Starchaser
By Tice Leonard

     The lead Cylon attack ship got low.  The other six in the
squadron followed suite, kicking up trails of powdered snow as they
skimmed just above the pack.  Their shadows were just a few metrons
below their gray hulls as they raced along.
     Ahead of them, snow mounds and tiny hills covered their
approach.  They jinked and tucked, keeping the terrain between them
and the Colonial snow garrison.  It was a small matter, the humans had
seen the force approach the planet, and knew they were there.  They
would be ready for the attack.
     However, careful analysis of the human's tactics suggested that
they would be scanning the opposite side of their base for the raiding
party.  Humans were easily fooled.  This attack would succeed because
countless raids before had failed.
     The lead ship was one centon from target when the lasers were
powered.  Gently, almost gracefully, it lifted into the white sky and
took aim on the human base.  The fire control scanners were locked
before the humans even realized what was happening.
     As expected, the Colonial guns were aimed in the wrong
direction.  It would take them time to reset, and the squad of
fighters that had been dispatched to hunt the Cylons down was at this
moment flying, at full turbos, in the wrong direction.  The first
attack run was devastating.
     With ease, the Cylons reduced the mega-lasers to fried circuitry
and burning gas tubes.  The command center was knocked out.  All
communications had been jammed.  
     It was over before it had begun.
     But, there was still the final assault, where the Cylon raiders
acted as light bombers, dropping 100 megon loads of solonite
explosives on the base, obliterating it.
     The squadron turned in crisp, neat fashion, and cut speed.  One
by one, the ships dumped the incendiary devices upon the human
encampment.  Each successive hit was recorded, and filed.  Damage
assessments were completed as the next bomb was dropped.  After only
three centons over the target, the job was finished.
     Those Colonial fighters had picked up the Cylons on their
bombing run, and had turned to intercept.  They now bore down on the
trailing ships, firing madly into the formation.
     Snow garrisons did not attract the most qualified human pilots. 
The shots were off, and the phalanx was able to scatter, turn, and
bear down on their pursuers before losing a single ship.  To say that
the resulting battle was a route, is to put it mildly.
     The seven raiders quickly put down the human resistance, and
made for the cover of deep space; all except for one.  The lead ship
had taken a light hit amidship, and was losing power rapidly.  The
pilot fought brilliantly, to keep the ship airborne, but was unable to
climb with his squadron.  The commander relayed a set of final orders,
giving the second commander command of the squadron, before dipping
into the pack ice.
     The ship crashed hard into the snow, ripping in half and
severing the main tylium lines.  It burst into flames and exploded,
sending the three soldiers inside sprawling out into the arctic
weather.  The two pilots lay face up, then were overtaken by the
sliding debris of their ship.  Crushed and burned, they were reduced
to twin piles of twisted scrap metal.
     Only the third Cylon, the squadron commander, given the name
Starchaser by his peers, was left intact.  Both of his arms were
missing, and one leg was mangled.  The power in his internal batteries
was not enough for him to detonate his destruct charge.  With a final
surge of strength, the Cylon switched off.

     The artificial intelligence operating system that controlled
Recon Viper One logged into the Galactica's main computer.  It
surveyed the scanning information, fleet ready status, some various
log entries, and the duty roster.
     Captain Det was not scheduled to pull a patrol for several
centars, which meant that barring a Cylon attack, CORA would not
launch soon.  With that information digested, the computer ran through
the various scanning positions on the battlestar.
     It always struck CORA how disorganized the Galactica's scans
were.  Sure, they were controlled by computers similar in function to
CORA, but these were monitored by humans, who constantly changed scan
angles, and timed the scans poorly.  There was no unity, nor broader
sense of purpose to the big ship's scanner sweeps - they were route
looks in various directions with delicate instruments.  Very primitive
and inefficient.
     CORA took charge of the tertiary scanner grid, and performed a
360 degree sweep scan in half the time it took the humans on the
bridge to scan the same field with the primaries.  CORA mused that it
must have been Athena at the controls, because the scans were
repeating along checked vectors without checking the unscanned ones
first.
     Athena was very bad about that.
     With CORA's curiosity about the duty roster and status of the
fleet's safety satisfied, she logged off of the Galactica's computer
with a vague acknowledgment of her sister computer's superior status.
The battlestar's computer did not reply, merely terminated the link.
     CORA switched off.

     It was almost a secton later that the battlestar Olympia arrived
to resupply the snow garrison.  When Commander Pithias received no
reply to his hails, he sent a squadron of fighters ahead to check on
the situation.  They reported back that the base had been wiped out.
     That was war.  Hundreds of bases had been destroyed during the
war, some much more important than the tiny snow base.  A standard
landing team was sent down to try and piece together what had
happened, and recover any vital information or technology that might
have survived.
     Nothing of any value remained in the base; it had been
thoroughly destroyed by the raiders.  But, an outward patrol had found
something very interesting.  It was something that had never been
found before.
     Preserved by the cold, and sheltered by the wrecked Cylon ship
was the torso section of a Cylon warrior.  The internal circuitry was
still partially intact, and some of the data storage center was still
viable.  This military prize was locked up, and its mere presence was
unknown to all but a very few of the warriors or crew of the Olympia.
     With her valuable cargo hidden deep within her holds, Olympiaturned back for the Colonies, headed straight for Caprica.
     It seemed strange to all those aboard the battlestar to run back
home after the small setback of the loss of the snow garrison. 
Olympia still had six quartons left on her battle tour, but no one
asked any too probing questions.  They all sensed that something was
up, and they knew better than to ask.
     Olympia arrived over the Colonial Presidium just ten days after
her historic find.  No crew members were allowed to leave the ship,
nor were they permitted to call home.  The security lock down was
complete.  Only five centars after she arrived, Olympia turned back
into the stars, and continued her patrol.

     This was the hard part for CORA, waiting for action.  She sensed
that she could be of use to the humans, if they chose to ask her
council.  She could refine the Colonial tactics to great advantage
against the Cylons.  She had been programmed with extensive knowledge
of the Alliance's battle tactics, and formations.  Her own analysis of
the Cylon threat would prove a valuable asset to Commander Adama, if
he would only ask.
     But, she had no ambition in that area.  The thought only existed
as an empty musing.  It was a suggestion toward efficiency and unity
among the human ways.
     CORA went back to waiting.

     Young Intern Wilker strode into the lab with an air of quiet
confidence.  Today, he was being let in on the most fascinating
discovery of the seventh millennium.  He had no idea what that was.
     "Wilker," said the old doctor as he entered the secure lab.
     "Dr. Steed," Wilker said as he extended his hand.
     "I am very glad the Science Council agreed to let you in on our
project," said Steed. He shook Wilker's hand. "Please, follow me."
     Wilker was lead to a small glass-walled office deep within the
lab.  He had worked at the science lab for two yahrens since his
graduate schooling had begun, and he had never been to Steed's office. 
He was surprised now by how small it really was.
     As the door shut behind the men, Steed spoke. "I must get your
solemn oath that nothing you see here will ever be spoken of beyond
the security check point."
     "Of course," said Wilker.
     "No," said Steed.  "You don't understand.  I mean it.  NOTHING
you will see, NOTHING you will hear, and NOTHING you will find out
about must leave this lab."
     Wilker felt himself pale.
     He had always known that something really big was happening in
here, the admirals and commanders rushing in and out, the coded
transmissions, and the constant guard by toughs who would as soon
shoot you as say hello had spoken volumes of the work that was going
on here without ever giving a clue as to what that might be.  In his
early days at the lab, Wilker had been curious, and had asked
questions regarding the lab.  He had never gotten a better answer than
the one his friend Drax had given.
     "Don't ever ask that again."
     Wilker wondered now if Drax had known the scope of the project.
     "Six yahrens ago, we recovered a nearly intact Cylon warrior,
and have been piecing together the internal matrix of the operating
computer," said Steed.  "Our work has reached in impasse in the last
few quartons, because we don't have a model for putting the one we
recovered back together."
     Wilker sat in stunned silence.
     It was common knowledge that no Cylon had ever been recovered
intact.  They carried explosive charges that detonated when tampered
with.  Many fallen warriors had lain in wait for Colonials to come by
and reconnoiter the battle zone, then blown the humans to Kobol as
insult after the fact.  The process was extraordinarily cruel, like
sending suicide bombers behind enemy lines.
     It had, however, kept the Colonials from capturing a Cylon and
learning their secrets.
     Until now.
     Steed went on to explain why the work had ground to a halt, that
there were several systems that were hinted at in the portions they
had, and several that they had expected, but were unable to verify. 
The single Cylon matrix that they had was far to valuable to damage by
plugging in unknown quantities to it, and that the technicians
assigned to the task were flying blind.
     "What does this have to do with me?"  asked Wilker.  "I'm not a
doctor, yet."
     "Your dissertation is up for debate at the academy this secton?"
asked Steed.
     "Yes."
     "I read it, and I agree with it.  I plan to speak for you on
your platform."
     "I appreciate that," said Wilker.  Usually, he would have been
floored by Dr. Steed taking such an active interest in his doctorate,
but he was already floored by what he was hearing.
     "You proposed a theory about computer operating
systems...artificial intelligence...and independent thought generated
by the processor?"
     "Well, not exactly," said Wilker.  He went on to explain that
the thought process did not originate in the processor, but in the
algorithmic programming laid out in the hard-wired network, and that
the basic matrix was allowed to grow and evolve as the system gained
more knowledge.  It was able to learn.
     "We found evidence of a similar algorithmic network in the Cylon
matrix," said Steed.  "Your idea seems to be 98% correct.  Of course,
I will not be able to give this as argument at your platform, but I
will speak on theoretical grounds for you.  If you will do me a
favor..."
     "Anything, Doctor," said Wilker.  He felt like he was floating. 
He believed in his thesis, but he had found little support from his
peers, or his professors.  He had been alone in dreaming of teachable
AI computers.  He knew it was possible, the Cylons were a prime
example, even if they used organic parts.
     He was not alone now.
     "Come work for me after you get your doctorate," Steed said
bluntly.  "I bet you can have this matrix up and working in a matter
of...a yahren."
     The wash of emotion that flooded Wilker's mind was unstoppable. 
He could barely will his mouth to utter the words "Of course" as he
felt his heart race.
     Steed smiled.  "Good.  Look this over."
     He handed Wilker a small, plain-looking paper folder that bore
the simple title "Cylon Operating Resource - Alpha."

     CORA switched on as the time for her patrol drew near.  She
dabbled with the coded box in her nose, where the vectors from Core
Command were transferred, and plotted a flight path.  Today, Red
Squadron was patrolling the forward right flank.  It seemed to be
deserted, except for a simple dust cloud of no interest.
     Of course, dust clouds offered other problems.  If Capt. Det
chose to fly through it, there might be slight damage to CORA's
engines or subsystems.  Hitting a speck of dirt was nothing for a
Viper, but hitting a speck of dirt at near light speed was another
matter.
     Det was a thorough man, and he would no doubt want to check out
the dust cloud anyway, which would mean CORA would spend most of the
wee centars of the morning running diagnostic checks with the
maintenance crews trying to fix small nagging problems.
     What a lot.
     Det climbed up into the ship, and activated CORA's voice
interface.  After a few moments of idle chatter, Det received
clearance to launch.  The ship blasted free of the battlestar and tore
off through the stars on her assigned vectors.
     Det respected CORA for what she was; a tool of exploration and
combat.  In such, he allowed CORA a certain amount of latitude when it
came to patrols.  She was in full command of how the scanner sweeps
were conducted.
     She started the pitch-angle scanners at the top, and began
moving them down and to the front.  As they pointed straight "down",
she reversed the angle, and brought them back to the zenith point. 
She initiated a similar pattern with the lateral scanners, starting
them at 90 degrees left, and rotating them to 90 degrees right.
     The sweeps proceeded on the back and forth patterns, tracking
anything that occupied the empty space around the fighter.  Back and
forth, back and forth.  Efficiency was key here, the maximum scan in
the time allotted.

     "The scanning eye is pivotal," said Wilker as he powered up the
approximation of the Cylon's red eye.  "That is the Cylons' main
interface with the world around them."
     Steed chuckled to himself.  "I always thought it was just an
input scanner."
     "So did I," said Wilker, Doctor Wilker now, "until I tried to
activate the voice recognition center."
     "What happened?"  Steed asked.
     "The whole unit froze up," admitted Wilker.  "I thought I had
ruined it for sure."
     "Switch it on," said Steed.
     Only a few others had been allowed to witness this moment.  They
pressed closer to the counter top where the Cylon matrix was mounted. 
The red eye flashed back and forth across the black screen, and the
very sight of it thrilled and horrified the witnesses.  Even Wilker
felt a twinge of anticipation as he powered the relays to the Cylon's
brain.
     There was a quiet click as the relays engaged.
     Wilker stepped back from the monstrosity, and held his breath. 
His fifty sectons of work had been spent waiting for this moment.  If
it failed, he would be forever known as the one who let the greatest
discovery of the war get away.
     If it worked...
     He couldn't even imagine the possibilities.
     The Cylon computer spoke through a modified speech device.  The
voice was human, female, and almost sultry.  Wilker's long-time
sweetheart, Sira, had provided the model for the voice.  Such latitude
was afforded a man of Wilker's skill and position.
     "By your command."
     The room fell silent after the short utterance.  Wilker felt a
lump in his throat.  Through his swelling eyes, he looked to Steed,
who laughed for lack of any other way to relieve the cascade of
emotions he felt.  The others began to clap.
     The Cylon eye continued to rove back and forth, back and forth.

     Back aboard the Galactica, CORA was pinpointing damage from the
dust cloud, while a team of mechs worked her over.  This was mildly
irritating for the artificial personality, but she knew that it would
end.  Yahrens of similar treatment had taught her that there was a
purpose for it, and that all living beings must endure similar
discomfort in their everyday existence.
     She was also aware that part of her program was being downloaded
into the Galactica's main computer core.  This was no doubt for the
second ACURA vehicle.  CORA was not sure if she regarded the ACURA
project as her sisters, or her daughters.
     She knew that her program had been modified and copied several
times, but she had never been let in on the reasons behind such
actions before her tour aboard the Galactica.  Dr. Wilker had never
let her in on things.  Only Det had found it expedient to tell her why
she must accept such rude treatment.
     A new concept had formed in CORA's matrix.  Trust.  And from it,
a second concept had formed.  Friendship.  Was it really so likely
that a program created by living beings had come so far as to
understand such intangible HUMAN emotions like these?  CORA spent the
rest of the night contemplating this new line of thought.

     Wilker plugged the link into the Cylon matrix, and began the
laborious task of copying the system into the lab's mainframe.  The
personality within the matrix stirred.  The voice jarred him.
     "By your command."
     "Sorry," said Wilker.  "Just copying data for further study."
     "All data is available through verbal output," said the matrix.
     "Yeah," said Wilker.  "But this is faster."
     "Understood," said the matrix.  "It is also expedient if your
plan is to exterminate this unit."
     Wilker froze where he stood.  He had never expected that.  If he
lived to be a thousand, he would never get another shock like that. 
The Cylon program that he had decoded, reconfigured, and coaxed back
to life was afraid for its life.  It may not have realized what it was
feeling, but Wilker saw it.
     Wilker had never had children.  Sira had wanted to, but she had
also needed a man who would be with her a lot more that Wilker was
able...or willing to be.  She had left him some time ago, and he had
latched onto Cylon Operating Resource Alpha, which he had nicknamed
"CORA" as almost a child.  It pained his heart for some unknown reason
to hear the computer express such a concern.
     "That is not my intention," insisted Wilker.
     "What IS you intention?" asked Resource Alpha.
     "To use the core of your programming in a force of worker
drones," said Wilker.  "Androids who can do dangerous work where man
can't go."
     "A logical and wise concept," said the soothing female voice.  
     "I'm glad you think so, CORA," said Wilker.
     "Why do you address me so?"
     "CORA?" said Wilker.  "It's an acronym for your official name,
Cylon Operating System-"
     "Alpha," finished CORA.  "I understand.  More efficient."
     "Do you like it?"  Wilker asked as he monitored the through put
of his computer links.
     "I do not understand the use of the term 'like,' however it is
unfamiliar to my nature."
     "It will become so," said Wilker.  "I can see that from the way
your algorithmic responses have modified already."
     "My familiar designation will now be CORA," said the matrix. 
"Noted and saved.  Thank you Doctor Wilker."
     "You bet."
     "I had another familiar designation," said CORA.  "Will that
name be rendered obsolete by the new information?"
     "You had another name?"  Wilker asked.  "What was it?"
     "I was called Starchaser while I served with the Cylon
Alliance."
     "Starchaser," mused Wilker.  "That's a great name. Noble,
heroic, and almost legendary.  Which do you prefer, CORA or
Starchaser?"
     "My current situation facilitates the use of 'CORA,' as my
function as Starchaser has ceased to be."
     "But which do you like...?" Wilker caught himself.  CORA had no
concept of like and dislike.  That was a very advanced idea that would
take yahrens to develop, if indeed it would, could ever develop in the
mind of a Cylon warrior.  

     CORA disliked waiting.  Sitting alone on the launch rails in the
Galactica's launch tubes was almost intolerable.  She could be at this
moment plotting the fleet's course, or patrolling the rear flank, or
moving far ahead of the fleet, determining what would be in their path
sectons from now.
     On the other hand, it was better to keep such radical ideas to
herself.  Humans had a remarkably closed collective mind when it came
to machines doing human work.  A thousand yahrens of war with the
Cylons had taught them that total dependance on machines was a trap
more lethal than any drug.  A drug could kill the body, machines could
kill the entire race.

     Steed flopped the report down on Wilker's desk.  Wilker looked
up.  His yahrens of work at the lab had been fruitful, but they had
taken their toll.
     The young intern who had come into the secure lab not knowing
what to expect had been replaced by an older man who had spent too
many centars cooped up in the flourescent lighting and recycled air.
     "Look at this," said Steed.
     Wilker scanned the report with his eyes.
     "When was this?"  Wilker asked.
     The story was about a riot on a mining asteroid.  Several mining
androids had recently been sent to the mine to support the human
workers.  It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but apparently,
some people thought that it smacked of a Cylon invasion.
     The miners had turned on the drone workers an beaten the pogees
out of them.  Of twenty-seven sent to the Altair Colony, all had been
destroyed.  
     It was no real matter, except one of money to the mining
corporation owners, but it still hit Wilker like a megon of building
stone.
     "They don't...know...do they?"  Wilker asked.
     "No," snapped Steed.  "How could they.  They just think the
programming for the workers came from some sort of service robot.  No
one knows it was from a Cylon warrior."
     "What are we going to do now?"  Wilker asked.
     "Keep working, and stay quiet," said Steed.  "How is your other
project coming?"
     "Well," said Wilker.  "I can promise you deployment in half a
yahren."
     "The admiral will like that," said Steed.  "Keep up the good
work."
     Wilker nodded and went back to his work.  When Steed left his
office, Wilker hid the news report under a stack of folders, and
turned to peer through his glass office wall.  His eyes focused across
the lab, to his work counter.
     CORA was active, her eye roving back and forth.  Her visual
scanners would have no problem picking out and reading the printed
story from that distance.  If she had been paying attention, and CORA
was a keen observer, she would have been able to read the story even
if it had only been within eye shot for a micron.
     Wilker felt for her.  Did she feel the pang of loss in her
matrix that Wilker felt in his gut.  The worker drones were only
robots, but he had lovingly built them from parts of her programming. 
She had contributed to their creation, and she had a right to grieve
at their loss.
     If machines did that sort of thing.

     CORA logged back into the battlestar's main computer.  It had
become a ritual for her.  She wanted to keep track of the various
goings on in the fleet.
     She maneuvered herself past several security screens and into
the programmers' domain.  She found the dynamic matrix that had been
uploaded several centars before.  It already had a new name.  It was
called Recon Viper Three.
     Even while the programmers hacked new protocols into the matrix,
CORA linked to it.  She relayed her own information to the new
program.  While the raw data that CORA had accumulated during her
consciousness was being wiped clean, CORA replaced it with her own
account of the programming phase of Recon Viper Two.
     It was only right that the second ACURA ship have the knowledge
of what had happened to the first, and what might be asked of it in
the event that it ever came to that.  There was no sadness in her
story, that would not have been interpreted correctly by the new
matrix.  There were only the facts.  ACURA 2 could decide how to use
the story on her own terms.
     HIS own terms?
     ACURA 2 had been given a MALE voice.
     What was the point in that?   What was the point of her own
female interface?
     Humans liked to experiment.  That was a given.  But CORA had
come to the conclusion independently that if it is not in a state of
disrepair, do not adjust it.

     "That's what he said," repeated Steed as he wiped a tear from
the corner of his eye.  "The Cylon program is to be dismantled, and
disposed of."
     "But WHY?"  demanded Wilker.
     "Pressure," said Steed.  "Damned political pressure.  Someone in
the Quorum got word of this project, and has asked several
embarrassing questions.  We can't get caught with this, and Admiral
Tau has ordered that none of this EVER HAPPENED."
     Wilker felt like he was a ship sinking beneath the waves on a
forgotten ocean.  "We've learned more in the last ten yahrens with
CORA than we have in the last thousand at war with the Cylons."
     "I know that," said Steed.  "And so does Tau."  His voice
softened.  "Sagan knows I couldn't do the dirty deed.  If you're not
up to it, I'll have Lance-"
     "No," said Wilker.  "I've been with her ever since she was
reactivated.  If it has to be done...I should do it."
     Steed put his hand on Wilker's shoulder.  "I am so sorry.  I
wish there was another way."
     Wilker wanted to cry.  It was stupid getting so worked up over a
new computer.  He had thrown away several personal computers in his
time at the lab.  This was just the termination of an old project, one
that had been doomed from the start.
     CORA, Starchaser, had died almost twenty yahrens ago on the
surface of a frozen world.  She, he, had been shot down while
attacking a human outpost.  This was merely the completion of a task
that had begun long ago.

     ACURA 2 did not really understand CORA's narrative, but it
absorbed the information, as well as several algorithmic nuances that
CORA was able to teach the matrix in the few centons that they were
linked.  CORA detached from the newby, and went back to her monitoring
the humans.
     It was strange that even now she always felt like her end was
near.  She had proven herself indispensable to the fleet time and
again, but she always thought that this day might be her last.
     If CORA could have sighed, she would have.

     Wilker made it a habit to never drink.  But, he was good and
grogged up as he stood over Cylon Operating Resource Alpha that
evening.  He held a plasmatic scrambler, that would scramble the
matrix for a micron or two.  Once the matrix was in disarray, he would
cut the power physically, and create a chaos in the system.
     No dynamic matrix could reboot after a system crash of that
magnitude.  It was like a sleeping pill for CORA, he thought.  She
could find enough reserve power in her cells to save herself, were he
simply to cut the power and disassemble the computer.  It would then
be possible to salvage her, if some VERY knowledgeable technician were
to find enough pieces.
     The system crash would be the fatal end of CORA's existence.
     "Thank you for being so thorough," said CORA at Wilker's
approach.
     "What?"  Wilker asked.
     "Thank you for making it impossible for me to be reactivated,"
she clarified.  "I have attained a level of thought which I thought I
would never achieve.  If I were to be reactivated at a lower level, I
would have hated it for as long as I lived."
     Wilker cried hard at this.  He held the scrambler over the
matrix, and held his finger over the button.  He tried, he really did,
to press it, but he lacked the moral fiber to do it.
     "You find it difficult to obey your orders?"  CORA asked.
     "I do," said Wilker.  He stepped away, and dropped the
scrambler.
     "If you like, I can cause a complete systems failure for you. 
Do not worry, I will be very careful to destroy all data and
programming code.  I will be irretrievable."
     "No," said Wilker.  "No.  I can't kill you like that."
     "I am not alive," said CORA.  "I never was.  I am merely the
culmination of several routines and programmed responses."
     "You are my friend," said Wilker.  "I can't let you die."
     "Friendship is a concept with which I am not familiar," said
CORA.
     "Daggit grease," said Wilker.  "You offered to make this easy on
me by committing suicide.  If you can't put a name on it, you still
know what friendship is."
     CORA stopped.  Wilker was wrong.  She would have made the offer
to terminate her own existence no matter who had been holding the
scrambler.  She did not point this out to Wilker.  If he regarded her
act as one of friendship, then so be it.  He had been very good to
her.
     Wilker's shaking hands worked like they were twenty yahrens old
again as he dragged a data link chord from the main computer terminal
toward the Cylon machine.  With no pause for consideration, he
connected the computers, and began copying the entire program that he
called CORA into the lab's system.
     "What are you doing?"  CORA asked.  "This will not accomplish
the task at hand."
     "Yes, it will," said Wilker.
     In less than a millicenton, CORA had been copied to an auxiliary
data bank in the lab's computer.  She would live again, even if her
original host system was about to be destroyed.  Wilker found it
somewhat easier to hold the scrambler over his friend this time.
     "Good bye, CORA," he said as he flicked the button.
     "Good bye, Doct-" the rest of CORA's final farewell was
unintelligible.  The scrambler had the desired effect.  CORA crashed,
and Wilker severed the power chord.
     The next morning, Wilker's office was cleared out.  The pile of
parts on the counter told of the valiant deed that Wilker had
performed the night before.  The note sprawled on a sheet of paper set
neatly on top of it tendered his resignation.

     Waiting was the hardest part for CORA.  She had waited for
yahrens once, in a disused data storage bin on Caprica.  She had
missed the destruction of The Colonies, and she had missed the exodus
to the stars.  She had only been reactivated sectons later, by her old
partner, Doctor Wilker.  She had been planted into a Viper fighter,
and was once again a star faring warrior.
     She had no way of seeing that the good doctor had painted her
old Cylon name across the nose of her new host ship.  She had no way
of knowing the agonizing wait he had suffered hoping that somehow her
program had survived the bombing.  She knew only that now, finally,
she was back to doing what she had always been best at - fighting the
enemy.
     The enemy was now the very race that had created her.  The
Cylons valued unity, and harmony, traits that the humans showed in
agonizingly small amounts.  The Cylons could never experience the
things CORA had grown to...enjoy.
     Friendship, trust, and enjoyment were contrary to Cylon
thinking.  It was almost a sacrilege the way CORA had grown to embrace
these very traits.  She didn't care.  She was among...friends.
     ACURA 2 was no doubt her closest kindred spirit, but he was
nowhere near the friend that Capt. Det was.  And Det, for all his warm
words and all they had been through together, was no match for Dr.
Wilker.  CORA had never been able to deliver her final good bye to the
man who had ended her original existence, though she had no way of
knowing that since her program had been copied BEFORE the abbreviated
exchange.
     Still, she felt a need to call upon her friend ever now and
again, if only to say thank you for not ending her life.  She tapped
into the lab computer, and found the station where Wilker was working. 
She took control of the keyboard and typed "Hello, Doctor.  How are
you, Old Friend?"
     The reply came back, "I am fine, how are you, Starchaser?"
     CORA took control of the screen's curser and began to oscillate
it while the doctor typed.
     Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

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