Battlestar Galactica There's a Virus Goin' `round by Fran Severn fsevern@mindspring.com All Feedback is HIGHLY encouraged. "Ready for the Winter Solstice Party?" Lt. Boomer slid into a seat in the Officers' Mess across from Starbuck and Sheba. "I hear that Callahan made up a special brew just for the occasion." He grinned at them. The Galactica's resident barkeep had managed to keep the Officers' Club supplied with some form of baharii during the last yarhen, when most of the staples for the best brews were needed elsewhere. But the crop ships were harvesting enough grain now that he could get a regular supply of ingredients, and the quality of the brews was definitely improving. "Absolutely," Sheba said. She bit into her sandwich. "I'm ready for a celebration." She glanced over at Starbuck. "Planning another round of Tailhook Landings?" she teased. The last time Blue Squadron had challenged Silver Spar in that traditional O Club contest, Sheba's people had won resoundingly, something she was not likely to let the others forget. Starbuck ducked his head. He was still recovering from his own financial losses of that night. "I'm going to give it a miss," he said. "What?" Boomer stared at him, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. "Are you feeling ok?" "I'm fine." "I've never known you to miss a party, unless... you aren't in some kind of trouble, are you? Col. Tigh hasn't given you a patrol or extra duty assignment?" "No," Starbuck answered irritably. "I just have someplace else to be." Sheba arched an eyebrow. "Don't start," Starbuck warned her. "I'm not," she said defensively. "I know you have a three-day furlon starting tomorrow, that's all." "Early start?" Boomer asked, his eyes teasing. Starbuck smiled tolerantly. "No." He shrugged. "I'm going over to the orphan ship for the celebration." The way he said `celebration,' didn't evoke much sense of the fun the Solstice was supposed to be. "Summer Solstice came too soon after the Destruction; we were still running from the Cylons as fast as we could go, and trying to get organized on top of it all. There weren't any observances or parties. I don't think anybody even thought about it. So this is the first big holiday since the Holocaust. Winter Solstice is a family thing. It's going to be real hard for those kids." "Do they have much planned?" Sheba asked. "Yeah. They're trying, anyway. Games. They've got some gifts for the kids, especially the younger ones. The Commander authorized extra rations so they could have some desserts made up." He pushed back from the table. "Col. Tigh said it'd be all right if I took over a Viper and let the kids crawl over it and sit inside." He blew out a long, tired breath. "Not a lot else you can do, you know?" Sheba glanced at Boomer, then looked over at Starbuck. "Want some company?" "Huh?" "The party in the O Club will probably go on all night. I don't mind if I'm a couple of centares late." "Sheba, that's nice of you to offer, but..." "What time are you planning to go over there?" Boomer asked. "About 1500." Boomer checked his chronometer. "We better clear it with Col. Tigh," he told Sheba. She nodded. "Look, you really don't have to ..." Starbuck began. "How many kids are on that ship?" Boomer asked. "A couple hundred," Starbuck sighed. "Well then, you're going to need more than one Viper for them to climb into." "Unless you're planning to be there until next Winter Solstice," Sheba said. Sheba and Boomer made a few stops before going to Col. Tigh. When Starbuck reached the launch deck to pre-flight his Viper, he found Jolly, Apollo, Deitra, and Giles reading their craft, too. Athena was pre-flighting the shuttle, and Corp. Komma was helping Rigel and Omega load in holophoto gear. They grinned at him as they carried the equipment up the ramp. Starbuck stopped by the lift and stared at the activity. "Greenbean and Brie wanted to come, too," Apollo said, walking over to him, "but there wasn't enough room on the orphan ship's landing bay." Starbuck nodded silently, unwilling to trust his voice. The caretakers were thrilled by the arrival of the Warriors and their Vipers. Komma, Rigel and Omega stayed busy snapping images of the grinning, excited children seated in the cockpits, their heads lost in the overlarge helmets. The Warriors took turns on the launch deck and at the parties, helping the overworked caretakers. "You're a dear," the administrator, Gadio, told Starbuck. She was an older woman, from Aeres, where she'd run a small institution. She'd managed to rescue nearly all of the children in her charge, no small accomplishment, given the ferocity of the Cylon attack on that somewhat remote Colony. He liked her. Tenacious, but still caring. He hoped she'd be able to instill those traits into the children. "They all volunteered," he told her. "I didn't have anything to do with it." "Of course not," she said. She watched as he went back to the party. This area was for children 5 and 6 yarhen old. He dropped to his knees beside Jolly, who was lost under a swarm of giggling children, all trying to pull off his flight jacket to find the candies they knew he had hidden in his pocket. In a moment, Starbuck was knocked over, too. It was over in a few microns. The Warriors let the children win. Starbuck tossed a handful of sweets into the air, and the kids scattered to retrieve them. "Lords!" Jolly laughed. He was lying on his back, gasping for air. "Next time the Colonel wants to check our physical conditioning, he should send us over here for a couple of centares!' One of the children, a small, dark-eyed girl, came back to them and curled up beside Jolly. "A little young for you, don't you think?" Starbuck asked. "Did you find some candy?" Jolly asked her. He brushed a few loose strands of hair from the child's forehead, then frowned. "What's wrong?" Jolly rested his hand on her forehead. "She's a little warm." He pushed himself up. "Yeah, well, they've been playing pretty hard." "No, this is different." He picked the child up, resting her easily on his hip, and walked to the administrator's office. Starbuck followed. "Oh, dear, not feeling well?" Gadio asked. She took the child from Jolly. "There's a virus going around, I'm afraid. Nothing serious, but when you have this many children this close together, it runs through the ship like electrons through a wire." "I hope we didn't make it worse," Starbuck said, a little worried. "Letting them run around like that, I mean." Gadio shook her head. "What's bad is that these children come from so many different Colonies and outposts. Their immune systems all react differently to the bugs. And the bugs cheerfully mutate in response. And, of course, you have some viruses from one planet that weren't known on the others. It's giving the med techs and physicians all sorts of fun." She stroked the girl's head as the child rested it on her shoulder. "She'll be fine." It was a weary troupe of Warriors who returned to the Galactica. Ready to challenge Cylon Centurions, Borays, and even Count Iblis, they were exhausted by the unending energy of a shipful of children. Komma, Rigel and Omega had taken nearly three hundred holophotos. Deitra had dark stains on her tunic from an unhappy encounter with a small child and a large cup of fruit juice. Athena was unsuccessfully trying to brush icing from her hair, deposited there during a long hug from a toddler. When Giles tried to climb out of his Viper, he discovered that someone had left a half-sucked wad of sticky candy on the seat. Jolly patted his stomach and admitted he'd eaten too many pastries. Starbuck was tired, but happy. He watched his friends drift from the launch deck, intent on washing up and going to their own party. He was lucky, he thought. Despite the Destruction and the Exodus, he was alive and was with people who still cared about others, instead of just worrying about their own survival. With people like that to work with, no doubt they'd make it. Hell, yes, they'd make it -- to Earth or somewhere else where they could settle. "Holy frack!" A voice from inside his Viper snapped him out of his reverie. It was Jenny, his crew chief. "What's wrong?" Starbuck climbed up one side of the ship's sleek fuselage. Jenny was draped over the other side, her head and shoulders below the control panel; her legs dangling over the edge of the cockpit. "It looks like the inside of the recycling ship in here," she complained. Without looking up, she began tossing debris from the floor of the cockpit. Candy wrappers, half- eaten pastries, discarded outer wrappings from the holophotos, loose buttons, scraps of paper -- all rained down on Starbuck. "Sorry," he said contritely. "The kids..." "It's ok," she assured him. "Actually, I've seen worse from you after a long patrol. At least I'm not cleaning out fumarillo butts." "I don't smoke in the cockpit. I can't smoke in the cockpit, not with my helmet on, anyway." "That's right." She slid to the deck. "The day you take it off will be the day your life support fails and you'll have no backup." She scooped the trash from the deck. "Not that your life support will fail as long as I'm in charge of this bird." "So I can take it off," he teased. She shot him a dark look. "First time I find a fumarillo butt in this bird, you can start cleaning her up yourself!" He laughed. "Deal," he promised, then turned serious. "Look, if the kids left it a real mess, I'll help you." "Not a problem." "Sure? I don't want you to miss the party." "I'm not planning to," Jenny assured him. She waved him to the lift. "Scram!" Starbuck was a lot better to work with than some of the other pilots she knew, she thought as she watched him go. Blue Squadron had very few prima donnas -- Captain Apollo didn't put up with egos. In the past, though, Jenny had worked with some pilots who believed the stars over Kobol existed only to light their way. They treated their flight crews like lesser beings on the evolutionary ladder. More than once, she'd been briefly tempted to let a bad piece of equipment go unfixed, but her integrity got the better of her. Never with Starbuck, though. He might have a reputation of being self-centered and cynical, but she judged a pilot by how he treated his ship and his flight crew, and he passed her inspection. He respected her and her people and acknowledged the time and energy they spent keeping the Viper in better-than-good working condition. She knew he tried to take good care of his Viper. He might ask all that it could do and then press a little harder, but only when he had to do so, and confident that Jenny and her people had readied the Viper for such abuse, knowing he might need it. It wouldn't take long to hoover out the inside of the Viper. She crossed her arms in front of her and studied the plane. It still gleamed from the last cleaning she'd given it. It hadn't been in space long enough to be abraded by the microscopic dust that dulled the polish. Starbuck was ok, she thought as she worked. He cared enough about her to offer to bypass the party so she could go. Nice guy, she thought. He deserved to know that he was equally appreciated. In her off hours, Jenny was something of an aviation historian. She remembered how, in the early days of the Thousand Yarhen War, Warriors decorated their craft with small, painted symbols. Often, they showed the number of Cylon kills they'd amassed. She snorted. Do that with Starbuck or anyone else on the Galactica and you'd end up repainting the whole craft. But there were other decorations, and the Viper had that long, broad nose. Just right for... something. Jenny stared at the Viper for a long, long time. * Corporal Komma hummed to himself as he checked into the computer center. Maybe the official ship's logs said Core Control was under the command of Doctor Perkidan, the most experienced and respected computer scientist known to have survived the Holocaust, but Komma knew the Galactica's computers really belonged to him. Technicians secretly ran the fleet. Before the Destruction, he'd dreamed of moving up the ranks and eventually working in development, but the Cylons had changed all that. He'd probably spend his life as a technician, always wondering what would have happened if he'd had the same opportunities as Perkidan. No matter. He glanced at the logs, checking to see who had signed on and what had happened while he'd been gone. All routine. To be expected, really. No one would want to spend time on the computers when there were parties going on. Then again, that would be just the right time to try some mischief or poke around the files when they shouldn't. Like Starbuck tricking him into following a tour of new female recruits so he could reprogram the personnel files to get himself on that mission to the ice planet. During the debriefing after the mission, Commander Adama realized that the computer never should have coughed up the Lieutenant's name for that mission and had Komma run diagnostics to find out what had happened. That's when Komma discovered that Starbuck graduated from the Academy with a double major -- Systems Analysis and Operations Research. Honors in both. No wonder he was so good at developing new wagering schemes. With a background like that, he could have reprogrammed the computer to put Muffit on the Council of the Twelve and had the command accepted. Komma grinned to himself. The daggit probably wouldn't do half-badly, at that. He slid into a seat and signed on. He'd get to the party eventually, but he enjoyed spending time alone with his computers. Prowling around the archives relaxed him. He was always surprised to see how much survived the Holocaust. Some people had just grabbed handfuls of discs and portable computers as they fled. Some of the larger ships had comprehensive libraries already on board. A few dedicated research techs and scientists risked themselves to return to their labs and gather up data that the fleeing Colonists needed. Much of it still needed to be cataloged and cross- referenced. It was a job that would take yarhen, although there were teams working on it. The screen of his monitor flashed on with the intertwined pyramids of the Galactica's graphic symbol. Dull, Dull, Dull, Komma thought. He'd stared at that thing every time he logged on for nearly a yarhen now. It was time to liven things up a bit, he thought. He scrolled through a graphics library file, toying with ideas and combining images. When he looked at his chronometer, he was surprised to find he'd spent several centares at work. He was hungry, but didn't want to stop now. He'd get caught in the party and never finish. He reached for the wall telecomm unit. The ship's mess could send up food. He tapped the central communications number. "Thank you for contacting the central communications system of the Battlestar Galactica," an anonymous, artificially-pleasant, female voice said. "If you know the extension you wish to reach, you may key that in at any time. If you wish to contact a member of the ship's compliment, but do not know the proper extension, please tap in the name of that individual, followed by the `pyramid' symbol. If you wish to contact the bridge, press 1 now. If you wish to contact the launch bay, press 2 now. If you wish to contact the life station, press 3 now. If you wish..." Komma held the receiver away from his head and frowned at it. This was something else that needed changing. He hated that disembodied voice. Why couldn't he talk to a real person? And those numbers were meaningless. All they did was connect you with another set of dialing instructions that connected you to another set before you finally found yourself talking to some bored, uninformed tech who didn't have the information you needed and who gave you still more extensions to dial. Why not program the central communications number to give you real options and real information? Why not indeed? * "Commander, the representatives of the Otori Sect are about to land." "Thank you, Omega." Commander Adama turned his command chair to face Colonel Tigh. "Do you have any idea what they want, Colonel?" Adama asked. Tigh shook his head. "Their leader simply said it was a matter of the gravest importance that affected their entire religious experience, and only you can solve the problem." Adama sighed. Another problem. During the last yarhen, he'd mentally divided his problems into four categories. The Cylons, of course, were one. But since the destruction of their base ship and the exile of Baltar, there had been no direct contact with them. He was far from lowering his guard, but more and more, his instincts were telling him the fleet was almost safe from that threat. Which still left him with enough other things to think about. Resources. How would they feed the fleet? Power the ships? Provide the clothing? Tend to the sick? Dispose of their wastes? Could they allow offspring? Enlarge living quarters? Sociology. There were nearly 100,000 refugees crammed onto the 209 ships in the fleet. They'd started off with 220, but Cylon attacks destroyed some of them. Age and structural defects demanded that others be abandoned. The refugees represented every imaginable philosophical outlook, educational background, ethnic culture, religious belief, and moral code of the Colonies. When possible, compatible groups were housed together, but that wasn't always possible. And his overriding consideration, Cylons aside -- where were they going? He had coordinates delivered from the Ship of Lights via Apollo, Sheba and Starbuck. After Baltar's exile, the visitation of "John" confirmed they were heading in the right direction. "John" hadn't said when they would reach Earth. At least that's what Apollo and the other two had told him. But the quick glances the trio shared hinted that they knew more than they were telling. Adama was no fool. He was not a young man, and he knew the strain of the Destruction was aging him more rapidly than he would have in normal circumstances. In another time, he would be looking forward to retiring from Colonial Service and spending his fading yarhen with Ila, studying the ancient records and becoming the Kobolian Scholar part of him had always wanted to be, maybe playing with grandchildren on his estate outside Caprica City. But the fates had decreed otherwise. His deepest soul knew he would not be with them when they found Earth. His final act would be to insure, as far as possible, that the fleet was on the right course. Apollo and the others would have to take over then. If Earth was their final destination. Starbuck remembered the beings on the Ship of Lights telling him they were to seed new civilizations. Might this mean they were to create new Colonies as they journeyed? Adama rubbed his temples. If he was certain that the Cylons were no longer a threat, he could comfortably let those who wanted to stay behind settle on suitable planets. The selfish part of his soul eagerly looked forward to depositing some of the squabbling factions on the planet of their choice. It would make life easier on the rest of the fleet and give him some peace. None of which had any bearing on the current situation. This was Winter Solstice, a time for celebration and happiness. As far as possible, he wanted to create a few days' respite from the pressures and fears of the last yarhen. Furlons for as many Warriors as possible, light work schedules for the rest, increased rations, parties, manufacture and distribution of frivolous items, and general relaxation. They'd managed that after the destruction of the base star, but only for a day or so. This was a full secton of celebrations. And if the Otoris needed his help with their celebrations, he was obligated to assist them. "I'll be in the Council Chambers," Adama told Tigh as he rose. Athena stood at her console. "Can I help, father?" Her expression reflected her concern for him. He was more tired than he wanted to admit, and it showed. "Why aren't you at the Solstice party at the O Club?" "I'll get there," she assured him. "I just wanted to check in here first." She walked beside him on their way to the Council Chamber. "You could go to the party, too, you know." "I think the presence of the Commander would put a damper on things." "Do you really think it will get that unruly?" Adama smiled. "No, not like the party after we destroyed the base star. But I have obligations." "Some of them should be to yourself, not always to the fleet." "You've been talking to Siress Tinia? That sounds like a lecture I receive from her every now and again." "Well, she's right." He sighed. "All right. I know when I'm being maneuvered. I'll go down to the O Club for a while. At least long enough to buy a round for the house. Now," he continued smoothly "what's bothering you? "Nothing." "Athena..." It was her turn to sigh. "Father, I...I think I'd like to transfer off the Galactica." "What?" "I need to build my own life," she continued quickly. "As long as I'm on this battlestar, I'm standing in shadows -- yours, Apollo's. People assume I'm a bridge officer because I'm your daughter, not because I'm competent in my own right." "I see." "And there's..." "There's?" "Nothing." She stared at the floor as she walked. "Athena..." "On this ship, I'm always the commander's daughter and Apollo's sister. Do you know what that does to my social life? I don't have one. I haven't had a date since Starbuck and I broke up, and that was nearly a yarhen ago! I couldn't be more virginal if I had an armed escort of eunuchs and wore a chastity belt!" She caught her father's startled look and blushed. "I see," Adama said again. "I never realized how difficult it was for you to be on the Galactica. Apollo has never indicated any problems." "Of course not. He's in a command position, and he had a lot of assignments before he came here. Not me. And, father, social life is different for guys. Most of the men on this ship are very traditional. They do the asking. Can you imagine what would happen if I asked out somebody? He'd have to say yes, because if he didn't, he might think I would diss him to Colonel Tigh." She shook her head, the overhead lighting showing the highlights in her dark hair. "Single and female on this ship should be a dream assignment," she sighed. Adama blinked in surprise. "I see," he said yet again. After yarhen of addressing Colonial leaders, the Council of the Twelve, various aliens, human settlers on foreign worlds, and the masses of humans on the fleet, he should be able to think of something more intelligent to say to his own daughter, but all that would come out was, "I see," for a fourth time. They entered the Council Chambers. The Elders of the Otori sect were already seated around the large table. They were a lean and determined lot, dressed in the severe robes their religion demanded, wearing the hardened look of those who believe they are the only holders of the truth. Adama was glad he'd decided to meet with them in the Chamber. It was the most formal room on the Galactica, and certainly sent a message to the Elders that he took their concerns most seriously. He struggled to remember their names from the briefing Omega had given him. "Elder Rouf," he bowed slightly in the man's direction. "I appreciate your willingness to travel to the Galactica with your concerns. Your presence honors this vessel." Rouf stood. Physically, he reminded Adama of Sire Dumra, the Council President. The two shared the same expressions, as well, but for different reasons. Dumra was always scheming for position and consensus; Rouf was acting in the assurance that his was the right way. "Enough," Rouf said bluntly. "Our sect has been decimated by the Destruction of our Colony. Our priestly caste was completely eliminated. Our sacred rituals are maligned by others on our ship. The freighter Gemini is not suitable, but we are told there are no other vessels where we can live unmolested." A request to be moved? That was all? Adama felt relieved. He could work with the sociologists, see if there wasn't someplace where passengers could be shifted. The Gemini was not the worst ship in the fleet. There might be some who would want to move. "Forgive me, Elder Rouf. There are so many groups with special needs. How many members of your sect are with you?" "Only 85. Out of a congregation on Gemmon of nearly 30- thousand." He glowered at Adama. "We hold you responsible for this, Commander. You were part of the Council that agreed to the peace settlement. You led us to our destruction." Adama closed his eyes briefly. A familiar charge that he laid on himself so often. "That's feldergarb!" Athena was glaring at Rouf. "Athena!" "Commander Adama was the only member of the Council to oppose the peace accords," she continued, ignoring her father. "And I seem to recall that your high priests all supported it!" Rouf blinked at her. Athena stood behind her father, her hands balled into fists, her fists resting on her hips. "I am unaccustomed to being spoken to in that manner." "Athena, you'll apologize at once," Adama told her. "And since the Destruction, he's been the only thing standing between this fleet and annihilation!" she finished. She glanced at her father. "No, I won't apologize for speaking the truth!" "Elder Rouf..." Adama groped for words of apology. "This is your daughter?" Rouf asked. "Yes." The old man nodded slowly. "An extraordinary woman. It is rare to find a child so loyal to her parent. One of the failings of Colonial society. No respect." Around the table, the other members of his delegation made gestures and noises of agreement. "Sometimes it is taken to extremes," Adama murmured. "But her true spirit can help in solving our problem," Rouf continued. "How is that?" Adama asked. "To be more basic, Elder, what is our problem?" "Our sect keeps its traditions private, Commander. Outsiders do not understand or appreciate our beliefs. Our priests come from a small group of families who can trace their lineage back to the founding of our faith." "You said your priests all died in the Destruction." "Yes. All of the families were destroyed. Not a survivor from the immediate bloodlines. Not one." "I see," Adama said. He felt a deep sympathy for Rouf and the others. Beyond the threat of individual mortality, they were facing extinction of their entire society. "We need to re-establish these dynasties. This is where you can help us." "I will do what I can, Elder Rouf, but I don't see..." "Our faith only solemnizes sealings during the Solstice Season, and then only during the Feast of the Moon, which occurs only once every seven yarhen. This Winter Solstice marks that occasion. As the leader of this fleet, and one learned in the rites and teachings of the Lords of Kobol, we ask you to serve as High Priest for this officiation." "I am most honored, Elder Rouf. I do not know the specifics of your ceremony..." "We will provide you with the sacred texts for you to study." He gestured toward another heavily-robed figure seated at the table. "Elder Posan is an acolyte and will be most useful in helping you prepare and perform the ceremony." "Then I am most honored and glad to be able to help you." "And is the same true of your daughter?" "Excuse me?" Adama asked. "We have been forced to search through our people to find those who have some link, however distant, to the families of our high priests. A strained, almost articifial, way to continue the dynasty. However," he continued, shifting his attention to Athena, "if the direct bloodlink to the one acting as our High Priest were to agree to join our sect, it would strengthen our faith and cheer our people immeasurably." "I'm not sure I understand," Adama said. "We would ask that you agree that your daughter be one of those who is solemnized in a sealing with a member of our sect." "Athena marry into the Otoris?" "Yes. She will be the most honored, cherished, respected of our women. The daughter of a High Priest whose sealing will be the foundation of an Otori religious dynasty. Will you agree to this?" "It is not our custom to determine the fate of our children in such a manner," Adama said. "Elder Rouf, may I accompany you back to the Gemini and meet those whom you deem suitable as new priests?" Athena asked suddenly. "Of course." "Good. I will go with you and, if I find one of those men suitable, I shall be honored to seal with him." "Athena..." Adama began. "Father," Athena interrupted him. "It's my fate and it's my decision. I think founding a dynasty is a pretty savvy career move." * Callahan looked around the crowded O Club and grinned. He'd always found running a bar, wherever it was, satisfying, but sometimes it was especially good. Solstice on the Galactica was one of those times. He was needed here, for one thing. Callahan had shown up during the Destruction, taking the place of the battlestar's resident barkeep who'd been on furlon and who hadn't survived. His patient manner and willingness to listen to the frustrations and fears of the pilots and members of the ship's compliment made him immediately accepted. That he managed to concoct a potent, palatable brew in a time of tight rations and unending variations of talon root for meals made him even more so. Traditionally, only those who couldn't get furlon or who had no family to celebrate with would spend Solstice at the O Club. Things were different now. The survivors of the Destruction were a family and this was the only room on the battlestar large enough for all of them to gather. He and his staff had worked hard to decorate the Club. Icons devoted to the various deities worshipped in the Colonies decorated the walls. He's scoured the fleet to find as many honoring the 793 gods known to be worshipped somewhere within the Colonies as possible. He'd found far fewer than that. Many of the smaller sects and symbols of lesser Powers had not survived at all, their traditions, cultures, language and religion martyred to the Cylons. He'd used a computer printout to at least give him the names of all of those. Sad to think that some were already forgotten; many others soon would join them. He wondered idly if there was an afterlife for forgotten gods. The stronger Colonies and better-known religions with larger congregations had better fortunes. He'd found plenty of artifacts from Caprica, of course, and the Aquarian ships were flying monuments to their beliefs, almost integrated into their hulls. The Cancerians were big into penance. He'd hung their grim-faced, grimly-colored images at the bottom and fringes of the wall. He'd tried to be fair to the Pisceans. There were a nice enough group. It wasn't their fault that Baltar was a spawn of their Colony. A lot of the survivors felt differently, though. Adama wisely billeted most of the Pisceans on the same ships, grouping them with the fair- minded Librans and gentle Virgans. Still, Callahan had to remember the feelings of the majority, so the Piscean symbols were placed out of the limelight. On the other hand, the Scorps and Aerians -- few though there were on the Galactica -- were quick to take offense when they felt they were being slighted. It seemed to Callahan that they felt that way a lot. In the interest of intrafleet peace, he'd hung their icons nearer the center of the display. He stepped back and studied the wall, grunting in satisfaction. He was equally satisfied with the food. He'd worked with Beasef, the Galactica's chief chef, bribing her with spices and herbs he'd grown in his own quarters for extra staples. Carmichael, the chief agro tech, willingly donated extra feast-fowls and several palletsful of quona and brais in exchange for several cases of the newest baharii and the promise of stronger spirits, once they'd properly aged. Callahan was determined that if his customers could have nothing else, they would have all of the delicacies of the season. He surveyed the room. In a far corner, the band was tuning up. A cobbled together group of various techs, security types, and bridge crew, they performed better than could reasonably be expected. Not unlike the fleet itself, Callahan thought. All was ready. Callahan stationed himself behind the bar, and smiled broadly as the first party-goers came through the door. * Apollo ran through the corridors of the ship to the Instructional Area. After cleaning up from his visit to the Orphan Ship, he had barely enough time to make it to the Solstice Party for Boxey's education class. He's promised his son he'd be there, and that was one promise he was determined not to break. There was one seat open in the second row. Apollo settled himself as the lights in the room dimmed. It was as traditional as any Solstice Program in any classroom in any Colony before the Destruction. The parents smiled lovingly at the labored dialogue, off-key carols, and bad acting, then shared watered-down juices and biscuits while their children showed off their seasonal artwork. "How was I, Dad?" Boxey asked as they left the party and headed for Adama's quarters. His grandfather had promised Boxey a special Solstice gift, and he was eager to find out what it was. Muffit ambled beside them, making mechanical animal noises. "It was very nice, Boxey. I'm proud of you." The boy beamed. He had figured that his father would miss the party, no matter what he had promised. It seemed that Apollo was always being called away for some special duty or mission that kept them from being together. He was thrilled when he saw his Dad sitting right up front like a regular, always-there parent. "Maybe I should become an actor instead of a Warrior. What do you think, Dad?" "Um, that's something to think about, Boxey. I don't know how useful an actor would be to the fleet, though." "That's `cause you're never around to watch the IFB. I bet I could get a part in `Oh, Those Scorps.'" Apollo choked. Before the Destruction, the program was heavily watched throughout the Colonies. The basic storyline was of the infighting of a rich, powerful Scorpian family seemingly at odds with each other. But with the romantic and sexual pairings, machinations, plotting and performances, it was hard to keep track of the alliances of the main players from secton to secton. Apollo knew old episodes of the series had survived and were re-run frequently. He hadn't realized that the IFB was producing new stories. What came out of the tiny studio space allotted them often surprised him. Worse, that his son was familiar with the series appalled him. "When do you watch that?" "Whenever I'm alone at night. I don't have a caretaker all of the time, you know." "That's not the best thing for you to watch, Boxey." The boy shrugged. "Better than `Gentle Ratman.' Do you really want me to grow up wanting a chamber full of rodents as pets?" "Good point," Apollo conceded. "But `Oh, Those Scorps' is really for grown-ups." Boxey shrugged again. "That's what you get for letting me be a latchkey kid, Dad." They were at Adama's quarters. Apollo pressed the call button, and heard his father's summons. Boxey bounded across the room and launched himself into this grandfather's arms. Adama embraced the boy, but there was something distracted about his manner. "Happy Solstice," he said, handing Boxey a small, wrapped package. The boy tore off the paper with abandon. "Wow! Dad, look at this!" Boxey held a small, square box. On the front was a small screen. Below it were several buttons marked with arrows showing up and down, left and right. Below that were several smaller buttons. When the box was switched on and one of the smaller buttons was pressed, a game began on the screen. Each button triggered a different game. The larger buttons up top controlled the action. "This is some game! Boy! Thanks, Grandfather!" Boxey deposited a wet kiss and large hug on Adama, then retreated to the bench beneath the porthole, lost in the game. A repetitious tune accented the electronic chirps and pings that signaled action in the game. Adama smiled at the boy. "I had the electronics techs design that as a prototype. We'll let Boxey work out the bugs, then maybe be able to produce more of them for the other children. They need toys." Apollo watched his son for a moment, then looked at his father. "What's wrong?" Adama looked at his first-born with a serious frown. "Have you spoken with Athena lately?" "About anything in particular?" "Her life on the Galactica. She's not happy here. She wants to leave." "She wants to transfer?" "Worse. She wants to join the Otoris." "Athena?" "You have another sister?" "The Otoris?" Adama nodded. "The `Contact between the genders only once every seven yarhen' Otori?" "There's another group with the same name?" "Why?" "She says it's a saavy career move." "What?" "And that it will provide her with more `action' than she's seeing on this battlestar." Apollo considered that. "That's probably true. Of course, she does have the reputation of being an ice maiden." Adama gave him a sharp look. "We're discussing your sister, and my daughter. What do you hear and from whom do you hear it?" "From Starbuck, mostly." Adama rolled his eyes. "He insists that Athena could not be more chaste if you were her chaperone. She made it real clear that she was not available for more than companionship unless a long-term commitment was involved." "That's a refreshing change from the standard," Adama said. "Not to mention a relief." "I agree. After all, she is my sister. But Starbuck also said when he finally agreed to her terms, she turned him down cold and threw him out." "Really? I thought their breakup was Starbuck's idea, after he met Cassiopea. She is rather more, well, exotic." "No," Apollo said. "I get the same story from anyone who tries to date her. Maybe not in the first person, like with Starbuck, but the message filters through. Bojay, Mac, Mojo --- they've all been on the receiving end." Adama grunted as Boxey bounded into his lap. "Look, Grandfather, I'm already up to Level 3. See? I've fried all of the Ovions and blasted through to their feeding chambers." He punched something on the front of the box and the music began again. "She says that being your sister and my daughter limits her social possibilities. The Otoris represent her best chance of getting sealed." Apollo shrugged. "So let her go. She's never won any awards for her work on the bridge." He was getting too old for this, Adama thought. With a weary sigh, he knew that Apollo had a point. Were Athena anyone but his daughter, Tigh would have demoted her to some far less responsible position agons ago. "I'm supposed to officiate at the Otori's High Feast Day services in the morning. Athena's going with me. Actually, she's with them now, interviewing prospective...mates." "Do you want me to go with you, too?" "No. They made it clear you were unsuitable to enter into their sect. I don't suppose they'd want you there for this ceremony, either." Apollo wasn't sure if he should be insulted or relieved. Boxey's hands bleeped loudly. "Gotcha!" he crowed. "C'mon, Muffit," Apollo said. The droid followed him to the door. "Dr. Wilker wants to do some diagnostic work on him. We'll see you later, Boxey," he called. The boy barely glanced up. "See ya, Dad. Bye, Muffit." The droid made a sad little noise as it followed Apollo. * Starbuck sank onto the bench of the shuttle. Cassiopea sat beside him, placing an overnight bag on the floor at her feet. "Awfully big for just three days," Starbuck said. "I've got some extra things in there." "Oh?" "Study materials," Cassiopea said sternly. "Dr. Salik is really pushing me to keep studying." "Become a physician?" "Yes. We need them in the fleet. Desperately." "Just like everything else." He sounded bitter. "You don't want me to?" "What? Become a doctor? Cassie, I think it's great. I'll help you any way that I can. But I wasn't planning on spending three days on the Rising Star watching you study." He yawned. "Are you ok?" "Long day," he said. "Those kids wore me out." "Well," she ran a finger lightly down his cheek. "I think three days of bed rest is just what you need." "Doctor's orders?" "Absolutely." He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. "Who am I to argue with medical science?" Across the shuttle, Croft watched the couple, feeling a little jealous. He and Lena had been that way once, a very long time ago, before greed and anger consumed her. He wished better for those two. He looked around the other passengers cautiously. It had been several quatrons since his part on the raid on the Ravashol Pulsar. He'd been a prisoner then, chosen for the mission for his expertise in combat operations in arctic conditions. They'd been successful; his freedom and reinstatement into Colonial Service were his rewards. It couldn't bring back Lena, though. Her body was somewhere on the Ice Planet, buried under tons of snow and ice and the debris of the Pulsar. He forced his thoughts away from her. He needed to concentrate on rebuilding his life. It was hard not to think of himself as a prisoner still, despite the respect shown him from Commander Adama on down. He constantly fought a haunting feeling that he'd someday be sent back to the Grid Barge. Not an uncommon attitude, he found when he researched the subject via the computer's counseling program. It wouldn't happen, he kept telling himself. But he still waited for it. In the meantime, he worked with the Mud Daggits, the fleet's ground assault team, and was deeply involved in survival training of Warriors, recruits, and prospective members of planetary survey teams -- civilian and military. It was important work, and he was pleased with it. But there was still an emptiness when he thought of Lena. He and Apollo had shared some lonely nights in the O Club and their quarters mourning their wives. It helped. But this disquieting feeling over his freedom was something he needed to adjust to on his own, which was why he was spending Solstice on the Rising Star. Cheerful company of people who knew nothing about his past; bright, happy women seeking laughter and escape from their own routines and the dreariness of the convoy; mindless diversions and decent food. He rested his head on the bulkhead and closed his eyes. It would be nice to be part of something normal -- whatever normal meant, these days. Siress Bellaby studied the passengers on the shuttle with a tightly-focused gaze. An interesting collection of Warriors, uniformed techs and essential personnel, with a goodly-sized group of civilians included for good measure. The military types wore crisp, clean uniforms; the civilians were in their most festive clothing -- which meant they were in an eclectic mixture of styles and colors. Ah, well, we all do what we can with what we've got. As philosophy that fit dealing with people as well as it fit dealing with fashion. She sized up the others on the shuttle. She hadn't spent a Solstice alone in nearly 30 yarhen; she wasn't planning to do so now. Most of the other passengers were sitting with groups of friends or had paired off. She spied Starbuck and brightened. A little young, perhaps, but he had the right attitude. She liked the way he took over when she'd been kidnapped by the Borays. Adama had tried diplomacy and had totally failed. Starbuck was more direct, bartering for her. It worked. She adjusted her cowl and straightened her shoulders. He seemed to be trainable, she thought. She'd just sidle over and say hello... A trim blonde slipped into the seat beside him. Bellaby frowned. Opportunist, she thought sourly. Recognized Starbuck from IFB news stories and Triad games, no doubt. She watched as the blonde and Starbuck spoke and settled in for the ride. Maybe not, Bellaby decided. They were obviously more than just acquaintances. Oh well; his loss. Frowning, she scanned the group again. There was one solo male sitting by himself near the hatch. Older than Starbuck, rugged-looking, he seemed to have an air of someone with experience -- and experiences. She waited for a few microns, just in case he was traveling with a companion. When the shuttle launched from the Galactica, Bellaby smiled. He was still alone. She primped again and stood. There was an empty seat beside him. How nice. * Omega hurried along the corridor. As usual, he'd put in more centares than his shift required, not that he minded. He knew how much the Commander depended on Col. Tigh and how much Tigh depended on him. It was a privilege to serve them. He turned the corner and stopped by the door to Dr. Wilker's lab. He had the data chips that Wilker requested. They held recordings of radion levels and cosmic conditions within this region. Whatever Wilker wanted with them, Omega didn't know. Considering some of the things Wilker had come up with in the past, Omega wasn't sure he wanted any answers. He almost bumped into Captain Apollo as the Warrior left the lab. "You'll have him back in a couple of days," he heard Wilker say. "That's fine," Apollo answered. "Boxey's so engrossed in his new computer toy, I'm not sure he'll notice Muffit's gone." He grinned as he saw Omega. "Hi. See you at the O Club." "Right behind you," Omega said. "How about you?" he asked Wilker as he entered the lab. "Are you ready to party?" "I'm not much of a socializer," Wilker said. "I'd rather be with all of my friends here." He gestured around the cluttered room. It was filled with half-gutted machines and components hooked up to diagnostics. The amount of stuff in the room was amazing, especially considering that his lab had been destroyed during the attack on the Cylon base ship. Somehow, Wilker hadn't merely replaced nearly everything that had been lost then, he'd amassed even more. Muffit sat on a tabletop. Disabled, it was quiet for once. Omega felt a surge of loathing. Better to have no daggits at all than this hopeless imitation. There were no real daggits in the fleet. No real pets of any kind. He knew some of the survivors boarded the rescue ships with their daggits, felinos, cuddlerats and other small pets, but they had all vanished quickly in the early days of the exile, when the refugees faced starvation. He knew Apollo felt Boxey needed the comfort of the droid, especially after the death of Serina. But that was nearly a yarhen ago. Since then, that dammed daggit had become an annoying part of his life. He was still humiliated by trying to find mushies in the midst of the fire that had so nearly consumed the Galactica. He and Col. Tigh -- reduced to running errands for that yapping conglomeration of circuitry and wankels. Yes, the daggit had been instrumental in warning Boomer and the others trapped below decks of the plans to blow the hull open and extinguish the fire. They probably would have died otherwise. Yes, the daggit had gone into the fire on its own accord and helped save a trapped firefighter. But it was the principle of the thing. Bridge Officers and seasoned Warriors treating a child's toy like it was some kind of sentient being. It was just one step from, well, from serving the Cylons! "What's that doing here?" he asked, glaring at Muffit. "Regular check-up." "Just think, everything you do for the fleet, and what will you be remembered for? Creating a mechanical daggit. What a legacy!" "You don't really think that, do you?" "Absolutely," Omega said. Wilker looked at the droid in dismay. "Well, I guess there are worse things to be remembered for." "There are a lot better things, though." "You have something in mind?" Wilker asked. "This fleet is desperate for all sorts of equipment and spare parts. Don't you think it's time we do our share for the recycling efforts?" * Boomer squeezed through the hatch into the Celestial Chamber. He dropped the heavy door and pulled off his earphones. The silence in the Chamber was a relief. The decibel level in the O Club had nearly reached the damaging level when he decided he'd had enough of the party. Well, maybe not that bad, but it was loud and more than a little insane. People were celebrating almost frantically. Not like after the destruction of the base ship, when the power of victory filled the air. This was almost desperate, as though the pain of the losses of the last yarhen could be excised with enough drink, food and determined gaiety. Callahan had done a great job, Boomer thought. The baharii and ambrosa flowed freely, and he saw foods being served that he'd forgotten even existed. The makeshift band wasn't half-bad, either. They ran through their repertoire, then began taking requests. Someone decided that the person making the request should sing the lead. More laughter as some old songs from their old lives were mangled beyond mercy by painfully off-key renditions. Boomer watched the party with a great sense of restlessness. Winter Solstice had always been the biggest of his family's celebrations. The house was crowded with his brothers and sisters, their kids, his cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles. He was the only survivor of that huge group. That sad fact never failed to surprise and depress him. He was sitting with Apollo, Deitra, Sheba and Rigel. They were laughing and joining in the choruses of the songs. Boomer found himself looking at the icons on the wall and remembering those his grandparents had in every room of their house. He knew he'd better leave. He was turning melancholy and he knew himself well enough to know that he could become a weepy drunk. All it would take was one song or off-hand remark. That would probably start a chain reaction among everyone else, if he was reading the others right. It was better in the Chamber. Just a little while here, he thought, then he'd be over his depression and could join in the party. He fiddled with the instruments on the console. He'd left it set on a long range scan as a favor to Apollo. The Captain remained convinced that the transmission he'd picked up before the mission to the base ship came from someplace other than the fleet or the Cylons. Personally, Boomer thought it was wishful thinking on Apollo's part, but he was glad to set things up for him. He tapped the console to replay the recording disc. He expected nothing more than static. He jumped as Apollo's clear voice came over the speaker. He checked the instruments. They were set for long- range scan, just as he left them, aimed in the direction of the signals Apollo had picked up once before. But he was picking up the party from the O Club. Frack! How'd that happen? Old circuitry and wiring, Boomer guessed. The Galactica was that old, after all. Something must have cross-wired or shorted out deep within the battlestar's innards. He adjusted the settings and reset the disc. Had to be some kind of an anomaly. He'd get nothing but deep space static now, unless the transmission transcriber malfunctioned again. Sure enough, Apollo was singing something about "a little old lady from Pasadena. Go, Granny. Go, Granny. Go, Granny, go!" Not a song Boomer recognized. He'd never even heard of -- what was it? -- Pasadena? That didn't mean anything. Apollo was something of a student of Colonial history. Pasadena was probably some far-flung outpost or a mythical planet. The girls were next. He heard Rigel, at least it sounded a lot like her, answering Sheba and Deitra as they asked something about wearing a ring and meeting some guy. "I met him at the candy store..." she sang plaintively. Boomer grinned. Just like Rigel, whose passion for chocla was well-known. "I fell in love with the leader of the pack..." the girls were singing. There was some kind of audio effect. It was probably supposed to sound like a Viper's engine, but it reminded Boomer of a poorly-tuned landram. He switched off the speaker. The instruments still told him he was picking up signals from someplace other than the Galactica. Impossible. He'd check out the diagnostics some other time. The O Club sounded too crazy for him. Maybe he should catch the next shuttle to the Rising Star and join the party there. He reached for the comm unit. "Hi! You've reached the new, improved Battlestar Galactica communications system. We've got real choices for real people. Press 1 for the latest point spread for the next Triad game. Press 2 to leave a personal message telling Col. Tigh what you think of your duty rotation. Press 3 for exclusive recordings from the female locker room of the ship's gym. Press 4 to reach your personal psychic advisor and biorhythm analyst. Press 5 for the Swap and Shop Bartering Service. To repeat this menu, press the Pyramid Symbol." Boomer stared at the receiver. Maybe he'd had more to drink than he'd thought. Cautiously, he pressed the Pyramid Symbol. "Hi! You've reached the new, improved Battlestar Galactica communications system..." Boomer listened to the message again. The next Triad game was between Piper and Bojay of Silver Spar vs. Cutler and Palmer of the Mud Daggits. It promised to be a tough match, though he gave the Daggits an edge. He pressed "1." * Dr. Salik prided himself on is ability to stay in touch with the mood of the Galactica and her crew. Over the last yarhen, he'd tracked the progress of the mourning process as it worked itself out through the ship's compliment. There were a handful of counselors among the fleet's survivors, but they were as wounded as the rest and were overworked trying to help the most traumatized refugees. By and large, everyone had to deal with their losses on their own. Winter Solstice would be the first traditional celebration observed since the Destruction. Salik expected it to be boisterous and enthusiastic, but as he strolled the passageways during his informal rounds of the ship, it was a lot more than he'd expected. Music and squeals came from every entrance to every private or unit billet, office or assembly area. He flattened against a bulkhead as a line of dancing personnel weaved past him, hands on the shoulders or hips of the person in front. They were chanting a rhythmic chorus of Virgan origin, if he was correct, and dancing in time to the music. Security types dancing with Warriors? Something was going on here. Something very strange. Salik sniffed the air as he passed a ventilation unit, but smelled nothing unexpected. He frowned. Some of his research techs working on the viruses within the fleet commented on the possibility of viral mutations manifesting themselves as personality changes. Hadn't Cassiopea said Starbuck and a group of Warriors were visiting the Orphan Ship? A number of viruses were sweeping through that vessel, and no one was required to go through decontamination when they were traveling within the fleet. What if they'd brought something back with them? Even a small group moving through the flight deck personnel, their squadrons and duty stations, the bridge, the O Club where people from every part of the ship were gathering... He headed for the Life Station. He wasn't ready for what he found. He stared at the main ward of the Life Station in amazement. It was mayhem. In one corner, a squirt gun battle was underway, with participants using oversized laboratory syringes. A hoverchair slalom course wove around the beds and Cryo- tubes. Patients cheered wildly as med techs swerved along the course, cutting each other off and caroming off the walls and vacant beds. Streamers of surgical bindings were strung across the ceiling as festive bunting. "What's going on here?" he demanded. The party stopped abruptly. "Aren't you on furlon, Doctor Salik?" Martin, the duty med tech, asked. "I am. I just stopped back to check on some papers..." He stopped. Why was he explaining himself to his staff? "I ask again; what's going on here?" "C'mon, doc," one of the patients said. "It's Solstice. Time to have a little fun." Salik considered the situation. No one in the Life Station was seriously ill. And his staff certainly deserved the break the Solstice represented as much as any group within the fleet. He went to his computer console and checked the reference on some files. "Carry on," he said as he backed out the door. "We plan to, Doc!" someone hollered as the door slid shut. He found an empty office and called up the files again. He ran some computer simulations and double-checked his references. He switched off the computer and rose. He wondered where Adama was. * Omega and Wilker stood by the table in Wilker's lab. Spread out before them were the remnants of Muffit. Servos, microchips, wiring, a tiny speaker and photo-optical receptors littered the table. Scraps of synthetic fur were piled in a corner. "We've done it now," Wilker said as he surveyed the debris. "Sure have," Omega agreed. He fingered the scraps. "Only thing that would have made this better was if we'd taken him to the firing range. I could have used Muffit as a target for my yarhen weapons certification." "What do we do with this now?" Wilker asked. He spread his hands over the mess on the table. "Apollo's going to come back for him in a couple of days." "You don't need spare parts?" "Always," Wilker said. He looked at the things covering the table with a greedy eye. "Always," he repeated. "Especially after my other lab was destroyed." He began stashing the droid daggit's innards in storage bins. "What about the fur? I can't hide the hide." "That's ok." Omega said cheerfully as he scooped up the scrapes and trotted to the door. "I know someone who'll appreciate this." * Monoceros hummed to himself as he guided the room service cart along the corridor of the Rising Star. A romantic meal served to an attractive couple in an elegant suite. Ah, this was almost like the old days! He paused outside the door of the Nova Suite and checked the tray. Starbuck had left the menu up to Monoceros; just told him to make it as special as conditions allowed. It was a request the Matre d' was happy to fulfill. The two of them were in league together -- along with Col. Tigh, Capt. Apollo and Lt. Boomer -- to provide encouragement to those within the fleet who needed some extra support from time to time. It might mean a reservation in the Rising Star's dining room when the booking list was overflowing or letting someone pay off a gambling debt by bartering their time or services (on the condition that they not gamble again; something Starbuck insisted upon). Monoceros was particularly pleased when the situation gave him excuse to siphon off some of the goods Sire Uri held in his private storage area. Uri proved the adage that there was nothing worse than the common sort with money. The man was a Boray, an absolute porcine! All the class of an unemployed juzz-herder! Monoceros understood that the good Sire had married upward, somehow winning the hand of a far more respectable and noble woman, whom he had left behind during the flight from the Colonies. He struggled to believe that any woman of breeding would look twice at that fat, leering, crude excuse of a Buritician. Maybe he'd been a worthy physical specimen when he was younger. Maybe he'd had promise as a leader then. He was far past his prime now. That Uri had been elected to the Council of the Twelve after the Destruction amazed him. No accounting for the wisdom of the masses, Monoceros decided. That he'd quietly left the Council following the debacle at Carillon, a situation he'd inadvertently helped engineer, showed he had at least a mote of dignity. Perhaps he just wanted to avoid further public humiliation. So successful was he at remaining out of the public eye that there were many who thought he'd died on Carillon. No such luck. The man maintained a suite on the Rising Star, driving the staff to distraction with his unending demands and petty tantrums. He hoarded the goods he snuck on board for his private use. That usually meant lavishing them on some young, nubile, easily-impressed female who was desperate for an evening of attention and a temporary escape from the mundane banality of life within the fleet. Monoceros made a face. He couldn't imagine anyone being that desperate. But Uri was his own undoing. The man had no love for Apollo, Boomer or Starbuck, not after Carillon. They'd discovered the Cylon trap there and made Uri look the fool. In his egocentric mind, Uri blamed them for his embarrassment. So he'd taken the opportunity to make a snide remark to Starbuck when the Lieutenant was visiting the chancery with Cassiopea one evening. Starbuck had left her while he cashed in his winnings. Uri spotted her alone, assumed she was unescorted, and invited her to join him for a "small gathering" in his suite. She refused, politely. Uri insisted. She refused again. Starbuck returned about then. His affection for Uri was no deeper than the Sire's for the Warrior. But he was polite. Oh, all right, Monoceros thought; he was civil. Trying to maintain appearances, Uri invited them both to his suite. They said something about having other plans. Uri sneered at that and studied Cassiopea while he announced loudly enough that half the room heard him that Socilator might not be an approved designation within the fleet, but he was sure those skills were still available. He was sure she was doing quite well for herself "serving, or should I say `servicing'" on the Galactica. The only reason Starbuck didn't throw Uri into the bulkhead was because Cassiopea gripped his wrist so hard he couldn't move his arm. She calmly informed the Sire that since he felt that way, he should be grateful she wouldn't sully his companions with her presence. Uri was still smirking as he waddled away. Starbuck's jaw was so tight, his teeth ached. Monoceros was glad the Lieutenant wasn't armed that night or he would have been facing another charge of termination. "Let it go," Cassiopea insisted as Monoceros deposited two strong drinks at their table. She pulled Starbuck to sit. "I've had a lot worse things said to me." "Not when I'm around. That fracking' astrum!" "You're being far too kind, Lieutenant," Monoceros said. Starbuck looked up, startled. He hadn't noticed the Maitre d's arrival. Cassiopea was still holding his wrist. Starbuck's hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists. "I'd like to shove him out the nearest airlock!" "He's not worth the trouble that would cause you, sir. However, you could cause the good Sire some difficulties," Monoceros said softly. "Like what?" "I am in a position to know a great deal about the Sire's activities." Apollo and Boomer showed up about then, having been summoned from the nightclub by an alert chancery patron. From the looks on their faces, they'd expected to find Starbuck brawling with Uri. Apollo's expression when he found the chancery hall operating normally was one of inestimable relief. "I figured I was going to have to let you be dragged off to the brig," he admitted as he reached their table. Starbuck's glare did not diminish. "All the million we had to leave behind and that astrum survived!" He was still watching the exit Uri had taken. It led to the private suites. The wrong word, and he'd follow the former Councilmember to his chambers. Boomer sat next to Starbuck, ready to grab him if he moved. Better for two Lieutenants to struggle than for Starbuck to fight with his Captain. Apollo slipped into the seat beside Cassiopea. "It's all right," she told them. "Uri just needed to prove once again what an embarrassment he is to himself." "I was telling the Lieutenant that there are some things about Sire Uri that the man would wish to remain unknown," Monoceros told Apollo. He was satisfied when both of the newly-arrived Warriors looked at him curiously. "Oh?" Boomer asked. He led them to a table away from the gaming area, where he could speak without being overheard. He told them about the parties, Uri's alliances with current, former and prospective Council members, and his activities on the fleet's black market -- both as a supplier and receiver of goods and services. "We could toss him into the grid barge for the next millennium for that stuff. Hades, Apollo, for half of that stuff!" Starbuck said. "I'll go get him for you!" He started to rise, but Boomer had him by the shoulders and back into his chair before he could stand. "Not so fast, Bucko." "Don't call me that!" "Don't give me a reason to." Chastised, Starbuck settled down under Boomer's stern expression. "What are you going to do?" Cassiopea asked Apollo. "I'm not sure. Can you keep monitoring his activities?" he asked Monoceros. "With pleasure. In the meantime..." the Maitre d' left for a moment, then returned with a bottle of sparkling ambrosa. Cassiopea gasped when she saw the label. "This is exquisite. I had no idea the Rising Star stocked this." "It didn't. And it's too fine for the likes of Sire Uri to appreciate. I doubt if he even realizes it's missing." He uncorked the bottle. "I'm sure he has no idea of what he has stashed in his storeroom. He simply collects whatever he can." He poured for the five of them. "Instead of confronting Uri, might I suggest that we simply watch him and let Commander Adama know what he's up to?" "I'd still rather see him thrown into the grid barge," Starbuck fumed. "So would I, buddy," Apollo said, "but Monoceros has a point. If we stop Uri's activities, others will move in to take his place." "Better the devil you know..." Cassiopea said softly. "Exactly." "In the meantime, we can let the good Sire make atonement for his bad behavior," Monoceros said. "In my position, I hear a lot of gossip from throughout the fleet. It seems to me that Uri's hoard should be better used elsewhere. Just like this ambrosa." He poured another round. By the time they'd finished that bottle and the other Monoceros had been saving for the right occasion, the groundwork for their operation was laid. He wasn't sure how Col. Tigh got involved; apparently Captain Apollo deemed it necessary for the Galactica's XO to be part of the plan. For his part, the Maitre d' was happy to report on Uri's movements and meetings. He was sure the information went to Adama, and that the Commander used it appropriately. Monoceros couldn't think of any situation in which Uri's schemes would be even marginally helpful to the fleet. But for all of that, he was happiest when he was slipping some tasty tidbit out of the Rising Star and to some deserving soul or souls. It pleased him to think that Uri's fortune was paying for someone else's pleasure. It was certainly doing so tonight. Neither Monoceros nor the Warriors took Uri's goods for themselves, but tonight, Monoceros had no inhibitions about treating the couple in the Nova Suite to things Uri thought were his. It was his Solstice gift to them. He couldn't object to what he didn't know about. The ambrosa, therefore, was several levels above standard. The crystal goblets came from the storeroom, as did the fine pate that would be their appetizer and the citron essence used in the dessert sorbet. Delicately- seasoned poulon on a bed of grains, rolls still-warm from the ovens, and a salad completed the feast. Those were on the Rising Star's menu, but were still expensive. Even with the goods supplied gratis by Uri, Starbuck was paying a bundle for this evening and the next two days. Starbuck stared in pleased amazement as Cassiopea waltzed into the sitting room of the suite. She'd changed from her traveling dress into a soft, nearly-diaphanous, multi-colored gown. He couldn't imagine where she'd found it, but he was very glad that she had. "This is wonderful!" She caught his hands and swung him around, then hugged him. "I haven't seen chambers like this in a long time!" They were elegant. Deep carpeting that pampered bare feet; large, comfortable couches with upholstery not yet worn threadbare from overuse; paneled walls that hid the rivets and metal bulkheads; tasteful paintings on the walls; a large, private bedchamber with a large, comfortable bed. Something wider than a bunk, Starbuck thought. Oh, joy! The porthole gave a stunning view of space and the fleet. At least, it would have been stunning if it wasn't the same view every porthole gave them every day. The grandeur turned routine after a while. Funny that a yarhen ago, lying abed with the galaxy open before you would have been wildly romantic. Falling into that bed was incredibly appealing right now, but not for romantic reasons. Starbuck had a pounding headache on top of his weariness. He wanted nothing more than a nap. Maybe with Cassi massaging the headache away. Maybe with a glass or two of ambrosa to help him relax. The thought of a drink made him vaguely uncomfortable. He'd snacked on the Orphan Ship, but that wasn't a real meal. Probably just hungry, he decided. Eating something would revive him. Monoceros rang the chamber chime then. Right on time. Cassiopea was at the door, greeting him warmly. Her eyes widened as the Maitre d' presented the meal with a flourish, lighting the candles and arranging the plates on the table with practiced grace. He poured two glasses of ambrosa and departed with a slight bow. "Oh, Starbuck," she gasped. "This is incredible! I haven't seen a meal like this since..." She beamed at him, her smile fading as she caught his expression. "What's wrong?" "Nothing," he lied. "This is great." He forced himself to look at the food on the table, a meal as fine as any he could have found before the Destruction, and felt his stomach lurch. "Starbuck...?" "I'm not feeling all that well..." He pushed himself from the table and bolted for the hygiene cubicle. * Lords, what a party! Callahan surveyed the wreckage strewn throughout the bar with pleasure. In his experience, there was a direct correlation between the amount of debris left behind and the success of the celebration. By any definition, this one would be remembered as one of the best. He wasn't sure who started the tablehopping, but before the group exhausted itself, it seemed that everyone was leaping from table to table across the room and dancing for whoever was seated wherever they landed. A good leap was accomplished without kicking over the glasses of those at the table. A couple of the physical conditioning personnel offered extremely intriguing dances. It appeared that the rumor that some Aquarian form dancers now worked in the conditioning field were true, after all. Callahan doubted they used any of those movements in their classes' exercise routines. He remembered Apollo and Sheba trying to coordinate their leaps and eventually getting their timing close enough to synchronize their movements across the room. He still wasn't sure who started the aerobatics competition, but he was impressed by Monroe's ability to somersault in mid-leap and still land upright -- most of the time. Commander Adama did not make an appearance, but he did send word to buy a round for the house on his tab. Callahan served the round, but didn't mark up the Commander's bill. It was his Solstice gift to Adama. Lords knew the man did enough for the fleet. He poured himself a baharii and leaned against the bar. Good brew, he thought. Might have stood an extra few days of maturing, but not bad, not bad at all. He scouted up this recipe in the fleet's computer library. Amazing what was in there. Not enough of the old records to give them a clear path to Earth, but there were dozens of formulae for potent concoctions. We all have our priorities. Even after all the decades Callahan had spent in saloons all over everywhere, the silence of a bar after a big party still surprised him. He'd sent his staff off. He'd be centares cleaning up the mess by himself, but sometimes he enjoyed the solitude. Didn't get much of it these days. He put his empty tankard in the wash sink and walked to the far side of the O Club. Time to get started. A faint sound coming from a darkened corner attracted his attention. Curled up on the bench, mostly hidden under a table were Jolly and Cutler. Both asleep. Both snoring. He recalled seeing the two of them deeply discussing the Triad competitions and whether a Mud Daggit team could ever beat one from a Viper Squadron. Jolly held that the intuitive communication between leader and wingman was stronger than any bond between mere ground assault troops. That led to a deep discussion of psychological motivations among combat units -- or as deep a discussion as two drunks could manage. Callahan shrugged. He'd leave them be. There was enough work for him to do without disturbing them. They might not wake up until the O Club opened that afternoon. He appreciated steady customers. * "Whose idea was it to start drinking shooters with the maintenance troops, anyway?" Deitra asked as she walked between Sheba and Rigel. The hangover wouldn't hit until the morning, but she knew already it would be one of classic proportions. Rigel held her head and groaned. "I should have known better," she said. "Col. Tigh's been hearing rumors that there's a still somewhere in the maintenance area. If those guys can make something drinkable out of hydraulic fluid and tylium, Callahan's stuff must've been like fruit juice." "I'm not ready to call it a night!" Sheba said. She was still energized by the games in the bar. "It's late!" Deitra moaned. "C'mon, Sheba. Let's head back to quarters." "Why?" Sheba countered. "It's not like we're on alert." She turned to Rigel. "Nothing on long-range scans you've heard about?" "Not a thing." Sheba faced Deitra. "See?" "I think most of the parties are over." Sheba made a face. "On a ship this big? C'mon, Deitra, there's got to be some action still going on somewhere. Where's your sense of adventure?" "I think I left it back at the O Club." "Let's go to my quarters," Rigel suggested. "I have something I think you'll both appreciate." "Like what?" Sheba asked. "A special nightcap, for one thing." "I don't need any more liquor," Deitra said. "Ha! I've got stuff you haven't tasted in quatrons." The other women looked at her curiously. Don't let it be illegal, Sheba prayed. She didn't want to think that a bridge officer would have or use some illicit substance. "Remember Sabrish?" Deitra gasped. "Chocla and oranje liqueur. Wonderful stuff." "And Vanmint." "Oh!" Sheba whispered reverently. "Chocla and mint." "And a whole box of Stocis." Both of the other women stared. Hollow chocla candies filled with a potent taste of vwodd. "Better than..."Sheba started. "Not necessarily," Deitra interrupted. "But a good substitute when there's no man around. How?" she asked Rigel. "The Vanmint I had already. But the others were gifts." "From someone special," Deitra said. Chocla was an unheard of luxury within the fleet. The pods couldn't be grown in enough quantity to allow for its processing and manufacture. Anyone with stores bartered heavily with it on the fleet's black market. It wasn't something you gave away lightly. "He was for a while." She sighed. "He's not around any more. I kept waiting for a good time to enjoy it. This is Solstice," she said with a determined set to her chin. "I'm going to have a chocla orgy with my friends. That's a good way to remember him, isn't it?" * Col. Tigh woke suddenly, instantly alert. He lay in the darkness of his quarters, listening for...what? Yarhens of life as a Warrior told him something was amiss. But there was no battle stations' klaxon, no flashing light on his comm unit. Nothing but the usually-unnoticed sounds of the ship's engines and recycling air. He rolled out of bed and padded across the floor in his bare feet. He listened at the door to his quarters, but heard nothing in the corridor outside. Strange. He was sure something or someone had been there. Cautiously, he tapped the release mechanism. His door slid open. The corridor was deserted. Tigh listened intently, but heard nothing. The festivities throughout the ship were finally over, or so it seemed. But those had taken place on other levels. The Senior Officers' deck wasn't the scene for Solstice revelry. Maybe some stray partiers had wandered onto this level by mistake and had quickly and noisily departed, Tigh thought. He glanced down the corridor one last time. Something on the bulkhead beside his door caught his eye. Tigh thought he recognized it. He blinked and stared again, just to make sure. No mistake. Glued to the bulkhead by his cabin was the furry outline of Muffit. * "I think a man should be a man, don't you agree?" Siress Bellaby slid across the bench, closer to Croft. "As a woman, I'm attracted to strength. Strong character. Strong...emotions." She placed a hand on his bicep and squeezed gently. "All kinds of strength." Croft was glad they were seated at a round table. He could slide a little to his left, a little bit away from Siress Bellaby's tenacious grasp. "Um...." he said. "What kind of woman do you find attractive, Croft?" she asked. She posed, hands placed on top of each other, her chin resting on her hands. "Certainly not those simpering little ingenues posing in Triad uniforms in that last issue of Illustrated Fleet Sports." She made a disgusted sound. "I'm surprised Adama allowed that to be fed into the fleet communications system." She leaned closer. "I heard he caught all sorts of feldercarb from some members of the Council over it." "Really? I, uh, thought the models showed great muscle tone." He'd had plenty of time to make that judgment, having downloaded the file onto the office computer he shared with Cutler. The hard copies of those hard bodies decorated more than one Warrior's personal space. Adama's decision had bolstered morale throughout the fleet. Stuff the Council! "Hmmph! I would think you're a man who prefers women with experience. Strong women. Mature." She sidled closer to him. "Am I right?" "Well..." Croft's voice was several octaves higher than usual. How was it he could calmly accept the deadly challenge of combat mountaineering, but be overwhelmed by this woman? She ran her hand along his shoulder. "You should know about muscle tone," she crooned. "You know, I'm a woman who plans ahead. I thought about what to bring when we evacuated Caprica. I didn't have much time, but I considered those things that would prove most useful. Not just for me, but for the fleet." "Really?" Croft drained his glass and looked about desperately for a waiter. "Others were cleaning out their personal safes, but I knew that cubits wouldn't be worth much. Goods would matter. Bartering would be the name of the game. It's turned out that way, hasn't it?" "Pretty much." Cubits were still the standard currency, but Bellaby was right. Swapping, trading, bartering, bribing. Call it what you would, the exchange of goods and services was as active an economic system as the use of the small, golden rectangles. He wondered what Bellaby was leading up to. Somehow, he didn't think an evening spent discussing fleet economics was on her mind. "So I didn't shuttle to the Rising Star without making some arrangements first," she said. "I've known Monoceros, the Matre d', for a long time, ever since the ship first opened up for civilian entertainment. Call it `investment gratuities,' if you will, but establishing good relations with people like Monoceros always gives a good return. I've always enjoyed Winter Solstice. I used to travel during the holiday. Sometimes. I'd rent a lodging in the mountains. Have you ever seen the Hanczyk Mountain Range on Virgon in the dead of winter under the full moons?" Seen it? He'd climbed it, and during a blizzard, too. But Bellaby wasn't waiting for an answer. "So romantic," she sighed. "Then I'd think that it might be fun to spend the coldest months in the warmest climates. There was this villa overlooking the Driscoll Sea on Libra... You know, they say the most beautiful oceans were on Aquaria and Piscea, but let me tell you, Libra was an undiscovered treasure. The sky at dawn, turning such a lovely shade of pink and blue, listening to the waves lap against the shoreline. It was so...inspiring, if you know what I mean." She rested her head against his shoulder. "Nothing like that here," Croft said, straining to sound brusque. "Oh, but you're wrong, Croft. That's what I was telling you. I had Monoceros reserve one of the private suites for me, for the entire secton. All of Winter Solstice. Isn't that interesting?" "Certainly is," Croft choked. "I would have thought the suites were turned into general billets of some kind. I wonder if the Commander knows that space is available. Might relieve the overcrowding on some of the other vessels." Bellaby made annoyed sound. "Think of the possibilities. For us." "You said you have the suite for the entire secton?" "Uh-huh." "That's too bad. I'm just here on a three-day furlon." "We'll just have to make every minute count, then, won't we?" She blew a long, slow breath in his ear. "I guess so..." "Good. Now, you just wait here while I collect the key from Monoceros." She disappeared in the direction of the arrival deck. Croft wasted no time. He tossed a handful of cubits on the table and left the bar, moving as far from the arrival deck as he could. Where to go? He considered hiding in the men's turboflush by the waiting room until the next shuttle -- he didn't care where it was going -- was ready to board. But the waiting area was adjacent to the arrival deck. Too much chance Bellaby would spot him. The chancery, nightclub, viewports, restaurant -- Croft weighed his chances of avoiding Bellaby at any of them. Bad odds, all around. The woman was as determined a predator as a skorfang. She'd find him. He forced himself to think calmly. Weigh your options, then choose a course of action. That's what he taught in his survival courses. If this wasn't survival, he wasn't sure what was. Another adage: Use your enemy's strengths against him. The one place Bellaby wouldn't be looking for him would be among the private suites. Once on that level, though, Croft wasn't sure what to do. He wandered up and down the hallways, wondering how long it would take him to circumvent the locks and let himself into one of the suites. He heard voices approaching and ducked into an alcove. A couple strolled past without noticing him. Croft closed his eyes and let go the breath he'd been holding. He couldn't hide here forever. He looked around. The alcove he was in actually led to the entrance of a private suite. The private suite, if the quality of the carpeting and the finish on the walls meant anything. "Nova Suite," the plaque by the door read. He thought quickly. He would try the summons chime. If anyone answered, he would apologize and say he was at the wrong suite. If no one answered, he'd crosswire the lock and let himself in. He doubted if even Bellaby would reserve the most expensive, elegant suite in the entire fleet unless she had a companion already reserved, as well. * Starbuck crept from the hygiene cubicle and crawled under the comforter on the large, soft, any-other-time-it- would-be-so-delightfully-used-for-other-purposes bed. He groaned and curled up as he rolled onto his side. So much for romance. A cool hand touched his hot forehead. "You're sick," Cassiopea said. Starbuck groaned in response. "Probably caught something from the kids on the Orphan Ship." Trying to talk was too difficult. This time he whimpered. "Stay put," she ordered, as though he was planning to go anywhere. He heard her leave the room. He closed his eyes and wished for death to come quickly. It was preferable to feeling like this. "Here. Sit up and take this." Blearily, Starbuck opened his eyes and forced himself upright. Cassiopea held a cup of water and a bright blue pill. "What is it?" he managed to ask. She was completely in her professional mode. "Something to help quiet your stomach." He swallowed the pill and water. "I'm sorry," he said. "This was supposed to be special." "It's certainly one of the more unusual dates I've had." She eased him onto the pillow and adjusted the comforter. "Try to sleep now. I'll check with Dr. Salik and see if anyone else is ill." She kissed his forehead. "You'll be fine." Salik wasn't in his office. Cassiopea wasn't surprised by that. The doctor would have been off duty for centares. She debated paging him but decided against it. Starbuck didn't appear to be all that sick. She'd feel guilty about drawing Salik away from one of the Solstice parties for no reason. Instead, she left a message with Martin, the duty med tech in the Life Station, asking Salik to contact her when he checked in. The conversation was a strange one. Cassiopea had a hard time hearing the duty tech over the background noise. Unusual, since the Life Station was usually so quiet. But there were loud voices and people singing Solstice carols. She thought she heard equipment crashing, followed by cheers. "Is everything all right there?" she asked. "Just like a perfect Pyramid," Martin giggled and signed off. Well, she thought as she replaced the comm receiver, good thing she'd brought along her study materials after all. She picked up a glass of ambrosa and settled herself onto the comfortable couch. It looked as though she'd have plenty of time to pore through Essentials of Human Physiology after all. The chime to the suite sounded. Monoceros checking to see if things were all right? She'd assure him that they were. No point in embarrassing Starbuck. It wasn't the Maitre d', but Croft standing in the entrance. He seemed stunned to see her. "Cassiopea!" "Yes?" "I, uh, I didn't know you had this suite." "Who did you think was here?" "Nobody in particular." The man was very nervous. Cassiopea's instincts put her on guard. She inched back, ready to hit the control and slide the door in his face. "Are you looking for someone?" "No!" He looked over his shoulder as though expecting to see someone in the corridor. "I'm trying to avoid someone, to tell you the truth." "Oh." "But I don't want to disturb you." Damn, he thought. Starbuck spending his furlon with a wonderfully attractive, intelligent, desirable woman while he dodged the predatory instincts of Siress Bellaby. Hades, the Lieutenant would be a block of ice under the Ravashol Pulsar if it wasn't for him. No fairness in the galaxy. None at all. He gnawed his lower lip, trying to think of some other hiding place. "Who are you hiding from?" Cassiopea asked. "Siress Bellaby," he blurted. "She wants me to spend Solstice with her." "Oh," Cassiopea said again, but this time there was laughter in her voice. She caught his arm and dragged him into the suite. "Come on in. You'll be safe here." What the hell... He was certain Starbuck hadn't figured on an extra companion. Not unless he and Cassiopea had tastes that neither had ever hinted about. He followed her gingerly into the main room. An elegantly-set table lit by candles was on one side. Soft music filtered through the room. The environmental unit scented the air with the faint essence of ocean breezes. Aside from the two of them, it was deserted. Maybe they had argued. "Starbuck?" he asked. "Lieutenant Starbuck is indisposed," she told him with a nod toward the closed bedroom door. "He caught some bug that's going around." She gestured toward the table. "In the meantime, there's a wonderful meal that he probably spent a semi-quatron's pay on that's getting cold. Would you join me?" * Beasef was one of those who rarely took leave at Solstice before the Destruction. As the chief chef of the Galactica, she felt it was her duty to provide as pleasant a holiday as possible for those who were not on furlon. Good meals were a big part of that. She felt her obligation to provide for those on the ship even more strongly now. Her kitchen was everybody's kitchen. Maybe it wasn't as intimate as a home-cooked meal, but anything she or her staff prepared would still be special. To her, every meal during the Solstice holiday added to the season, so breakfast the morning after Solstice was as important as the Solstice meal itself. She'd gone to bed as early as she could -- after making sure Callahan had everything he needed and that things were in order for the meals at the other messes on the ship, setting her alarm to wake her early, so she could start the breakfast preparations. She heard stories about the celebrations as she worked. It had been one hell of a party, that was for sure, with the sort of insane behavior a battlestar never saw. It went on all night, her workers said. People celebrated with an abandon she couldn't explain. Neither could they, if the expressions on faces as they moved through the food line were anything to go by. There was a look of collective curiosity and confusion, as though everyone was trying to figure out what they had done and, more importantly, why. * Adama turned off his personal computer and removed the disc. He'd studied the Otori ceremony until he could recite it in his sleep. He deeply wished he was dreaming. The thought of surrendering his only daughter to the sect depressed him. No matter that it was Athena's idea. She was upset over her personal situation, he thought. She wasn't thinking clearly. The door to the extra bedchamber in his quarters hissed open, and Boxey came out, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He was carrying the toy Adama had given him the night before. Long after the Commander thought the child was asleep, he heard the faint strains of the electronic tune and the echoes of electronic warfare coming from Boxey's room. The prototype was a definite success. Adama waited for Muffit to follow, then remembered that the droid daggit was in Wilker's lab. "Good morning, grandfather," the boy said. "Is my dad here yet?" Adama hugged the child close to him. "Not yet. It's early. I didn't expect you to get up for centares." "I like to get up early when he's home. Sometimes he takes me to breakfast with him at the Officer's Mess, then he walks me to my instructional period, just like a regular dad." "He tries to be as much of a regular dad as he can, Boxey." "I know." He switched on the box. The relentlessly cheerful tune started. Adama made a mental note to tell the designers to change the music. Better yet, to make the toy soundless. "I'm almost ready to blast the pogees out of the Cylon base ship. See?" He held the screen in front of Adama's face. The Commander nodded at the flashing explosions and moving miniature Vipers. Something darted across the screen and destroyed several of the Vipers. "Frack!" Boxey said. "Boxey! I don't want to hear you using that sort of language." The boy ducked his head contritely. "Yes, Grandfather." He switched off the toy. "Do you think my dad is in his quarters? Maybe I can go wake him up." He ran for the door without waiting for Adama's answer. The chronometer mounted on the wall chimed the centare. Time to go, Adama thought. He gathered the things he would need for the ritual. His door chime sounded. Boxey returning, he thought. The boy had forgotten something. But it was Athena, not Boxey, who entered. She was scowling. "Athena! I was just leaving for the Gemini." "You needn't bother." "But the ceremony..." "There won't be any ceremony, at least not with us participating." "What happened? The men weren't...suitable?" "Not at all. I hadn't expected much, but I was pleasantly surprised. There were a couple who were intelligent, good-looking, and holding down responsible jobs." "Then what...?" "Here," she said with disgust. She held out a recording disc. Adama inserted it into his computer. Elder Rouf's visage appeared on the monitor. It was hard to tell with Rouf, but the man appeared to be happy. "Commander Adama," he said. "I wish to inform you that your participation in our sacred ritual and the inclusion of your daughter into our sect are no longer required. We have found a direct link to our High Priests, the third cousin twice removed of the brother-in-law of the sister of one of our deceased High Priest's uncles. This worthy successor to our priestly lineage will choose a wife from among the women of our faith. The gods have smiled on us at this most holy time. "We of the Otori deeply appreciate your willingness to give of yourselves in order to insure the survival of our people." The screen went dark. "The third cousin, twice removed..." Adama muttered, tyring to puzzle out the lineage. "He was one of the better choices, too," Athena said sourly. "He said it was nothing personal, and he hoped we could still be friends." Adama wasn't sure if he should be relieved Athena wasn't marrying into the Otori or annoyed that they had rejected her. "I'm going to my quarters," she said, heading for the door. "I'm glad you're back," Adama said. "For a while," Athena answered tartly. "I still want a transfer." * It took Col. Tigh nearly a centare to scrape the remains of Muffit from the wall. Whoever had pasted the furry outline there had used a quick-acting adhesive. He carried the scraps into his quarters and deposited them on his desk. What was Apollo going to tell Boxey? he mused. He hoped Wilker had some sort of new mechanical magic to perform. Part of him wondered who was responsible for the Muffit- scalping. Even as he mentally ran through the list of possible perpetrators, Tigh knew he wouldn't spend much time tracking down leads. It was an internal matter, after all, something that fell to the civilian Security types to handle. He knew Reese and company wouldn't solve this mystery. For one thing, they wouldn't have any evidence, Tigh thought as he fed most of the fur into the waste disposal chute. Muffit disappeared. It was as simple as that. Only most of it. He saved the snout and the main hide. Once things quieted down, he'd mount them on the wall beside his desk. * Apollo stretched, then settled back onto his bunk, eyes still closed. It was wonderful to wake when he wanted, not when his duty rotation or an alert klaxon demanded that he rise. And it was peaceful, quiet. He loved Boxey, but it was nice to have an evening alone to himself. He rolled over and sat up in his bunk. The chronometer told him he'd slept in even later than he'd thought. What a party! He usually didn't carry on like that unless Boomer and Starbuck had been slipping him drinks all night, and neither of them had been there. He didn't feel hung over, either. He shook his head as he rose and stretched again. Wonder what got into him. Into all of them. The message indicator on his comm unit was flashing. He sighed. So much for the holiday. It was probably some urgent message involving the squadron and requiring his attention. But the worried face of Dr. Wilker appeared on his monitor. "Captain, something terrible has happened to Muffit. While performing the diagnostics, I found some inherent flaws in his programming. I'm not sure how they developed, but you must remember that I didn't have all that much time to work on the `droid when he was first assembled. "At any rate, while I was trying to fix it, the programming --- well, I'm not sure how to explain it, but Muffit self-destructed. That certainly wasn't anything I put into his programming, but you must remember that Muffit has been exposed to a lot of environments I never considered. "There's not enough left of Muffit to reconstruct him. I'm terribly sorry, Captain." Apollo stared at the darkened screen. Suddenly finding himself the father of a seven-yarhen-old child frightened Apollo as much as it pleased him. He wasn't sure what kind of a job he was doing, either. Away so much, in a role that almost guaranteed that the child would lose yet another parent, Apollo sometimes thought Boxey would have been better off if he and Serina had never met. She would probably still be alive, giving Boxey the security Apollo could never offer on his own. He worked hard at spending as much time with him as he could. That Adama and Athena accepted Boxey as their blood relation eased Apollo's worries considerably. It gave the boy a sense of family that apparently hadn't been part of his life before the Destruction. Not for the first time, Apollo wondered about Boxey's true father. Serina tried to bring up the subject once, but Apollo brushed it aside, believing then that whatever occurred before the Destruction didn't matter afterward. Now he would never know, unless someone from Serina's past appeared, and as the quatrons passed, that seemed less and less likely. So he tried to be as devoted a father as he could. Adama had been an absentee father for most of Apollo's childhood. Winning his affection required Apollo to follow his father's desires for his first-born son, going to the Academy and entering Colonial Service when Apollo really wanted to study and explore the outer fringes of the Colonies. He vowed to do a better job, giving his son his time and attention and letting him follow his own dreams. That was something he would worry about as Boxey grew older. Right now, Apollo had a much more immediate problem to solve. What would he tell Boxey about Muffit? The child had clung to the mechanical daggit almost desperately, especially after Serina's death. It trailed him everywhere, a constant companion and friend, as daggits were supposed to be for small boys. Losing Muffit would be like losing someone, something else that a child was supposed to count on as a constant. Without warning, the door to his quarters opened and Boxey ran in. "Hi, dad!" the boy yelled, launching himself into his father's arms. "Happy day after Solstice!" "Same to you!" Despite his worry, Apollo couldn't help grinning. He clutched the boy tightly. "Same to you!" he repeated. "Do you have to go on patrol today?" "Nope! I'm on furlon. We have the next couple of days together." "Really?" Boxey's eyes glowed at the thought. "Really." "Can we go to the rejuvenation center and play zero- grav hockey?" "If you want." "Can you teach me Triad?" "Ok." "Great!" He held out his new toy. "I can teach you how to play my zapper game." "I'd like that." Apollo turned serious. "But there's something I have to tell you, Boxey. You're not going to like it very much. I'm afraid something's happened to Muffit. He broke while Dr. Wilker was working on him and he can't be fixed. I'm sorry, Boxey. I really am." He braced himself for the tears of disappointment he was sure were coming. Instead, Boxey patted Apollo's shoulder sympathetically. "That's ok, dad. I've pretty much outgrown him, anyway. It was getting kind of silly to have him follow me around everyplace. I'm not such a little kid any more, you know? I just wasn't sure how to tell you. You seemed real attached to him. Why don't we go get some breakfast? You'll feel better after you've had something to eat." * Starbuck and Cassiopea stepped from the shuttle onto the Galactica's landing bay. The virus had knocked Starbuck off his feet for his entire furlon. Even now, he still felt weak. Cassiopea had been attentive and sympathetic, but not in the way he had dreamed, not that he would have been able to respond if she had offered other possibilities. He'd slept most of the time. When his fever broke and he stopped running for the turboflush, she told him about Croft's visit. She'd let Croft spend the night on the couch, hiding in the suite until she could contact Monoceros and determine Siress Bellaby's whereabouts. Unable to find Croft when she returned with her room key, Bellaby had shanghaied a navigator from the freighter Pippster. Its regular route before the Destruction took it to many of the outer settlements and brought it into contact with some alien races. She found the navigator's stories fascinating, and the customs he had observed even more so. Monoceros assured Cassiopea the two of them were locked in the Moonrise Suite with a "Do Not Disturb" message on the door. Croft vowed eternal thanks to Cassiopea as he made his escape. "You ought to go back to your quarters and rest," Cassiopea told Starbuck. "I'd rather go to your quarters and rest," he said. She made a face. "I think you'll give me better medical attention than Jolly or Boomer," he said defensively. "I'm still feeling pretty weak." "You are hopeless." She linked her arm in his. "How much did you blow on this furlon?" "Don't ask," he sighed. "It'll make me sick again." They passed near the Vipers. Cassie paused. "What's going on over there?" "Huh?" She pointed. A cluster of Warriors were gathered around one of the Vipers. "Isn't that your Viper?" she asked. Starbuck was frowning. "It seems to be," he said. He walked toward his plane, his illness overtaken by curiosity. He gaped when he saw what the other were staring at. A lithe blonde with more than a passing resemblance to Cassiopea was painted on the nose of the Viper. She was lounging in a most relaxed pose and wore a teasing expression on her face. Sassy Cassie was lettered underneath the painting. "Erp!" Starbuck said. He hoped this was another fever dream. Cassiopea would kill him, kill the artist, kill the maintenance techs, kill everybody if she saw this. Not if, when. "Starbuck," she said, staring at her portrait. "Cass, I swear to you..." A slow smile spread across her face as she studied her portrait. "It's wonderful!" she said. She hugged him suddenly. "What a great surprise!" There was a commotion as someone pushed through the crowd. Sheba and Deitra both appeared. "Where's Jenny?" Deitra demanded. "That's who did this?" Starbuck asked. "Damned straight," Sheba said. "We want to have a couple of words with her." "I think I can handle this myself," Starbuck said. He knew Sheba and Deitra could get very assertive where respect for women was concerned. That the hand of the artist belonged to another woman wouldn't make much difference. What had Jenny been thinking of? "Handle what?" Deitra asked. "We want to talk to her about some ideas we have for artwork on our Vipers." * Dr. Salik found Adama in his quarters. The Commander looked tired, very tired. Salik wondered if he could get the man to take a furlon himself. A few days without responsibilities. What a tonic that would be for him! "I'm sure you've noticed some strange things happening throughout the fleet," Salik said. "No feldercarb," Adama answered. "Most of them within my family." "I think I've tracked down the source." "Oh? I was thinking perhaps we were all victims of space-induced psychosis." He held up a flask of greenish liquid and raised his eyebrows in question. Salik nodded. Adama poured while the doctor spoke. "Nothing that serious or that long-lived. It appears to be a virus that originated who-knows-where. It is merrily making its way through the Orphan Ship and was happy to attach itself to the Warriors who were over there for the celebration. It made its way through the rest of the fleet from there." "I'm told that the virus is acting as expected on the Orphan Ship. Children are sick, but are recovering." "Yes, that's true. Apparently, only children become physically ill from it. You must remember that there are many illnesses that attack adults differently than children. Some turn quite virulent." Salik sipped his drink appreciatively. He was glad Adama kept a few luxuries for himself. Adama was all business now. "Is this a threat to the fleet, Doctor?" "I don't believe so. In this case, it appears the virus manifests itself by affecting the personalities of the adult host, causing a noticeable release of inhibitions." "What can we expect?" "I think it will work its way through the fleet. We'll know where the outbreaks are by the reports of behavior on the ships. By and large, I think the virus will do its thing, then mutate into something harmless. It'll probably exhaust itself and die in a day or so. I'll take some blood samples and run some tests if you want to be sure." "I think that would be prudent," Adama said. Salik placed his empty glass on the table. "I'll get right on it." He was nearly at the door when Adama called to him. "For reference purposes, Doctor, what will you name this disease?" Salik shrugged. "It's nothing harmful. I'll just call it the Good Times Virus." -0- Callahan is not my creation. Track down Spider Robinson's wonderful books: Callahan's Crosstime Saloon and Time Travelers Strictly Cash for the best of the Callahan stories. You'll probably find them in used bookstores, since I think they are no longer in print. (If you find the bar, please let me know. I've spent many hours cruising the back roads of Long Island hunting for it.) When you've finsihed with the books, you'll know why Callahan is on the Galactica.