Tally of the Souls
                             by Fran Levy
                               Excerpts

     The ship's bell that sounded in Blue Squadron was as gentle as a
military reveille could be. Which is to say, not as strident as the
alert klaxon, but firmly insistent.
     Lt. Boomer squeezed his eyes shut more tightly against the order
from the chime. He heard the assorted groans and mumbled morning noises
of the squadron billet. He lay still, waiting to hear the sound of
music coming from Starbuck's bunk. Starbuck had installed a small
receiver in the frame of his bunk, set to the IFB's entertainment
frequency. The timer was set to turn on the receiver 10 microns after
the ship's bell, winning them a few more precious moments of sleep.
Boomer settled in to savor the extra slumber.
     "Good morning!" a perky female voice said all-too-loudly beside
his bed. "Zara here in the billet of the famed Blue Squadron."
     Boomer's eyes shot open. The IFB broadcaster was standing beside
his bunk, flashing a professional smile at the camera aimed at her.
     "When we promise to bring you all of the details of this most
exciting day, we mean it. I'm here with Lt. Boomer, one of the officers
who will receive the Star Cluster at tonight's ceremony." She turned
her smile, camera and microphone towards him. "Good morning,
Lieutenant. You must be tremendously excited."
     Boomer propped himself up on his elbows. "Uh...yeah." He glanced
over at Starbuck's bunk. The other Lieutenant was apparently still
asleep, one arm flung across his eyes.
     No. Boomer saw one half-hidden eye cautiously open a crack, then
slam shut. Smoothly, Starbuck rolled over and burrowed his head under
his pillow.
     I'll kill him. Right after I kill Zara.
     The broadcaster had already turned her attention away from Boomer.
"Stay with us as IFB brings you every exciting moment of today's
preparations for the gala awards ceremony and the celebrations planned
throughout the fleet. This is Zara reporting for the IFB, IntraFleet
Broadcasting!" 
     She beamed at Boomer. "Thanks, Lieutenant. I'm really looking
forward to working with you today. I'll catch up with you and Lt.
Starbuck a little later." She turned to her cameraman. "Come on, Beta."
     They bustled out of the billet. Boomer climbed out of his bunk,
accompanied by applause and catcalls from the rest of the squadron.
     He leaned over Starbuck's unmoving body.
     "Is she gone yet?" Starbuck's muffled voice came from under the
pillow.
     "For now."
     "Do we have to do this?" Starbuck whined.
     "Col. Tigh said the Commander wants it."
     Starbuck emerged from the protection of his pillow.  "Yeah, I
know. But spending all day with her..." He rested his head on his
knees. He'd disliked Zara ever since that mess with Karibdis, when
Starbuck had been charged with murder. Zara's confident prediction that
Starbuck would be found guilty and that "the illustrious career of Lt.
Starbuck is about to come to a sudden, tragic end" had soured him on
the entire IFB.
     "Could be worse," Boomer said.
     Starbuck raised an eyebrow in question.
     "They could have sent Zed." He was the IFB's male anchor. "He'd
have followed us into the turboflush."
     "Maybe they sent him to Sheba," Starbuck yawned. His eyes lit up
as he woke enough to consider that scene. Somehow, he didn't think
Sheba was a morning person. 
     "Poor guy," Boomer said.
     Starbuck dropped back onto his bunk and grinned wickedly. "It'd
serve 'em right."
**
     Omega finished his briefing and straightened Col. Tigh's papers.
He felt as strained as the Warriors he was addressing. 
     "We're all in this together," Omega said as he finished. "If the
ceremony isn't flawless, the Council of the Twelve will be royally
annoyed. Not to mention Col. Tigh."
     "Who I'd be a lot more worried about," Boomer said.
     "Amen," Starbuck echoed.
     "We won't let you down, Omega," Sheba promised. The bridge officer
smiled gratefully. He'd gone over the choreography of the ceremony with
them a half-dozen times: how they were to move out, where they were to
stop, to stand, to turn, to salute. When they were to retreat from the
area.. When they were to return for the receiving line.
     "What?" Starbuck yelped. "Nobody said anything about a receiving
line! Apollo..." he pleaded.
     "It's not a big deal," the Captain assured him.
     "If we have to glad-hand every guest at this thing, we won't be
able to handle a joystick for a secton,"  Boomer complained.
     "How are we supposed to know all of these people, anyway?" Sheba
said, joining the protest.
     "That's my job," Omega said. "I'll be right there, as will the
Commander and Colonel Tigh. They're part of the receiving line, too. If
I don't tell you the names, the Commander or the Colonel will probably
greet them."
     "All you have to do is smile and nod. Say te sir,' 'ma'am' and
'thank you,' " Apollo said.
     Omega checked his chronometer. "You're supposed to be in the
waiting room about 15 microns before the ceremony. We'll have one last
run-through then." He checked his notes and blew out a long, weary
breath.
     "Do you think you'll make it?" Apollo asked.
     "I'm not sure," Omega admitted. "I've got Corp. Komma handling a
lot of the set-up on the flight deck, hanging the banners, making sure
the stage is up. The Council of the Twelve wants to be able to sit
during the ceremony and the Commander's speech, so I've got to find
someplace appropriate to put chairs, then find the chairs. You guys are
the least of my worries." He vanished into the corridor.
     Starbuck pushed himself up from his seat. "I told Cassi I'd meet
her and Chameleon for lunch." Boomer followed him out the door,
worrying that his dress uniform might not be ready.
     Sheba and Apollo stared at each other in the sudden silence.
     "How are you holding out?" Apollo asked, for lack of anything else
to say.
     "I'm still not sure any of this is happening." 
     "Me, either."
     They both looked at something else in the room, afraid to look at
each other.
     "This is silly," Apollo said finally. "We're acting like two
schoolkids on a first date." 
     Sheba's laugh was a little forced. "I guess so," She hesitated. "I
think I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have thrown Serina at you that
way."
     "You're wrong." He moved across the room and sat beside her.
"Everyone else was waiting for me to pull myself out of it. Maybe they
were too kind. You made me admit I was living life as a victim. That
can be very comfortable, but it's wrong. I don't know why I survived
and so many others didn't. Maybe I'm singled out for something. Maybe
it's just my luck. But I have to stop refusing to let the past go. You
forced me to confront that." 
     She touched his hand. "I have to do the same thing. I meant it
when I said that maybe we snipe at each other because we're trying to
hide our feelings. I'm not willing to lose another friend -- another
anybody -- not just yet."
     He reached for her. "I've lost enough friends for now, too." She
rested her head on his shoulder, relaxing in the feel of his strong
arms around her. It was the first quiet moment either of them could
remember in sectons. They held onto each other, savoring it. Slowly,
Apollo tilted her head to his. He laughed softly when their kiss ended.
     "What?" Sheba asked.
     "The way things have been going, I'm surprised a red alert didn't
sound."
     She smiled. "Or Colonel Tigh come walking in."
     He drew her mouth to his again. "Let him." 
     **
     There were few places in the fleet that offered any privacy.
Before the Destruction, the squadron only used the Alert Billet when
they were on standby and needed to be gathered together, closely and
quickly. The rest of the time, they were housed in smaller quarters,
with two pilots sharing a room, three rooms sharing a common living
area and hygiene facility.
     Since the evacuation of the Colonies, the pilots lived in the
Squadron Alert Billet permanently. Their old quarters housed survivors
and crew from other warships and the few families of those Warriors and
crew who'd managed to escape. It wasn't as crowded as the living
conditions on many of the civilian ships, but it made the
dormitory-like set-up before the Destruction seem like accommodations
in a luxury hotel.
      The showers in the squadron billet were one of the few places
where you could still be alone. Each stall had a small cubicle with a
bench, a shelf, and a couple of hooks outside the shower itself. A
waterproof curtain hung in front of each cubicle, providing that most
precious commodity -- privacy.
     Long ago, Boomer had discovered that the showers were a good place
to hide. Except for those times when the entire squadron was trying to
clean up at once, the area was nearly deserted. You could sit, stare at
the wall and think, or stand under the hot water and let your mind go
blank. 
     He wasn't sure which he wanted right now. 
     He walked to the farthest cubicle, carrying his towel, toilet kit,
and clean underwear. His dress uniform hung in the quarters, freshly
cleaned and pressed, ready for the toughest inspection Col. Tigh could
give it. He accepted the congratulations of the couple of others he
passed with a quiet smile. 
     Once the curtain was pulled behind him, Boomer sat in relief. He
opened his kit and pulled out a small, thin, metal case. He touched the
tab in the front and it snapped open, revealing a set of holophotos in
a transparent plastic sheet. 
     Boomer flipped through them slowly. Smiling faces; groups of
people sharing the same dark eyes and set shoulders; children hanging
onto each other as they mugged for the camera; serious older people
dressed formally; two sets of couples in their sealing clothes sharing
the tentative, posed smiles of the newly married.
     His family.
     He closed his eyes. In his mind, the holophotos took on life. The
children -- his younger brothers and cousins -- shrieking with glee as
they played 'kick the can' in the narrow street in front of their home;
his grandparents standing tall at his commissioning -- oblivious of the
fact that their best dress was outdated and a bit threadbare compared
to that of the families of most of his classmates. One sister and her
husband, working long, hard hours at the cafe they'd opened at the
spaceport. His other sister, married only two yaren before, gleefully
handing him his infant niece when he visited on his last furlon. His
mother, a strong woman faced with raising too many kids with too little
money and too little hope.
     How was it that none of them escaped? 
     Unwillingly, he thought back to the Destruction. Starbuck had led
the remains of the squadrons on a crazy course to Caprica, finding fuel
and getting coordinates to the Galactica through a combination of
reports at refueling stations, intercepted radio messages, calculated
guesses and blind luck. Boomer had followed, smoothly assuming the
second-in-command role as he so often did, keeping track of the other
pilots and their conditions, keeping the group together, letting the
squadron leader make the big decisions, offering advice when asked --
and on that trip, it often was.
     When they'd reached the Galactica and realized the full extent of
the disaster, they'd left again, this time to reach Caprica and to try
to find and save whoever they could.
     Apollo had already left with his father. Boomer and Starbuck flew
to the surface together. They'd planned to land at the spaceport,
expecting damage, but somehow thinking that it wouldn't -- it couldn't
-- really be all that bad. Later, Boomer decided that their inability
to anticipate the total destruction could be blamed on their own
stubborn refusal to consider defeat as a possibility, despite the
annihilation of the Fifth Fleet at Molokay, despite the growing
evidence of that the Cylons were shifting all of their resources into
enlarging their fleet of raiders and base ships. He sometimes wondered
if that human arrogance was one reason Baltar had won over Adar and the
Council. 
     Whatever the reason, they weren't ready for what they found.
Whatever part of the spaceport wasn't burning was reduced to ashes and
rubble. A flyover of the rest of Caprica City showed few places that
weren't equally destroyed. The Cylons had proven to be great
equalizers. The most fashionable estates of the Buriticians were as
ruined as the meanest streets in the city itself. 
     For lack of anywhere else, they landed at the spaceport, as close
to the terminal as they could get. Boomer stared at the shattered
building. Girders reached out of the rubble like penitents' arms. The
acrid smell of melting plastic choked him. All around were the cries of
rescuers moving debris from other buildings, the crackle of flames,
sirens wailing in the darkness, equipment moving. The first refugees
were starting to drift to the 'port, desperately seeking an escape from
the ruined, dying planet.
     He heard someone come up behind him. He whirled, startled, hoping
it would be his sister.
     It was Starbuck. The other Warrior looked as numb as Boomer felt.
     "Your sister?" he asked. 
     They both knew the answer. Her cafe was on the first floor of the
terminal. From the looks of the damage, the Cylons had concentrated
their fire on the middle levels, collapsing the building onto itself.
     Boomer's chest contracted with each breath. It's the smoke, he
told himself. Not the growing certainty that this was what he'd
continue to find all night.
     "I've got to look for Aurora," Starbuck said. Boomer nodded. Over
baharii in the O Club just a few nights before -- in another lifetime
-- Starbuck had begun talking about long-term plans for life with her.
With the peace accord, a Warrior could consider such things. He'd
courted Athena, Apollo's sister, during this last cruise -- as if
making sure he wanted to settle down. Whether Starbuck had made a
decision, Boomer didn't know. But even if he'd decided to cherish his
bachelorhood, Starbuck would have to try to find Aurora. If he had any
feelings for her at all, he had to know her fate.
     Boomer realized Starbuck was talking to him. "What?"
     "I said, I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll catch up with you at
your mom's place. If not," he surveyed the wreckage of the 'port
through the darkness and the glow of the flames, "I'll meet you back
here, at the Vipers. We wait for each other.lquote  That last was a
command. Technically, Starbuck was still in charge of the squadron,
even if, at the moment, it was just the two of them. 
Boomer nodded numbly, and the they headed off in different
directions....

     During the long nights when sleep eluded him, Boomer would stare
at the bunk above him, listening to Giles' soft snoring, and wonder why
he continued at all. He concluded once that he knew nothing else and
that flying and fighting were simply habits. There were not a lot of
opportunities for career changes within the fleet. 
     He knew that was a lie. He took his oath seriously, as they all
did. The war was lost, but his promise to defend the Colonists had not
diminished. If anything, it was more important now. 
     Maybe that's what kept them all going. If they were to salvage
anything, including their self-respect, they had to keep fighting back.
Defeating the Cylons, destroying that base ship, proved they
werenrquote t impotent or incompetent. 
     For him, there was more. In the quiet of the shower room, with
only the off-tempo dripping of water to interrupt the silence, Boomer
knew he fought so hard because he wanted to avenge their deaths. 
     He was not a hateful person by nature. The troubles he had gotten
himself into as a kid were born out of frustration and anger, but he'd
had a family that forced him to admit his responsibilities and helped
him find a way to channel that energy into something positive. Hate
didnquote t accomplish anything.
     But in the quietest of moments, he admitted he hated them, the
whole Cylon race, whatever they had been and whatever they were now.
      He wanted to make the Cylons hurt as much as they had hurt him.
Foolish, he knew; machines could not feel pain. But their Imperious
Leader was supposedly organic. He wanted that architect of terror to
taste his own creation.
     On those occasions when the anger began to overwhelm him, he'd
find some project to distract him or spend a long, hard session in the
simulator. It usually worked.
     Only usually. He clutched the slim case that held the holophotos
and closed his eyes. Whenever he looked at the photos, it was always
the same.
     It always left him feeling guilty and ashamed. 
     The battle had been the first time he'd been at peace with himself
since that night. He'd given something back to the Cylons, let them
know that the deaths and the Destruction would not go unanswered. It
wasn't enough; he knew that it would never be enough, but it was a
start, a good start.
     The Star Cluster, then, was for them. An offering. An apology. A
promise. 
**
     Omega paced nervously in the anteroom. He smoothed his hands
across this dress blues and checked his chronometer again. Plenty of
time. They weren't late; he was just early. Very early.
     He stepped onto the launch deck. Everything was ready. At the
enclosed end of the deck, there was the podium where Adama would speak.
Behind him, chairs for the Council of the Twelve and most distinguished
other guests -- leaders of some of the more influential sects, behind-
the-scenes players of political games, and even some of the people
Apollo and the others had invited -- were arranged in a roughly
horseshoe shape. Two uniformed members of Council Security were already
in place on either side of that area, waiting to verify that those
approaching were worthy of admission and to escort them to their seats,
if needed. 
     The rest of the spectators would stand. Omega checked to assure
himself that the simple rope separating the presentation area from the
spectators was in place. He'd instructed that it be set back quite a
bit, so that there would be ample room for the spectators to line up to
see what was happening, even if it was at something of a distance. The
thought of a lot of craning necks at close quarters seemed undignified
for such an occasion.
     Boomer's and Sheba's Vipers and the Cylon fighter were on display
at the other end of the launch bay, silouhetted against the dark,
star-filled sky. All three ships had been polished until they gleamed.
During the reception after the ceremony, guests would be able to climb
inside the Cylon ship. Dr. Wilker had eagerly volunteered to act as
guide for that. Omega alternately worried that the over-zealous
scientist would either trap people inside with some over-long lecture,
trigger some mechanism they still didn't understand, or inadvertently
launch the fighter into space.  
     He checked the presentation area once more. There was a simple
chalk line to show Sheba, who'd be leading the four, exactly where to
stop. He looked to make sure no one had wiped it away in the final
clean-up of the area. 
     All set. 
     As he walked back to the anteroom, he spotted Zara peeking into
the half-opened door. Beta stood right behind her, ready to switch on
his spotlight and follow her inside.
     "Hi, Zara!" Omega called.
     The reporter jumped at the sound of his voice. "Omega! Am I glad
to see you!"
     "How're the reports going?"
     "Not bad," Zara said.
     The bridge officer was pleased. He worked with the IFB to make
recruiting spots and instructional vids. Zara and Zed both told him he
had a natural talent. He was very comfortable in front of the camera.
It was flattery, he knew, but flattery that worked. At University, he'd
been active in the dramatics society and even considered entering the
drama field as a profession. But he was in school on a reserve officer
training program and, by the time he'd finished his service
obligations, he'd discovered the challenge of working on the bridge and
up the chain of command.  
     Still, more than most officers, he appreciated the importance of
using the entertainment media to keep up morale and provide a constant
source of information to the fleet. In fact, the idea of having the IFB
roam through the battlestar today had been his idea. He'd suggested it
to Zara, who had almost drooled over the idea, then let her take it to
Commander Adama and Col. Tigh. Knowing his interest in the media, they
had, in turn, asked him what he thought of the idea. Theyte d accepted
his recommendation and welcomed Zara aboard.
     "I need your help," Zara was saying. "I swear those four officers
have been avoiding me."
     Omega was aware that they did not share his enthusiasm for the
media. "They've been busy."
     "I know; I know. And the couple of times I've been able to catch
up with them, I've been called away.quote  She looked around the launch
deck. "The big shots are going to be showing up soon and they'll expect 
to be interviewed. As though anybody really cares about them." She gave
him a professionally-beseeching look. "Can you help me, please?"
     Pure manipulation. He loved it. "Sure." 
     "You're a dear. As long as we have a couple of microns, how about
interviewing you?" 
     "Sure," he said again. He brushed imaginary pieces of lint from
the front of his tunic as Beta switched on his spotlight. His fingers
paused as they met the raised shape of the battle ribbon. 
     "Zara here, with Bridge Officer Omega, who has been in charge of
all of the preparations for tonight's ceremony. Tell me, is everything
ready?"
     Omega was standing in the doorway to the deck, happily chatting
with Zara about the ceremony as the others arrived.
     Apollo was first, as usual. He'd dropped Boxey off with his
sister. They would be seated with the VIPs. From what Apollo could
tell, Boxey was more impressed with that than with the fact that his
father was about to become one of the most honored Warriors on record. 
     "All of my friends will have to stand in the crowd or watch it on
vids," he said smugly. "This is a whole lot neater." His only
disappointment was that Muffit was not allowed to participate.
     Apollo had barely entered the room when Boomer and Starbuck
strolled through the door together. Starbuck spotted Zara and swung
smartly on his heel, never breaking stride as he headed back the way he
came. Boomer and Apollo caught him by either arm and lifted him back
inside. He spotted Sheba trotting down the hallway, tentatively
touching her braided hair. "Run, Sheba!" he called as he vanished from
her view. "It's a trap!e 
**
     From the receiver in his cell, Baltar watched as the ceremony
unfolded. The tan-clad Warriors and blue-uniformed crew snapped to
attention from a barked command from Col. Tigh. The Color Guard marched
across the broad launch deck to the sound of the Colonial Anthem. There
was a momentary pause, then Sheba, Apollo, Starbuck and Boomer
appeared, moving with precise coordination, turning and facing Adama
and the Council, looking as though they'd just stepped off a recruiting
poster. 
     Baltar grimaced as he watched. All day, he had endured the
relentless cheerfulness of Zara and the rest of the IFB newscrews as
they beamed reports about the festivities from every ship in the fleet,
or so it seemed. Children scampering around the orphan ship (when they
should have been studying, Baltar fumed. That was what was wrong with
the youth in the Colonies; everything was handed to them. He'd worked
hard to achieve his success.); gaily-colored banners hanging in the
hallways of the textile ship (as though the material couldn't be better
used to make new clothing); a segment with the Spheroids introducing a
new song celebrating the feeling that the Cylons were gone for good
(Damned discordant chords and harmonies, the sort of thing that
appealed to the least common denominator. Viper pilots and other
low-lifes would enjoy it. Not him.)
     About the only ship missed in all the celebrations was this one,
the prison barge. They were getting extra rations, but that was as far
as the festivities extended. For himself, Karibdis, friends of the
Borellian Nomen, the mutinous crew of the Celestra and many others
locked up, seeing that particular quartet of Warriors feted was
gallingly bitter. 
     "I should be there, too, Adama," he told the receiver. "If it
weren't for me, your precious son and his friends never would have
succeeded. Your battlestar would be nothing more than debris."
     He was tempted to throw something at the screen. The base ship had
been his own, commanded in his absence by Lucifer. When the mysterious
Lights appeared following the appearance of the mysterious Count Iblis,
Baltar had traveled to the fleet, certain that the Lights represented a
danger to both the Cylons and the humans. The IL Series Cylon had been
programmed to tail the fleet and take appropriate action when
necessary. Baltar had never specified just what that action should be.
Even Lucifer, that glittering mass of miswired circuitry, should have
understood that rescuing him was his primary responsibility. 
     Instead, the Cylon had drawn the base ship into battle with the
Galactica, as though hoping to destroy the fleet without Baltar's
leadership, not realizing that if he was victorious, he would destroy
Baltar along with the rest of the humans. A nasty thought. No. Baltar
rejected that idea. Lucifer was his personal assistant, and a robot, to
boot. He was incapable of such insidious scheming. It was simply
another sign of Cylon incompetence.
     On the other hand, if Imperious Leader ever found out how Baltar
had helped the human fleet, he'd carry out the execution so nearly
performed after the Destruction of the Colonies. Baltar squirmed
uneasily as he remembered the light flashing off the blade as the
Centurion began the swing that should have ended with the sharp edge
slicing into his soft throat.
     It was probably not worth worrying about. Lucifer was gone, as was
his base ship. Baltar had ordered transmission silence when he left for
the Galactica. He needed to cement his position with the fleet against
the Lights before he notified the Imperious Leader. He did not want any
hint of the discovery of the mysterious Lights to reach Zeti Omicron,
the Cylon homeworld, unless he was the one announcing it. 
     He had his reasons, of course. Only one, actually. He secretly
hoped to cement an agreement with the Lights themselves against the
Cylons and the humans. Given access to their powers, he could rule both
the Empire and the human race. Not bad for a one-time merchant and
importer. 
     Who was now penned in this bleak cell like a stray daggit in an
animal shelter. Unless Lucifer had knowingly violated his programming,
the Cylon Empire would never know what happened to Baltar, Lucifer, or
the base ship. Baltar knew that the other base ships were far from the
Galactica. He had carefully broadcast information that had them
scurrying in the wrong direction. When he destroyed the Galactica, he
wanted to be sure no other ship or Cylon could compete with his glory.
     All of his scheming had backfired like a poorly-tuned hovercar.
Instead of glory and conquest, he faced yarens of solitude. Adama had
promised to exile him on some remote planet with the meanest of
communications. Small chance the Cylons or anyone else would find him.
A death sentence might be kinder.
     On the screen, Adama was standing at the podium. "You owe me
more," he told the Commander's image. Unwillingly, Baltar turned up the
audio.
     "We live in extraordinary times," Adama was saying. "What we have
experienced in the past yaren is unprecedented in the recorded history
of our civilization. Within this fleet, we carry the remnants of our
culture. We journey to find those who have made this trip before us,
with the hope that we can join our knowledge, our culture, our
civilization to theirs. 
     "There are those among the members of this fleet whose chosen
obligation is to shield us, the custodians of our civilizations, from
those who would destroy seven millennia of mankind. These defenders
dedicate themselves at the risk of their own lives, their dreams, and
their futures.
     "Self-sacrifice has always been the heart of those who enter into
Colonial service. But extraordinary times create extraordinary people
-- those who rise to the challenge and perform at a level and with a
dedication that can be called heroic. It is they who we honor tonight.
     "Lieutenants Boomer and Sheba displayed the finest attributes of
leadership as they coordinated and conducted the air attack against the
Cylon fighters. Captain Apollo and Lt. Starbuck ignored very real
personal jeopardy to enter the base ship, disable its scanners, and
guarantee that the Galactica could approach without detection. It is no
exaggeration to say that the life of every person in this fleet is more
secure because of the actions of these four Warriors."
     He looked from the audience to the four officers standing at
attention before him.
     "Captain, Lieutenants, awarding you the Star Cluster is an
entirely inadequate recognition of your courage, your integrity, your
loyalty, and your faith. It is a too-small token of our debt to you and
our respect for you."
     With Tigh at his side, Adama left the podium.
     "Oh, Adama, who is writing your speeches for you?!" Baltar cried.
"Drivel! Hopeless drivel! Attributes of leadership! Personal jeopardy!
I am the reason you survived. All of you!" He seethed as he watched
Adama moved from Sheba, to Apollo, to Starbuck, to Boomer, carefully
draping the medal over their heads, letting it drop gently onto their
uniforms.
     "Stuff it up your exhaust tubes, Baltar," the guard at the end of
the passageway called. He sounded bored. "You got us into this mess,
remember? You ought to be glad the Council didn't turn you over to the
survivors and see how grateful they are for your help."
     Baltar ignored him. A petty little man, letting his black uniform
create an aura of importance he'd otherwise never achieve. He, Baltar,
had known power. He'd sat on the Council, the Picean representative.
His destiny was to rule that Colony, as payment for assisting the
Cylons in defeating and subjugating the rest of the Colonies.
     He'd worked with them so closely, delivering information about
defenses, political machinations, social trends, scientific advances,
personalities -- all with the goal of choosing when and how best to
launch the final attack.
     It had taken the Cylons several yarhen to trust him -- a human
offering to work toward the destruction of the rest of his kind? Cylon
understanding of loyalty was that of the blind obedience they paid
their Imperious Leader, that which was part of their programming and
had been since the last biological Cylon was absorbed into the
machinery they'd created over 1000 yarhen ago. 
     Their Imperious Leader had spent many quatrons meeting with and
talking to Baltar, trying to understand loyalty and betrayal, good and
evil, trust and corruption, greed and sacrifice. It was a mark of the
Imperious Leader that he still maintained some independent thought. The
three brains incorporated into the mechanical body were all that
remained of the living, breathing creatures once called Cylons. The
circuitry within the body casings was linked to the thinking brains
above. It was to have been the ultimate creation -- a merger of
intelligence and engineering, a winnowing out of the imperfections of
biology and mechanics. 
     The Cylon people had embraced the idea enthusiastically, the
Imperious Leader told Baltar during their meetings. They fought each
other for the chance to donate their brains to the vast storage areas
on Zeti Omicron, the Cylon homeworld. Kept in cryogenic suspension,
they waited until they could be joined with a mechanical host. 
     The original idea was for all of the Cylons to be so joined, but
it hadn't worked out that way. Early on, it became clear that such
unions still left beings who did not always function together as
seamlessly as machines did. There was still conflict, still
imperfection. 
     There were machinations among the machines. Those joined with more
cunning brains worked together to halt the joinings, then worked
against each other in a fight for supremacy. Finally, one emerged as
Imperious Leader. The inferior biological elements were eliminated; the
brains held in suspension destroyed. The living, reptilian form of
Imperious Leader remained as a convenience, but the programming of
Imperious Leader dominated the society. It was to he to whom every
tongue pledged loyalty. 
     All of this Baltar knew and understood. He respected deviousness,
admired those who were unscrupulous enough to achieve a goal by
whatever means were necessary. In the presence of the Imperious Leader,
Baltar felt he was among equals.
     He was alone in that assumption, for the Imperious Leader was of
another kind.
     He who was known to the Cylons and humans as Imperious Leader had
roamed the starways for yarhens without title or place. He chafed at
being one of too many who were too developed and too unwilling to use
their powers. They watched; they nurtured; they counseled. They wasted
themselves. What good is power without its use?
     Then he found the Cylons. A race eager to improve themselves, to
expand and harness their energies. He needed to win over only one of
them -- easy enough to do -- then eliminate the others. It had taken
only a few quatrons. The machine intelligence never questioned the
logic of his takeover. The biological life had no opportunity to
resist.
     Thus assured of the fealty of the Cylons, the Imperious Leader
looked for new followers. There were many among the stars. He allowed
those races that accepted Cylon dominance to survive. They flattered
him with their obedience and obsequious gestures. They accepted his
edicts, reveled in his commands. He enjoyed granting them continued
existence.
     Until the Hsarri. Here was a race of biologicals, as imperfect as
the others, that did not accept Cylon supremacy. They not only refused
to bow to the Imperious Leader, but actively resisted him. Worse, they
contacted another race to join in the resistance.
     Alone, the Hsarri never would have survived. They were a young
race, as such things are measured, and just starting to discover the
stars. Alone, the Cylons would have subdued them quickly. 
     But their allies were an old, established race of explorers and
star wanderers. Humans. The Imperious Leader tried the sound of the
word in his mind when he had first heard it. Hue-maan. Not a strong
word. 'Cylon' projected power; 'human' bleated in his ear. Still,
subjugating the billions of people on the 12 home worlds and dozens of
other settlements and outlying planets would add immeasurably to his
power. 
     With the help of the humans, the Hsarri had managed to push back
the Cylons, or so they believed. But the Imperious Leader had a larger
plan. The Hsarri were few in numbers and weak in technology. They could
be ignored while the Cylons concentrated on the larger threat. He
focused on the humans, determined to defeat them. As the war continued,
and the complicated, unpredictable race refused to concede defeat, the
Imperious Leader became obsessed with nothing less than their total
destruction. If they would not submit to him, he would annihilate them.
     Even after one thousand yarhen, the Imperious Leader could not
understand their reluctance to submit to his higher intelligence and
power. Then came Baltar and the chance for victory. He gave the
Imperious Leader information that allowed him to anticipate the humans'
military actions. That was how the 5th Fleet had been destroyed. 
     Further, Baltar helped the Imperious Leader fill the gaps in his
understanding of human thought. Baltar knew how to prey on the humans'
vanity. That was how he could warp Adar and the Council into listening
to the Cylons' plea for peace. Their belief that the Battle of Molokay
had been so costly to the Cylons that the machines wanted to end the
destruction of their own kind had been willingly received by those
whose own people had lost so many lives. Didn't the humans realize that
all the Cylons had to do to restore the numbers in their ranks was to
increase production at the assembly plants? But no, Adar wanted to be
remembered as something other than another name in a long list of
Council Presidents. He wanted to be known as he who had ended the
Thousand Yarhen War.
     And he was.
     All this creature Baltar wanted was for his Colony to be left
unscathed so that he could rule it. He'd even had the arrogance to
compare himself to the Imperious Leader when he explained his terms,
"As you so admirably govern the Cylon Empire, so would I like to -- in
my humble manner -- imitate you on Piscea." 
     Baltar had sworn allegiance to the Imperious Leader and the
Empire. He had bowed low when the Imperious Leader spoke. He was
another serf, another follower.
     Imperious Leader was content with that. He thrust every resource
in the Cylon Empire in preparing for the Grand Attack on the Colonies.
After the Destruction, he had used Baltar to track the pitiful fleet of
survivors in its mad rush across the galaxy. He'd accepted Baltar's
inept attempts to bring the fleet to ruin. The human was clearly not up
to the challenge. Imperious Leader, therefore, bided his time. He
watched and listened and tried to learn about those who were in charge.
     The Council of the Twelve was not a threat. They were his allies,
ultimately. A group weary of the war, frightened in defeat, horrified
by the Destruction. They could be swayed.
     But the leader of the fleet -- he was another matter. A scholar as
well as a Warrior. Religious as well as material. Creative as well as
logical. Attributes he, the Imperious Leader, awarded himself. Conquer
that man, and the fleet would follow.
     So Imperious Leader took himself to confront this unusual human --
Adama, he was called. He left his Imperious form on Zeti Omicron,
programmed to issue the commands that would keep the Empire functioning
smoothly. He shifted to another form, one convenient for his journey,
then launched in a Cylon tanker filled with enough Tylium to bring him
close to the human fleet. Once there, his mechanical Cylon minions
crashed its nearly-empty hulk on a barren planet. There was enough fuel
remaining to create a massive explosion, with the attendant crater and
radion levels to attract attention. Imperious Leader  trusted that
Adama's scouts would find it and that he would finally face this man.
     It had worked, at first. He recalled the three Warriors who found
him, recalled their foolish willingness to accept and protect him.
Recalled their first questions, asking his name.
     Recalled his answer.
     "I am Count Iblis."

**
     The reception was one of the brightest occasions Adama could
recall in many, many yaren. Perhaps since Zac's Commissioning. That had
been a family affair, of course, but on Caprica, Adama's family affairs
often included Buriticians and other political and social notables.
     He spotted Apollo and Athena with Siress Tinia. She had stooped
down and was listening with rapt attention to Boxey, who was gesturing
toward the dais where the VIPs had been seated. The boy's eyes were
bright with excitement. Athena and Apollo both looked concerned that
the child's presence might not be welcomed by the Councilwoman.
     "Is my grandson boring you with a retelling of the ceremony?" he
asked as he joined them.
     "Not at all!" Tinia broad smile was genuine. "It's refreshing to
find someone who thinks formal ceremonies are exciting." She touched
Apollo's arm briefly. "Not to diminish this, you understand."
     "Completely," Apollo said. "If I hadn't had to be here, I might
have tried to miss it."
     "Ha!" Athena scoffed. "You revel in this stuff!" 
     "And you don't?" Apollo countered. "You aren't on duty. You had
the option of wearing civilian dress, but you're in uniform." He
touched the battle ribbon pinned to her tunic. "Just a coincidence, I'm
sure."
     Tinia stood. "Do they always squabble like this?"
     "Always," Adama said.
     "I thought only my children did." 
     Boxey caught her hand. "Siress, have you seen the inside of the
Cylon fighter?" He grabbed Apollo by his free hand. "Dad will show it
to you. He knows a lot more about it than Dr. Wilker, I bet." He
dragged them toward the display, leaving Adama and Athena behind.
     "I think we've been dismissed,"  Athena said.
     "It appears so." 
     She was watching him. "You looked so proud of him." 
     "Of all of you." He knew Athena felt that Apollo was the favored
child. He didn't know how to explain that it wasn't the case. Apollo
was living the excitement that Adama had missed from the moment he left
the cockpit and moved into command. Each time Apollo left on a mission,
part of Adama was jealous. Not as much as the part that feared for his
son's life, but it was there, nonetheless. He could not bring himself
to let his daughter face those same dangers. Athena had many of his
wife's traits. Not the physical -- Ila was a blonde, while Athena and
her brothers shared Adama's dark hair and eyes. But her mannerisms, her
determination, her quick emotions. He could not risk losing those a
second time. 
     Neither did he want to accept the rebuke he saw in his son's eyes
when his sister was endangered. Apollo was traditional; he knew women
had to be Warriors, especially in these times, but he didn't like it.
Breaking from that tradition had cost him his wife. 
     Adama took his daughter's hand and leaned to kiss her cheek. "You
have nothing to prove, Athena. You and Zac, always trying to outdo your
big brother. And neither of you needed to do so." 
     Athena's eyes clouded at the mention of Zac' s name. "Didn't he
deserve this, too?" she asked, a little hotly.
     "Yes, he did. Every Warrior who's ever flown, or ever fought, or
ever died." He embraced her suddenly. There was enough commotion that
he doubted anyone would notice his unusual display of affection. He
looked down at her with a bittersweet smile. "I felt him here tonight,
and your mother."
     She managed a slight smile. "Me, too."  She pulled away. "You have
to go mingle."
     "Are you all right?"
     She nodded. "I'm going to go rescue Apollo and Siress Tinia from
Boxey." She started away, then stopped2E "Father?"
     "Hmm?"
     "I like her."
**
     They'd survived the endless line of dignitaries, taking their cues
from Apollo and the Commander, murmuring pleasantries as the guests
filed by. Eventually, the last notable moved past them, shaking hands
in a perfunctory manner while eyeing the mob surrounding the
refreshments. 

     "It's all well and good to congratulate you," Col. Tigh explained,
"but there are other considerations." He held up his plate. "If they
don't move fast enough, they'll miss out on the food."
     "The Colonel has explained one of the benefits of being a
dignitary," Boomer said.
     "What's that?"
     "When you are the guest of honor, you can cut to the head of the
line and no one gets angry."
     "Really?" She liked the idea.
     Tigh sipped his ambrosa and gestured Sheba toward the table.
"Try it."
     It was true. Sheba sidled to the front of the line, and nodded
pleasantly at the people helping themselves to the delicacies. She
couldn't quite reach the plates without pushing. "Ite m really supposed
to get back to President Dumra..." she said uncertainly to the cluster
blocking her.
     "Of course!" A middle-aged man, who'd somehow managed to stay
portly on fleet rations, pulled her into line. She vaguely remembered
shaking his hand in the receiving line, but his name was
long-forgotten, if she'd ever known it. "You get right in here. They'll
keep you so busy you won't have time to enjoy your own party."
     "Thank you." She filled her plate, smiled sweetly, ducked her
head, and rejoined Boomer and Tigh.
     The Colonel looked smug. "What'd I tell you?"
     "It looks tasty," Adama said as he joined them. "Does it live up
to its promise?"
     "Try some." Sheba held out her plate. 
     "The Colonel is teaching us some of the finer points of military
etiquette," Boomer said.
     "Oh?"
     "How to jump to the head of the line with grace and honor."
     "You'll find it's a very useful skill,rdblquote  Adama told them.
     "One I don't expect to use all that often, sir," Boomer said. "I
doubt if I'll be earning more than one Star Cluster."
     "True, but this is now part of your life, Boomer. You'll be
invited as honored guests and featured speakers for the rest of your
lives -- or until someone outdoes your accomplishments."  He leaned
slightly in Boomer's direction. "And I may as well be the one to warn
you, most of the food at those functions is not as good as this."
     Boomer nodded seriously. "I'll keep that in mind, sir."
     Sheba tried to manage the art of juggling her glass and plate
simultaneously. There had to be a technique she was missing. Adama saw
her predicament and relieved her of her plate.
     "I've never learned how to handle both, either," he assured her. 
     "I guess that's a relief." She deposited her empty glass on the
tray of a passing waiter.
     Adama returned her plate. "Sheba, I have no doubt that Cain knows
exactly what's going on here tonight, and that he is insufferably proud
of you."'
     Her depression stood at attention and marched forward. She felt
her eyes fill with tears. She had to take two deep breaths before she
could answer. 
     "I wish he was here."
     He squeezed her shoulder. "We all do. And when he shows up again,
you'll have one on him. I don't recall the legendary Commander Cain
earning a Star Cluster. He'll undoubtedly tell us all when and how he
should have..."
     Despite herself, Sheba laughed. "More than one," she said. "He'll
let you know that every battle we won in the Thousand Yaren War was
because of him, even if he wasn't born yet."
**
From the Adama Journals:
     The time has come to rid ourselves of Count Baltar, the Picean
traitor who engineered the Destruction of our colonies and our
civilization.      
     The planet recommended by Col. Tigh, Capt Tredway of Intelligence,
and Bridge Officer Omega is ideal -- the single planet capable of
supporting life in a small, remote solar system. As an added bonus, one
of the other planets in the system produces some kind of interference
that will further restrict the communications Baltar will have
available. I agreed to give him limited communications. We did not
negotiate just how limited those communications would be. 
     The climate appears moderate and the planet is apparently in early
spring. This will give Baltar time to plant and harvest crops from the
seedlings that are part of his rations. He will have a weapon to use
for hunting, if he wishes. However, the key to that storage locker will
stay with Captain Apollo until the team delivering Baltar is ready to
depart.
     I will not advise the Council of his departure until he is already
under way. I fully expect them to howl like Rangarees at the double
moons, but the debate should exhaust itself once the Council members
realize that the action had been taken.
**     
     Word of the decision to release Baltar had already spread through
the fleet, with reactions as varied an intense as those of the Council.
Some passengers railed against the decision and demanded that Baltar be
turned over to those who had lost their families, fortunes and futures
to him. Others agreed that his presence in the fleet only attracted
more Cylon interest. Some wanted him to be shoved out the nearest
airlock. Others to see him locked in the most severe isolation. Some
damned Adama; some damned the Council. At least they agreed to all damn
Baltar.
     More than a few people offered to be part of the team that would
escort Baltar to his destination. Adama was concerned that a few of
those were Warriors. He felt certain that anyone who wanted to be alone
with the traitor wanted to settle old scores. While he did not want
Baltar to prosper, or even to survive, Adama would not betray his
ethics and send Baltar away to be murdered.
     He studied the printout from Tigh. Baltar could be transferred in
the morning. It would take two full days for the shuttle and its Viper
escort to reach the system, using the best rate of speed and fuel
conservation procedures. Before they launched from the Rising Star,
Adama had issued the order for crews to prepare the shuttle and load
the equipment and supplies Baltar would need.
     Apollo and Sheba would pilot Baltar's shuttle. There would be a
single guard from the Council Security staff to watch Baltar. Boomer
and Starbuck would fly escort.
     It was very quiet on the trip back to the Galactica. Adama knew it
was a distasteful assignment for all of them. Distasteful, difficult,
frustrating, sorrowing. He knew how these four Warriors had suffered
personally at Baltar's hands. Apollo had lost Serina at Kobol --
Baltar's effort to entrap and kill them on the surface of the mother
world. Sheba wondered about her father's fate when he took on three
base ships, including Baltar's, at Gomoray. Those two sat quietly
together, each staring at some blank spot on the bulkhead.
     There was more movement in the cockpit, but no less emotion.
Boomer's entire family was wiped out at Caprica. Starbuck knew the cost
of being held prisoner and enduring 'interrogatione  at Baltar's hand.
     Tinia seemed lost in her own thoughts. Adama was glad he did not
have to make conversation. He, too, had memories. Of Ila, his wife,
vanished in the flames and rubble of their home. Of Zac's desperate
plea for help as the Cylons bore down on his crippled Viper, the first
casualty of the Destruction. 
     He noticed Tinia brush away a half-formed tear. She saw him
watching her, and managed a weary smile. 
     "Memories," she said ruefully. "Sometimes I am grateful to have
them, and other times..."
     "Yes. I know."
     "My husband died three yaren before the Destruction. My middle son
escaped. He's on the Shuler. My other two children...never showed up.
One of my nieces did, however," she said with forced brightness. "She
stays with my son. I don't see them as often as I like."
     "You never do," Adama agreed. ote How old is your niece?"
     "Nearly ten. She was at a natal day slumber party that night. Most
of the girls there got to a ship. Like most of the survivors, I
suppose, no rhyme or reason for her to survive and her parents and
siblings not to." She caught herself wringing her hands and forced
herself to place them motionless on her lap. 
     "They could transfer to the Galactica," he offered. "I think the
Council is glad you wish to continue serving as their liaison with the
military. You'll probably be quartered on the ship for a very long
time."
     "That's kind of you. Yes, I'll consider it. Mohr has many talents,
and he's not too proud to do menial labor if that's what's needed to
get a job done. Having Gish nearby would be a delight..." The thought
cheered her for a moment, then she faced Adama squarely.  "I want him
gone, Adama. If you believe this is the best way to do so, then I will
support you. But I have a great deal of sympathy for those who want him
dead."
     Adama didn't answer. Often in the dark hours when he was restless
and too weary to sleep, he wished Apollo had not pulled him away from
Baltar when the traitor had first appeared on Kobol. They might have
been spared so much. He wondered if God would have forgiven him for
murdering Baltar. He wondered if he could forgive himself for not doing
so.  
**
     "There's your new home, Baltar," Apollo said when the two
returned.
     "Lovely," Baltar said, then his tone turned into a sneer. "Ironic,
isn't it, Captain? Such a lovely planet. Away from any threats from the
Cylons. A wonderful place to settle. And I'll have it all to myself
while your little band shuffles along in your overcrowded ships, eking
out survival on tight rations and recycled air. I rather think I'm
getting the better part of this deal."
     "I'm glad you're satisfied, Baltar," Apollo answered. "You'll have
a long, long time to appreciate it." He made a quick gesture and Akhal
led Baltar to a seat and strapped him in for landing.

     The initial entry started off uneventfully. Boomer and Starbuck
retook control of their navigation systems and flew ahead for a
suitable landing site. Scanners showed broad fields bordered by rivers
of fresh water and mature forests. Inland seas and two large oceans
defined the continental land masses. 
     "Looks like one spot's as good an any," Boomer reported as he and
Starbuck finished their run and rejoined the shuttle. 
     "Let's take her down then," Apollo ordered.
     Trouble began a few moments later. "I'm picking up some
atmospheric action," Sheba reported.
     "Ditto," Boomer agreed. "A lot of electrical activity."
     "Where did it come from?" Starbuck wondered. "There wasn't any
sign of it during the fly-by." 
     "Wherever it came from, it's sure here now," Sheba said. Her
instruments flashed warnings of dramatic convective activity that was
rapidly growing stronger and closer.
     Apollo turned the shuttle away from the storm. Boomer and Starbuck
stayed with him.
     So did the storm.
     "It's like it moved with us," Boomer said.
     "Is it really growing that large?" Sheba asked.
     "Seems to be," Starbuck said, his voice tense. "My scanners are
going crazy."
     The storm swept around them. From his cockpit, Boomer could see
nothing but gray-white mist. Winds slammed into the Viper. Lightning
flashed around him. His comm system was filled with static, even though
these frequencies were not normally susceptible to electrical
interference.
     "Apollo?" he called. "Captain? Sheba? Starbuck?" He couldn't find
them on his scanners.
     He tried to maneuver the Viper. It felt as though the storm was
pushing him away.
     Voices broke through the static. "...system's gone out!" He heard
Starbuck's frantic call. "Lightning...can't control..." More static.
     The winds were pushing him farther from his original course.
dblquote Starbuck!" he yelled into his mike. "What's your heading?"
     "Boomer! Are you ok?" That was Apollo.
     "So far. It sounds like Starbuck's in trouble."
     "I heard. Get yourself out of here while you can. The shuttle's
not responding well, either. We'll have to try to ride this out."
     "I'll stay with you, then. You might need help when you get down.
It sounds like Starbuck definitely will."
     "Negative!" Apollo snapped. "Get out of here while you can,
Boomer. That's an order! Get back to the Galactica and send help from
there."
     Boomer hesitated. Apollo was right, but he hated leaving them
behind.
     "Boomer?"
     "I hear you, Captain. I'll be back in a flash. Good luck."
     Suddenly, he was clear of the storm. The air was clear and calm.
Boomer banked to face the storm again. The black, roiling clouds hung
in front of him like a wall. No sane pilot would try to re-enter that
storm.
     The winds hit him again, like a giant fist slamming the Viper
backwards, as though the storm was taking personal action against him. 
     He banked again, this time aiming for space and the Galactica.
There was a tightness in his chest he'd not felt since that night on
Caprica.
     He'd get help; he'd save them, if salvation was possible. He would
not let himself think that it was not. He wouldn't lose them. Not like
he'd lost the others. Not because of Baltar. Not again.
**
     The cockpit lit with a brilliant, blinding flash. Starbuck
instinctively threw up an arm to shield his eyes. The Viper rocked
violently, as badly as anything he'd ever felt in combat.
     He dropped his arm to assess the damage. 
     Early in pilot training, his flight instructor told him that in
the old days, all aircraft had small, hand-wound clocks mounted on the
instrument console. In extreme emergencies, the first thing pilots
would do was wind the clock. It forced them to assess the situation
before taking an instinctive, possibly incorrect, action. If they
crashed before they finished, they were probably doomed anyway. 
     It was time to wind the clock.
     Starbucks' mouth went dry as he scanned his panel. Half of the
instruments were dead; most of the others were flashing warning
messages or broadcasting gibberish. A few had broken loose, and sparks
danced from lead wires and damaged connections. His joystick would
respond only if he slammed it hard in the direction he wanted to go.
The port engine was completely dead. The starboard seemed to be
generating full power, though. That was a plus. The high rear was
erratic and leaking fuel. Oh, gods! Another lightning strike and the
vapors would ignite, turning the Viper into a fireball. He hit the
toggle that would dump the fuel to that engine. The indicator was dead,
so he could only pray it worked.      
     He keyed his mike. "Mayday! Mayday! I'm in real trouble! All my
system's have gone out! Had a lightning strike. I can't control her!"
There was no answer, not that he expected any.
     It was a wild ride down. The Viper shuttered as it rose and fell
violently. Starbuck didn't try to maintain altitude. Instead, he
struggled desperately to keep the Viper's wings and nose level.
     Even that became impossible. Over the pounding of hail against the
canopy, he heard the shriek of agonized metal. The plane rolled hard to
the left. He hit the automatic and manual stabilizers.
     The Viper barely responded. It continued to roll in a hard,
dizzying, disorienting action.
     Starbuck's fear was turning to anger. I'll be damned if I'm going
to die this way! He slammed the joystick and stabilizers hard once
again, and even threw himself against the starboard side of the cockpit
for good measure. 
     The roll stopped, but the Viper continued to drop at a sickening
rate. He pulled on the joystick, chanting a mantra from flight
training, "Pitch to the airspeed, power to the altitude." In a storm
like this, altitude was out of his control, no matter what he did with
the power settings, but if he could raise the nose and slow the Viper,
he might just manage some sort of survivable landing.
     It looked as though he'd soon find out. The clouds were thinning.
Instead of a solid mass, there were swirls and tendrils of mist
sweeping against the canopy. The lightning still flashed, but did not
seem as near or as intense as before.
     He broke out of the overcast in heavy rain and strong winds. It
was dark below him. For a moment, he was confused. Had he really flown
all the way to the night side of the planet? A sudden lightning flash
reoriented him. 
     He was over water. In the electric-blue strobe of the lightning,
he saw  whitecaps that warned of rough seas and high swells. He did not
see a shoreline.
     There was no time to run through any sort of landing checklist.
With all of the damage, it would have been a useless gesture, anyway.
He glanced at the airspeed indicator. Too fast. Pull on the stick. Try
to flare. He wondered if the canopy would open. If the mechanism
jammed...
     The Viper hit the water tail first. The nose slammed down and
buckled from the impact. The control panel shattered as it and the
joystick broke free and flew backward, the pieces hitting Starbuck full
in the chest as he was thrown forward. Stunned, he sagged against his
harness, staring numbly at the dark stain starting to show against his
torn tunic.
     The shock of the cold salt water pouring into the cockpit and
against the open wounds revived him. The canopy had partially opened
when the Viper crashed. It now acted like a funnel, channeling water at
Starbuck as he pulled off his helmet and fumbled with his harness. His
right arm wouldn't move properly, and it was hard to breathe.
     He could feel the Viper starting to sink as the cockpit filled
with water. Fighting panic, he pushed at the canopy, desperate to open
it before it sank beneath the waves. It lifted a few more inches, then
stopped. He found the switch that triggered the emergency charges
designed to blow the canopy clear. Nothing happened. He pounded on the
canopy and hit the switch again. One of the charges blew this time,
forcing the shell open a bit more. It would have to be enough. Starbuck
pushed his whole weight against it, squeezing through the too-small
opening, struggling against the increasing rush of water.
     As he squirmed out of the cockpit, a wave flipped the Viper onto
its side, slamming his knees into the windscreen and pulling him under.
He kicked frantically and gripped the edge of the half-raised canopy to
pull himself out. He barely felt the rough metal frame cutting through
his tunic and gouging his bleeding chest.
     Choking, he cleared the craft and broke the surface of the water.
As his boots filled with water, he struggled to stay afloat. He tried
to slip off his flight jacket, but the numbness in his arm was worse.
He kicked harder and stroked with one arm, wondering if he was moving
in the right direction or even moving at all. He squinted through the
driving rain and flashes of lightning.
      A strong wave caught him off guard. Startled, he swallowed a
lungful of water and sank. Pure panic brought him to the surface. He
choked, fought for air, and swallowed another wave. He clawed at the
water, as though looking for a handhold. He got above the waves again.
The wind-driven rain pelted him like needles. 
     He was floundering now, losing coordination as he lost strength.
Another wave swept over him. He sank, unable to do more than kick
feebly as he felt himself pulled down... and was pushed against the
sandy bottom. A swell pushed him forward and above the water. He slid
along the sand like an overlarge piece of driftwood.
     Somehow, he got to his knees and braced himself with his good arm
as the outgoing wave threatened to pull him back into the surf. He
half-crawled, half-dragged himself up the beach, beyond the reach of
the waves. 
     An angry bolt of lightning stabbed at the ground, splitting a
stunted tree that grew along the shoreline. Starbuck was unaware of it.
He lay motionless on the sand as the storm raged around him.

**
     "Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Are you all right?"
     The voice rumbled through Sheba's head, making it throb
uncomfortably. Someone was pulling her arm. She pushed at it, willing
whoever was disturbing her to go away and let her ache in private. 
     "Lieutenant! Please!"
     Unwillingly, Sheba opened her eyes. Where was she? It took a
moment for her to remember, then the details came rushing back.
     The shuttle. They were on the shuttle. The storm. They'd been
caught in that monster of a storm, thrown around by the turbulence like
rollions in a bottle. A terrific downdraft dropped them toward the
surface like a rock falling from the sky. They'd tried to compensate,
but the force was too strong. The last thing she remembered was Apollo
yelling for them to hang on.
     She sat up suddenly. Apollo! Akhal! What had happened to them? 
     Her head whirled from the motion. She felt hands steadying her
shoulders. 
     "Easy." Akhal's face slowly consolidated from several images into
one.
     She rested her own hand against her forehead.
     "Apollo?" she asked.
     Akhal gestured toward the Captain's chair. "He's still out." The
Security guard rose stiffly and limped to Apollo. His fingers pressed
against the Captain's neck. "He's alive." He began unsnapping Apollo's
harness. "Maybe we should get him to the cot."
     "Maybe you should release me from this seat!" Baltar's anger and
energy told Sheba the traitor was uninjured. Too bad.
     "I'm taking care of people on a priority basis," Akhal answered. 
     "Your priority is me."
     "I'll file a complaint for you when I get back to the fleet. I'm
sure Adama and Reese will put me on report."
     Akhal had his arm under Apollo's shoulders. He maneuvered the
Captain away from the cockpit and laid him on the metal cot.
     When he got back, Sheba had finishing running an instrumentsuote 
check. He raised his eyebrows in question. She shook her head.
     "This bird is done flying."
     "I rather thought so."
     "I'd better check below. It looks like we dropped almost straight
down. No telling what the cargo is like."
     She stood, a bit unsteadily. They could hear the stormuote s winds
howling around the square shape of the shuttle. Rumbles of thunder
shook the craft. The emergency lighting glowed feebly. Each time a
flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the shuttle, they
started in surprise. She found a hand lantern in a supply compartment.
     "I'll go." Akhal took the lantern from her hand. "You don't look
too good."
     She didn't feel too good, either. Her hands were shaking, as much
from fear as anything else, she had to admit. 
     "Stay here and keep an eye on the Captain." He headed for the
access passageway.
     She braced herself against the seats, glad she didn't have to
move.
     "You can't leave me here now," Baltar said. "Your survey teams
obviously committed an error. This planet has an unlivable climate.
Probably why there are no higher life forms here." He gave her an
ingratiating smile. "I'll just have to return to the fleet. Assuming,
of course, that Lt. Boomer got back there himself and arranged for our
rescue. If not, we could be spending the rest of our lives together."
     Sheba didn't answer. She watched Apollo's still form, wishing he
would move.
     "Do you think Lt. Starbuck survived?" Baltar asked. "It certainly
sounded doubtful. But, of course, I'm not a Viper pilot. I don't know
about these things. Then there is the famous Starbuck luck. Unless it's
run out. Wouldn't that be a tragic irony -- he survives hundreds of
combat situations, earns a Star Cluster, then dies in a silly little
rainstorm."
     "Shut up, Baltar," Sheba snapped. "I already have a headache."
     "Just assessing the situation," he answered.
     "I don't feel well, I have a short temper, and I'm armed. Assess
that situation."
     Baltar opened his mouth to answer, then absorbed Shebauote s
expression and reconsidered the idea. Akhal appeared in the access
doorway.
     "We've got to get out of here,"  he said. He lifted Apollo off the
cot.
     "Why?"
     "The fuel's leaking all over the place down there. You can smell
it as soon as you enter the cargo bay. All it needs is one spark and
this shuttle will turn into a bomb."
     "What about the cargo?" Baltar asked. "The supplies?"
     "I opened the exterior hatch." He hit the switch that opened the
passenger compartment. Rain drenched him in a micron. "Come on!"
     Sheba released Baltar's seat belt. The man stood, holding out his
hands. "Unfasten these," he demanded. 
     She pushed him toward the hatch. "Not a chance." She took the
first aid kit and the standard survival package from the supply
compartment. "Give me half an excuse and It'll laser you, just to be
safe."
     Akhal and Apollo were barely visible through the curtain of rain.
Sheba followed as they moved far from the shuttle. Baltar stayed in
front of her. She kept one hand on her laser. It would be insane for
Baltar to try to escape into this weather, with his supplies and rescue
dependent on her, Akhal and Boomer. But Baltar's sanity was
questionable, at best.
     Akhal found a sheltered area and gently slid Apollo to the ground.
"We'll just have to hope lightning doesne t hit these trees," he yelled
over the wind. "I'm going back to start pulling out supplies!"
     "Shouldn't we wait until the storm is over?" She could hardly hear
her own voice.
     "The boxes with the material for the shelter were right by the
hatch. No telling how long this storm will last. At least we'll have
some tarps to cover us."
     "Release me," Baltar demanded. "I'll help."
     Sheba and Akhal both stared at him in disbelief.
     "It's my survival, too. I'll be here as long as you are," he said.
"It's not as though I can jump into the shuttle and escape, now, is
it?"
     Reluctantly, Sheba nodded. Akhal unfastened Baltar's binders. The
three of them ran back to the shuttle, slipping on the rain-soaked
grasses.
     The interior of the cargo bay looked as though a malevolent giant
had tossed the crates like so many unwanted building blocks. Those that
weren't crushed were torn open, their contents littering the deck. The
smell of leaking fuel irritated Sheba's nose. She could see the
discolored patterns it made in the puddles of rainwater pooling around
the wrecked shuttle.
     "See if you can figure out which crates have the tarps," Sheba
told Akhal when they returned to the trees.
     "Nothing personal, Lieutenant, but you should probably do that. I
want to get the rest of the shelter material if I can. I can carry more
crates and heavier ones than you. We don't really have the luxury of
gender equality right now."
     "Ok. But watch Baltar. I don't trust him."
     Akhal grinned at her. "Neither do I."
     She played her lantern on the sides of the crates, pushing the
water from her forehead and squinting through the rain to see the
labels that told what was inside.
     She found the crate marked "#1 of 7" and tore it open. If she
remembered correctly, that one held several large tarps to give Baltar
some cover until he could build something permanent.
     She was right. She opened one of the tarps enough to shield Apollo
from the rain. His pulse was strong, but even the cold and wet of the
storm hadn't revived him. She pushed away the thought of serious
injury, just like she pushed away the thought of Starbuck's frightened,
frantic Mayday.
     Akhal and Baltar returned with more crates. The storm seemed to be
lasting forever. She was getting used to the blinding flashes of light
and the deafening booms of thunder. Maybe this was the plane's normal
climate after all. 
     Baltar was examining the boxes. "I was told there would be
clothing," he yelled as a gust of wind tried to carry away the tarp.
"There should be some rain gear in there."
     "We don't have time for that!" Akhal told him. "Let's get the rest
of the crates. When the storm is over, we can salvage the rest."
     Baltar ignored him. He continued to read the sides of the boxes.
     Akhal threw his hands up in disgust and trotted back toward the
shuttle.
     Sheba thought that the next bolt of lightning was especially
bright. She wondered later if that was her imagination or if it was a
sign that the energy wasn't entirely natural. 
     Either way, she looked up as the scene around her was illuminated.
She saw Akhal nearing the shuttle, already squaring his shoulders to
pick up another crate. She saw the spear of blue-white energy stabbing
the squat, metal shape of the shuttle. She saw the bottom of the bolt
seem to splinter, the small charges of electricity flying in every
direction. She saw the sparks fall into the pools of fuel. She screamed
and dropped to the ground as the shuttle exploded.
     Shrapnel from the craft fell on them as thickly as the rain. She
heard Baltar cry out, heard the larger pieces thud as they hit the
ground, heard the sizzle of hot metal cooling in the rain.
     She sat up cautiously. The ground was littered with debris. A few
pieces had landed on the tarp. She scrambled over to it and pulled the
cover away from Apollo. He moved slightly as the rain hit him in the
face. Sheba sagged with relief. He was all right, at least. Akhal...
     She turned back. There was a smoking crater where the shuttle had
been. The Security man had been only a few feet away.
**
     Apollo tried to think of an argument that would make her stay and
let him search for Starbuck instead. There wasn't one. Sheba was in
better condition than he was. Besides, was there any reason to think
she'd be safer at the camp with Baltar than alone in the open
countryside? She was a trained, competent, combat-seasoned Warrior. If
this planet was malevolent, its dangers would appear anywhere, at any
time. 
     He looked in the direction Sheba was pointing, wishing Starbuck
would appear, jogging through the high grasses, using his receiver to
home in on them. But he knew better. Starbuck was in trouble, deep
trouble. He could feel it.
     "You aren't planning to take the first aid supplies, are you?"
Baltar had been sitting silently for so long, Apollo had almost
forgotten he was there. "I'm gravely wounded." He held up his bleeding
arm. 
     "I have enough in here," Sheba answered, patting the survival kit.
She touched Apollo's hand. "We'll be back before dark," she said
confidently. "You'll have dinner waiting?"
     Despite himself, Apollo smiled. "Be careful," he warned.
     She walked briskly through the grasses in the direction of
Starbuck's ADT. The storm was completely over. A few dark clouds far in
the distance were all that remained. They glimmered with a few bits of
leftover lightning. 
     None of this is real, she told herself. Any moment, she'd wake on
the shuttle and find that they were just entering orbit of Baltar's new
home. All of this was a nightmare born of her fears and anger. In the
meantime, she was trapped in her dream and had to finish it out. Akhal
dying, Apollo injured, Starbuck missing. She continued tracking the
signal from the Viper's ADT. It led her to the ocean, about a metric
from the camp. She stood on the sand and studied the signal, then moved
up the beach to get closer to it.
     It was an easy walk. The surf was still rough from the storm, but
the beach was broad enough that she could stay out of the waves. She
noticed the shells and bizzarely-shaped driftwood that littered the
sand. Any other time, she'd be admiring them and keeping a few to take
with her. 
     The air seemed to be changing. It had been scrubbed fresh and
clean by the storm. Now, everything seemed to be taking on a reddish
tint. She shaded her eyes and looked at the sky. The aftermath of the
storm? Perhaps it had kicked up some kind of weird pollutants into the
atmosphere. 
     Another sensation crept over her. She paused and turned slowly,
certain she was being watched. Probably some small animal hiding in the
reeds, she thought, but nothing was there. She continued her walk, but
the feeling grew stronger. Invisible aliens? Powers that don't want
outsiders? That could certainly explain the storm.
     "We mean you no harm," she said out loud. She stopped and turned
again. On the wind, she might have heard the whisper of a laugh. She
shivered, certain the chill was not caused by the breeze cooling her
rain-soaked uniform.
     You're just shaken up, she told herself firmly. Just frightened a
little by the storm and Akhal's death. Setting her jaw, she marched
firmly up the beach, concentrating on the ADT. The signal was very
strong now. She kept looking forward, expecting to see the Viper on the
sand. As she closed in on the signal, her hands began shaking. She
walked past the signal peak, then tried readjusting the receiver
settings. The instrument stubbornly continued to tell her something she
didn't want to accept. She stood on the beach and faced the ocean.
There was no doubt. The signal was offshore. Starbuck's Viper was
somewhere under the water.

**
     Clearly, Baltar had no wilderness experience. He fumbled awkwardly
with the equipment, hampered by his bandaged arm and his own
ineptitude. The tarps drooped against branches too thin to hold their
weight. When he tried to anchor them to the ground and prop them up
from inside, the makeshift tent poles he'd fashioned from fallen
branches swayed and tumbled to the ground. Each failure was accompanied
by a series of curses in most of the twelve Mother tongues. As befitted
a onetime successful merchant and politician, Baltar was nothing if not
fluent.
     Apollo checked his chronometer again. Only a few microns had
passed since the last time he'd checked it. He massaged his temples. If
he didn't stay busy, he'd go crazy with worry.
     "Would you like some help?" he asked Baltar. 
     "I don't need your altruism!" Baltar snapped.
     "You're not getting any," Apollo snapped back. "I'd like to know
if another storm hits, I won't get soaked. I'm sure Sheba and Starbuck
will appreciate that, too."
      "Aren't you the optimist?" Baltar used a rock to try to support
one of the branches he was using as a tent pole. "There could be any
sort of creature out there, just waiting to prey on that young woman.
And if Starbuck is injured, what do you expect her to do? Drag him
here?"
     Apollo didn't answer. He opened a crate Baltar had missed and
unloaded collapsible tent poles and shock cords. 
     "Here," he said. He tossed Baltar a small data pad. "It even comes
with directions." Without waiting for Baltar to read the material,
Apollo began snapping the poles together and rearranging the tarp.
     Baltar glared at Apollo's back as the Captain worked. Forced to
live in a tent like some kind of primitive, indeed! He was a Count;
Piscean nobility. His idea of roughing it was staying at a lodging that
did not offer room service. This exile Adama designed...Baltar seethed
as he remembered the discussion. Adama had tricked him. He'd played on
Baltar's weariness and fears. There were rumors that the Borellian
Nomen would be recaptured. Baltar guessed that those rumors had been
started by Adama himself, with their only purpose to demoralize him.
The Borellians would be honor-bound to punish Baltar for not succeeding
in his plan to help them escape. 
     Adama had made the exile sound appealing. Food, shelter, a livable
planet, even communications. For someone facing a lifetime in a metal
shell with limited rations and no future, even that skimpy a package
seemed a bounty.
     Baltar lived by and for negotiations. He'd agreed to the bargain,
certain that Apollo and Starbuck would die on the base ship. That would
be his chance to hit Adama hard with new terms.  Baltar was certain
that Adama would be so distraught in his grief that he would agree to
anything, just to have him gone from the fleet, immediately.
     That those two might survive had never figured into his equations.
That he was about to be abandoned here was as much their fault as his
own.
     Apollo was leaning against a stack of crates. His eyes were closed
as he rested his head against his hand. The reason for his exile.
Alive. Honored and feted for doing nothing more than following his --
Baltar's -- directions. The unfairness of it was overwhelming! 
     His rage and frustration swept over him. Baltar moved quickly.
Holding one of the branches, he stepped behind Apollo and swung hard. 
     Apollo sensed the motion. He turned, reaching for his sidearm. The
branch hit his shoulder instead of his head, but the impact still
knocked him over. His laser flew across the tarp. 
     Baltar picked it up and aimed it at Apollo. "I'm so happy to be
the one to do this," he said. He noticed with satisfaction the look of
surprise and dismay on Apollo's face as he pulled the trigger. His aim
was true this time. The bright beam hit the Captain squarely in the
chest.
     Baltar was responsible for so many deaths, but he had never
personally killed anyone himself. The finality with which Apollo lay
still was very intimate. He paused for a moment as he stood over the
Captain's body. He should feel something, he thought. Remorse, perhaps?
Not a chance! Triumph? Only when Adama learned that his son was dead
and by whose hand. Satisfaction? That went along with triumph. 
     Right now, none of that mattered. He would follow Lt. Sheba. If he
found Starbuck, he'd be only too happy to dispatch the irritating
Lieutenant the same way he'd finished off the Captain. He had no plans
to harm Sheba. He had no plans of spending eternity alone.
**
     The standing order on the bridge was simple: If a situation arises
that makes you wonder if you should call the Commander, the decision
has already been made. Call him.
     In practice, most crew called Col. Tigh first. Either way, Adama
long ago conditioned himself to answer to the ring of his comm unit
automatically, his hands reaching for it before the rest of him was
awake.
     Habit took over this time as the alarm sounded in the darkness of
his bedchamber. He stretched to reach the unit without disturbing
Tinia.
     "Sorry to bother you, Commander," Tigh said, his standard greeting
when the call came in the middle of Adama's night.
     Tinia stirred and woke. She raised her head from Adama's chest
sleepily. His expression chased the drowsiness from her.
     "I'm on my way," he was telling Tigh, even as he replaced the unit
and threw off the blankets.
     "What is it?" Tinia asked.
     "Baltar," he answered.
**
     Power.
     The ordering of lives; the shaping of events; the determination of
destinies; control of empires.
     Intoxicating.
     Fulfilling.
     Iblis reveled in it.
     Even the smallest displays delighted him.
     Like now. He focused his thoughts on the storm he was creating,
savoring the satisfaction he felt in molding the clouds into ominous
towers charged with seething anger.
     Half the glory was in the creation; the other half was in the
reaction.
     The metallic taste of fear was like the finest ambrosa to him. It
flowed like a fountain from the hearts and minds of the four humans on
the surface as they witnessed the proof of his power over them. If he
could not command their allegiance, he would orchestrate his
retribution.
     It pleased him that Apollo recognized his presence. How dare that
insignificant primitive lecture him about dominion! It would cost him
dearly now. The man was impotent to stop events. He would watch
helplessly as Iblis took his revenge. Apollo's anguish was no more than
he deserved for his defiance.
     The rest of the human fleet might be unreachable, at least for
now, but Iblis' revenge lay helplessly on the sand, tormented by
sorrowful, bitter memories, a would-be acolyte prime for an epiphany.
     He preferred mass adulation, but he appreciated the wooing of one
hard-won soul. He could be patient. He had millennia in which to work.
Gaining one follower would satisfy him, especially if he destroyed the
heart of an enemy in the process.

**
     The ground was shaking. Earthquakes, too? Starbuck thought. Why
not? Everything else had happened.
     A deep rumble of thunder rolled across him. Vibrations, that's
all. Part of another storm. That was enough of a natural disaster. 
     The sand around him was still wet from the earlier storm. The
waves must have rolled this high. He needed to get beyond their reach.
He forced his elbow down and levered himself forward a few times before
exhaustion stopped him. He was lightheaded and cold, so very cold. He
lay weakly, watching, through he wasn't sure what he was watching for
any more. Rescue? That would be nice. The storm to break? Any micron
now, he guessed. His death? Change the subject.
     Stretched out on a sandy beach with nothing to do but watch time
pass. If it weren't for the storm and his catalog of pain, this would
be a great vacation. How many times in the last yarhen had he longed
for that!
     "Nothing's been right since the Destruction," someone said.
     Iblis stood at his feet. His white robes gleamed even brighter
against the grayness of the sea behind him.
     "That's the way it goes sometimes," Starbuck said.
     "Sometimes," Iblis mused. "Only sometimes. What about other
times?"
     Great. He was bleeding to death and the Count wanted to play
riddles. Starbuck groaned and closed his eyes. His grip on
consciousness was slipping.
     "What might it have been like?" Iblis asked. His voice seemed to
come from far away. Starbuck felt as though he was floating. The
feverish blur inside his head took shape. He was a child again, running
through the fields near Umbra, laughing in the sunlight, swinging from
a rope over a stream and shrieking with glee as he dropped into the icy
water, lying on his back under a star-clustered night sky as his father
pointed out the constellations, watching with his brothers and sisters
as his mother appeared from the kitchen with the Solstice Feast-fowl.
     "You can have all of that. A family. Happy childhood memories.
Friends. A home. Your parents. Siblings. I can give it to you."
     He opened his eyes. There should be a dining room crowded with
relatives and noisy chatter. What was he doing lying on the cold sand
of an unfamiliar beach? He strained to concentrate. Those weren' t real
memories. That boy was older than the refugee found in the Thorn
Forest. He had no brothers or sisters that he knew of. He never swam in
those streams or knew a family holiday. 
     "Only because you choose not to," Iblis crooned. "Listen to me,
Starbuck. I want to be your friend. Let me show you what I can do for
you. Le me give you those memories. Let me give you that life."
     Floating again. A faint warning stirred somewhere far inside his
mind. He saw Iblis in Adama's office. A conversation. Iblis' promises
of proof. A question he had asked. 
     "You said you can't change the past."  He rested, eyes shut, and
the memory became clearer. "You can only work from this time forward."
     "Just as those Lights who renewed Apollo could revise the past, so
can I. If I choose. If you choose."
     "It wasn't his time..." Starbuck mumbled.
     "It wasn't theirs, either," Iblis answered. "Where were the Lights
when the Cylons burned your home? The simple farmers of Umbra didn't
matter to them."
     Other memories fought for attention. The loneliness of furlons
spent by himself when his classmates went home, searching for ways to
fit in and be liked, fearing always that he'd be betrayed as a misfit
'homie,' wishing it was different.
     "The others are alive," Iblis crooned. "They didn't land far from
here. They are unharmed. Look around you, Starbuck. Where is Apollo
now? Your closest friend. You were there when he needed you. But when
the situation is reversed...? Sheba? Her loyalty is to her father.
Boomer abandoned all of you. He returned to the Galactica. He made no
effort to save any of you. Come with me, Starbuck. Work with me. Let me
help you."
     Someone was calling his name over the steady pounding of the surf
and rising wind. He squinted through the storm's growing darkness.
Another dream? No. Someone was on the beach, someone other than Iblis.
     The Count turned toward the figure, too. Starbuck saw his
expression sour. He turned back and stretched a hand to Starbuck. "You
must hurry, Starbuck. Join me, or all that has occurred will be locked
in time."
     He could make it right, Starbuck thought. He could. 
     Painfully, he pushed himself up on one arm. Shaking with fatigue,
he slowly lifted his own hand.

**
    This story has been published by Clean Slate Press.