Sweet Nothings by Fran Severn fsevern@mindspring.com and Robert Hanczyk hanczykr@gmail.com All Feedback is HIGHLY encouraged! When a member of the medical staff showed up on the flight deck, that was usually a signal that a Warrior was in trouble. So when Jenny caught sight of Cassiopea standing near the lifts, she tensed. Starbuck was only recently back on flying status after nearly buying it during the mission to exile Baltar. He wasn't cleared for Vipers yet. Apollo and Col. Tigh had him on the most gentle runs, co-piloting the shuttle and such. He groused about it and made a point of stopping by her work station after every flight to check on the progress of his new Viper, but she knew him well enough to know that he was mostly putting on a show, trying to convince the others that he was fine. The Viper wasn't really new. It was a former hangar queen, a plane with too many defects to be used regularly, now given special attention and repairs and equipment to bring her up to standards. Funny, Jenny mused. When they had enough of everything, it made more sense to trash a nearly-flyable Viper. Since the Destruction, though, that same Viper, so nearly turned into scrap metal, was suddenly a precious commodity, something to be coddled and lovingly restored. She was glad for the challenge. The techs in her crew were the best. They were determined that this Viper would be the most finely-honed and battle-ready craft in the fleet by the time Starbuck was able to take her out. That might still be a while. Jenny remembered watching as the rescue shuttle returned with Starbuck, Apollo and Sheba from Baltar's planet. Starbuck had been hidden under a mass of life-support equipment; Apollo and Sheba wore haunted looks. She'd joined the vigil outside the Life Station until Dr. Salik told them he was stable and would probably survive. But Salik's demeanor made it clear that the recovery would be very slow. She'd been delighted the first time she'd spotted Starbuck limping across the deck to the shuttle, with Jolly and Boomer trailing after him like mother avias tending to a hatchling. Now she worried that he might have suffered a relapse. She caught Cassiopea's eye and waved. The med tech returned the gesture and moved to Jenny's work station. "Is everything all right?" Jenny asked. "As far as I know. We're just supposed to meet for evenmeal. I'm a little early. Or maybe his shuttle's late." Cassiopea colored slightly. "I guess I've been hanging around here too much. Makes people think things are wrong when they aren't." "You're entitled." Jenny wiped down the tool she was holding with a rag and hung it on the worksite board. "He looks like he's feeling better." "Better than better. Ever since he found out that Chameleon is his father, it's as though he's willing himself to recover as fast as he can. I don't think he's stopped smiling or telling people about his parents and his family..." "I know," Jenny nodded. "I've heard it all." She motioned toward the rest of her crew, shutting down systems and finishing their day's tasks as the workshift ended. "We all have. It's kind of nice, though. Somebody finding a relative after the Destruction. Especially with Starbuck thinking he was an orphan all those yarhen. And it's kind of..." she thought about it "...kind of sweet, the way he's so excited about it. Like a little kid, almost." "Almost?" Cassiopea laughed. "Not almost. You're coming to his natal day party?" "I wouldn't miss it. He's invited half the Galactica." "More like half the fleet." Cassiopea nodded in reply as one of the other ground crew members murmured a greeting as he passed. "So I've heard. But that's ok, too. I mean, think about it. You're a grown adult, a Warrior, and you have your very first natal day party. It's..." she shrugged. There was only one word for it. "...sweet." "It's a little scary," Cassiopea said. "I want it to be as special as he's got himself thinking it's going to be. I don't want him to be disappointed." "Can you think of anything he wants?" "He insists he doesn't expect any gifts." "I know, but what kind of natal day is it without gifts?" Cassiopea frowned. "Have you ever heard of Gnoggi Bars?" "Gnoggi Bars?" "Yeah. We were talking the other night about things we missed, and he said something about really loving Gnoggi Bars. I've never heard of them." "I haven't thought about Gnoggi Bars in ages!" "What are they?" "A candy bar. They were real popular, on Caprica, anyway." Actually, Jenny thought, they were probably popular on Gemmon, too. But she somehow thought that Cassiopea had traveled in circles where indulgences were on a higher plane. "Starbuck used to eat those things when they were sitting alert." "Alert?" "Before the Destruction, the crews would have battle drills or be on standby, and sometimes spend a couple of centares just waiting in the cockpit. I'd find a half-dozen of Gnoggi Bar wrappers on the floor of his Viper when he was through." "I guess it all ties in with his re-discovering his childhood," Cassiopea said. She turned at the sound of a shuttle engine and absently brushed her hand through her hair. "I'll ask around," Jenny promised. "Thanks," Cassie said. Despite what she claimed, Jenny thought the Med Tech looked decidedly relieved when she saw Starbuck step lightly from the shuttle. Gnoggi Bars. Where in the twelve worlds would she find Gnoggi Bars? Well, on the twelve worlds it wouldn't have been a problem, except for those enclaves where refined sweeteners and chocla were considered life threatening substances whose consumption caused hyperactivity in children and a general breakdown of morals among the rest of the population. Here in the fleet, though, candy and chocla were highly-prized possessions. Commander Adama had to allocate supplies where they could do the most good. That meant using all foodstuffs for basic rations. Candy bars weren't considered essential nutrition. Of course, an argument could be made that Gnoggi Bars did supply nutrition. There were nuts in the candy bar. Those were packed with protein. The nougat on which they rested and the chocolate coating were more than simply nice additions. They provided quick energy in a crisis situation. Certainly finding a Gnoggi Bar in your survival kit would boost morale more than knowing you'd have to gnaw on the bland, dry, tasteless protein bars that were standard issue until you were rescued. Unfortunately, that was not the thinking of those in charge. Gnoggi Bars were just another item on the list of "Lost and probably gone forever" luxuries. It also meant that those hoarding such delicacies could command their price for them. These weren't things that could be confiscated and distributed for the welfare of the fleet under martial law. As non-essentials, their owners were entitled to keep and distribute them as they wished. Jenny could think of only one person on board the Galactica who might have Gnoggi Bars. "Gnoggi Bars. Yummmmmm...." Rigel closed her eyes and sighed as she imagined the soft, chewy candy melting in her mouth. "Not the best chocla bar. I think the nuts detracted from them, to be honest. But, still, not bad when there was nothing else available." "Do you have any? Even one?" Rigel arched an eyebrow at Jenny. "I didn't know you were a chocla addict." She grinned. "I knew there was a reason I liked you." "Doesn't everyone love chocla?" Jenny asked. "But it's not for me. It's for Starbuck. His natal day. He loves those things and I thought it'd be nice if I could find some." Rigel grinned again. "I didn't know that. Well, if I had any, I'd give them to him, but I don't." "Oh." "However," Rigel continued, "I know the one person in the fleet who might have them. Probably has them." "Who?" "Rollo. He owned a chain of confectioneries on Virgon. Word is, he escaped to the fleet in his planetary hauler. The ship wasn't suitable for interstellar travel, but it got him and his family away from Virgon. It was also loaded with cargo. All the things he stocked in his stores. Pastries, candies, gums. Family and cargo were transferred onto the Roaritan." "Rollo," Jenny repeated. "Thanks." She checked the shuttle scheduled and patted her money pouch as she made her way to the transient launch area. If he didn't have Gnoggi Bars, maybe Rollo would have something similar. She was sure Starbuck would understand. She just hoped she could afford Rollo's price. The ship Rollo and his family were on was a converted inter-planetary moving van. "Colonial Movers: We Move Anywhere" the legend read on the outer hull. Jenny smiled ruefully as they passed it. She doubted the painter of that boast had ever dreamed just how far the ship would move or what its cargo would be. While the Galactica was crowded, there was an inherent organization in its designed use of space. Not so the Roaritan. The mover was made up of vast storage blocks, metal caverns where smaller blocks of crated cargo were once stored for their shipment to colonies and settlements. Some of the blocks were still used for basic storage. Inventoried supplies were kept here, waiting for distribution to the rest of the fleet. The unused blocks had been retrofitted into living areas, with small apartments, hygiene facilities, group cooking and meeting areas, recreation space, and maintenance and support rooms placed wherever they were convenient, which wasn't always wherever they were least intrusive and most logical. Rollo's apartment was at the end of a long line of cubicles in the middle of one of the converted blocks. It was an entirely residential area, high-end living for these ships. She rapped on the frame of the doorway. From inside, she heard a baby crying. The door edged open and a thin-faced woman peered out. She had a pleasant, but no-nonsense look about her. "Yes?" she queried. "I'm looking for Rollo," Jenny said. "I was told he lived here." "Yes, he does," the woman said. "You are?" "I'm Crew Chief Jenny of the Galactica. I wanted to talk to him about some goods he may have available for sale." The woman swung the door wider. "I'm Caramello, Rollo's wife. Please come in." The inside of the apartment was sparsely furnished, but neat and clean. Rollo was sitting on the small couch, bouncing the now-cooing baby on his lap. He was a youngish man, maybe in his early 30s, with a mop of curly black hair and a quick, intelligent look. Jenny had somehow imagined a candy magnate to be corpulent and older. He smiled easily at Jenny, while continuing to bounce the baby. "Now, see, there's someone come to visit us," he told the child. "All the way from wherever, just to see how pretty you are. Can you smile? Come on, now. That's it!" He grinned at Jenny. "Quality time," he explained. Jenny grinned in return. There were so few children in the fleet, even fewer infants. "She's beautiful. What's her name?" "Ruth." Rollo stopped bouncing the child and began to rock her gently instead. "She's my baby, my little baby Ruth," he sang softly. From behind Jenny, Caramello sighed affectionately. "You'd think she was all your doing," she said. She motioned for Jenny to take one of the chairs. "This lady came all the way here from the Galactica to talk business." "Ah." Rollo's eyes lit up. "Not a lot of chance to do that any more. What is it? Can't be supplying the food service department with raw sugars. Those were confiscated a long time ago. Basic needs, they said." He did not appear angry, just resigned to the situation. "It's personal, actually. I have a friend whose natal day is coming up. He was crazy about Gnoggi Bars. I heard you might have some." Rollo still smiled, but there was a professionalism to it now. Jenny understood how he could be an important businessman at such a young age. He handed Baby Ruth to Caramello. "Oh, honey, she's wet!" Caramello complained. Rollo smiled wickedly. "I know," he crooned. "But I have business to conduct. Can't change her, you know." Caramello carried the child out of the room, muttering something unkind about her husband as she passed Jenny. "Gnoggi Bars," Rollo repeated. "I'd have to check my inventory. I honestly don't know what all I have." Jenny recognized the tone of voice. She used it herself when someone wanted something from her that she was hesitant to lose. "If it's a question of payment, I have enough cubits..." she began. Rollo waved off her sentence. "Money isn't worth much any more," he said. "Oh, I know, officially we're all supposed to work with cubits and maintain some semblance of an economy. But do you really think any of the members of the Council of the Twelve do that? Really? They all barter for whatever they need. I've heard rumors about some of them hoarding cashes that make my stuff look like crumbs at a avian-feeder!" "So you deal in goods?" He studied her carefully. "I've heard that the security types send out decoy purchasers. When a buy is made, they move in and take not only what was for sale, but whatever else they can find." Jenny shook her head firmly. "I'm with the fighter crews. We don't have any use for the security people." She thought of the arrogance of Security Chief Reese and his staff and how they baited the members of the flying squadrons. They'd strut around the Council Administration Areas, filled with their own importance and talking loudly about the critical nature of their duty to protect the Twelve, without ever taking any real risks that she could see. "I don't know what I could have that you could need," she admitted. "True enough," Rollo agreed. "If I still had my cargo hauler, I might lean on you for some maintenance, but those days are long gone." From the other room, Baby Ruth began wailing. He sighed. "We had two other children. They were in another part of the house," he said simply. "I'm sorry." "Thank you." He straightened in his chair, changing his attitude in the motion. "You know what would help? It's kind of silly, but... I'd like to take some of the workload off Caramello. There's a person on this ship who runs a diaper cleaning service. Tell you what. You arrange for that service, you pay for it, and you can have a whole carton of Gnoggi Bars." "A carton?" "50 of them." "50?!" "Uh-huh. Think your friend will be satisfied?" Jenny pictured 50 empty candy wrappers in the cockpit of the Viper. "Absolutely." "A deal then." Rollo held out his hand and gripped Jenny's wrist. "I'll get back with you as soon as I can," she promised. The shipboard laundry was run by Neslee. He lived in a world of steam on the fringes of the maintenance and support areas. Jenny stepped carefully though the milky-colored way to his small office. "Diaper service?" he called over the sound of the washing units. "Yeah, I run a little service on the side. Mostly, people want me to pick up the messy stuff every day and return the clean diapers the following morning. Otherwise, it has to sit around the apartment until the regular weekly scheduled laundry rotation. Gets real unpleasant in those small apartments real quickly. Ventilation is not the greatest, you know. I'm eager to get them washed as fast as I can, too." "I can guess. Can you add Rollo to your clients?" "Oh, I can do it, but it'd put me in a real crunch. See, I'm short of some supplies I need." "Like what?" "Soap." "You need soap? But this is a laundry." "Oh, I get enough for the regular load, but there's not a lot of extra. You know how it is. To be honest, there are times when I wash with only half the amount of soap that I really need. Stuff ends up looking pretty dingy, but the lighting in this ship is so bad, not too many people notice. Tell you what, you get me some soap, and I'll start washing Baby Ruth 's diapers. The guy you're looking for is Mars. He's on the manufacturing ship." The manufacturing ship was a maze of equipment, small assembly lines, howling machinery, raw materials being pushed down narrow corridors, shouted voices, and a general sense of semi-organized chaos. Jenny got lost trying to follow the directions given by the deck chief at the landing bay. The landmarks she was to use were too often temporary locations of supplies or things waiting to be transported elsewhere within the fleet, long gone by the time she got there. She eventually found Mars in a rear holding compartment. He was busy with a data pad, checking off some sort of shipping form, she thought, as he stood in front of a stack of small cartons. "Mars!" Someone called from the corridor behind her. "You got those bars of soap ready to go?" "Signing off on them now," he answered. He tapped the data pad one last time, then dropped it into a holding block mounted on the wall. "You want something?" he asked Jenny. She had thought he'd be an older man, or someone at least her age. But Mars was an acne-faced youth of maybe 19 yarhen. From his dress, he was a Aerian. They were among the hardest-working groups to have escaped to the fleet. Also among the most self-contained. Why he was not staying with the rest of the population was a question she felt would be impolite to ask. "I'm told you are in charge of disbursement of some materials," she said. "Soap, specifically." "Yeah. So?" She tried to sound official. "Just how do you decide who gets how much soap?" "Depends on how much we've got available, mostly. Supplies are kind of, well, sporadic, if you know what I mean." Jenny nodded. The disposal of the deceased was a touchy, often unpleasant, subject to consider. She'd never think of recycling in quite the same way after this voyage. She swallowed hard. "I see. Do you ever have more than you need?" "Sometimes. Remember when the airlock failed on the Orbert?" "Yeah." She was glad when Mars did not elaborate. "What about now?" "We're in pretty good shape. They had a major harvest on the livestock ship a couple of sectons ago. Whenever we get ahead, I stockpile the extra." "And you're free to allocate it as you see fit." "Pretty much." He eyed her uniform curiously. "What's soap distribution got to do with Viper maintenance?" "Not a thing. I'm just trying to do a favor for a friend. See, the launderer on the Roaritan wants to expand his operation, but he needs a reliable supply of soap. I'm trying to arrange it." "What do I get out of it?" "What do you want? I've got cubits." The boy made a face. "Cubits won't get me what I really want." "What's that?" "I want to be a man!" "Oh!" Jenny squeaked. "I want the right to have the rays of Aeries tattooed upon my shoulders and wear the nets of manhood upon my hair." "Oh," she repeated. "I'm not Aerian. Why can't you do that?" "Skor does not have the materials he needs to perform the p'pr min t'pati." "P'pr- what?" "It translates as the Rays and Nets Ceremony. It marks the coming of age for my people." "Can't this Skor guy make some substitutions? I mean, with the Destruction, some things just aren't available any more." The look Mars gave Jenny would have melted a Cylon's armor. "The p'pr min t'pati has been performed by my people since before the start of the 1000-Yarhen War. Without it, there are no true Aerians. Do you really think an honored shaman like Skor would ignore those sacred traditions? Do you think that I would do so, either?" "What happens if you can't go through the ceremony?" "I will never be a man. Never be sealed. Never sire a family." "Is that the case for all Aerians?" "Those true Aerians from my sect and clan, yes." "But if there are no men, then you'll die out." Mars nodded somberly. "Yes." "And Skor still won't perform the p'pr mit..." she gave up "the Rays and Nets ceremony?" "Better to accept extinction than to betray our beliefs." "Oh." She stepped aside as a pair of workmen pushed past her and began loading the boxes filled with bars of soap onto the hand trucks. "So, Mars, to get your bars, I have to get Skor to perform the ceremony for you?" The boy nodded seriously. "Arrange that, and I will make the soap for you personally." Jenny managed a wan smile. "How nice." In organizing the fleet, Adama and the Council of the Twelve tried to group compatible populations on the same ships. Even if they came from different Colonies and have somewhat different customs and dialects, clans with similar outlooks generally managed to work and live together better than those from even the same Colony with opposing politics and religions. The Aerians, however, made it clear from the first rendezvous of the first ships that while they might fight and feud among themselves, that was an Aquarian lovefeast compared to how they would interact with anyone from the other Colonies. As a result, except for those few Aerians who were critical to operations elsewhere within the fleet or who chose to live away from their planetary cousins, the entire population was housed on a handful of ships that formed a small pocket with the larger convoy. Jenny was very conscious of her regulation jumpsuit and her Caprican appearance as she made her way down the narrow corridor. Curious passengers openly gawked at her. She smiled and stepped crisply past them. Not particularly warm to offworlders in public settings, she guessed that the Aerians could be downright hostile to anyone invading their private space. That she wanted to visit with one of their most revered holy men didn't help matters. Skor's standing within the community was clear from his quarters. His was one of the original cabins on the ship from its pre-Destruction days. Sparsely furnished, perhaps, but those furnishings were as nice as anything on the Rising Star. The shaman sat at a table covered with charts and books, candles and small icons. He peered at Jenny through a haze of pungent incense smoke. Uncertain of the proper protocol, Jenny bowed slightly. "Honored Sire, I've come to intercede for one of your followers." Skor studied her, letting his gaze drop from her face to her boots, then rise again. When he finished, he folded his hands, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. She wondered if he was taking some sort of psychic measurement of her. She took a deep breath herself, hoping to calm her nerves, and nearly choked on the smoke. He finally opened his eyes. "And this person is?" he inquired. "Mars, on the manufacturing ship." "I know of him. He separates himself from his people. He sends a stranger, not of Aeries, to speak for him. He believes he is too great to be with us." "No! Not at all!" Jenny said quickly. "Just the opposite. He feels he is not a true Aerian. He has not had the Rays and Nets Ceremony. Without that, he feels obligated to live away from you." "He told you this? An off-worlder?" "Not exactly. But he made it clear that he is not a man without the ceremony. With many beliefs, those who are of adult age but who have not had their passage ceremony are not welcomed. It seemed to me that Mars feels that way." Skor's expression softened. "You speak with insight. That's a rare trait for a Caprican." He sighed. "I have spoken with Mars. I can not perform the p'pr min t'pati. I lack the Zagnuts." "Zagnuts?" "Yes. Small seeds from the Cessna tree. They are ground up and used in a tea. We share the cup, then enter into the divine state to foretell the future of the one coming of age. It is the heart of the ceremony." Jenny gestured around the room at the clutter of holy objects. "Why did you bring all of this, but leave the zagnuts behind?" "I had a small supply, but they lose their potency very quickly." "Can they be found anywhere in the fleet?" "I do not know. It is not for me to seek out these things. The believers should find them. It is a matter of demonstrating the value of their faith. If I do all for them, they take our practices for granted and lose the sincerity of their beliefs. If our traditions are to have meaning, then the faithful need to search this fleet for me." "And if they don't?" "Then it will be time for our star to dim and die." "May an offworlder search for you?" "Does Mars mean so much to you? I will never approve a sealing between you, no matter what you do for him or for me." "What? Oh, no, no, it's nothing like that! I didn't even meet Mars until today. I'm helping him so I can help another friend." "Of course," Skor said, his face impassive. "A good friend, I am sure." "Yes, he is." "If you can find the zagnuts, I will perform the p'pr min t'pati for Mars. And he can help your good friend." I sure hope Starbuck appreciates this, Jenny thought as she shuttled to the agro ship. She'd seen more of the fleet in the last few centares than she had since the exodus began, nearly a yarhen ago. Well, maybe this would be her last stop. Get a handful of zagnuts, deliver them to Skor, get Mars' bars for Neslee, and pick up the Gnoggi Bars from Rollo and Caramello. The agrotech in charge of the arboretum was a woman named Twix, Jenny was told by the on-board personnel computer. She found her digging at the roots of a tired-looking shrub in the middle of a row of otherwise healthy-looking plants. "Zagnuts," Twix snorted when Jenny explained her request. "So some sanctimonious holy man can get some sacred high." "It's a religious ceremony." "Yeah, right. Would he perform this ceremony if he got gas and cramps instead of a vision?" "Probably not," Jenny agreed. She had no use for drugs, either. No Capricans tolerated them. "I don't know why the Council is so willing to put up with the antics of some of these fringe groups," Twix continued. "They take up time, space and resources the fleet needs for other things. It'd be real nice to be able to let them do whatever they want, but we don't have the luxury to do that. Give 'em jobs and set a common standard for living behavior that's the same fleet-wide. Otherwise, we could be in real trouble some day." She held up the spade that she'd been using to dig. "Look at this." Small, yellowish grubs moved in the dark soil. "Yarhen grubs. They were probably just laid when the Destruction happened and were dormant when we collected this soil. If we don't eradicate them now, they could destroy half the crops on this ship. And you're worried about Zagnuts for an Aerian priest." "I'm sorry I bothered you," Jenny said contritely. "I thought you might have some stored somewhere. Skor said they were seeds." "They are." Twix led the way to her office-cum-quarters. It was a plain room, the walls adorned only with charts, graphs and plain printed memos. A small cot was fitted against one wall of the cubicle. A curtain made from a stained sheet of some indefinable color created what passed for a private space. She waved Jenny to a single chair. "It really torques me off that the Buriticians and special types are holed up in nice quarters and getting first pick for clothes and rations and luxuries, while folks like us -- the ones who do the work -- we get stuck in places like this!" Her bitterness filled the chamber. "My place on Canceria looked out on the Gum Trees of Wrigley. A beautiful view. Did you ever see them?" "Not for real. I saw the Whitman Tapestries when they were on exhibit on Caprica." "Ah, the Tapestries. In some ways, they were even more beautiful than the real thing." Twix sat on her cot. "Whitman survived, you know. Works on the textile ship, of course." "Of course." "Must be quite a comedown. From the Colonies' most important textile artist to a tailor. I hear he uses leftover scraps to make small wall hangings. Sell 'em, I hear." She sat up suddenly. "That's it. You get me one of Whitman's Samplers and I'll get you the zagnuts." "A Whitman's Sampler could cost a fortune!" "So what? I'll bet Skor and the Aerians who follow him have a fortune stashed away. If they really want one of those ceremonies, they'll find the cash." There was hardly a person in the Colonies who hadn't seen some of Whitman's work, whether they realized it or not. His tapestries and wall hangings graced the main Hall of Government on Canceria and many other public buildings and plazas throughout the home worlds. Reproductions of his work were widely sought by interior decorators. Many lesser artists imitated his style. Like Twix, Jenny thought Whitman would find sewing tunics and jumpsuits an insult to an artist of his stature. She found him seated on the floor of his living cubicle, surrounded by scraps of colored cloth of every color and shape and texture. He was humming as he worked, placing the bits of fabric against a larger sheet of cloth, then rearranging them, grunting softly when he found a location for a scrap that satisfied him. She watched silently, appreciating that she was honored to see such an artist at work. Finally, she cleared her throat softly. Whitman looked up distractedly. "Yes?" Jenny realized she did not have the faintest idea of how to start the conversation. "You're Whitman," she said. "Yes, I know." She felt herself blush. "Of course you do. I, uh, I really love your work." "Thank you." She nodded toward the project in his lap. "Is that more art or part of your job on the ship?" "A little of both, actually. It seems the Council finally realizes that the fleet needs to nurture its soul as well as its bodies. Even the great Adama is finally seeing past the military contingencies. I've been assigned to create some small pieces to place around the fleet. It's about time. There's even talk of allocating some supplies for other artists and for the passengers in general. There might even be a showing of some artwork -- both pieces that managed to be saved as well as new creations." "That would be wonderful," Jenny said. She had not been a regular visitor to art galleries before the Destruction, but she realized now how much she missed the casual displays of color and images at restaurants, stores and public places. "In the meantime, I hear you have some small samplers for sale." Whitman had turned back to his work. He glanced up again. "A few little things. Nothing inspired. I simply could not live without some expression of my inner self." Jenny nodded. Her soul was that of an engineer, expressed in the finely-tuned engines of the Vipers and near-obsessive organization of her work and living space. Whitman's view of life could have been no more alien to her if he had been a Boray. "How much are they?" she asked. "Oh, I can't sell them any more." "Why not?" She thought of the Security Forces. If Reese and his heavy-handed crew messed this up for her, after all the work she'd put into it, she'd be really ticked. "They are not inspired," Whitman was saying. "I can not ask someone to part with something they value in order to obtain a farce. What I have is not art." He sighed. "I may never create another truly wondrous work again. I can not recreate the atmosphere I had in my studio on Canceria." Jenny thought hard. "But shouldn't an artist draw inspiration from his surroundings, wherever they are?" That sounded like something she'd read in an interview of some painter once. "True enough. But look around you. What sort of inspiration can you draw from bulkheads and rivets? No, if I cannot find a visual source, I need others. But even there, I'm stymied. I used to play music while I worked." He leaned close. "I gathered a collection of music discs along with some of my workthings before I fled to my evacuation point. The only good pieces I've done since then were when I was playing music, truly inspiring things. My favorite is the Ullmanjoize Starburst Symphony. Listening to that, I could envision a future for us all, an end to this voyage, a successful completion of our quest and the finding of a land where we could live in peace and harmony with our brothers in space." His eyes had nearly shut as he spoke, his face filled with contentment. Now, he looked around his tiny room in despair. "What happened? Did the disc get broken or stolen?" "No, nothing like that. My player broke. It was not a particularly good system, just a portable unit I'd carry with me when I traveled. The twizzlers and skittles have finally gone." Jenny was not an electronics tech, but she had enough background to know most of the common components in electronics systems. She'd never heard of twizzlers or skittles, even as slang. "What are they?" "Oh, I don't know what they're really called. They have something to do with the speakers. See?" He pulled himself up and dragged a battered-looking portable sound unit from under his cot. "When you turn it on, these lights are supposed to turn green. Shows they are operating. But nothing happens. And, yes, I did check to make sure the power cord was attached." Jenny traced her fingers along the front of the unit. She read the captions under each control. "You're a technician," Whitman said. "Can you fix it?" "I'm not an electronics person." "Oh," he sounded disappointed. "Aren't all the technical things alike?" "Not exactly. But I think I can get this repaired. Can I take it with me?" "Absolutely! Do you really think you can fix it?" "I'll try. If I can get it repaired, will you give me a Sampler?" "Better than that. If I can regain a source of inspiration, I will create an entirely new piece of artwork for you alone!" It was a very weary Jenny who stepped onto the landing deck of the Celestra with Whitman's broken audio unit under her arm. She glanced at her wrist chronometer. She'd been hopping from one ship to the other for nearly ten centares and seemed no closer to getting Starbuck his Gnoggi Bars than when she started. The chief of the audio repair unit was a man named KitKat. Before the Destruction, he'd been the chief engineer of one of Saggitaria's most powerful commercial radio stations. He had a reputation of being one with his microchips and audio boards. Jenny found him in his office. Banks of computerized transmitting equipment lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Their indicator lights twinkled merrily in random patterns. "What did you say Whitman called the things?" "Twizzlers and Skittles." KitKat repeated them softly, shaking his head as he did. "Where he got that slang, I don't know. He needs M&Ms." Jenny stared at him blankly. "Modulator Modifiers," he explained in a tone of voice that indicated that those not blessed with electronic talents were of a lesser sort. "They adjust the amplification of the reverberation elements in the basic feed into the sensory chips," he explained. "A really good unit will have tensor ratings of anywhere from 15 to 32dqh's. A cheap system like this probably tops at 15. Not surprising that they went up. They aren't designed for long-term, heavy use." He could have been speaking ancient Kobolian for all Jenny understood him. "Do you have them?" "Have what?" "The Whatchamacallits. The M&Ms." "Nope," KitKat said cheerfully. "Oh." Her spirits sagged. After making so many deals, she was disappointed that it would all unravel now. "My specialty is transmission equipment," KitKat continued. "Don't have a need for M&Ms very often. The people you need to see are the Musketts." "Who?" "They're from Saggitaria. Ran quite an electronics operation there. Designed, built, manufactured all sorts of quality consumer goods. You know how the Saggitarians are. A family shows some sort of talent and the whole clan supports the development of the business. Some families have spent generations in one profession. If anybody has M&Ms, it'll be them." "Aren't the electronic components all regulated by the fleet?" Jenny asked. "Pretty much. Some things aren't needed for essential equipment very often, so we can use them for other things. M&Ms are pretty much found only on consumer stuff, not in the high-tech end of things. Go up to Deck Seven, Section 12 and ask for the Ears." "I thought you said they were the Muskett Clan." "They are. But they worked so much in the audio field, the other Saggitarians started calling them the Ears. Some kind of in-planet joke." She managed to get lost again. After a while, all of the cobbled together living and working areas on all of the ships began to look alike. Jenny wandered along the twisting hallways, turning irritable and frustrated, confused and resigned in turn. She finally found someone who gave her clear directions to the Muskett Ears' workshop. There were four surviving members of the clan. She was met at the entrance of their quarters by Pops, the patriarch of the clan. A small, nimble man with long, elegant fingers, he welcomed her into the small apartment and introduced the others. "This is Hershee, my eldest daughter. And Tootsie, my other girl." A giggle erupted from the back room and a small boy ran to hug Pops. "And this is Henree, Hershee's son. My grandson." He mussed the boy's hair. Except for Pops, all of the Muskett Ears were rather chunky. That surprised Jenny, given the tight rationing that still existed within the fleet. "Please, sit down and tell us what we can do for you." Pops was already eyeing the audio unit Jenny still had tucked under her arm. "I'm told this needs new M&Ms, and that you are the people most likely to have them." She held out the unit. Pops took it casually from her and flipped it over, assessing it professionally. Tootsie emerged from a back room with a small plate. Jenny blinked in surprise at it. There were several small sweet rolls, each topped with a bit of honey. No wonder the family was so substantial. "Please, help yourself," Tootsie urged. She took one of the rolls for herself. "We do a lot of private work and are always well paid. It's not right to keep things like this to ourselves." Hershee was glancing over her father's shoulder to study the audio unit herself. They conferred softly. Jenny nibbled on one of Tootsie's rolls, savoring the sweet pastry. Beasif, the Galactica's chief cook, did wonders with the rations, but it had been a very long time since Jenny had tasted anything this nice. "This isn't the best equipment," Pops said. "I know. Is it fixable?" "Oh, certainly. I should have it ready by morning. Is that convenient?" "Sure! But there's the matter of payment." Pops waved her off. "This isn't a very good piece of equipment. Odds are, it will fail in some other way not too far down the line. It wouldn't be right for me to charge you for something I know you won't be using a yarhen from now." "But..." "Tell you what. You're from the Galactica. I have some things that need to be delivered there. Make those deliveries for me, and we'll call it even. Fair enough?" "Fine." Jenny wasn't going to argue. "Good. Henree, take this to my workroom." Pops handed the audio unit to the boy. He clutched it to his chest and turned. He started to run, then stumbled, nearly losing his grip on the unit. Jenny gasped. Hershee caught the boy and the unit. "Oh, Henree, don't be such a butterfingers!" his mother chided. She knelt beside him and gave him a hug and kisses. "Now take this carefully to Pop's room." She smiled as the boy left, holding the unit even more tightly and frowning in concentration as he walked away. "What do you need me to deliver?" Jenny asked. "Some things for the Security Chief." "Reese?" "Yes, that's him." Pops frowned. "Such an unpleasant fellow. I suppose he feels the strain of protecting Commander Adama very strongly." "Protecting the Commander?" Jenny echoed. "Oh, yes. He told me all about it." Pops slid open the covering of a wall unit. "How the only real protection Adama has is from the Security teams. I always thought the Warriors were the main security force on board the Galactica, but Reese explained that they are only the pilots and bridge types. Any real safety for the Council or the Commander comes from his personnel." He placed a box on the floor and opened it. Inside were several small recording units and personal playback systems like Whitman's. "These aren't all his, of course," Pops said. "Reese was doing a favor for some of his team, getting everything repaired at once. Nice of him, don't you think?" Jenny forced a smile. "He's always thinking of others," she said. But not in the way you'd appreciate, she thought. "There was a lot of work involved in these repairs," Pops said. "Be sure to tell him that the combination recording and playback unit is a specialty item with some really arcane components. I had to cobble together a system board to get it working. If anything happens to it, it'll be a total loss." He repacked the box and handed it to Jenny. "Chief Reese agreed to settle his account next payday. In the meantime, it will free up some storage space if you take Reese's pieces with you. Stop by this time tomorrow, and I'll have that other unit fixed." "Payday? What payday?" Reese dropped the box onto his desk and opened it. "Those repairmen are real duds if they think I'm going to settle up with them, this payday or any other." "You told them you'd pay them, Chief. They fixed these things and sent them back in good faith." Reese smirked as he unpacked the box. He put the combo unit on his desk and patted it fondly. "Just like I told them this stuff all came from guys in my unit." "It didn't?" He looked at her as though she needed remedial education. "Are all mechanics as dumb as you? This is all stuff I've confiscated in one way or another. Those slow-brains fixed them up and I'll resell them." "What if they complain?" "To who? Me?" He inspected the other pieces and put them back in the box. "I can always prove they're a black market operation, violating the Council's dictates to operate with a normal, cubit-driven economy. Shut them down for good." "Isn't what you're doing black market?" His look was cold. "Not if my records show that the profits go to supporting my unit and operations." "Quite some whopper you told them," Jenny murmured. She watched as Reese turned away, looking for some place in his office to store his inventory. While his back was turned, she nudged the combo unit to the edge of his desk. His hip rubbed against it as he shifted his weight, trying to decide where to put the box. "There's a space over here," she said. As Reese spun around, the side of the box hit the corner of the unit. It toppled to the deck, landing with a satisfying crunch of metal and plastic. "Watch it!" Jenny yelled, in what she thought was a convincing tone of warning. "Frak!" Reese said. He knelt beside the broken unit. "That was the best piece I had. I was going to keep it for myself." "Oh, dear. That was a nice unit." She left him sweeping up the tiny bits of electronic debris. Starbuck's first natal day party was in full swing when Jenny arrived at the Officer's Club. The Lieutenant had thrown himself a celebration as lively as anything she could imagine. There were snacks and cakes and foods that once were common and now existed only in the 'luxury' category. Callahan stayed busy at the bar, pouring baharii and ambrosa and other liqueurs. Non-alcoholic drinks were on a table beside the bar, punches and sweet-sops and carbonated fizzies. The Galactica's makeshift live band, the Yarhen Spinners, were tuning up for their first set. In the meantime, Warriors and guests were dancing to recordings. The guest of honor was making the rounds, grinning widely. Starbuck's simple joy at finding his father and knowing his past was infectious. Even after insisting that he didn't want gifts, most people had found something for him. Jenny noticed some fresh fumarillos, audio discs, and a collection of eight vids from an old commercial space series that had once been popular on Caprica on a side table. "Happy natal day!" Jenny said when she reached him. She handed him the wrapped package she was carrying. "Aw, Jenny, I told people they didn't need to do this! Things are tight enough in the fleet..." "I didn't have to do it," she said. "I wanted to. Enjoy them." "Can I open it now?" Starbuck asked. He began tearing away the paper before Jenny could answer. Beside him, Cassiopea rolled her eyes. Like a kid, she mouthed. "Jenny" Starbuck gasped. "Gnoggi Bars? A whole carton? There must be a couple of dozen of them." "50, to be exact," Jenny said. He stared at her. "I can't take these. Jenny, they must have cost you a fortune." "Not a cent. Really." She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "But the first time I find one of these wrappers in that new Viper of yours, you're in big trouble." "Yes, ma'am," he said. He hesitated, then plucked one from the box and unwrapped it eagerly. "Where did you find them?" Cassiopea whispered. She shook her head as she watched Starbuck gobble the candy bar. "You wouldn't believe it," Jenny said. "I had to deliver Reese's pieces from the 3 Muskett Ears so they could put the M&M's in the audio unit and I could get a Whitman's sampler for Twix who'd give me the zagnuts Skor needed to perform the Rays and Nets ceremony so that I could get Mars' bars of soap, and ease Neslee's crunch enough that he could provide diaper service for Baby Ruth." Cassiopea was laughing before Jenny could finish. "All that for a box of Gnoggi Bars?" "Cut it out, Cassi," Jenny scolded. "This is nothing to snicker about." - The End -