The third story in the Red Squadron saga.  This story takes place
immediately following the story "Sightlines," and the end of this
coincides with the beginning of "War of the Gods."

A word of caution.  This story contains graphic scenes of a violent
nature.  Reader discretion is advised.

Vendetta
By Tice Leonard

     "Where is that air cover?"  shouted Major Yen.
     Sgt. Kleev ducked behind a felled tree and spoke into his large
communicator "brick."
     Yen surveyed his situation.  He couldn't see above him. 
Everything was blanketed by the dense tree growth.  The jungle floor
was barren, relatively.  What did grow around him  was brown and mossy. 
There were no ferns or grasses in which to hide.  His dozen men were
trapped between two converging Cylon forces with laser tanks.  
     A volley of enemy fire erupted over his head.  Yen dove for the
cover of a small rock.  The rest of his men scattered.
     "Kleev!"
     "I've got them," said the warrior.  "Two centons out!"
     "Frak!  We don't have two centons!"  yelled Yen.

     Lieutenants. Adama and Cain led the strike.  The six Asp fighters
broke through the planetary cloud cover at 1500 metrons.  Adama aligned
his attack vectors with the coordinates on the ground.
     His scanners still showed nothing.
     All around him, the magnificent landscape tempted his eyes.  The
mountains to his left rose from a thick forest below him, up through
rocky cliffs, and up through a pure white snow line.  To the right, a
crystalline lake with fantastically lush green islands reflected the
dreary clouds above, and gave the illusion of being a huge pool of
liquid steel.  The forest before the fighter group was dense, green,
and unbroken.
     That was where the Cylons hid.  They had worked out a massive
supply line network under the canopy of the trees.  Below the facade of
leaves and branches, there could be a battalion of laser tanks taking
aim at them right now.
     Adama pulled his fighter down to tree top level.  The Asp's long
wings caught the air and held him steady as he raced along.  Try as he
might, Adama could not make anything from the scanner readings.
     "I've got a positive lock, Adama," came Cain's voice.
     Adama looked around the roomy cockpit.  His attack computer was
still clear.  Maybe Cain was seeing things.
     "Bearing 358 mark 1," Cain said.
     Adama brought his fighter around two degrees to the left, and
nosed down slightly.  His squadron was clicking along at just under
full atmosphere speed.  The wash from their passing kicked the fauna
below around like a fast moving hurricane.
     There was just a small blip from Adama's attack computer.  Small,
metallic, using a small energizer.  Possibly tracking him right now. 
Possibly taking aim...
     The coordinates matched the attack vectors.
     He had a clean shot.
     Adama nosed up slightly, then entered a shallow dive.  He fired
off burst after burst of turbo lasers from the two guns on the tips of
his wings.  His fire cut the forest like a machete.  He counted one,
two, three explosions as he passed.
     There had been something down there.
     Adama continued past the target as his force passed over.  Their
lasers pelted the area again and again, touching off fires and small
explosions.  A few microns beyond the burning spot, Adama pulled back
on the stick and started a loop.  At the top of the loop he rolled,
which put him right side up, and diving back on the target.  
     Cain was right beside him, guns blazing.
     "...attack!," sounded Adama's communicator.  "Break off attack! 
Friendly units hit!"
     Adama's thumb froze on the fire button as he pulled the big
fighter out of the attack run.  He climbed up and away from the jungle
floor, for the cover of space.  He was oblivious to the cursing and
lamentations of his squadron mates.
     There was a long silence as the full realization soaked in.
     "Adama..." said Cain, "we couldn't have known."
     "We should have," said Adama.
     "Let's get back to base and find out what happened," said Cain.
     Adama felt an ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach.  Core
command had sent him to attack Colonial ground soldiers.  There were
anger, regret, and confusion in his mind.  Someone was going to explain
this.  Someone was going to pay.

     The munitions ram had been hit.  It was burning.  One warrior came
flying out of the back.  His uniform was ablaze.  Yen raced to him, and
began to beat the flames out with a downed tree branch.  Another
warrior rushed to his aid.
     Kleev threw the brick down and scurried into the ram.  He grabbed
hold of an unconscious soldier inside, and yanked on him.  "Help me! 
He's pinned."
     Another man appeared from behind the burning wreckage of the
Colonial tank.  Without a second thought he dove into the ram, and
threw his body against a fallen shell crate.  The trapped man's legs
were free.
     "What...?" said the man.
     "Quiet, Jek," said Kleev.  "We'll get you out."
     Kleev grabbed the wounded man's legs, and the other man held him
around his chest.  Carefully but quickly, they eased him from the
burning ram.
     Suddenly, the burning crate erupted in a fiery blast that engulfed
them all.  Kleev took the brunt of the explosion.  Much of the shrapnel
and fire was absorbed by Kleev's body.  His chest ripped open,
splattering his blood and inner organs out like the contents of a
child's pinata over the other two men as they were blown clear of the
blast.
     Jek lay on the ground, his legs broken.  The other man sat in a
pool of blood, dazed, confused, and checking his own body for holes.  
     The warm blood on his face and hands was Kleev's.  He looked back
at the ram.  It was gone.  Only a smoldering hulk indicated where it
had been.  The smell was terrible.
     Jek looked over to the blood soaked man.  Though broken and
possibly dying, he asked of the man who had saved him, "Are you okay,
Mot?"
     The man could not respond.  He only stared off into the dense
jungle.  The Cylons were moving off. All was eerily quiet.  The only
sound Mot could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and his own
breathing.

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

     "Alright," said Dr. Salik.  "I'll clear you for flight status, but
you have to promise me you won't go pulling a combat patrol for at
least two more cycles."
     Sergeant Marsh nodded.  "I promise."
     Salik's eyes indicated that he did not buy it.  "How is Rigel?"
     "She's sick," said Marsh.
     "That's good."  Salik smiled.  "That means the baby's developing
well.  The sickness will pass."
     "And the mood swings?"  Marsh asked.
     "Never go away," Salik answered.  "Try to accommodate her now. 
Her body is going through a lot of changes."
     "I know," said Marsh.
     "She'll get better," Salik said.  "But it takes about 40 sectons."
     Marsh groaned.  It was good-natured.  Men have always poked fun at
what happens to a woman when she carries a child - mostly because they
can never do it.
     "Take care of yourself, Sergeant," Salik said.  He took Marsh's
wrist, and helped him from the examining table.
     "Thank you," said Marsh.  He slipped his brown jacket back on, and
stepped into the doctor's outer office.
     "How did it go?"  Lt. Det asked.
     "Fine," said Marsh.  "I'm a pilot again."
     "Always were," said Det.  "You just needed to get your wings
back."  Det began to head for the Life Station's door, and toward the
landing bay.  He hoped he wasn't too obvious when he said, "Hey, I've
got an idea!  I was supposed  to fly over to Agroship 6 and check
accommodations for a Delphian representative.  They want to present us
with some kind of new crop seed...Why don't you take the flight over. 
Get yourself some time in a Viper before you start patrol rotation."
     "Yes, sir," said Marsh.  Det had been obvious, but that was okay. 
It had been nearly five sectons since Marsh had crashed his Viper into
Galactica's Beta Bay.  He was ready for some action.  It was fun
working at core systems with Rigel, but...perhaps he needed some...solo
time.  She was beginning to behave strangely.  
     Just last night, she had stormed around like she was angry at him
for nearly two centaurs.  When Marsh had finally asked her what was
wrong, she had politely informed him that he had taken long enough to
ask.  
     Didn't he care anymore?  Didn't he love her?  Did her feelings
even matter?
     Yes to all, but what had he done wrong in the first place.
     With that, she had kicked him out.  He hoped that it was just the
hormones talking, and that she still loved him.  Maybe he should pick
her up some flowers on the Agroship?
     Good idea.

     Dietra answered the page to the Galactica's Viper simulators. 
Brie went with her, more out of curiosity than necessity.  They were
met by Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Det.
     "Good morning, Ladies," said Apollo.  "Are you ready, Lt. Dietra?"
     "Ready for what?"  Dietra asked.  She felt herself take a step
back from the captain.  What was he going on about?
     "I'm sorry," Apollo said.  "I thought Lt. Det had explained the
drill to you."
     "No, sir," said Dietra, casting a grim eye at her squadron
commander.  "He did not."
     Det looked away from Dietra's gaze.
     "You are familiar with the CORA system in the Recon Viper," Apollo
droned.  "We are working on a new version of the same system."
     "It's ACURA," Det said.  "You've heard of it.  We've skimmed over
it at a couple of squadron meetings."
     "ACURA?"  Brie asked.
     "Advanced Computer Utility, Resource, and Activation," bragged
Det. "It's a total combat system for the Viper."
     "Combat?"  Dietra asked.  "The Recon Viper is unarmed."
     "But ACURA is not," said Det.
     "Our fleet engineers have been working with the Delphians.  A bit
of a cultural and military exchange," explained Apollo.  "Engineer
Branna got a good look inside one of their blackship fighters.  He has
a theory which might yield a pulse generator for the engines twice as
powerful as the standard model, but able to fit in a combat ship."
     "No need to yank out the guns for a second generator."  Det was
positively beaming.
     "Does it work?"  Brie asked.
     "Not yet," said Apollo.  "Wilker and Branna have a mock-up and
several computer programs working out some bugs right now.  What we
have is a simulated ACURA Viper programmed in the simulator."
     "You want me to test fly the prototype in the sim?"  Dietra asked. 
She looked unamused.
     "No..." Apollo said almost teasingly.  "We want you to fight
against it."
     "Me?"
     "The officer in charge of the program feels that you are the best
pilot to test the computer's tactical thinking," said Apollo.
     Dietra gave a blank look to Det.  "Is this a joke?"
     "No," said Det.  His face was suddenly serious.  "You are the
absolute best combat flier I've ever been privileged to serve with.  I
want to know what the computer can do."
     "Why not just send it up against CORA?"  Dietra asked.  "Hook her
up to the-"
     "We did," said Det.  "We used every bit of her programming in the
new system, and added a few new subroutines.  This ship beat CORA in
their last five engagements."
     Dietra's dark skin paled.  "Beat CORA?"
     "The last time it took 22 microns," said Det.
     "The computer can LEARN," said Apollo.
     "Let me at it!" said Dietra.
     A cry of 'hoorah!' went up from the simulator room.  Suddenly,
there were pilots everywhere.  Half of Red Squadron was there, and a
good portion of Blue.  They had been crouched behind the Viper mock-up
and the computer consoles around the room.
     Ajax slapped her shoulder and said, "Give the computer hell,
Dietra."
     Brie smiled at Dietra.
     "I'll get you for this, Lieutenant," Dietra whispered to Det as
she climbed into the simulator.
     The warriors gathered by the monitoring station and the lights
went dark.
     Near the console, Lt. Starbuck eased into the room, and nudged
Apollo in the ribs.  "What's this felgercarb about a meeting?"
     "You're late," Apollo responded.
     "Yeah, well, I had to-"
     "Save it."
     Holographic stars filled the space in front of Dietra as the sim's
canopy closed.  Piped in sounds of the Viper's engines droned in the
background, and she suddenly had the queasy sense of moving through
space.  Her attack computer lit up, and she had found her target.
     Dietra banked tightly to the left, forcing ACURA to zip by on her
right.  She snapped her fighter into a retarded turn, spiraling inward
at a decreasing radius.  She fired off her thrusters, and came at the
other ship with her guns blazing.
     ACURA rolled, and snapped smartly into a 12G turn, leaving
Dietra's targeting squarely behind.  Before Dietra could adjust, it
lined up on her.  No time to think - just MOVE!
     Dietra climbed.  She jinked left, growing ever faster, then right,
nearly at full power.  She popped hard left, and cut across ACURA's
nose.
     The computer fired, but too late.
     A hearty cheer went up from the monitor station.
     "Neat trick," commented Starbuck.  He lit up a fumarello and took
a deep drag.  "Is that in the tactics manual?"
     Apollo rested his right hand on his friend's shoulder.
     Dietra brought her ship back on ACURA's tail, and fired.
     ACURA slipped out below her volley, and fired breaking thrust.
     "No way," spat Dietra.  She pulled up and to the right, away from
the simulated attacker.  She rolled inverted, and dove hard.
     ACURA was at full bore still climbing on her old course.  Dietra
pulled up, fired, and was shocked at the sheer acceleration of the
theoretical design.
     It pulled up harder, then dropped in behind her, delivering the
killer shot.
     Dietra smacked the Viper's dashboard as the simulation ended.
     "FRAK!"  she yelled.
     She climbed from the simulator's cockpit to a hero's round of
applause.  No one was clapping louder than Det.
     "You beat CORA's last time by a full 18 microns," said Apollo. 
"Congratulations."
     "Are we supposed to fly in those things?"  Dietra asked.  "It's
pulling turns we couldn't survive."
     "We'll have to work on that," said Det.  He was beside Dietra and
roughed her hair with his hand.  "I knew I could count on you."
     "Yeah," said Starbuck.  "She flies in beauty like the night..."
     "I'd like to see you do better," challenged Dietra.  She tossed
the simulator's helmet in his direction.
     Starbuck caught it.
     All eyes were on him.  He puffed his cigar and looked around.  All
was silent.
     "Twenty cubits says he can't beat Dietra's time!" yelled Brie.
     "I'll take a piece of that," said Giles.
     The quiet was lost in the whirlwind of bets and counter bets.
     Starbuck made his way to the simulator, and climbed up on the
Viper's nose.  "I'll cover all bets.  And you can pay me IN CURRENCY
when I come back."  He blew twin smoke plumes from his nose and looked
for someplace to crush out his smoke.
     "Don't bother putting it out, Lieutenant," Dietra said defiantly. 
"You won't be gone that long."
     Starbuck glared at her with a wolfish smirk, and handed her his
fumarello.  He sat down and closed the canopy.  There was a brief pause
while the simulation reset.
     There it was.  ACURA was at the long end of weapons range, closing
fast.
     Starbuck jinked right, sending ACURA by on his left.  He climbed,
rolled, and descended on the sim ship firing all the way.
     He missed.
     ACURA barrel rolled, swung up in a reverse Immelmann maneuver, and
fired.
     Starbuck was barely able to roll to his right as the laser blasts
ripped by to the left.
     "Felgercarb,"  Starbuck muttered.  He muscled his fighter back to
the left, and whizzed just behind ACURA.  His scanners went blank,
simulating flight through the computer fighter's engine exhaust.  He
banked back to the right, and took a clean shot.
     He missed again.  ACURA jinked left, growing ever faster, the
jinked right, nearly at full power.  It dropped low, then pulled up in
a splendid full loop.
     The maneuver registered at 16Gs.
     Starbuck was still swallowing his heart which had climbed into his
throat when ACURA's fatal volley pelted his Viper.
     The sim ended with Starbuck staring disbelievingly at the fading
stars before him.
     "By all that's holy..."
     "What's the time?"  Brie shouted.
     Apollo checked the chronometer display at the lower corner of the
control console.  He turned to Starbuck who sat pensively in the
cockpit, still attached to the flight helmet.
     "Thirty six microns."
     The room erupted one last time in a sea of deafening sound. 
Dietra had outlasted Starbuck by 4 microns.  Moneys were passed back
and forth, and Dietra climbed up on one of the chairs.  She held
Starbuck's smoldering cigar over her head, and waved it around.
     Then, in a final display of victory, she took a deep, long,
defiant drag from the burning weed.  This delighted the frenzied crowd.
     Apollo made his way to Starbuck.  The blond lieutenant had removed
the helmet, and was running his fingers through his sweat- soaked hair.
     "Maybe I should get one of these as my new wingman,"  Apollo
mused.
     "Funny, Captain."
     Apollo laughed.  "Let me buy you a drink."
     "Thanks.  I'd pass, but it may be the last one I'll get for a
while.  I lost A LOT of money."
     "Yes, you did," said Apollo.  "But you can pay me when you get
around to it."
     Starbuck was stunned.  "You bet on her?  Maybe you should get one
of these for your wingman.  I don't think I like you anymore."
     Apollo laughed again and helped Starbuck from the simulator.
     Dietra handed the cigar back to Starbuck, but he refused.  "Keep
it.  Enjoy."
     Brie climbed up in the chair with Dietra and began to sing an old
warrior song.  One by one the other gathered warriors joined in, except
Apollo and Starbuck.  Apollo would have, but he had to get some ambrosa
in his friend.
     Dietra suddenly shoved the fumarello into Brie's hand and waved
the smoke away from her face.
     Flight Sergeant Marsh stepped into the room to look around.  He
exchanged some words with Apollo as he and Starbuck left.
     Marsh looked up at Dietra, perched like a statue to a conqueror on
the chair.  He nodded, and mouthed, "Good job."  Before he ducked back
out.
     Dietra stepped down from the chair, and was patted and slapped by
the rowdy bunch even while the party was breaking up.
     "What was that?"  Brie asked.
     "I didn't want him to get the wrong idea about me," said Dietra.
     "That you were smoking?"  Brie asked.  "So what?  He's
a...Oh...Give it up, Dietra.  He's with Rigel."
     "No, I just mean-"
     Brie grabbed Dietra.  "I know what you mean."
     Dietra looked into Brie's eyes.  Yes, Brie did know, and blast her
for it.

     Marsh sat in his Viper.  Why was it so damn uncomfortable waiting
for the signal from Core Systems?  Was Rigel even there?
     He guessed not as Omega conveyed the message from the operations
console.  "Core Systems transferring control.  Launch when ready."
     Marsh thought about jumping out of his ship and running up to the
bridge to demand an explanation.  He had to get something from Rigel. 
What in Hades' Hole was going on with her?  What was she thinking, God
love her?
     Marsh launched.  It was a short hop from the battlestar to the
Agroship.  Once aboard, he began planning the route that Vort's
entourage would take from the landing bay to the main dome.  He plotted
locations for Council guards to be stationed, taking time to make sure
that they provided both extra good visibility and discomfort for the
men themselves.  
     Take that spot by the Ceti corridor, next to the heating duct. 
Ouch!
     "Can I help you with something?"  asked a soft voice behind him.
     Marsh was startled.  He turned to face the young agro worker.  She
was short, with curly red hair and a round face.  She looked like
little more than a girl.
     "I was sent over from the Galactica to survey the ship."
     "Oh," muttered the girl.  "That felgercarb."  She flashed an
embarrassed look, and washed three shades of red.  "I'm sorry.  We're
just working to grow food for everyone in the fleet, and suddenly
Interfleet Broadcasting wants to traipse through the greenery with half
a dozen cameras while some Delphian gives us a new primary seed."
     "I thought you'd be thrilled with a new type of seed," mused
Marsh.
     "I'm a planter.  I'm sure a botanist would be thrilled, but I have
the task of finding six patches to grow these new plants."  She reached
out her hand.  "My name is Kress."
     "Marsh."
     "Glad to meet you.  Do you need a tour of the ship?"
     "No," said Marsh.  "I think I've got what I need...but, could you
point me toward some flowers?"
     "Flowers?"  Kress asked.  "We don't have any flowers.  Every
square metron is full up with food crops."
     Another spear in Marsh's heart.
     "Why do you need them?"
     Marsh explained simply that he was having woman troubles, as he
continued down the corridor.  Kress walked beside him, pointing out the
narrow passageways, and the trouble they were going to have lugging
broadcast equipment up from the shuttle bay.  Marsh kept a keen eye out
for anything he could substitute for his sweet gift to Rigel.
     "This," said Kress as they stepped into the clear dome, "is where
the ceremony will take place."  The view was spectacular.  It was like
being in a vast garden at night.  Above, the big growing lamps were
spotted to hit individual plants as they needed, and small sprinklers
watered those getting indirect lamplight.
     Primary blossoms...
     Marsh wandered toward a Peckmellon vine.  The vine itself was no
bigger around than his thumb, but the fruits were bigger than his head. 
He studied the big red blossoms that sat waiting for artificial
pollenation.
     "A good crop," said Kress.  "We should have enough for the
Sagitarian Solstice Day celebration next secton."
     "Are they going to have it?  Here in space?"  Marsh asked.
     "Life goes on, Sergeant."
     "It does."  He bent down and ran a finger across the delicate
flower.  Kress watched him and was moved by the display.
     Here was a warrior, used to killing and fighting, more used to a
technical schematic than a flower, examining one for its intrinsic
beauty.  She felt herself swallow hard.  "Careful.  It you break it
off, the fruit dies."
     "Sorry," said Marsh.  He pulled himself up and looked around.
     Kress moved closer to him and whispered, "Come with me."
     She lead him back out of the dome and down a long hallway.  She
fumbled with a computer lock, and opened a small door.  Marsh stepped
in first, and she shut the door as she entered behind him.
     "This is where we keep our stores,"  Kress said.  "A sampling of
every plant we could rescue before we left our home worlds."
     The walls were covered with lockers.  More had been installed in
the center forming islands of storage space.  Even if they were only
seeds, there could not have been more than a few thousand samples
preserved.  Millions if not billions of plants had flourished on the
Colonies.  For a moment, Marsh wondered what had been saved.  How would
this combination of flora fare on a new world if they were forced to
cut short their journey and start over on an unsettled world?
     Had they taken weeds with them?  What about trees?  Rare species
undoubtedly had been rushed into the Agroships, but what about more
common and unappreciated plants?
     The line of mental questioning stopped at the prospect of getting
just a few seeds for some flowers.
     Kress opened one of the lockers and took out a handful of seeds. 
She handed Marsh five very small brown objects that looked like sawdust
clumps. "These are Melasiams.  They grow fast.  Just scoop up a pot of
soil before you leave, and keep them wet.  Put them under some light
when the first green stalk emerges.  And for Sagan's sake don't tell
ANYONE where you got them."
     "Thank you," said Marsh.
     "Good luck," said Kress.
     Marsh nodded and followed her out of the room.

     An honor guard of Council Guards and plain cloths warriors
escorted Commander Vort to the impromptu stand in the Agroship's dome. 
Deep in the heart of the Battlestar Galactica, most of the off duty
pilots gathered around the monitor in the officers' lounge to watch the
ceremony.
     "Seeds?"  Boomer commented as Starbuck drank a mug of ale, bought
with borrowed money.  "I wish they'd give us two or three of those
blackships."
     "Yeah," Starbuck said.  "Yeah."
     "On behalf of the remnants of the Delphian People, I wish to
welcome you into Delphian space, and extend our good will to all the
people of the Colonies.  We are honored by your presence, and pleased
that your will to survive and determination to fight are not marred by
the menace of aggression and hardship that you have, and will continue
to face."
     "Frak," said Boomer.  "Just what I wanted to hear, another
politician talking about our plight."
     Starbuck shook his head, and set down his mug.
     "We ourselves have been through many of these same hardships, and
wish you well on your Great Journey."  There was a pause while the
gathered audience applauded.
     "How much did the commander pay them to clap for this speech?" 
Boomer asked.
     "They got paid?"  Starbuck muttered.  "I knew I should have gone."
     Boomer laughed.
     "...and one of our discoveries was this plant."  Vort indicated a
small potted stem with big fuzzy leaves.
     "A ship that can out duke a Viper, and they worship a vegetable
bush," said Starbuck.  "Where do we find these people?"
     "Today, as your fleet leaves our space, we make a gift to you. 
Seeds for a new food source.  The Meckah.  May you find it as enjoyable
as we do."
     More applause.
     "That's it," said Boomer.  "Back to business."
     "All that ceremony for a two centon speech."  Starbuck shook his
head.  "We must be bored out of our minds."
     "And, to celebrate our friendship," continued Vort.  "We wish to
extend our hospitality and invite the honored members of the Colonial
ranks to be our guests aboard our ship for a military ball.  Commander
Adama has already approved a list of warriors and honored heroes of
your military forces to attend this evening, before we must return to
our patrol route."
     "They're throwing us a party," said Boomer.
     "Great," said Starbuck.  "Will the commander be paying us to
attend?"
     "I hear those Delphians are real card players," said Boomer. 
"Maybe you could...rustle up a game of chance?"
     Starbuck lightened.  "Great idea.  I just hope I'm on the approved
list to attend."
     "You've got a Gold Cluster, right?"  Boomer asked.
     "Yeah, so do you."
     "Well, Honored Hero, I guess I'll see you there."
     Starbuck nodded.

     Mot hadn't looked this resplendent in yahrens.  His brown dress
uniform looked like it had been tailored yesterday, not stored in a
truck for eight yahrens.  He checked the fall of his cape, and polished
a spot from his boots.
     "So why aren't you popping over for a look at that Delphian ship?" 
He asked Marsh.
     "I wasn't invited," said Marsh.
     "Felgercarb," said Mot.  "You're a warrior."
     "And you're a hero," said Marsh.  "If you can believe the
reports."
     "Hey," said Mot.  "I was there, in the ground forces at Hoolocan-"
     "When you surrounded and captured three Cylon ground units that
were advancing toward the outer base.  I know."
     "So you've heard the story?"  Mot asked.
     "Sixty or seventy times," said Marsh.  "Too bad all the Cylons
were blew themselves up before you could get to them."
     "Galmongering war herds," said Mot.  "Why does a robot need a
suicide pact?"
     Marsh laughed.  "Get out of here or you'll miss your shuttle."
     "There'll be another if I miss it," said Mot.  "I'm a hero,
remember?"
     "Yeah, yeah," said Marsh.
     Mot darted off to the landing bay, and Marsh slipped back to his
bunk.  Now he had the chance.  With most of the warriors in his billet
either at the party, or on patrol, he was alone enough to plant those
seeds.  
     He had the container of dirt he had fetched from the Agroship's
dome before leaving, and some fertilizer Kress had given him.  He tried
not to think about what was in that as he worked it into the small
metal container.  Carefully, he set the seeds down in the soft, wet
soil and gently covered them.  He had grown plants before, during his
primary education on Sagitara.  It had been rewarding, and as he grew
older, he had continued it as a hobby.  Never before had he been
pressured to grow flowers like this.  Maybe his sheer will could
produce the flowers quicker and richer than the awkward attempts of his
youth.
     He set the can up on a shelf near a wall sconce.

     Even with the nearly endless arrangement of decorations and
adornments, the Delphian landing bay looked like a landing bay.  The
floor was polished to a blinding sheen and the walls were littered with
Colony flags and the Delphian crest, but the overhead cranes and
service vehicles shoved in a corner were a constant reminder that
despite the levity of this evening, the ship was built for war.
     Mot and his cohorts hovered in a group away from the center of the
bay.  Jek wore his dress uniform, but he looked nowhere near as good as
Mot.  They guzzled their drinks and made comments about the female
warriors, while craning their necks for a peek at the ultra fast
Delphian fighters.
     "You would like to see one?"  asked a short Delphian.
     "Yes," said Mot, somewhat surprised at the invitation.  The pilot
lead the three enlisted men to a single blackship parked near the outer
door.  It's sleek, arrow like lines were a pure delight.  The engines
were sheer poetry.
     "Fantastic machines," Jek commented.
     "Thank you," said the pilot.  "We are very proud of them."
     "If I was sixty yahrens younger, I'd ask to fly one," said Jek.
     The short pilot looked uncomfortable.
     "It's a joke," Jek said.
     "Oh."  He giggled stupidly.
     "Good evening, gentlemen," came a deep voice from behind them.
     "Commander Adama," Mot said.  The three men snapped to attention
and turned away from the ship.
     Adama released them from their stance.  "As you were.  I just
wanted to admire this ship as well."
     "Would you like to sit inside?"  the Delphian asked.
     "If I may?"  Adama asked.
     The pilot stood beside the ship and touched a tiny hidden panel on
the craft's skin.  The clear nose popped open and swing to the side. 
Adama hunched down and sat inside the ship.  He was awash with memories
of flying combat and for the great joy of the freedom flight offered.
     "Excellent visibility," said Adama as he tried to get comfortable
in the cockpit.  He felt like he was sitting on the front of a bus
rather than inside a fighter.  It was strange.  Undoubtedly, it was
wonderful to fly.
     "You are a pilot?" asked the Delphian.
     "Oh, no," said Adama.  "Not anymore.  The ships are too fast, the
patrols too long.  My old bones couldn't handle it anymore."
     "It is my greatest joy," said the Delphian.
     Mot, Jek and the other man had turned their attentions to the
engines, and the flight control center near the back of the ship.
     "Are you familiar with the old Asp design?"  Adama asked.
     "I am," said the Delphian.  "We even had two at our flight
school."
     "I flew those for some time," said Adama.
     "An excellent class, in her day," the pilot said, respectfully.
     "They were."
     "Have any of you flown?"  the pilot asked of Mot and company as
they dared to touch the skin of the blackship.
     "Not me!" laughed Mot.  "I'd never set foot in a combat fighter. 
I just work on them."
     "Mechanic, then?"  the pilot asked.
     All three nodded.
     "They are being modest," said Adama.  "These three men won the
Medal of Kobol for their deeds at Voss with the 71st Ground Forces."
     "Regimental units," said the pilot.  "I spent some time with a
brigade near Benday, as a fire control officer.  We never saw action,
but they were good men."
     "I believe the 71st was also at the Battle of The Forks," said
Adama.  "They took heavy losses but secured a base near the Cylon
border."
     "I believe they were, Commander," said Mot.  "But we were all
assigned to the 71st after that campaign."
     "Oh," said Adama.  "I was not aware of that.  Perhaps our
personnel records are incomplete."
     That was a possibility.  Following the Destruction, what records
had survived were hastily transferred to the Galactica, but those that
had not survived were reconstructed.  They contained numerous
inaccuracies, and some glaring omissions.  Adama's record failed to
show any of his service time aboard the Rycon, and barely even
mentioned his part in the War for Solice.  He had added those himself
as an amendment later.
     "So where were you before that?"  Adama asked.
     "Force 43," said Jek in a voice that could have come from a 20-
yahren-old boot camp survivor.  "The proudest unit in the Army!"
     "Hay Yah!"  the three sounded off in unison.
     Adama was taken aback.  "I see."  He was stammering, now.  "I
should get back.  Enjoy the evening."  His forced smile left the three
wondering what was going on.  Mot asked as much.
     "Don't take it personally," said Branna, stepping out from the
crowd.  "The commander was assigned to protect Force 43.  I was his
mech chief."
     Mot felt a twinge in his neck.  His fingers were numb.  He broke
under Branna's gaze.
     "Oh," said Jek.  "Was he at Gelnax?"
     Branna looked after the commander, then nodded.  "Someone fed his
attack force faulty coordinates, and he fired on friendly forces.  He
and his squadron wiped out almost the whole unit.  It nearly broke his
spirit."
     Mot suddenly didn't feel like partying anymore.  He sensed the
emotions in Jek and their friend.
     "Well, enjoy the rest of the party," said Branna.
     "Yeah," said Jek.  "I need to get another drink."
     As Branna left, Jek lead Mot to the bar.  Mot grabbed another mug
of the grog and downed it.  As he wiped his chin, he could no longer
hear the sounds of music and voices.  All he could hear were the
screams of his long dead commerades.  The whine of the lasers blasts,
and the roar of the four Asp fighters flashing by above the jungle.
     Mot stared at his drink, and thought he might die.

The End