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