gentlemen!" he called out cheerily as he began
to laugh again.

*****************************

     Five centons later, Apollo and Boomer were flying their shuttle away
from the Prison Barge.
     "I almost threw up back there," Apollo was still shaking as he
guided the controls.  "Lords of Kobol, I can't believe I was dull-witted
enough to even try playing that card.  Baltar'd rather kill himself than
help us."  He then idly glanced at his chronometer. "Twenty four centars
before Tribunal convenes."
     Boomer decided it was time to stop deferring to Apollo.
     "So what do we do now?" the dark-skinned warrior said angrily. "I've
got it: we'll just pack up and forget the whole thing, let them start
preparing Starbuck's cell."
     Apollo glanced sharply at him, "Don't talk like that, dammit!  We've
got to  move on!  Trouble is, our options are now almost down to
nothing."
     "Not true," Boomer retorted, "We've still got what Jeremiah told
you. Table number three in the Rising Star's Chancery.  Let's swing over
there now and see if that leads to something."
     "Where did you think I was flying this piece of felgercarb, you
dumb---" Apollo shouted and then stopped to take a breath.  "Sorry about
that, Boomer," Apollo sighed, "Sorry about that.  It's just that my
nerves are all shot to Hades."
     "Hey, don't sweat it, buddy," Boomer waved his hand.  "I know what
you're going through.  I guess we're both at the breaking point now.  So
far, every lead that ought to have helped Starbuck out has blown up in
our faces."
     "Sheba and Athena were right," Apollo said aloud. "We should have
lined up an experienced protector and let him do the snooping around."
     "It's too late for that now," the dark-skinned warrior grunted. 
"Starbuck's stuck with the both of us and, for his sake, we've got to
deliver."
     Silence reigned over the shuttle for the next few centons as they
assumed a heading toward the Rising Star.  When Apollo ended that reign,
there was an edge of nervousness in his voice.
     "Boomer," he said, "Level with me about something.  For the tiniest
fraction of a micron, have you ever thought it was possible that..." he
trailed off, unable to say what he was thinking.
     "That Starbuck really is guilty after all, and it's just a
coincidence that Quanto was in trouble with Charybdis?" Boomer decided to
finish for him.  He leaned back in his seat, "I lost a lot of sleep the
night before we got Starbuck off Ursus Spelaeus because I was afraid I
might start considering that possibility.  Everything I know about
Starbuck tells me I can never consider it for even a billionth of a
micron.  And yet my own peace of mind dictates that I need to brace
myself for the possibility that it's true when all's said and done."
     "Exactly what I was thinking, buddy," Apollo admitted. "And I had to
come to the conclusion that I couldn't let myself believe it or prepare
for it, even if the cost would be my sanity." he sighed again, "It's now
reached the point where my own fate is all but tied to Starbuck's."
     "You and me both," Boomer said emphatically, "You and me both."  He
then tried to change the subject, "Starbuck never had any luck on the
Rising Star gambling.  Maybe this time the ship will be luckier for him
another way."
     "Yeah," Apollo sighed as the luxury ship came into view, "At this
micron, Starbuck's fate may very well rest with a dealer at a pyramid
table."

*****************************
 
     Ten centons later, Apollo and Boomer were inside the Chancery just
off the Astral Lounge.  Even though it had only been a sectan since
Apollo had last been here, on the day when he and Starbuck had met
Jeremiah, it seemed like a lifetime ago.
     "Table three's that way," Apollo pointed.
     "Let's pray this isn't another dead end," Boomer sighed as they
started walking toward it.
     Apollo abruptly stopped in his tracks and grabbed his friend's arm.
     "I don't think it is," the black-haired captain whispered, "Take a
look at the dealer there."
     Boomer frowned as he saw the balding, beak-nosed man dealing out
pyramid cards to several customers.  "Good Kobol!  Do you know who that
is?"
     "I sure do," Apollo felt as if a light had suddenly been turned on
in a darkened room, "That's Verrah."
     Boomer glanced back at Apollo, "He's the one who found Quanto's
body!"
     "Damn right!" Apollo nodded, "I do believe the pieces of this puzzle
are finally starting to come together."  A satisfied smile then came over
his face. "And I think we've got our alternate scenario for Tribunal."
     Boomer felt slightly uneasy, "Aren't you jumping the gun just a bit
there?  I think we need to go over there and probe him with a few
questions first."
     "You mean tip him off?" Apollo gently shot back and shook his head,
"No way. Tomorrow, we call him as a witness and then we spring our
surprise on him.  In the meantime, let's get prepared with some
background data we'll be needing."
     "What kind of data?"
     "You go talk to the Chancery's pit boss, see to it that all records
pertaining to Table Three winnings are impounded as evidence.  We'll need
them to substantiate that Quanto's earnings came specifically from there. 
I'll be heading back to the Galactica and another trip to Komma and his
computers to do a check on Verrah.  I have a feeling that I won't be
finding very much personal background data.  If both of those points
check out, then we're all set for tomorrow."
     Boomer stared at the dealer and slowly took a breath.  "Okay," he
said, "I'll get on it.  I just hope this buys Starbuck the time he
needs."

*****************************

Chapter Forty-Four: The Alternate Scenario

     That evening, Apollo and Boomer were in the empty chamber where the
Council of Twelve normally met, using the conference table to go over all
the material for the Tribunal.
     "We've got it," Apollo said with satisfaction, "The alternate
scenario that meets all the required steps to guarantee a lengthy
continuance.  Verrah has opportunity, means, and, if these Chancery
records are anything to go by, I'd say he's been rather handsomely paying
off Quanto."
     "Yeah, but do you think we should press ahead though and try to peg
Verrah as Charybdis?" Boomer asked. "Just because Verrah's guilty doesn't
mean that the Charybdis angle's true."
     Apollo forcefully shook his head, "I don't buy that. Barton's
statement about Charybdis being the only one with the guts to kill Quanto
is crucial to establishing a motive.  Now, if we find another guy with
means and opportunity it can only lead us ultimately to Charybdis.  If
not, then Barton's testimony becomes worthless.  The only we can impress
the Tribunal overseers is to keep our scenario narrowly focused on
Charybdis."
     "All righty," Boomer leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Tomorrow
morning, Farnum will start things off by entering all the physical
evidence into the record that points to Starbuck's guilt.  Then the
overseers will ask us if we intend to present an alternate scenario. 
You'll make the opening statement and then the witnesses start from our
side. How many do you want to call to the stand before we get to Verrah
and spring our surprises on him?"
     "Two," Apollo said. "Barton and another old acquaintance of Quanto's
who'll help us to further cement the connection with Charybdis."
     "I don't feel as comfortable with this as you do, Apollo," Boomer
declared. "I know that Verrah opens up a lot of interesting
possibilities, yet---I just don't think that he's the end result of all
this."
     "What else can he end up with?" the captain retorted. "With all his
connections to Quanto he just happened to be down in that area.  Doesn't
that strike you as odd?"
     "It certainly does," Boomer said, "In spite of everything..."
     "We've got more than enough to present an alternate scenario that
points an accusing finger at Verrah," Apollo went on with determination. 
"The longer we drag out the process, the greater the odds that we end up
getting Starbuck acquitted.  As I see it, we either go full blast with
this or write Starbuck off."
     "I hope you're right," Boomer said quietly as he leaned back in his
chair, "By all the Lords I hope you're right."

*****************************

     When Apollo returned to his quarters a centar later, he felt
exhausted.  The most difficult day of his life now lay ahead and the one
thing he wanted more than anything else was rest.
     "Dad?"
     He looked up and was surprised to see Boxey standing in front of the
door that led to his own room, with his beloved Muffit at the side of
him.
     "Boxey," Apollo came up to his son and gave him a quick hug. "Why
are you're up so late?"
     "Because....I want you to tell me that Starbuck's gonna to be okay."
There was a sullen, depressed tone in the little boy's voice, "They keep
saying he's guilty and that he's going to go the Prison Barge."
     "Well, just because they say something doesn't mean it's true,
Boxey." Apollo said gently, inwardly scolding himself for putting off
that talk he knew he should've had with his son when this fiasco started. 
"Boomer and I have been busting our tails off looking for the things that
are going to prove he's innocent.  And you know what?" he looked him in
the eye, "It's all going to work out."
     "No it won't," Boxey seemed convinced that his hero was going to go
down in flames. "It won't."
     "Hey, now where's that coming from?" He kept looking him in the eye,
"Don't you trust me, son?   Don't I always keep my promise when I tell
you I'm going to come back from a difficult mission?"
     "Yeah."
     "Well, that's exactly what this is: another difficult mission that
I'm going to come back from and Starbuck's going to come back with me. 
It's just that we're fighting something different than the Cylons this
time."
     "What's that?"
     Apollo sighed.  Boxey was just a child who's world was black and
white.  He was too young to understand that a system of justice designed
to protect the rights of each individual can also let the individual
down, as it let Starbuck down in this instance.
     "Let me put it this way, Boxey.  Some people have made a big
mistake, and Boomer and I have to point out to them why they've made a
mistake and why it's not possible for Starbuck to be guilty."
     "S'pose they don't realize they've made a mistake?"
     His father took a breath, "They won't Boxey.  That's because the
truth is stronger than any mistake someone makes.  Even a mistake as big
as the one they've made against Starbuck." he smiled, "Now you go to bed
and don't worry a thing about it."
     Boxey returned the smile and kissed him on the cheek, "Good night,
Dad," he said as he went back into his room with Muffit trailing.
     When the door closed, Apollo realized again that the peace of mind
of so many people was resting on the outcome of what happened tomorrow. 
It had now moved beyond even the impact on Starbuck's life.

*****************************

     The next morning, the special chamber aboard the Galactica where
formal Tribunal sessions took place was crowded with spectators who had
come to see the fate of Lieutenant Starbuck decided.  In one cluster,
Athena, Cassiopeia, Sheba and a stoic Jeremiah, white hat on head, sat
together.  Behind them sat Jolly, Greenbean, Giles and Bojay.
     Two tables lay in front of the spectators gallery.  Sire Farnum sat
at the table to the spectators right.  At the table to the left sat
Apollo, Boomer and Starbuck.  Ahead of them, sitting up on a raised
platform overlooking the gallery were the three Overseers. Adama sat on
the far left, in the position of Chief Overseer.  Next to him sat the
military's representative, Admiral Zhark, one-time commander of the
Battlestar Ricon and the Colonial Fleet, while on the far right sat the
civilian representative, the genial-faced Sire Gant.  If Starbuck had
been a civilian then the Tribunal would have been comprised solely of
three civilian overseers.  In this instance, trial of a member of the
Colonial Service meant two military and one civilian overseer, with the
Fleet Commander acting as Chief Overseer.
     The ringing of the ceremonial bell indicated that the Tribunal was
ready to begin.  All conversation in the galleries came to an end and
every pair of eyes now locked on Adama.


*****************************

Transcript Of Lieutenant Starbuck's Tribunal Proceedings, Part 1:

     ADAMA: "Know that this Tribunal of the Colonial Nation against
Lieutenant Starbuck has begun.  All shall now come to order.  At this
time, will the Chief Opposer for the state please submit the bill of
indictment against the accused to this Tribunal?"
     FARNUM: "It is charged that on the 211th day of the yahren 7352, 
the accused, one Lieutenant Starbuck of the Colonial Service did with
total premeditation cause the termination of the victim, Wing Sergeant
Quanto, by means of a single laser shot.  Said charge was made upon the
undeniable fact that the accused's weapon was discovered, through
irrefutable scientific testing, to be the weapon of termination.  Know
that the accused was also seen by an eyewitness fleeing the scene of the
murder only mere centons after he and the victim had engaged in a violent
altercation during the course of a triad match, and nearly came to blows
again just afterwards.  Know that the accused was known to have had
long-standing hatred of the victim and on more than one occasion was
heard by others to have made statements implying the threat of physical
violence against the victim.  Lastly, all must know that the accused
alone had the means, opportunity and motive to perform said termination
of the victim, Wing Sergeant Quanto."
     ADAMA: "Thank you, Sire Farnum.  The members of this tribunal,
Admiral Zhark, Sire Gant, and myself, have all had the opportunity to
review the evidence presented by the state at the time of Lieutenant
Starbuck's indictment.  As this is a capital offense, subject to the
codes established by the Colonial Council of Twelve in relation to the
suspension of the death penalty in 7204, the protectors for the accused
are now asked if they intend to present any evidence to this Tribunal
that would suggest an alternate scenario to that presented by the state
in the bill of indictment."
     APOLLO: "We are prepared to do so."
     ADAMA: "Very well.  We will now hear your alternate scenario for the
record.  The chief protector is henceforth reminded that in order for
this Tribunal to give consideration to any alternate scenario, it must
take into account and provide explanations for all of the relevant
evidence introduced by the State, and must also be prepared to provide
further evidence that lends credibility to the alternate scenario."
     APOLLO: "Sire Farnum, esteemed members of the Tribunal, the
circumstances that led to Sergeant Quanto's termination have their
origins during the tragedy that led to our flight across the stars.  They
begin during a critical time prior to the Holocaust when Sergeant Quanto,
through a series of unexpected circumstances, found himself privy to the
identity of a man whose treachery was greater than any other's that
night, with the particular exception of the notorious Baltar.
     "For the past yahren, Sergeant Quanto, alone among our entire
population, knew that this traitor to the Colonial Nation was in our
midst, living in the Fleet under a new identity.  But rather than using
said knowledge to do his duty as a warrior in the Colonial Service and
have this traitor placed under arrest, he instead used it for the sake of
personal gain.  He orchestrated a long-standing campaign of blackmail
that ensured that he would enjoy a lifestyle far more comfortable than
that of the average warrior.
     "When Sergeant Quanto was murdered, it was not by the hand of
Lieutenant Starbuck, one of the finest warriors of record.  Yes, there
was genuine long-standing hatred between the accused and the victim, but
at no time did Lieutenant Starbuck ever contemplate the horrible crime of
which he now stands accused. For more than seven yahrens, Lieutenant
Starbuck has been among the finest warriors ever to serve the Colonial
nation.  He's risked his life countless times to defend the principles
that have made our fight against the Cylon Empire a just cause.
Lieutenant Starbuck, like any other warrior who has bravely placed
himself in harm's way, is well aware that among the most powerful of our
codes is that no crime is greater than that of a human taking the life of
another.
     "Murder.  Termination. Call it what you will.  But always remember
that the only kind of person able to committ the greatest mockery to our
codes is someone who has demonstrated in the past that he had no respect
for those codes in the beginning.  Lieutenant Starbuck does not fit that
profile. But the real killer of---"
     ZHARK: "Captain Apollo, I have been sitting here patiently waiting
for you to give us a name according to the alternate scenario and instead
you've been dragging things out in a very irregular, almost theatrical
manner.  You have obviously never taken part in a Capital Tribunal
proceeding,  so I shan't be quite as harsh with you as I would with an
experienced protector.  However, I must point out that we, as overseers,
expect punctuality and succinctness in an alternate scenario when it is
presented for the first time."
     APOLLO: "My apologies, Admiral.  The real killer of Sergeant Quanto
is a man called Charybdis.  Yes, I mean that Charybdis, the man who was
singlehandedly responsible for the deaths of billions of people when he
sabotaged the Colonial Defense Network prior to the Cylon Holocaust is
alive and well in this Fleet. He terminated Quanto because Quanto knew
who he was, and was blackmailing him.  We will demonstrate to this
Tribunal that Charybdis had access to the Training Room areas because he
is in fact in this Fleet as an employee on the Rising Star.  We will show
that while Lieutenant Starbuck was in the turbowash, Charybdis took his
laser pistol, terminated Sergeant Quanto and then returned it to
Lieutenant Starbuck's locker."
     ADAMA: "Thank you Captain Apollo.  Are you prepared to introduce
evidence to this Tribunal to validate your alternate scenario?"
     APOLLO:  "We are sir.  As a preliminary, we wish to place before the
Tribunal, the report of the Council of Twelve concerning the sabotage of
the Colonial Defense Network at the time of the Holocaust, and the
identification of Charybdis as the saboteur."
     ADAMA: "Does the state protest?"
     FARNUM: "The state does not protest.  We will stipulate for the
record the accuracy of the Council's report."
     ADAMA: "You may proceed, Captain."
     APOLLO: "At this time, we wish to call witnesses who will establish
that the victim was indeed acquainted with Charybdis."
     ADAMA: "Do my fellow overseers protest at this point, or do they
find sufficient grounds to continue exploration of the alternate
scenario?"
     ZHARK: "No."
     GANT:   "No."
     ADAMA: "And you, Sire Farnum?"
     FARNUM: "No."
     ADAMA: "Call your first witness, Captain Apollo."
     APOLLO: "We call Flight Sergeant Barton."
     TRIBUNAL OFFICER: "Do you solemnly vow upon the Book of the Word and
the Lords of Kobol that what you are about to report to this Tribunal
shall be factual and correct?"
     BARTON: "I so vow." 
     ADAMA: "Please state for the record your name and current
designation." Adama instructed.
     BARTON:  "My name is Barton.  I am a Flight Sergeant presently
assigned to viper duty in Red Squadron."
     ADAMA: "Proceed with the witness." 
     APOLLO: "Thank you. Sergeant Barton, were you acquainted with the
victim?"
     BARTON: "Yes."
     APOLLO: "How did you know him?"
     BARTON: "Sergeant Quanto was my wingmate in Red Squadron for the
past four sectars as well as my partner in the triad league."
     APOLLO: "Sergeant Barton, did Sergeant Quanto ever think that the
accused, Lieutenant Starbuck, might kill him?"
     FARNUM: "I protest!  The Chief Protector is trying to make the
witness assume state of mind for someone else."
     ADAMA: "Upheld.  Restate your question, Captain Apollo.  The witness
is not allowed to make assumptions about everything that went through
Sergeant Quanto's mind."
     APOLLO: "Uh...yes.  Ah...Sergeant Barton, did Quanto ever say to you
personally at any time that he feared an attempt on his life from
Lieutenant Starbuck?"
     BARTON: "No sir, he didn't."
     APOLLO: "Did he ever convey the thought that anyone might kill him?"
     BARTON: "Yes sir, he did."
     APOLLO: "Please tell the Tribunal who he said might kill him."
     FARNUM: "I protest! This is secondhand information, and totally
useless in terms of establishing the truth."
     ADAMA: "Disallowed. Sergeant Barton is providing an eyewitness
account of what he heard.  That's perfectly admissible under the codes,
as you know.  You may answer the question, Sergeant."
     (Barton repeats the story he had told Apollo and Boomer about Quanto
saying that only 'good old Charybdis' had the guts to kill him.)
     APOLLO: "At the time did the name Charybdis mean anything to you?"
     BARTON: "No sir.  The handout listing all the names from Baltar's
operation totally escaped my memory.  I wish it hadn't, because had I
remembered the name I certainly would have reported what Quanto said to
my superior, Lieutenant Boomer."
     APOLLO: "Did Quanto say anything else about Charybdis?"
     BARTON: "He did.  When I asked who Charybdis was, he just laughed
and said he was a man of mystery who once made the mistake of letting him
find out why he was a man of mystery."
     APOLLO: "A man of mystery. That's a very interesting comment."
     ZHARK: "Captain Apollo, I will not warn you again about engaging in
theatrics!  Let your evidence speak for itself and kindly move on!"
     GANT: "My dear Admiral Zhark, I think the dignity of these
proceedings would be much better preserved if only you would refrain from
pestering the Chief Protector. Surely we all recognize that, as this is
his first case, he is not apt to grasp every nicety or mannerism with
which a professional protector conducts himself.  You only suggest a
prejudiced attitude otherwise."
     ZHARK: "My fellow overseer is out of line!  I reserve the right to
insist upon orderliness and appropriate decorum for these proceedings. 
Furthermore, I resent his implication that I am being biased toward the
Protector!"
     ADAMA: "My fellow overseers will refrain from any further
distractions to these proceedings. This exchange is irrelevant and a
waste of time.  But it is the opinion of the Chief Overseer that Captain
Apollo should be permitted to present his evidence in any way that at
least maintains the spirit, even if not the precise letter, of the codes
governing these proceedings.  You may now continue, Captain Apollo."
     APOLLO: "Thank you Commander.  I have no further questions at this
time."
     ADAMA: "Sire Farnum, do you wish to question the witness?"
     FARNUM: "I do. Sergeant Barton," Farnum began, "You have testified
that when
Sergeant Quanto mentioned this Charybdis person, it was prompted by a
comment you made to him while you were both on deep patrol."
     BARTON: "Yes."
     FARNUM: "Would you repeat again your exact words that you said?"
     BARTON:  "I believe I said something to the effect that if Quanto
kept acting the way he did away from his viper and away from the triad
court, someone might snap and kill him someday."
     FARNUM: "But that wasn't all you mentioned Sergeant.  Did you
mention any names?"
     BARTON:  "I said that the way Starbuck was looking him in the eye, I
wouldn't be a bit surprised he were the one at the top of the suspect
list."
     FARNUM: "Really?  Now why would you think that Starbuck, a whole
sectan before the triad match took place, would have reason to snap
someday and kill Sergeant Quanto?"
     APOLLO: "Now wait a centon! Uh, I mean, I protest.  The, ah...the
ah, Chief Opposer is bringing in matters completely irrelevant to these,
ah..."
     ADAMA: "Disallowed. You may answer the question, Sergeant."
     BARTON: "Well, the only reason I mentioned Starbuck was because of
what had happened earlier, before Quanto and I got put on deep patrol." 
     FARNUM: "And what happened?" 
     BARTON: "Quanto and Starbuck almost had a brawl in the Officers
Club. Quanto was giving Starbuck a lot of  verbal garbage about the
upcoming match and Starbuck got up from his table and said a few words. 
They might have come to blows if Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer
hadn't arrived to break it up."
     FARNUM: "What did Lieutenant Starbuck say?"
     BARTON: "He said that after the match, Quanto wouldn't be in any
condition to go near a bar.  And that he had a new strategy that would
wipe the smirk off his face forever."
     FARNUM: "I see. I have no further questions."
     ADAMA: "Your next witness?"   
     APOLLO: "We call Chief Jorsu."
     ADAMA: "Please state your name and designation for the record."
     JORSU: "My name is Jorsu and I'm presently attached as Class G-1
employee aboard the passenger ship Joronon as Chief of Operations."
     APOLLO: "Chief Jorsu, what was your designation prior to the
Joronon?"
     JORSU: "I was attached to the Colonial Service for twenty-three
yahrens until they honorably retired me five sectars ago with the rank of
Chief Master Sergeant."
     APOLLO: "What area of the Service were you attached to?"
     JORSU: "Colonial Security.  I spent five yahrens aboard the
Battlestar
Acropolis, and the next eighteen attached to District Headquarters on
Caprica."
     APOLLO: "Did you know the victim, Sergeant Quanto?"
     JORSU: "Yes. For more than a yahren, he was my partner in the
Colonial Security unit assigned to the Caprica City Aerodrome."
     APOLLO: "This was the yahren leading up to the Holocaust?"
     JORSU: "Yes."
     APOLLO: "Were you and Sergeant Quanto, in fact, on duty together on
the afternoon and evening prior to the Holocaust?"
     JORSU: "Yes, we were."
     APOLLO: "What was your impression of Sergeant Quanto?"
     JORSU: "I hated the man, to put it bluntly.  He was difficult to
work with and constantly getting himself into trouble."
     APOLLO: "Were you aware of his gambling habits?"
     FARNUM: "I protest! This is completely irrelevant."
     APOLLO: "Relevancy will be established soon. It is our contention
that Sergeant Quanto's gambling skills at this point in time have a
bearing in proving our contention that Charybdis was his true killer."
     ADAMA: "I'll let you proceed for now, Captain Apollo, but if it
becomes clear to a majority of the Overseers that you are not
demonstrating relevance, we will not hesitate to have the testimony
stricken from the record."
     APOLLO: "Thank you. Were you aware of his gambling habits during the
yahren you worked with him on Caprica?"
     JORSU: "Oh yes. In the time I knew him, Quanto ran up a debt well
into five figures of cubits.  He had to pay off his creditors by pulling
double shifts in order to earn extra pay vouchers."
     APOLLO: "So he was, to put it mildly, an unsuccessful gambler with
no apparent proficiency at any of the games."
     JORSU: "That's a mild way of putting it, but it is true."
     APOLLO: "And on the night of the Holocaust, was Sergeant Quanto
planning to pull a double shift again?"
     JORSU: "Yes, on the night when every single warrior in the service
was anxious to be home celebrating the so-called 'Peace Conference,'
Quanto was pulling double duty again."
     APOLLO: "Meaning that he had yet to correct his problem by that
point."
     JORSU: "That's right."
     APOLLO: "Could you briefly explain what your duties were at the
Caprica City Aerodrome with Sergeant Quanto?"
     JORSU: "Our job was to man the checkpoint for entry to the military
section of the Aerodrome.  Any hovermobile or person who wanted access
had to be cleared officially by us first before they could proceed.  No
exceptions permitted."
     APOLLO: "In all that time that you and Sergeant Quanto spent on that
last shift before the Holocaust took place, how heavy was the traffic
that day?"
     JORSU: "Non-existent. No one wanted to go off planet that night.
They all wanted to stay on Caprica for the celebrations that were
supposed to take place."
     APOLLO: "So in all that time, no one came by trying to get access to
the military side of the Aerodrome?"
     JORSU: "No sir. No, wait....one person did come by in a hovermobile
at about 1700 that afternoon."
     APOLLO: "Do you know who that was?"
     JORSU: "I'm afraid I don't, sir.  I had gone inside to the
guardhouse for a cup of nearcaf.  I only heard the hovermobile pull up to
the Checkpoint.  I can tell you it was going very fast and for a micron I
almost thought it was going to crash into the force barrier and cause a
big mess."
     APOLLO: "But it didn't."
     JORSU: "No."
     APOLLO: "And Sergeant Quanto handled that one person who gained
access to the military zone?"
     JORSU: "He did.  When I came out and I asked him about it, he just
kind of laughed and said that the man had shown him everything he needed
to see, and then Quanto shut up and never said another word about it."
     APOLLO: "I will now call the Tribunal's attention to section two,
page two of the Council report on the sabotage of the Colonial Defense
Network that was earlier admitted to the record and stipulated to by the
State.  If I may be permitted to read the relevant section?"
     ADAMA: "Any protest?" 
     FARNUM: "No." 
     APOLLO: " 'At 1219 that day, the Caprica City Aerodrome Operations
Center gave permission to a shuttle bearing Count Baltar of Piscera to
land on the military side of the Aerodrome.  The Operations Center
contacted the shuttle and asked how long they planned to stay or if they
needed to bring their shuttle to a nearby hangar.  Count Baltar stated
that his personal pilot was conducting a personal errand in Caprica City
and would return within several centars to take him on to the Peace
Conference aboard the Battlestar Atlantia.  At 1704, two centars after
the incident in which Security Officer Shields stated he was knocked out
while on duty at the Colonial Defense Network Complex, Count Baltar's
shuttle finally left the Aerodrome.  No one at the Operations Center can
recall though if his pilot was ever permitted back in or if Colonial
Security had contacted the Operations Center to ask for clearance for his
returning pilot, Charybdis.' That would be exactly four centons after
this one person driving the fast hovermobile was allowed to pass by
Sergeant Quanto, would it not?"
     JORSU: "It would."
     APOLLO: "When had your shift began?"
     JORSU: "At 1400."
     APOLLO: "And no one had come by at all during that time except for
that
one man at 1700?"
     JORSU: "No one."
     APOLLO: "Now Chief Jorsu, would it be logical to assume that
Sergeant Quanto would have seen the face of whoever it was that went
through at that point?"
     JORSU: "He had to have seen it, and he had to have seen what his
name was."
     APOLLO: "Thank you. I have no further questions."
     ADAMA: "Sire Farnum?"
     FARNUM: "No questions."
     ADAMA: "You are dismissed Chief Jorsu.  Thank you for your
participation." 

*****************************

Chapter Forty-Five: The Man Called Verrah

     All morning, ever since he had been informed that he was going to be
called before the Tribunal, Verrah had felt a persistent sensation of
being sick to his stomach.  Going into more details about Quanto's death
was the last thing he wanted to do.  He'd already felt he'd caught the
luckiest break of his life when he saw Starbuck running from the scene
and then stumbled upon the red-haired sergeant's body microns later.  The
thought that his relief and sense of safety at long last would be yanked
out from under his feet was something he found too cruel to consider.
     Now, he'd spent the last twenty centons in the outer chamber with
Barton and Jorsu, unable to speak to either one under the codes, forced
to wait in silence until the door was opened and he was called in to the
chamber.
     He sat and watched as Barton was called in first, and then Jorsu. 
Now, he was all alone in the outer chamber and could feel his inner
tension forcing its way out. A nervous tapping of his right foot.  The
perspiration breaking out on the shiny ball of his nearly hairless head.
     When the door swung open, he felt his heart nearly go into his
throat.  The moment had come, and he hoped it would pass quickly and he
could leave the Tribunal with his sense of security restored.  He got up,
straightened his tunic and walked into the chamber at a steady, even
pace, stopping in front of the Tribunal Officer to take the appropriate
oath before taking his seat on the witness platform.
     In the spectators gallery, Cassiopeia found herself holding her
breath, hoping that this witness would lead to more promising results. 
She could feel Jeremiah taking her hand and squeezing it.  She noticed
right away how his hand was shaking, indicating how much inner anguish he
was going through.
     Next to them, Sheba was frowning slightly as she watched the witness
take the oath and then his seat.  That undefinable chord of recognition
that she'd felt when she'd seen Verrah the night of the murder was coming
back to her again.
     Why does he look so familiar to me? Sheba wondered.

*****************************

Transcript Of Lieutenant Starbuck's Tribunal Proceedings, Part 2:

     ADAMA: "Please state your name and designation for the record."
     VERRAH: "My name is Verrah.  I am a G-4 employee attached to the
Rising Star, working in the Main Chancery."
     ADAMA: "Proceed, Captain Apollo."
     APOLLO: "Now Verrah, I don't want to waste time rehashing most of
what you said in your deposition the night of the murder and which has
been entered previously by Sire Farnum.  However, I was wondering if you
could at least restate for the record, why you happened to be down in
that area at that particular time?"
     VERRAH: "As I said before, I went off-duty at 2130 and set off to
the Astral Lounge to watch the match.  When the ejection took place and I
saw that a lot of people were leaving, I believed that my chance to watch
some of the game from one of the choice seats had finally come.  That is
but one of the benefits of being a Rising Star employee, you see."
     APOLLO: "In other words, you just wanted to enjoy watching a triad
match from a seat that ordinarily you could never have paid full price
for."
     VERRAH: "Precisely."
     APOLLO: "And even though there really wasn't much of a game left to
watch after the double ejection, you figured it was worth getting there
anyway?"
     VERRAH: "It seemed like something worth doing at the time."
     APOLLO: "Okay.  So you left the Astral Lounge and were going to the
triad court when you ran into Lieutenant Starbuck in the corridor outside
the training rooms."
     VERRAH: "I did."
     APOLLO: "Is that the most direct way to get from the Astral Lounge
to the Spectators Gallery?"
     VERRAH: "I do...not understand....the question."
     APOLLO: "I'll rephrase it, then.  The route you took from the Astral
Lounge to the Spectators Gallery.  Is the most direct way there by way of
the training room areas?"
     VERRAH: "Uh...well no, but---"
     APOLLO: "In point of fact, the quickest way from the Astral Lounge
is to use the main corridor and the main turbo lift down to level three,
isn't it?"
     VERRAH: "I suppose so."
     APOLLO: "You suppose so?  As a Rising Star employee, you're trained
to know the layout of that ship inside out, aren't you?"
     VERRAH: "Yes, but...well you see with all those crowds leaving the
game, I would have probably run into too many of them and not gotten to
the Gallery in time before the game was over."
     APOLLO: "So you were down by the training rooms at that particular
time because you wanted to avoid the crowds and find an easy way to get
to a choice seat for the rest of the game?"
     VERRAH: "Yes, yes.  That's it."
     APOLLO: "Tell me Verrah, had you ever met Sergeant Quanto before?"
     FARNUM: "I protest! Irrelevant."
     ADAMA: "Disallowed. Proceed."
     APOLLO: "Thank you. Had you ever met Sergeant Quanto before?"
     VERRAH: "I knew who he was." 
     APOLLO: "That's not what I asked, Verrah.  Practically everyone in
the Fleet who follows triad knew who Quanto was.  But were you acquainted
with him personally?"
     VERRAH: "No."
     APOLLO: "Fascinating.  According to your Fleet Personnel File, which
at this time I would like to enter into the record, when you were logged
in among the survivors of the Fleet, it was by Sergeant Quanto, who was
attached to Colonial Security at the time."
     VERRAH: "But...how can I  remember someone from one chance meeting
during one of the worst days of my life, and anyone else's life?"
     APOLLO: "All right, we'll concede that for argument's sake, Verrah.
But are you then saying to this Tribunal that there are no other
occasions when you've ever met Sergeant Quanto?"
     VERRAH: "I did not  say that. I only said I wasn't acquainted with
him."
     APOLLO: "Then that means you have met him before?"
     VERRAH: "I am certain that I have seen him around the Rising Star on
occasion."
     APOLLO: "Like maybe at your Pyramid table?" 
     VERRAH: "I....do not know. I do not remember him playing at my
table.  He might have, but I am unable to recall if he did."
     APOLLO: "Well now that's interesting. For a Pyramid dealer who has
to keep track of all the cards on the table, you have one very poor
memory."
     FARNUM: "I protest!  The Chief Protector is harassing the witness."
     ADAMA: "Captain Apollo. Rephrase your last statement in the form of
a direct question to the witness, and do not make any speeches."
     APOLLO: "Of course. Are you then saying Verrah, that in spite of the
fact that as a Pyramid dealer who has to always know what cards are on
the table and who he's dealing them too, you have no recollection of
Quanto ever playing at your table?"
     VERRAH: "That is precisely what I'm saying.  They only pay me to
remember the cards.  I go through more than a hundred customers a day so
how can I remember every one after a while?"
     APOLLO: "Okay, we'll concede that.  But there are always bound to be
customers that stick out more than others, aren't there?"
     FARNUM: "I protest!  Chief Protector's question calls for a
conclusion!"
     ADAMA: "Disallowed, considering that the witness should be an expert
on the subject.  Proceed."
     VERRAH: "I ah...Well yes, some can be more memorable than others."
     APOLLO: "Especially if they're a big winner, right?  I mean, we
might as well admit it, Pyramid is not an easy game to master, and the
vast majority of your customers are losers, aren't they?"
     VERRAH: "Yes, that is so."
     APOLLO: "But a customer who went on a winning streak at Pyramid
would be one worth remembering, wouldn't he?"
     VERRAH: "I believe so."
     APOLLO: "You believe so? Verrah, I want you to take a look at this. 
It's the records for your Pyramid table in terms of net earnings and
losses for the last six sectars.  If there are no objections may I enter
this into the record?"
     ADAMA: "Any protests?" 
     (Zhark and Gant both shake their heads.)
     APOLLO: "Now that's an interesting list, isn't it Verrah? Compared
to all the other tables in the Chancery, yours has a surprisingly lower
net take.  In fact, there is a clear pattern of heavy losses sustained on
a number of occasions."
     VERRAH: "I will admit that we have had some....'smart' customers in
the past."
     APOLLO: "Oh really? Since by your own admission, a winning customer
is the kind you never forget, why don't we find out who they are?  And
let me remind you Verrah, that any name you give us can be checked out in
an instant."
     ADAMA: "The witness will answer the question.  And I will remind the
witness that the penalty for lying to this Tribunal is quite severe."
     VERRAH: "Very well.  I shall not deny it to my Masters any longer. 
I knew Quanto.  He was a frequent winner at my  table.  And on the night
of his murder I was down by the training rooms because I was on my way to
meet him."
     APOLLO: "You were on your way to meet him?"
     VERRAH: "Yes.  Earlier that afternoon, I received a telecom from
Quanto.  He wanted me to meet him down in the training room at exactly
2210."
     APOLLO: "At exactly 2210? Now Verrah, you had to know that there was
no way that Quanto was going to be finished with the match at that time,
didn't you?"
     VERRAH: "Yes, I knew that, which was why I found the whole thing
odd. But when I saw him get thrown out of the game, I presumed that he
had probably planned on having that happen all along."
     FARNUM: "I protest! That is pure speculation."
     ADAMA: "Upheld. The last portion of the answer will be stricken."
     APOLLO: "Okay Verrah.  Why would you be meeting with Quanto to begin
with?"
     VERRAH: "Because Quanto was blackmailing me.  He had been
blackmailing me ever since we met during the Exodus, and my letting him
win at Pyramid was a way to pay him off."
     (A gasp arises from the galleries, prompting Adama to ring the
ceremonial bell twice.)
     ADAMA: "The galleries will be silent, now!" 
     APOLLO: "He was blackmailing you about what?"
     VERRAH: "Because he saw me do something that under Colonial law
would mean a penalty of ten yahrens imprisonment at least.  My name is
not Verrah.  It's really Phanzig, formerly the principal executive
schemer of the Delta Commercial Alliance of Caprica.  We were a major
conglomerate, with oversight over more than one hundred different private
businesses planetwide.  The night of the Final Destruction, I was on my
way to a social gathering at the main D.C.A. Complex for the Peace
Ceremony.  I took refuge in a downtown Caprica City shelter and that was
where I heard Commander Adama's announcement about the evacuation of the
Colonies and how everyone had to get to the nearest available ships.
     "I knew that the D.C.A. maintained a private shuttle of their own at
the Caprica City Aerodrome, and I assumed that it would be my only chance
to get off Caprica before the Cylon occupation forces arrived.  But by
the time I made it to the Aerodrome, the D.C.A. shuttle had long since
departed from  Caprica, and there were mobs upon mobs of people fighting
for spots on all the remaining ships that were there.  That's
when...That's when I did a very terrible thing to save my life.  I
managed to force my way into the line where the Rising Star was waiting
to take off.  By this point, many people were beginning to realize that
there would not be enough ships at the Aerodrome to handle the load, and
this was causing some panic to set in.  The Rising Star was by this point
the last ship left, and once it left all of us who didn't get aboard
would be fending for ourselves before the Cylons arrived again.
     "An announcement went out on the loudspeaker that women and children
only would be among the final groups taken aboard, and a large number of
Colonial Security guards were sent out to clear the crowds and make room
for women and children.  Their orders were to shoot to kill anyone who
defied the order.
     "I knew at that point, I had just one chance left.  I forced my way
through a throng of women and managed to hide myself behind one of the
pillars inside the Rising Star's hangar.  By this point they managed to
seal the main hangar doors and only several processions of women and
children were getting through now.  That's when I saw the woman.  She was
middle-aged, slightly overweight and was kind of hanging back from the
group that was progressing toward the Rising Star.  Inspiration struck me
when I looked closely at her vestments.  She was wearing a large yet
stylish purple cloak complete with its own hood.
     "I had over eight thousand cubits in my pocket and I beckoned her
into the shadows behind the pillar while waving this large bag of
currency at her.  She stopped and came behind the pillar, and once she
was there I beat her into unconsciousness, removed her cloak and put it
on as fast as I could, making sure it was draped over my head to keep my
face hidden in the shadows.  I knew I could not sustain this masquerade
for very long, but would be satisfied if only it would last long enough
for me to get aboard the Rising Star.
     "I had only gone but a few steps, when I heard this gruff male voice
commanding me to stop.  I turned around and saw that it was Sergeant
Quanto, his laser pistol leveled at me.  He told me to get out of the
hangar in ten microns or he would shoot to kill.  I was terrified, I tell
you.  I was nearly on the verge of getting down on my knees and begging
him to just let me aboard.  He said he had his orders, and that I had to
take off the cloak and start moving right away.
     "Before he could do me any harm, I suddenly remembered my bag of
cubits and shoved them into his face.  I said,its at him and said,
'There's more than eight thousand here.  Will that not suffice to just
let me get aboard, Master?'    I then told him that I would be able to
get him even more later on.  It was a lie, I will admit, but at that
point I was so desperate I would say anything that would give me a hope
of getting aboard.  He then nodded faintly at me and said, 'All right,
Mr.---' and I told him my name and who I was.  He then said I could go. 
I put the hood back on and just dashed up the entryway into the Rising
Star as fast as I could.  Once I was aboard, I made my way to the nearest
storage compartment and got rid of the cloak fast, and just wandered
about for the next couple of centars until the Rising Star took off.  By
that time, another guard ran into me and I just said I'd gotten lost, so
he took me back to the main refugee center in the Aquacade, which was
where all the earlier survivors, male and female had been sent to.
     "Quanto was logging the names of survivors when I saw him again.  I
gave a false name, Verrah, and he just kind of chuckled and I knew right
away that I had a new problem on my hands.  Although I had not hit that
woman hard enough to kill her, I had for all intents and purposes killed
her once the Rising Star left.  And I had to face the fact that under
Colonial law I would likely be found guilty of involuntary manslaughter,
or even premeditated termination.  Quanto would have but to say the word
and I would be facing charges for what I had done.  There was no other
way for me to keep him quiet other than to find a way to supply him with
more cubits.  That is the reason I have taken a job on the Rising Star as
a Pyramid dealer.  I reasoned that a few lucky hands for Quanto would be
sufficient payment for his silence.  But I found out the hard way, that
once Quanto realized he had me in his evil clutches, he was never going
to stop.  He started increasing the amounts he wanted, and it was getting
to a point where it was too much for me to handle.  So when I got
Quanto's telecom that afternoon, I suspected he was going to announce yet
another increase in the amounts.  I went down there that night,
determined to tell him that it was all over.  I could no longer bear the
fear of exposure any longer, and I knew that maybe if it all came out, I
would get a fair shake given the circumstances of how it happened. 
Besides, I knew that Quanto couldn not exactly assume a substantial  risk
to expose me since it would mean he would have a lot to answer himself
for potential charges of blackmail.  And that is why I was down there
that night.  But then I ran into Starbuck leaving the scene and found
Quanto dead.  Oh, I nearly leaped into the air with joy upon first
viewing the corpse.  With Quanto dead, there was no reason for my secret
to come out, which is why I lied.  You must understand that there was a
chance I could be accused of the murder myself if I told the reason why I
was down there at that time.  Thus, I acted in the name of self
preservation, and for withholding that evidence, I am truly sorry. And
now, I must thank you for compelling me to open up about this, for the
memory of that poor woman on Caprica has haunted me all these sectars,
and will likely keep haunting me for the rest of my life.  But at least I
no longer have to worry about being caught."
     APOLLO: "Verrah, you've already confessed to perjury once.  And now
you expect this Tribunal to believe that with your fear of Quanto
exposing you on a potential termination charge, and the fact that you
were going to meet him that night and stop paying him blackmail money, we
should still believe you when you say you didn't kill Quanto?"
     VERRAH: "You should believe me because I am speaking the truth!  Why
would I kill Quanto and risk a bigger charge?"
     APOLLO: "Because that little sob story you just told us is as true
as the one you started out with at the beginning of your testimony!  You
killed Quanto because he knew who you really were, and for a reason far
worse than the one you've just described!"
     VERRAH: "What...what are you saying?"
     FARNUM: "I protest! The Chief Protector goes too far!"
     APOLLO: "You got down there, snatched up Starbuck's pistol, killed
Quanto and then ---"
     VERRAH: "No! This is not true! It is not true, I say!"
     ( Adama begins ringing the bell several times, but found that the
situation had degenerated too far for it to have any immediate effect.)
     ADAMA: "There will be order! "There will be immediate order in this
chamber!"
     (Finally, the silence returns.  Adama lets it linger for thirty
microns, before he finally speaks again.)
     "Captain Apollo, if you are going to proceed any further with this
witness, you will act in a restrained manner befitting the dignity of
these proceedings.  The protest by the Chief Opposer is upheld."
     APOLLO: "Very well.  Okay Verrah, or Phanzig, or whatever, do you
have any evidence that can prove you were once the principal executive
schemer of the Delta Commercial Alliance?"
     VERRAH: "No.  I found out later that the D.C.A. shuttle never made
it to the rendezvous point with the Galactica, probably due to lack of an
experienced pilot who could handle the task of rendezvousing that far out
in space.  And I do know for a fact that no one I worked with at Delta is
presently among the survivors in the Fleet.  I had to check that detail
after I established my new identity, because I had to know if there was
anyone else in the Fleet who would recognize me."
     APOLLO: "So in point of fact Verrah, this story you just told us
about what you did on the night of the Holocaust, and who you were, can
only be accepted on your word alone."
     VERRAH: "Perhaps, but it's the truth."
     APOLLO: "The truth.  What..."

*****************************

Chapter Forty-Six: Drop it!

     The captain suddenly stopped when he noticed that Boomer had a
panicked look on his face, and was frantically making numerous silent
gestures at him.
     "Uh, excuse me for just a centon," Apollo said as he came over to
the table and leaned toward Boomer.
     "Apollo," Boomer whispered frantically, "Drop it!  He's telling you
the truth.  He's not Charybdis.  Drop it, or you'll  sink all of
Starbuck's chances."
     "Huh?" Apollo's face twisted, "What do you mean?"
     "He means exactly what he said, buddy!" Starbuck angrily hissed. 
"Drop it!  Now!"

*****************************

Transcript Of Lieutenant Starbuck's Tribunal Proceedings, Part 3:

     ADAMA: "Captain Apollo---"     APOLLO: "Um...with the Tribunal's
permission, I request a recess of five centons for some important
consultations with my fellow protector and the accused."
     ZHARK: "I'm sorry, but I feel no inclination to see it granted,
Captain Apollo.  Thus far you have shown little or no regard for the
finer points of our procedures and that leads me to doubt that you've
earned the right to any special favors."
     ADAMA: "The overseers will put the matter to a vote.  Admiral Zhark,
how say you?"
     ZHARK: "I vote no."
     ADAMA: "Sire Gant?"
     GANT: "Frankly, I think we could all do with some temporary relief
from these proceedings.  I vote yes."
     ADAMA: "My sentiments precisely.  This Tribunal stands in recess for
five centons." 

*****************************

Chapter Forty-Seven: RECOGNIZE PHANZIG AS D.C.A. SCHEMER.  DON'T TRY TO
PROVE HIM CHARYBDIS!!

     Adama rang the bell and they rose from their seats.  Instantly, all
kinds of intense conversation erupted throughout the chamber among the
spectators.
     At the defense table, Apollo was still in a state of bewilderment,
"Boomer, what are you talking about?  How do you know that..."
     "I got this, just a centon ago." He shoved the note at him. "It's
from Sheba.  As soon as he mentioned his name and who he used to work
for, she finally recognized him."
     Apollo looked at the note.  It was written in a frantic scrawl: 
RECOGNIZE PHANZIG AS D.C.A. SCHEMER.  DON'T TRY TO PROVE HIM CHARYBDIS!!
     The captain felt sick to his stomach.  All of his careful planning
and deduction had just buckled like a house of cards.  If Verrah wasn't
Charybdis, then the case for alternate scenario was seriously undermined.
     "Where'd she go?" he whispered, still trying not to believe it.
     "Outside I guess," Boomer said, "Apollo...."
     Without waiting for Boomer to finish, he headed for the door.
     "Isn't that cute!" Starbuck threw up his arms in disgust. "I'm
finding out the hard way how good a protector he really is."
     "Easy, Starbuck, easy," Boomer patted him on the shoulder.  "Just
because Verrah isn't Charybdis doesn't mean he's not guilty."
     "Apollo played the Charybdis factor too fracking much," Starbuck
didn't look at him. "I might as well size up my cell."
     "Take it easy buddy," Boomer said. "If I have to, I'll take charge
of this and get ourselves focused again."

*****************************

     As soon as Apollo entered the outer chamber, he saw Sheba standing
there with her arms folded, her expression taut.
     "Are you absolutely sure about this?" Apollo waved the note at her.
     "Yes I am," she said coldly, "I knew I'd met him someplace before,
but I needed the name Phanzig and the Delta Commercial Alliance to make
the connection."
     "Sheba, you could be mistaken about..."
     "Oh for sagan's sake, Apollo why in the name of Hades don't you just
admit it:  you goofed." Sheba retorted sharply.  "I remember him well,
because I met him seven yahrens ago at the opening night party of the
last play my mother ever acted in.  D.C.A. was the big corporate
underwriter for the production and he acted as their official
representative."
     Apollo felt his shoulders sag, "Damndamndamn!" he whispered.
     "It shouldn't be the end of it," Sheba didn't let up, "Maybe he's
not Charybdis, but you've one good alternate scenario that points to him
as the killer.  Now stop wallowing over the fact that you're not perfect
and just get back to saving Starbuck!"
     He didn't look at her as he turned around and went back into the
chamber.
     Alone, Sheba shook her head in amazement.  Why does he have to think
he's always got everything figured out just right?

*****************************

     "Well?" Boomer sourly inquired as Apollo sat down at the table, "Do
we proceed with Verrah or not?"
     Apollo let out a sigh, "We'll proceed.  It's possible we can still
pin this on him."
     "Didn't I warn you about this?" Boomer felt he finally had to speak
his mind. "I told you it wasn't necessary to link up Verrah and Charybdis
but you just had to wrap it up tight and neat.  Now all we can do is hope
that that doesn't affect their final judgment if we end up going with an
alternate scenario that doesn't match the one we planned on."
     The captain turned to look at Starbuck.  He saw that his friend
wasn't looking at him, instead keeping his arms folded and staring ahead. 
That told Apollo right away how much Starbuck was fast losing faith in
him.
     Finally, the overseers entered again and took their seats.  Adama
rang the bell and the chamber fell silent..

*****************************

Transcript Of Lieutenant Starbuck's Tribunal Proceedings, Part 4:

     ADAMA: "Know that this Tribunal is once again in session. Captain
Apollo, do you have more questions of the witness?"
     APOLLO: "Yes.  Now Verrah, let's stipulate for the record that what
you say about your unfortunate past is true."
     VERRAH: "I am so glad you're finally admitting that." 
     ADAMA: "The witness is admonished to refrain from arguing with the
Chief Protector and to only speak when questions are put to him."
     VERRAH: "I most humbly beg your forgivness, Commander."
     APOLLO: "But Verrah, that means that by your admission, you had a
bigger reason for wanting Quanto dead than Lieutenant Starbuck did."
     VERRAH: "What do you mean?"
     APOLLO: "Oh come now, Verrah.  Lieutenant Starbuck wasn't being
blackmailed by Sergeant Quanto.  They just hated each other on the triad
court.  But you, on the other hand, devoted your entire life to keeping
him quiet.  Quanto was a constant presence in your life.  And you've
mentioned how when Quanto was dead, you felt relief that your dirty
secret didn't have to come out."
     VERRAH: "And what of it? I was not the only one Quanto was
blackmailing."
     APOLLO: "Wait a centon! You're saying then to this Tribunal that you
know of other people Sergeant Quanto was blackmailing?"
     VERRAH: "Oh, yes, yes, Master. Ohan and Bolix.  They were in exactly
the same predicament I was.  Quanto knew some dirty secrets about us, so
he relied on us as his conduit for all the cubits he could get his dirty
hands on.  And he even tried to extort more from me by sending those two
to me and asking if I could let them go on winning streaks at the Pyramid
table so they'd have more money to pay off Quanto."
     APOLLO: "I see.  And just who are Ohan and Bolix?"
     VERRAH: "Bolix is maintenance chief of the Rising Star's Aquacade. 
Ohan is a bartender in the Empyreal Lounge.  And they both told me
personally that Quanto was blackmailing them as well."
     APOLLO: "Were they both performing their usual duties on the Rising
Star that night?"
     VERRAH: "I would not know."
     APOLLO: "If it please the Tribunal, I request another recess, so
that both Bolix and Ohan can be summoned to testify before this
Tribunal."
     ADAMA: "Is there a protest?"
     FARNUM: "I protest.  Captain Apollo specifically presented one
alternate scenario pointing to Quanto's killer as a man called Charybdis. 
He's now going off on all kinds of different tangents and that indicates
that his alternate scenario for letting his friend the accused off the
hook is non-existent."
     ADAMA: "The matter must now be voted upon by the Overseers. Sire
Gant?"
     GANT: "Our first concern must be with the truth.  I vote to disallow
the protest."
     ADAMA: "Admiral Zhark?"
     ZHARK: "I vote to uphold. I agree with the Chief Opposer that
Captain Apollo demonstrates a lack of preparedness with regard to his
alternate scenario that indicates that the truth more than likely rests
with the Chief Opposer's scenario."
     ADAMA: "Very well.  The Chief Overseer must cast the deciding vote. 
And my vote is to disallow. We now stand in recess for exactly one
centar.  We will reconvene not a micron before or later."

*****************************

Chapter Forty-Eight: What Now?

     The bell rang and the three Overseers rose and disappeared.
     "Okay," Starbuck sourly rose and looked at them, "What now?"
     "I think it's finally fallen into place," Apollo said. "Boomer, you
come with me. We've got a trip to the Rising Star to make."
     "Oh great," Starbuck groaned, "Yet another brilliant idea from the
incredible mind of Captain Apollo."
     "Starbuck," Apollo put his hand on his shoulder, "I haven't
conducted this case the way you thought I could, and that's my fault for
thinking we didn't need an experienced protector to handle this.  But
this time, you can trust me.  You're going to walk out of here at the end
of this day free and clear."
     Starbuck wanted to say something nasty to him but when he looked
into Apollo's green eyes, he could see the sincerity and confidence
emitting from someone he'd already entrusted his life to so many times
before in the past.
     "Okay buddy," he said calmly and then smiled, "Go for it."

*****************************

Chapter Forty-Nine: Bolix and Ohan

     For two days, Ohan had felt nothing but a sense of bliss.  He had at
long last succeeded in getting rid of of the only problem in his life and
he'd been able to do it without anyone suspecting a thing.  With very
little time to prepare, he'd found a perfect fall guy and events had
broken his way so that the evidence pointing to his fall guy's guilt was
beyond any possible dispute.
     He'd purposefully avoided watching all IFB coverage relating to the
case, knowing that it would look conspicuous if he paid unwarranted
attention to it.  As far as he knew, there were no conceivable flaws in
how he'd carried out the murder, no possible way he could be found out in
the short time before Starbuck's conviction and imprisonment would happen
and end the matter forever.
     "Ohan?"
     Ohan looked up from the drinks he was mixing and saw the face of
Boomer looking at him.  Behind the dark-skinned warrior, Apollo stood
next to a sharp eyed, completely bald man.
     "Yes," the bartender nodded, "What can I do for you?"
     "You've been summoned to testify before Lieutenant Starbuck's
tribunal," Boomer said firmly, "If you'll please come with us..."
     Ohan looked at them with amazement, "Me?  I don't understand."
     "Oh you will, sir.  You will," Boomer said, "Please follow us."
     Without batting an eyelash, Ohan put his drinks down and came out
from behind the bar table.
     Inside, he felt his heart pounding rapidly wondering what could have
possibly happened that would lead to this.

*****************************

     Five centons later, Ohan found himself seated in the rear
compartment of a shuttle, beside the man who'd been identified as Bolix.
     "Apparently, our little friend Verrah got too panicked and spilled
all about how Quanto was blackmailing us," the bald maintenance worker
said with an edge of nervous tension.  "Now those two are going to see if
they can pin Quanto's murder on either of us."
     "Verrah!  As if I even had to wonder!" Ohan had his arms folded and
was working hard to keep his tone absolutely calm.  He'd already reasoned
that if Bolix was going to act so nervous, then a display of total calm
on his part would keep suspicion deflected from him. "We're equally
guilty of making the mistake of going to him for help, so he knew all
about our plights.  No use in either of us feeling guilty; they would've
found out sooner or later."
     He then looked him in the eye, "But the important thing, Bolix, is
that neither of us get trapped into getting accused of something we
didn't do." he paused, "I'm assuming, though, that you didn't kill
Quanto."
     "You assume correctly!" Bolix's nostrils flared.  "I admit, the
thought had crossed my mind, but I didn't act upon it."
     "Neither did I," Ohan said emphatically, "And I'll bet even money
that they've got nothing conclusive to tie Verrah to all this, which
means that if we all agree to stick together,  Apollo won't be able to
prove a thing.  He must be getting very desperate at this point."
     "You may be right," Bolix tried to catch his breath.  "All right
then, we'll just tell the truth about where we were, and that will be
that."

*****************************

     In the front of the shuttle, Boomer looked uneasily at Apollo, 
"Okay, so now that we've got Bolix and Ohan, what're you going to do when
you put them on the stand?"
     "It won't be necessary to put them on the stand," Apollo said, "One
of them killed Quanto, and I know how to get the killer to expose
himself."
     "Apollo, after what you just went through with Verrah, I don't think
it's a good idea to resort to any new stunts."
     "But this time I know how to do it," Apollo said firmly.
     "Okay then," Boomer tried not to look exasperated, "Which of those
two killed Quanto?"
     "Charybdis."
     "Oh come on, Apollo!" Boomer snorted in disgust, "Don't try that
angle anymore. You've got three guys with motive, and frankly I don't
think either of these two are as strong as Verrah is in the opportunity
and means department."
     "Verrah's free of blame," Apollo said. "The killer had to be
Charybdis.  Barton said that Charybdis was the only one with the guts to
kill Quanto, so that means Quanto wasn't afraid of anything from Verrah. 
And Verrah's secret wasn't anywhere close to what Charybdis was
responsible for."
     "But you have to show that one of those two guys had means and
opportunity!" Boomer retorted, "We know Verrah was down there, but you
can't prove anything about where those two were."
     "I have a feeling that Verrah was supposed to be the real fall guy
that night.  I'll bet anything that Charybdis pretended to be Quanto when
he made that telecom to Verrah so he could have him in the area at the
time.  But Starbuck's getting ejected forced a change in plans and made
Starbuck  the new fall guy." he paused.  "The key is to expose Charybdis
and once that's done, find a way to make him admit that he killed
Quanto."
     "Great," Boomer rolled his eyes, "What's it gonna take to pull that
little trick off?"
     Apollo looked back and saw the animated conversation taking place
between Ohan and Bolix.
     "Take the controls and listen in to what I say," he rose from his
seat, "You'll find out."
     Apollo went to the back of the shuttle and stood in front of Bolix
and Ohan.
     "Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please," he said
remorsefully.  "I believe an apology is in order for the both of you. 
The Galactica has just now informed us that Quanto's killer has been
identified.  Sire Farnum is going to be dismissing all charges against
Starbuck."
     "Who is the killer?" Bolix asked anxiously.
     "A man called Charybdis," Apollo said.  He looked at both of them to
see the hint of a reaction from either but none materialized.
     "Charybdis?" Ohan frowned, "I've never heard that name before."
     "He's the traitor responsible for the deaths of billions in the
Holocaust," Apollo said, "Apparently Quanto knew he was alive and was
blackmailing him too.  But Charybdis had a lot more to lose than either
of you or Verrah if he was caught."
     "Then you've found him," Ohan noted.
     "Actually, we haven't, but we're getting closer all the time.  His
old commander, Baltar himself, knows what he looks like and can help lead
us straight to him.  As soon as we dock on the Galactica, I'll take this
shuttle to the Prison Barge to bring him back so he can give us the
information we need.  He's already agreed to it, since Adama will likely
reduce part of his sentence."
     "I get the drift," Bolix said, feeling more relieved, "Does this
mean we're free to go back to the Rising Star?"
     "Yes, you two can take the next shuttle after we reach the
Galactica." Apollo said, "Again, I regret any inconvenience this may have
caused you.  In light of what Verrah has testified about, I can't
guarantee that Sire Farnum won't launch an investigation into the
circumstances of how you came to be aboard the Rising Star, but I'm sure
that he'll let you off with only light sentences if it comes to that."
     "Captain," Ohan said, "I can't thank you enough."
     "And I'm glad your friend Starbuck is innocent," Bolix added.
     "That makes two of us," Apollo nodded.
     As soon as the captain had returned to the front of the shuttle and
resumed his seat alongside Boomer, the Negro warrior was still looking at
him dubiously.
     "Now I'm more confused than ever."
     "I'm going to use myself as bait," Apollo said.  "As soon as we
land, you head straight for the Tribunal.  And pass the word to the
launch crew not to move on either of them. They're to leave them alone."
     "Apollo, what are you getting at?" Boomer was still baffled, "We
need to put them both on the stand and see if either will crack."
     "I don't think that's going to work," Apollo shook his head, "I've
spent enough time in front of that Tribunal to realize I don't have the
savvy to force the truth out on this matter like a good protector would. 
That means it requires something totally unusual. Something I wouldn't be
able to get away with in the normal proceeding."
     "And what's this you just said about using yourself as bait?"
     "Charybdis likely thinks he's  trapped at this moment, so the only
way he'll be able to keep Baltar from identifying him is to kill him.  He
won't have the opportunity unless he sneaks back on this shuttle and
waits for me to get him aboard."
     "But you'd be a witness, so he'll be forced to kill you too!" Boomer
finally added things up, "Apollo, you're crazy!"
     "I either take the chance or Starbuck's life is over," Apollo said,
"I'm positive that he'll make his attempt on the way back to the
Galactica.  It's very important that you have Alpha Channel keyed open so
the entire Tribunal can hear what's being said on this shuttle.  In all
probability, I can force him to confess once he shows himself."
     "Oh he'll confess all right...before he kills you!" Boomer could
still scarcely believe his ears.
     "I don't care what you have to do, but just get the Tribunal
listening to that blasted channel," Apollo said gravely,
     "How do I get that past any of them when it means throwing out all
the codes on normal procedure?" Boomer retorted.  "Farnum and Zhark will
crawl up my astrum so fast that I don't think even Adama will agree. 
He's already cut you so much slack that I don't think he can afford to go
that far."
     "I either take the chance or Starbuck's life is over," Apollo
repeated.
     "That still leaves the problem of how you're going to take on both
Charybdis and Baltar."
     "I won't have to take them both on," the captain chuckled, "because
Baltar's going to be on my side."

*****************************

Chapter Fifty Part 1: Trap

     As soon as the shuttle landed on the Galactica, Boomer had left and
gone over to the several launch crew personnel gathered nearby.  Once he
had explained everything, they nodded and moved away from the shuttle.
     Aboard, Apollo kept his eyes glued to the indicator that measured
the craft's total weight.  When Boomer stepped out, the digital reading
had dropped from 2755 to 2585.  Then, there was a hiatus of several
microns as the reading plummeted to 2425, and an instant later, plunged
back  to 2250, meaning that both Bolix and Ohan had stepped off.
     Apollo coolly adjusted his earphones.  "This is Alpha shuttle
requesting clearance for launch to Prison Barge.  Official Tribunal
business."
     "You are cleared to launch, Alpha shuttle," Rigel's voice answered.
     But he didn't activate the controls.  His attention remained riveted
on the weight indicator, which still read 2250.
     Come on, he thought.  I can't be proved wrong now.
     For a split-micron, he'd suffered a massive twinge of dread over
what he'd be forced to do should his hunch be proven wrong.  It didn't
last long, thank the Lords.  He suddenly saw the number on the indicator
change.
     It jumped in a split instant from 2250 to 2425.
     Apollo couldn't help but smile as he flicked the switch that sealed
the shuttle door.  Breathing carefully,  he powered the vehicle up and it
was soon jetting away from the Galactica.

*****************************

     Boomer entered the Tribunal Chamber, finding the spectators abuzz
with excitement over what would happen next.  But it was a different
story at the defense table, where Starbuck was noticeably nervous and
edgy.  Seeing only Boomer enter the chamber made him feel anything but
better.
     "Where the frack's Apollo?" he asked with faint bewilderment.
     "I'll give you all the details as soon as I know them," Boomer said
as he sat down and dragged out a copy of the Tribunal Codebook and began
to frantically thumb through the pages.
     Starbuck's face got bent out of shape. "What are you..."
     "Just shut up right now, Starbuck, so I can look for the one thing
in this book that'll keep things going for now." Boomer waved his hand
impatiently as he continued to browse through the codebook.
     "You can't be serious." The blonde warrior wondered how it could get
any worse than it already seemed to him.
     The door at the other end opened and the three overseers emerged. 
Everyone in the Chamber respectfully rose to their feet.  Everyone, that
is, with the exception of Boomer, who was still immersed in the codebook.
     When Adama took his seat and reached for the ceremonial bell, he
noticed right away that Boomer was the only one in the room who had not
taken note of their entrance. With an annoyed air, he rang the bell
loudly, prompting Boomer to bolt up from his chair to attention as if
he'd been fired out of a launch tube.  He was so embarrassed that he
might have turned red if only his dark complection would have permitted
it.

*****************************

Transcript Of Lieutenant Starbuck's Tribunal Proceedings, Part 5:

     ADAMA: "Know that this Tribunal is now in session once again. 
Lieutenant Boomer, where is the Chief Protector?"
     BOOMER: "He's been detained, sir, so I will be handling all matters
until he returns."
     ADAMA: "Very well.  You may call your next witness, Lieutenant."
     BOOMER: "Ah...Ah...at this time Commander, the defense wishes to
delay the next portion of our alternate scenario presentation and defer
matters to the Chief Opposer to handle any, ah...supplementary matters he
has...ah...to, ah...present at this time, so that we might be able to
factor um...any new information that has a bearing in our presentation."
     ADAMA: "Lieutenant Boomer,  it was the understanding of this
Tribunal when we granted a recess that two specific witnesses would be
called by the Defense.  Needless to say, what you are suggesting is
highly irregular and suggests that the request we granted you was made in
bad faith."
     BOOMER: "No sir, not at all!  I call to the attention of the
Overseers, section four, paragraph eight of the capital procedure code
which states that the defense during their presentation of alternate
scenario, does have the right to defer to the prosecution for the
presentation of supplementary evidence that the defense might be required
to explain as well.  I so move to defer to Sire Farnum for now."
     ADAMA: "Very well.  Seeing as how your request is made within the
parameters of the code, I see no reason to disallow it.  Sire Farnum, do
you have any supplementary evidence to present at this time?"
     FARNUM:  "I do, Commander.  I had not...anticipated presentation at
this time though."
     ADAMA: "If you have it, then you must present it as the deference
has been granted to you by the defense. Proceed immediately, Sire
Farnum."
     FARNUM: "In that case, at this time we call as a supplementary
witness, Med-Tech Cassiopeia."

*****************************

Chapter Fifty Part 2: Trap

     Cassiopeia blushed slightly as she heard her name called.
     Starbuck whizzed over to Boomer and seemed on the verge of blowing a
fuse. "Is this Apollo's idea of helping me? Dropping out and making
Farnum humiliate Cassie?" he hissed.
     "Hey, man.  How did I  know he was going to call her to the stand?"
Boomer said through clenched teeth.  "Look, I had no choice but to invoke
the procedure, Starbuck.  Otherwise Apollo wouldn't get a chance to do
what he's doing now." He adjusted his earpiece, which he'd kept on ever
since leaving the shuttle.  It was still tuned to Alpha Channel.  At the
moment, there was only silence.
     "I'm almost afraid to ask, but...just what is he doing now?"
Starbuck acidly retorted.
     "He's saving your life." Boomer looked straight ahead.  At the
moment he had so many doubts in his own mind about what Apollo was doing
that he wasn't certain that he could look Starbuck in the eye while
offering words of reassurance.

 *****************************

     In the rear compartment of the shuttle, Ohan evenly made his way
over to the storage compartment that housed the spare lasers and without
making a sound, selected one from the top of the chamber.  Setting the
laser to kill, he walked back to the far end of the rear compartment.
     His greatest fear had come to pass.  Something had happened that had
caused the name Charybdis to be linked to Quanto.  How that had happened,
he couldn't begin to understand.  Whatever the cause, recent events now
forced him to take another drastic step.  One that would mean the end of
two lives in addition to Quanto.
     Already, his mind was trying to plot out how he would emerge from
this incident. He already considered the unpleasant fact that Bolix would
testify that he never saw him return to the Rising Star.  By far, that
would be so difficult to explain, that even Ohan's ordinarily inventive
mind couldn't think of a way around that at the moment.
     But he couldn't worry about that just yet.  Especially when he had
another, more immediate problem facing him.  One that had to be promptly
done away with or else all other matters would be rendered unimportant.
     It was all he could do to keep from breaking out in a sweat when
Apollo had first mentioned the name of a man he had emblematically
murdered a long time ago when he'd stolen the identification cards of a
dead Piscean bartender named Ohan and thrown his own cards away down the
sewer of a bombed-out street in Piscera's capital city.  He was alone
now, and he could feel the sweat pouring out of his forehead.  For the
first time since the Holocaust he felt a genuine fear for his personal
safety.  His past was finally catching up with him at long last and this
made him truly afraid.  Even worse, it brought back to mind how he'd felt
when he'd silently  deserted Baltar after returning to Piscera.  He
repeatedly cursed himself for having duped himself into thinking that
cooperating with the Cylons would have led to wonderful opportunities of
untold wealth and limitless power.
     It will not going to come to this, he thought defiantly as he drew
the pistol to his side and waited in the shadows of the rear compartment. 
It will not come to this.
     He felt the shuttle come to a halt under his feet as it docked with
the Prison Barge.  It wouldn't be long now and he'd finally do what had
to be done.

*****************************

     As Apollo maneuvered the shuttle towards the Prison Barge's landing
bay, he glanced at his chronometer and realized that speed was of the
essence since he had no way of knowing if Boomer could keep the Tribunal
stalled forever.  The sooner he could get things in place the better.
     "Prison Barge this is Galactica shuttle, Captain Apollo," he
radioed.  "Urgent Tribunal business requires the immediate presence of
prisoner Baltar. Please have him waiting in the landing bay upon my
arrival."
     Apollo heard no response and realized immediately that it was the
awkward silence of the communications officer, unsure if he'd heard the
captain right.
     A centon went by before Apollo finally heard a voice reply. 
"Uh...Captain, this is Superintendent Doidusus.  Did you say Baltar?"
     "Yes I did, Superintendent,"  Apollo said patiently.  "Make sure
that he's properly shackled, of course."
     "How many guards would you like me to put on it?"
     "None," Apollo said firmly.  "Just have your men put Baltar aboard
the shuttle and leave.  Colonial Security will take charge at the other
end."
     There was another awkward silence that lasted a half centon.
     "Captain, um...I know it's not my place to question you on these
matters but..."
     "You're absolutely right.  It's not your place, so don't," Apollo
cut in curtly, "Just follow my orders, Superintendent."
     And five centons later, the shuttle was inside the Prison Barge
landing bay.  Apollo's wait lasted only an additional two centons before
he heard footsteps clatter up the ramp and into the craft.
     "I got him here just as you requested, Apollo," he heard Reese's
voice, "Now, are you sure you don't need an escort?"
     "I'm positive, Reese," Apollo didn't turn around.  "Just have him
take the co-pilot seat and you can go."
     Reese let out an incredulous sigh as he motioned Baltar toward the
seat, "I sure hope you know what you're doing."
     Apollo resisted the temptation to think of a stinging comeback as he
went over the pre-flight checklist again.
     "Hello, Captain."
     He finally forced himself to look at Baltar.  The traitor had a
thoroughly bemused expression on his face, as though he knew he was going
to enjoy whatever happened.
     "Hello, Baltar.  I'll explain everything as soon as we take off,"
Apollo said as he took note of the weight indicator.  When Baltar and
Reese had come aboard the reading had risen from 2425 to 2815.  Now that
the Council Security guard was gone, the indicator had fallen back to
2635.  That was enough to tell him again that his hunch was right.
     "Galactica shuttle preparing to depart," he radioed.
     "Affirmative Galactica shuttle, you are cleared to depart."
     As Apollo fired up the craft and it streaked away from the Prison
Barge, he hoped and prayed that Boomer had a plan in place to get the
Tribunal to listen to Alpha Channel.

*****************************

Transcript Of Lieutenant Starbuck's Tribunal Proceedings, Part 6:

     ADAMA: "Please state your name and designation."
     CASSIOPEIA: "My name is Cassiopeia. I'm a G-2, assigned as med-tech
based aboard the Galactica."
     ADAMA: "Proceed, Sire Farnum."
     FARNUM: "Thank you. Cassiopeia, are you acquainted with the accused,
Lieutenant Starbuck?"
     CASSIOPEIA: "Yes."
     FARNUM: "Would it be a fair assumption that you are quite close to
the accused?"
     CASSIOPEIA: "Yes."
     FARNUM: "On the night of Sergeant Quanto's murder, did you have any
opportunity to talk to Lieutenant Starbuck beforehand?"
     CASSIOPEIA: "I did."
     FARNUM: "In fact, you even encountered both Starbuck and Quanto in
the corridor leading to the training rooms after the ejection had taken
place.  Is this not so?"
     CASSIOPEIA: "Yes."
     FARNUM: "Could you tell me what Lieutenant Starbuck said to Quanto
during the brawl?" 
     CASSIOPEIA: "I...don't remember."
     FARNUM: "You don't remember? Even though you have a relationship
with Starbuck, you can't remember what he said?"
     BOOMER: "Now just a centon!  Ah...I mean the Opposer ah...has no
proof that ah...such a relationship exists."
     ADAMA: "Not...properly protested, but upheld nevertheless.  Restate
your question, Sire Farnum."
     FARNUM: "Very well. Cassiopeia, do you have a relationship with the
accused?"
     CASSIOPEIA: "We're...friends." 
     FARNUM: "How close?"
     CASSIOPEIA: "Very close." 
     FARNUM: "Then in that case, can you tell this Tribunal what your
very close friend said during the encounter with Quanto in the corridor
and after he left?" 
     ADAMA: "The witness will answer the question."
     FARNUM: "Cassiopeia, you have been instructed by the Chief Overseer
to answer the question."
     CASSIOPEIA: "He um...said after Quanto left, that I was only
delaying the inevitable."
     (A low murmur goes up among the crowd, prompting another ringing of
the bell from Adama.)
     FARNUM: "And when Starbuck finally met you in the Docking Lounge,
did he seem anxious to get off the Rising Star?"
     CASSIOPEIA: "I didn't give him much time!  He had just ten centons
to turbowash, dress and get to the Lounge.  Anyone would have been
anxious."
     ADAMA: "Cassiopeia, you can not make assumptions about the state of
mind of the accused.  Simply answer the question yes or no."
     CASSIOPEIA: "Yes."
     FARNUM: "Thank you.  No further questions."
     ADAMA: "Cross-examination? Lieutenant Boomer! I will say again, do
you wish to cross-examine the witness?"
     BOOMER: "Ah...yes, Commander.  Just one or two questions.  Now,
um...Ah...Cassiopeia you never at any time...ah no, wait a centon." 
     ZHARK: "Lieutenant Boomer, I'm getting the distinct impression that
you're stalling for time, and that does not impress me one iota.  Ask
your questions or move on."
     BOOMER: "My apologies, sir.  Now Cassiopeia, did you have any
opinion at the time of what Starbuck meant by 'the inevitable.'?"
     FARNUM: "I protest! Totally speculative and immaterial."
     ADAMA: "Disallowed. The witness is entitled to describe what she
thought as well as what she witnessed."
     CASSIOPEIA: "I certainly didn't think it meant he was thinking of
killing Quanto!" 
     BOOMER: "And that's because the accused had never given you, a very
close friend, any reason to think that he could be capable of committing
the greatest offense in our laws, one that would run the risk of
imprisonment in the Prison Barge for the rest of his life?"
     CASSIOPEIA: "He hadn't."
     BOOMER: "Did he ever explain why there was bad blood between him and
Quanto down through the yahrens?"
     CASSIOPEIA: "Yes, he did.  On the shuttle ride over to the match
that evening in fact."
     BOOMER: "Perhaps you could tell us what Starbuck said then." 

*****************************

Chapter Fifty Part 3: Trap

     "Well now, Captain Apollo," there was a smug aura in Baltar's tone
as the shuttle moved away from the Prison Barge on its journey back to
the Galactica.  "I knew it would be only a matter of time until you'd
reconsider and realize that you need my help bad enough to have me
freed."
     "There's no pardon awaiting you, Baltar," Apollo didn't look at him. 
"I can't speak for what my father will do, but at the moment there's
none."
     "In that case, Captain you have taken me out of my cell all for
nothing.  If it is cooperation you want about what Charybdis looks like,
I refuse to give it unless I am guaranteed a permanent release from the
Prison Barge."
     "Baltar, at the moment you should be thankful that I'm giving you a
chance to live."
     "A chance to live?" the traitor raised an eyebrow, "If I remember
right, the abolition of capital punishment made that possible long ago,
Captain."
     Apollo finally looked at him, "I'm talking about saving you from
Charybdis."
     He frowned slightly.
     "There are only two people who could positively identify Charybdis,"
Apollo went on, "Quanto and you.  He's killed Quanto and that means he'll
murder you if given the chance."
     Baltar slowly began to laugh, "You are truly a marvel, Captain. 
Instead of offering me freedom to identify Charybdis, you offer me my
life.  How touching of you."
     "It's the only chance you've got," he looked him in the eye.
     "Actually, I think you mean Lieutenant Starbuck's only chance,"
Baltar countered gently.
     "That may be true but I'm betting that your instinct for survival is
greater than wanting to see Starbuck convicted of a crime he didn't
commit." Apollo raised his tone a notch.
     The traitor let out another taunting laugh, "Do you take me for a
fool, Captain?  If I refuse to cooperate with you, then I merely go back
to a very secure isolation cell on the Prison Barge, where my life can
hardly be in any danger. Therefore, I have no reason to fear for my
life."
     "Would it bother you to know that Charybdis is aboard this shuttle,
right now?" Apollo decided to zero in.  He could tell right away that his
comment had caught Baltar offguard.  The traitor actually took a quick
look back toward the rear of the shuttle for a brief instant before
looking back at Apollo.  Slowly, he tried to recover the initiative by
letting out another one of his irksome chuckles, though Apollo could tell
that it didn't sound as secure as it had before.
     "I don't believe you," Baltar said.
     "It's the truth."
     "Even if I did believe you, I would remind you that the affection
Charybdis felt for me was like that of a son for a father," Baltar
pressed on.  "I gave him more opportunities than I did anyone else in my
inner circle, and he was grateful for them all.  If he is aboard this
shuttle, then it can only be because he plans to kill you and destroy
whatever evidence you have that implicates him in the murder of this
Quanto."
     "Yeah, he'll kill me first," Apollo nodded, "And then he'll kill you
with my laser and make it look like you jumped me and we both killed each
other in the struggle."
     Baltar sighed with the air of a teacher addressing an unruly pupil.
"And how will he explain that I did the deed while wearing these
shackles?" He raised his manacled wrists to emphasize his point.
     "He'll simply remove them after you're dead."  Apollo decided to
take on an intimidating tone of his own. "Face reality, Baltar, he's here
to take both our lives."
     "You're mistaken, Apollo," he said. "Why does he not show himself
when he obviously knows we're barely five centons away from being aboard
the Galactica?"
     Apollo noted how Baltar had stopped addressing him by title, which
told him a lot. "Maybe he enjoys watching you sweat," he taunted him,
thinking that Baltar could use a taste of his own medicine.
     The traitor turned away from him, finding that he could not come up
with a hurtful retort of his own.  It was clear that Baltar's psyche had
been rattled, thereby depriving him of his facility to flaunt his usual
haughtiness.
     Amidst the silence, the two men could suddenly hear footfalls coming
from behind them, drawing closer.
     Baltar could feel the hair on his scalp standing on edge as he
slowly turned around and saw standing ten feet away, an all-too-familiar
figure.
     "Charybdis!" he whispered in disbelief.
     Apollo turned around as well and saw that it was the Rising Star
bartender, Ohan, holding a laser pistol pointed toward him.  His inner
hunch had been vindicated.  A casual observer might have thought that if
it had come down to Ohan or Bolix, the more hysterical reaction of Bolix
to being questioned would have been an indication of guilt. But Apollo
had sensed that Ohan was exaggerating his coolness under pressure during
the journey from the Rising Star.  And he had long ago become convinced
that the real killer had to be cold, calm and professional in every sense
to get away with what he'd been able to get away with up to now.
     "Good evening, Commander Baltar," Ohan's voice was firm, showing
only the faintest trace of deference for his one-time leader, "It is a
pleasure to see you again."
     Baltar seemed to relax as he looked at Apollo and flashed another
taunting smile at him, as though he felt his instincts about Charybdis
had been vindicated.
     The only thought going through Apollo's mind was if Boomer had
succeeded in getting Alpha Channel turned on in the Tribunal chamber for
all to hear.

*****************************

Transcript Of Lieutenant Starbuck's Tribunal Proceedings, Part 7:

     ADAMA: "The witness is excused.  Does the prosecution have any more
supplementary witnesses?"
     FARNUM: "We have none, Commander.  Our case is essentially closed."
     ADAMA: "Very well.  Lieutenant Boomer, at this time you will resume
the case for the defense.  Call your next witness."
     BOOMER: "Um...Commander, at this time the defense requests that the
Tribunal listen in to Alpha Channel."
     FARNUM: "I protest!" 
     ADAMA: "Lieutenant Boomer, if you are not willing to proceed with
the defense according to the prerequisites of our codes, then you leave
us no choice but to declare all proceedings at an end, and to begin
consideration of our verdict."
     BOOMER: "Commander, please!  You must hear me out.  The key to
proving Lieutenant Starbuck's innocence is on Alpha Channel!  The
Tribunal must listen to what's happening."
     ZHARK: "Lieutenant Boomer, both you and Captain Apollo, throughout
these proceedings have offered a textbook example of how a good protector
should never conduct himself, especially in something as serious as a
capital case.  But if you have means of proving Lieutenant Starbuck's
innocence, then you owe it to a system that has served our people well
for millennia to present it according to the proper standards!"
     BOOMER: "What's more important? Following the codes to the letter or
a man's life?  A man who's put himself on the line to save the lives of
our entire population so many times.  We owe a lot more to a man like
that than to a code system that is in dire need of an overhaul!"
     ADAMA: "That's enough! The Opposer and the Protector will now
approach the bench for private consultation with the Overseers."
     
*****************************

Chapter Fifty-One: Charybdis Exposed 

     Boomer felt his heart pounding as he could hear more of the
conversation on the shuttle taking place, all of it establishing that
Charybdis had exposed himself.  He knew that time was running out.
     When he reached the bench and looked up at the glaring countenances
of Adama, Zhark and Gant, he felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
     "Lieutenant Boomer," Adama said under his breath.  "I've been
patient with you and Apollo.  Too patient, I might add.  But now that
patience has reached it's end.  Now, I demand to know where Captain
Apollo has gone off to?"
     "Captain Apollo's on Alpha Channel sir, and what he's doing right
now will end these proceedings instantly if you'll just listen!"
     "I still protest, Commander," Farnum said firmly. "This
unprecedented maneuver is an affront to Colonial jurisprudence in every
sense of the word."
     "And it'll be a bigger affront to Colonial jurisprudence if the
truth isn't allowed to come out!" Boomer retorted.  "This isn't exactly
according to the rulebook, I'll admit.  But by the Lords of Kobol, what's
going to be more damaging to Colonial jurisprudence is if the one thing
that can keep an innocent man from paying for a crime he didn't commit
gets censored!"
     Adama glanced over at his fellow Overseers, "Sire Gant, your vote?"
     The council member sighed with resignation, "Reluctantly, and I
emphasize the word reluctantly, I vote to disallow."
     "Admiral Zhark?"
     "Uphold." the former Fleet Admiral commander was unyielding.
     Adama took a breath.  The decision now fell into his hands, one that
presented only dreadful options from his standpoint.  Uphold the protest
and he'd be forever haunted by the thought that he'd denied Starbuck the
one means of clearing himself.  Disallow it, and he ran the risk of being
accused of playing favorites.  The very ammunition that Council opponents
like Sires Geller and Domra would undoubtedly use to undermine his
authority in an instant.  What Adama needed was a middle ground solution,
and fast.
     The Commander leaned forward, his expression hard, his words heated,
"Lieutenant Boomer," he said, "I will give your Alpha Channel
demonstration exactly one centon, not a micron longer.  If I hear nothing
that has a bearing on this case in the next centon, I will uphold the
protest and bring this farce to an end.  Is that clear?"
     "Yes sir, thank you sir." Boomer felt only temporary relief, because
he had no way of knowing what might transpire in the next centon.
     Adama reached down and carefully pressed the button on the
communications panel in front of him marked Alpha Channel.  An instant
later, the sounds of voices filled the Tribunal chamber.
     "You look well, Charybdis," the chamber could hear Baltar's
unmistakable voice.
     "Thank you, Commander Baltar," another voice replied calmly.  As
soon as he heard the voice, Adama's eyeballs bulged in astonishment as he
recognized the voice of the bartender who had attended to Tigh and
himself in the Empyreal Lounge on the night of the triad match.  And who
had left to go off duty just before the ejections had taken place...
     It suddenly came together now.
     "Charybdis," Baltar spoke again, "If you'll kindly remove my
shackles, we can commandeer this shuttle and make good our escape from
the Fleet."
     "Not yet, sir," Charybdis said calmly, "First, I want you to
activate the automatic pilot.  It's that green button between the
throttles."
     "An easy enough task for me to perform---provided you remove these 
shackles first, Charybdis."
     "I'm sorry sir but that will have to wait until I dispose of Captain
Apollo."
     A sudden gasp went up from all the spectators.  Sheba's hand flew up
to her mouth and she almost bit down on her clenched fingers.  On the
Overseers Bench, Adama's jaw had fallen open in horror at the startling
turn of events.
     "Just like you disposed of Quanto?"  Apollo's voice suddenly filled
the room.
     There was a wry laugh. "You won't be nearly as difficult to kill as
Quanto was, Captain.  But I must say, I do compliment you on the
brilliant job you've done of figuring out the whole thing. 
Unfortunately, by solving the mystery, you've ended up making an
extremely dangerous enemy out of me."
     Now it was Farnum's turn to feel a shockwave hit him.  And even
Admiral Zhark found himself so amazed that his customary scowl was gone.
     In the gallery, Jeremiah almost wanted to throw his white hat into
the air and let out an excited whoop that his belief in his son's
innocence had at last been vindicated.  But he then brought himself back
to reality as he realized that the man who'd made it possible was now in
grave danger.  At this point, cheering was completely out of the
question.
     At the defense table, Starbuck found himself torn between laughter
and tears.  It was all too much for him to mentally cope with.  The
relief that he was going to walk away a free man was tempered by the
realization that Apollo had conceivably put his life on the line, and
would likely be forced to sacrifice himself as well to bring that about.
     The blonde warrior had few religious impulses, but now his hands had
come together in the most vigorous silent prayer he had ever performed in
his life.
     "I've got only one question for you, Charybdis?" Apollo's voice
sounded incredibly nonchalant.  "How did you decide to set up Starbuck?"
     Another laugh filled the chamber, "If Starbuck hadn't been such a
sore loser and gotten himself ejected, he never would have had a thing to
worry about.  Truth is, he wasn't the one I wanted to take the fall, it
was Verrah.  I telecommed him pretending to be Quanto, and when Verrah
arrived, he'd be disposed of and the bodies set up to make it look as if
he and Quanto had killed each other."
     "Nifty," Apollo said.  "That must've been quick thinking on your
part, changing those plans when you had to.  You went down to the
training room, stole Starbuck's pistol, shot Quanto dead and returned it
before he got out of the turbowash."
     "And I made it out of there with a half micron to spare." There was
an edge of satisfaction in Charybdis's voice. "All right, I've humored
you enough, Captain Apollo.  Unholster your laser pistol and throw it on
the floor.  Now!"
     A pause.  Next came the sound of an object clattering to the floor. 
Apollo's laser pistol, no doubt.
     "Baltar, would you please activate the automatic pilot so I can see
to it that Captain Apollo's illustrious career comes to an end?"
     "No, Charybdis." Baltar was fast losing his patience.  "You remove
my shackles first before I do anything else!"
     "I will after you've activated the automatic pilot, sir," Charybdis
said gently.
     A spectral silence filled the chamber as nothing else was said on
the Channel for nearly a full centon.  Every person in the gallery had
hunched forward in their seats, waiting and wondering about what might
happen next.  Athena was visibly trembling at the thought that she might
have to go through the horror of listening to the last words of her
brother before he died, just like had happened with Zac not so long ago. 
Cassiopeia had reached out instinctively to Jeremiah's hand, despeate for
something to hold onto for support.  And with Sheba, she could feel the
dim recollections of a terrible time thirteen sectans ago when she
thought she had lost Apollo forever, filling her mind.
     Just then, there came the sounds of a gasp, a thud and a scuffle. 
Those sounds persisted, accompanied afterward by the sounds of grunting,
footfalls and fisticuffs.  By now, every spectator in the gallery had
risen to his or her feet, unable to be still any longer.
     Next came the sound of a laser pistol discharging.  And
then---silence.
     "Dear Lords of Kobol," Sheba whispered faintly under her breath.
     The silence was broken by the pattering of feet, followed by the
fumbling sound of headphones being put on.
     "Boomer?" Apollo's voice filled the room, "Did the Tribunal hear all
that?"
     The instant they heard his voice, the spectators all let out either
cheers or enormous sighs of relief.
     "Does that answer your question?" Boomer grinned.
     "Boy, does it ever," the relief entered the captain's voice.  "I'll
be docking in a few centons.  Make sure there's a med-tech standing by to
attend to Ohan.  Or rather Charybdis.  He took one shot to the shoulder
during the scuffle and then I had to knock him out."
     "Boomer," Starbuck nudged his friend, "Let me talk to him."
     "Sure buddy," Boomer nodded and handed the headphones to the blonde
warrior who was so overcome with emotion that he had trouble putting them
on.
     "That you Apollo?" he spoke as soon as it was finally in place.
     "Hi, Starbuck.  I haven't heard you sound this happy since we left
Ursus Speleaus."
     "And I'll be even happier the next time you see me," Starbuck forced
himself to keep from breaking down. "Thank you Apollo.  I owe you my
life."
     "I'm not the one you should thank," Apollo chuckled, "Baltar did it
all.  He knocked Charybdis off guard with a blow between the eyes and
that gave me a chance to jump him. He saved us both."
     Another amazed murmur went through the galleries.
     "Baltar saved you?  I don't believe it." Starbuck felt the amazement
supplant his own emotional feelings. 
     "Believe it, buddy. He really did." Apollo chuckled again.  "But
looking at him now, I'd say he's not very thrilled about it." 
     This time, some tension relieving laughter went up.
     "Signing off for now," Apollo said, "I'll buy you a round later at
the Club."
     "Lookin' forward to it, bud." Starbuck grinned and took the
headphones off.  As he and Boomer resumed their seats at the defense
table, every spectator was now engaged in eager conversation with one
another, prompting a ringing of the bell from Adama.
     "The Tribunal will be in order again," Adama said with stoic dignity
and looked over at Farnum, "Sire Farnum, do you wish to make a motion at
this time?"
     "I do, Commander," Sire Farnum said without skipping a beat. "The
Colonial nation moves to dismiss all charges against Lieutenant Starbuck,
and to hereby declares these proceedings to be at an end."
     "It is so ordered.  This Tribunal is now dissolved."

*****************************

     The sound of a groan from the rear of the shuttle made Apollo
re-activate the autopilot and leave his seat.  Holding both laser
pistols, he pointed them both at the writhing Ohan, who had come to and
was struggling to a sitting position.
     "Okay, take it easy," Apollo said coldly, "A med-tech will attend to
you as soon as we're aboard the Galactica.  In the meantime, don't you so
much as even move a muscle."
     Ohan managed to center his eyes on the warrior and then abruptly
spat at him.
     "That's not going to do any good at this point," Apollo said with
arid disdain as he stepped aside to avoid the spittle.  "We'll be aboard
in a centon."
     As Apollo went back and resumed his seat at the controls, he could
hear the bartender speak with low venomous words, but not directed at
him.
     "Damn you Baltar!" he managed to shout.  "Damn you!  I won't forget
this!"
     And then, there was nothing else as the bartender lost consciousness
again.
     All the while, Baltar avoided turning around.  His face remained
unchanged from the bitter, discontented expression Apollo had noticed as
soon as he had subdued the killer.
     "Tell me, Baltar," Apollo said, "Why didn't you trust him?"
     The traitor disregarded him.  He wasn't in the mood to give Apollo
the satisfaction of an answer, especially not the true answer.  During
that long centon when Charybdis had been telling him to activate the
autopilot, his mind had flashed back to the conversation he and Charybdis
had shared just after his pilot had safely gotten their shuttle away from
the Battlestar Atlantia before the Cylon fighters had unleashed their
attack.  He forced Charybdis to wait for his arrival, because Baltar had
not told Charybdis the coordinates for the safe zone, where they would
wait out the attack.  When Charybdis had asked him why he hadn't given
him the coordinates beforehand, Baltar had chuckled and said,  "I love
you as I would my own son.  I see in you, much that is like myself.  And
it is precisely because of that, that I would not have trusted you with
those coordinates for even a micron."
     "I thought as much," Charybdis had replied, "Perhaps one day,
Commander Baltar, I will be more worthy of your trust."
     You hadn't, Charybdis, Baltar thought as his mind came back to the
present.  Not after you abandoned me when we returned to Piscera.  You
still think too much like I would.  You would have killed me just like I
would have killed you had our roles been reversed.
     "If you don't want to talk to me, I suppose that's your privilege,"
Apollo sighed. "For what it's worth, I'll see to it that Adama has your
sentence reduced."
     A reduced sentence, Baltar thought with disgust.  How nice of him. 
That means I get to move about the Prison Barge with the rest of those
worthless dorays doing all their menial chores.  And maybe that means I
get a chance at a hearing for parole in eight yahrens at the earliest,
which they would no doubt turn down anyway.
     He felt a sense of humiliation that he'd been forced to do Apollo's
bidding for essentially nothing meaningful.  And that only made him hate
the captain and his infernal friend Starbuck with as much hatred as he
felt for Adama.
     Somehow, he would find a way someday to exact his revenge on the
both of them as well.

*****************************

     As Admiral Zhark stepped off the turbolift into the Galactica's
landing bay, he could see the excited throng gathered around Apollo's
shuttle.  Two med-techs had taken the unconscious Charybdis off in a
stretcher, with Sergeant Kulanda acting as the Security escort.  Starbuck
meanwhile, had promptly embraced Apollo in gratitude as soon as the
captain had stepped off.
     The onetime Commander of the Battlestar Ricon shook his head faintly
as he moved away from the throng to where his own shuttle waited, which
would fly him back to his regular duties as commander of the maintenance
ship Celestra.  He still found it amazing that things had turned out as
they had.
     Every instinct had told me that the evidence had pointed to
Starbuck's guilt and his two protectors had shown no inclination that
they could prove his innocence the way I always felt a defense should be
made; by a rigid devotion to the letter of the procedural codes, he
thought.  The codes exist for a reason.  It is not  theoretically
possible for an innocent man to be convicted if his protectors know how
to follow the codes right.  If an injustice had almost been committed
during the proceedings, then it is Starbuck who is responsible, as he did
not have proper protectors handling his case.
     He stepped aboard the shuttle and settled into the passenger chair,
already planning ahead to the resumption of his regular duties.
     "Back to the Celestra, sir?" his pilot inquired.
     "Yes, Miss Aurora," he faintly nodded as he relaxed in his chair,
"And radio Mr. Chaka that I'm resuming full command.  The Tribunal is
over."
     His pilot, an attractive woman with an olive complexion and shoulder
length dark hair turned around slightly, "It's over, sir?"
     "Yes," there was an edge of disinterest in his voice.  "Lieutenant
Starbuck was acquitted.  The real killer was discovered."
     "I...see," the pilot tried not to show any emotion.  "I'm glad to
hear that."
     "I, on the other hand, am glad it's over.  That was the most
outrageous spectacle I've ever taken part in, in all my yahrens in the
Service," Zhark rubbed his temple, and then glared slightly at her, "Now,
stop wasting my time, Miss Aurora and get this blasted thing launched."
     "Yes sir, sorry sir," she blushed and went back to the controls.  As
she moved the shuttle out into position, Apollo's parked shuttle now came
into view on her right.  She quickly shot a glance over and could see the
blonde lieutenant still embracing the black-haired captain.
     I'm happy for you, Starbuck, she said silently.  And then, she
quickly turned her head away and resumed going over the launch checklist.

*****************************

Chapter Fifty-Two: Epilogue
     
     "Thankful as I am for all that you did," Starbuck said as he snapped
on the helmet of his triad uniform, "I sincerely hope that neither you
nor Boomer ever decide to take another case again."
     Apollo grinned as he finished adjusting his uniform and took the
helmet out of his locker, "That'd be the surest thing to lay a wager on
for your entire life.  Once was enough for me."
     "The legal profession is grateful," Starbuck gave him a playful
nudge, and then closed his locker door, turning the lock.  "From now on,
I'm going to keep my locker door locked whenever I take a quick trip into
the turbowash. Wouldn't want anyone else sneaking in to snatch
something."
     "You sure didn't waste anytime regaining your sense of humor,"
Apollo noted wryly.
     "As far as I'm concerned, the old Starbuck is back and better than
ever.  And that includes the burning desire to beat Boomer and Kulanda to
guarantee another championship for us."
     "Boomer will tell you that you owe him something after all the work
he put in too," Apollo quipped.
     "I'll repay him with something more meaningful than letting him
win," Starbuck said.  As they reached the doorway leading into the
corridor, the blonde lieutenant stopped and then said with a dead serious
expression, "Apollo," he started.
     "Yeah?"
     Starbuck took a breath, wanting to say how grateful he was for
Apollo's friendship and everything else Apollo had done for him during
the terrible ordeal.  But such openness had never come easy to Starbuck,
even when he wanted to be open.
     "Thanks," he finally whispered.  Unable to say anything else.
     Apollo nodded in understanding and clasped his hand on his shoulder,
"Let's go out there and make that crowd think it's getting it's money's
worth tonight."
     When they reached the end of the corridor, leading to the triad
court, they saw Boomer and Kulanda waiting.  Sheba and Cassiopeia, both
looking stylish and attractive in their formal evening gowns, were there
as well, along with Adama and Jeremiah.
     "Hey, what is this, a send-off committee?" Starbuck asked wryly.
     Adama smiled, "We all wanted to wish you good luck, Starbuck." He
then glanced over at Boomer and Kulanda. "Of course, with the caveat that
the Lords will ultimately decree the final outcome of the match itself."
     "Thank you for maintaining some semblance of neutrality, sir,"
Boomer grinned good-naturedly.
     "What are we waiting for?" Starbuck returned it, "Let's get
started."
     "Aren't you forgetting that we're not supposed to enter the court
until the officiator gives us the signal?" Apollo noted.
     "Yeah,  I did  forget," Starbuck sighed. "I guess I've got all this
excess steam I want to let off, after being locked up all that time."
     "Maybe that's the real key to beating you," Boomer said wryly. "Lock
you up in your quarters before every match, and you'll be too nervous to
concentrate."
     "I guess that means I've got to watch my back for evil Blue Team
players bearing ropes to tie me up before every match," Starbuck said as
everyone else laughed.
     "Starbuck," Cassiopeia came up to him and gave him a quick kiss,
"It's okay.  You're going to be wonderful."
     "You think so?" Starbuck asked, noticing for the first time that her
short hairstyle made her more attractive than he could remember.
     "I think so."
     "She's right," Adama came up to him, "And while as the commander, I
am formally neutral, as a spectator and a triad fan, I took the liberty
of placing a small wager on you for this evening as an added incentive."
     "Thank you, sir," Starbuck said, "What do you think of that,
Boomer?"
     "Hey, I'm not the least bit worried," Boomer shrugged and motioned
to Jeremiah.  "The expert wagerer thinks this might not be your night
tonight."
     The blonde warrior lifted an eyebrow as he faced Jeremiah, who had
an impish expression.
     "It has been my experience that  lack of adequate preparation before
a match, as you've gone through this past sectan, tilts the odds heavily
in the favor of the other team."
     "Really?" Starbuck returned Chameleon's expression.  "Jeremiah,
after tonight you're going to forget everything you've ever learned."    
"While my wagering instincts say no, Starbuck, I hope in all sincerity
that you prove me wrong." Jeremiah smiled back.  "You take care of
yourself now, y'hear?"
     They heard the buzzer sound, indicating that it was time for the
teams to enter the court.  Starbuck gave Cassiopeia one last quick kiss
before moving out.  At the same time, Apollo made brief eye contact with
Sheba, not saying anything but taking a long micron to note how beautiful
she looked.
     When the four players stepped out onto the court, they were all
greeted to a thunderous standing ovation from the packed galleries of
spectators.  Some of them in awed admiration of the two best teams in the
league, but Apollo, Boomer and Kulanda also knew that much of it was
directed toward Starbuck, to demonstrate their support for him after the
ordeal he had gone through.
     "I guess we should get to our seats now," Adama said, "Sheba?"
     "Of course," she nodded, "Cassie?  Jeremiah?"
     "We'll be up in a centon," Cassiopeia said, "You hold our seats
for us."
     As soon as Adama and Sheba were gone, the med-tech drew up alongside
the elderly man, who was staring intently at Starbuck out on the court. 
Cassiopeia only had to look at Jeremiah's  eyes to realize what he was
thinking.
     "I came close to telling him during his trial," he said in a low
whisper, as he continued to look out, "But..." he trailed off.
     "Jeremiah," Cassiopeia took his hand, "It wouldn't have been the
right time for that.  You...well, so long as I know that you'll do it
someday, I'm not going to hold that over your head."
     Starbuck's father turned and looked her in the eye, "Cassie," he
said, "I'll tell him the truth someday.  I promise."
     She smiled in understanding, "Come on," she said, "Let's go watch
your son win at triad."

*****************************

From The Adama Journals

     I have learned one amazing thing from my recent expericence: that
there are actually still planets in the database we haven't come across
yet.  After thirteen sectars, there isn't anything that seems familiar
anymore.
     Colonial star navigation knew how to map a large part of the
universe.  I remember when, during my Academy days, we all had to take an
instructional field trip to the Centarus star magnifier, that magnificent
telescope with a lens that must have been at least five metrones across. 
On a clear night one could see all the way to Gomoray, the very edge of
what's known to exist in the Alpha Quadrant of the galaxy.  And amidst my
fits of  boredom, I kept getting this mental picture of one of those
technicians looking through to see if he could spot a Delphian playing
the twicara at the other end, given how big the Delphians reputations as
first class musicians are.
     The Delphians, though, weree not a pretty sight, if the holopics of
the species I've seen are anything to go by.  They actually made the
Ovions seem like a handsome people by comparison.  But then, at least the
Delphians had a more respectable diet.  And, I'm sure I would have found
them much better company than the Dorays of Arcadis.
     In mentioning Arcadis, I find myself reminded of something.  New
Corinth, the lone city on that planet, was...what, the second or third
human settlement we've come across since we left home?  No, it was the
third, I think.  Let me see, there was the Destructon Penal
Colony....Equis....Arcadis....That's three.  No, wait.  Apollo crashed on
some human settlement in the Ume System.  I could never get him to say a
word about what it was like, though.
     So that's four.  How many others there are that we've bypassed
altogether?  I have no idea.  But however many there are, they're all the
same.  Descendants of prospectors and space travelers who left the
Colonies chasing dreams of riches and glory before the war with the
Cylons began.  Except for Destructon, all of them were so distant or off
the beaten path from the Colonial frontier, they never became aware of
the war.
     And here we are, encountering them as we go by.  I have to wonder
if, in the end, we're signing their death warrants by leading the Cylons
to them.
     I cannot say that about Destructon though, since we did bring a
majority of the former inmates into our Fleet.  Speaking of which, I got
a telecom from Caeljumbe, formerly known as Princess Alpha, the other
day.  She says she's enjoying her work on the Celestra.
     But Destructon aside, what about the others?  New Corinth, for
instance.  That's a settlement of about...what was it, four or five
thousand humans all told.  Why didn't I level with them and tell them
about the situation outside their system?  If the point of our journey
across the stars is to lead human civilization away from the Cylons to
Earth, then why shouldn't the Corinthites have known about the risk they
face?  All it takes is one Cylon scout, and the next thing you know
they've got problems that not even Constable Warbride can take care of.
     Yes, it's a good question.  Fortunately, I have the answer to it. 
The way I see it, I haven't the right to force a thriving culture of
humans who've established themselves these last 1500 yahrens, to just 
uproot themselves and tag along for the ride.  I think they see
themselves as having a chance to remain an isolated pocket of humanity
off the track from where the Cylons will extend themselves.
     It's kind of wishful thinking in a way.  If the Cylons keep chasing
us all the way to Earth, then sooner or later these settlements get drawn
into their sphere whether they like to admit it or not. 
     However, not even the Cylons can have troops stationed on every
planet in the universe.  Besides, they like to stay singularly focused on
one goal, and to them we represent the last enclave of a major enemy. 
They need to stay focused on that instead of searching for every last
little forgotten outpost of humanity. 
     Unfortunately, in saying this, I've forgotten one other thing.  Now
that the Cylons occupy all of the Colonies they've got access to all the
ancient records about pre-war human settlements elsewhere in the galaxy. 
They would likely include old reports on places like New Corinth.  And
I've got a feeling that's how they found out in the first place about
Sesmar and his experiments on Equis.
     I may be right, but it's just not our problem.  We can't force any
human we encounter to come with us against their will.  The very thing
we've always fought this war for has been in the name of defending
individual freedom and the right to choose one's destiny.  If we ever
force a human settlement to join us, there there goes the entire
justification we've used for fighting the Cylons in the first place. 
     Still, the further and further we go out into space, and I think
about what we've passed behind and will never see again, I keep wondering
about their long-term safety.


The End