Prologue

The future is in a child’s eyes. Cassiopeia usually took comfort from that old saying. She desperately needed to believe in the future as she held her five-year-old son’s face between her hands and gently kissed him on the forehead. As she pulled away she saw deeply into the boy’s eyes and could not escape a feeling of dread.

Why did the future seem like a dark place when she was close to her child? It was darker than the interstellar void where Cassie had spent so much of her life. It was blacker than the loneliness from which she never escaped, despite her relationships with Starbuck and Apollo. The child’s eyes gave her the sensation of falling into an abyss.

It just wasn’t fair. One’s own flesh and blood should not be a scaffold on which to hang and die. Her boy should not make her afraid. Was he really different than any other child? Perhaps she was only having a bad case of nerves that could happen to any mother. She wasn’t about to condemn her only son because of a premonition.

“Mother,” he said softly. He didn’t smile. He hugged her but there was something perfunctory about his movements. They were so precise that they lacked the spontaneity of childhood.

“Mother” was the first word he’d ever spoken to her. She didn’t remember at how many months of age he’d first deigned to speak in that oddly formal voice of his. She needed a warmth he did not provide.

Cassie wanted to scream, “What’s wrong? Why won’t you open up to me? Don’t you love me?” Instead she said nothing. She held him close and prayed.

She could experience only so much danger and loss. She was human. That meant she had limits. She was no goddess. She was fatigued and numb.

She let go of the boy and watched him go off into a corner of their cramped quarters. Already she could tell that he was a loner. There was no crime in that, except that she would feel a lot better if he had some playmates, or even desired them.

He studied the ball at his feet before he sat next to it and began to play. She had to admit that the boy’s innate sense of dignity was admirable. But she sensed that it was an incomplete virtue because there was no serenity at his center. His soul was hungry.

Was that the influence of his father? His real father? Was he the prodigal son?

Starbuck did his best to be supportive of her. After all, he had to face the same problem. If Cassie’s child was not Apollo’s but rather the son of the father of the Cylons, then everyone who had lived through the Cylon attacks faced the same dilemma. The boy was a problem. Did anyone dare suggest a solution?

She went to him and stroked his hair. He did not respond but remained fixated on the ball. She wondered if the worst possible scenario came to pass, might there not still be hope. The future wasn’t only in a child’s eyes. It could also be in a mother’s heart.

The community could unite in love to guide the destiny of one lonely human child adrift in the cosmos. Cassie must make sure. Her love must inspire the love of her neighbors. She must make the difference herself.

At times like this she desperately wanted to talk to Baltar. He had insights beyond what even Apollo could offer. Alas, both were now beyond her reach.

The boy at her feet busied himself with the ball. He held it more as an object of study than an object of play. He seemed to enjoy the mere act of possessing the ball. He held it as though it contained the entire universe.

He held it out in front of him as if offering it to someone else; someone she couldn’t see.

Yes, at times like this it would be comforting to talk to Baltar. Cold comfort was better than none. Dangerous as Baltar had been, she never forgot that there were more dangerous things in time and space.

There was Count Iblis.

1

“How does it feel to breathe again?”

Apollo asked the question with a boyish grin. Sheba liked that. She placed the palm of her hand on his cheek and felt the warmth always there for her.

“I was ready to die with you,” she whispered. “It’s more fun to live with you.”

She moved in closer, face to face, and rubbed her nose against his. Then she licked his neck.

“What are you doing?” he asked playfully.

“Breathing you in,” she moaned. “You have a nice aroma, did you know that?”

“Maybe you’re suffering from oxygen starvation.”

“If so, then cut off my air again!”

That did it. He grabbed her and kissed her fiercely. “You’re my favorite flower,” he said.

“That’s just my perfume,” she said.

“That’s you, Sheba!” He kissed her a long time before coming up for air.

Holding hands, they looked out from the portal at a corner of the vast space ark. “I can’t believe it’s really there,” said Sheba.

Apollo squeezed her hand. “It’s not yet time for us to die,” he told her, thinking about Baltar and the supreme sacrifice made by his old nemesis. Imperious Leader could never have believed that Baltar would voluntarily die if he could take the Cylon invaders with him.

The funny thing was that almost no Colonial would have believed it either. As a testament to his friendship with Baltar, Apollo was glad that he was not shocked. Baltar the villain had become Baltar the hero. There were stranger phenomena in the space-time continuum.

“You know what I think?” asked Sheba.

“What?”

“I think we must have a purpose beyond ourselves. We must matter in the scheme of things. Otherwise, why do we keep surviving so many efforts to destroy us?”

“You don’t think it’s just a matter of luck, the way Starbuck does?”

“No way!” she retorted, noticing the far-off look in Apollo’s eyes. He was seeing a lot more than the hull of the space ark that had arrived at the penultimate moment with life-saving oxygen.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the Gamon didn’t play a role in our latest deliverance,” he said.

“I’d almost forgotten about them.”

“I never will, Sheba. Gar’Tokk helped me understand that after all our adventures and near escapes those seemingly primitive folks are the closest we’ve come to what we seek.”

“You mean Earth?” she asked, eyes wide.

He shook his head. “It’s not Earth by itself. It’s what lies behind our search for the original world. We are still trying to find ourselves. The Gamon are guiding us.”

“But they’re dead,” she said.

“Only in the sense we understand. The Elder made promises that I believe.”

Sheba wouldn’t take that kind of talk seriously from anyone else. But when it was Apollo she forced herself to open her mind to myriad possibilities. Apollo had been right too many times for any sane person to ignore his instincts or inspirations.

Sheba noticed that her hand was perspiring and removed it from Apollo’s grasp which was still dry. She placed her hand on his shoulder.

“What do you think happened to the others?” she asked.

“Finally divided,” he muttered, talking out loud to himself more than to his companion. “We had to do it, but I will always mourn this day we divided the fleet. We can’t know if the main body of the fleet survived and will reach the other solar system.”

Sheba surprised him by playfully punching him on the arm. “Of course we know they survived,” she contradicted him. “We were the doomed ones and yet here we are. By the Lords of Kobol, if we made it with all the odds against us then you know the others are all right!”

He nodded, refreshed by her optimism.“Come on Sheba,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. But first I’ve got a stash of good grog to share with you.”

“Will it intoxicate me?” she asked impishly.

“That’s up to you!”

“I know what you mean,” she said, slipping her arm into his. “With you, my dear Commander, life is always full of choices.”

While Apollo prepared himself to explore the new world of the Thirteenth Tribe’s ark, his sister was far away on a journey that, if successful, would open the door on yet another alien planet. Athena never admitted to her brother that she’d kept a small vial of soil from the planet Paradis. It was out of character for her, the stern space commander who should consider a few ounces of earth as unnecessary weight aboard a spaceship. But as the time finally arrived to leave the planet that had been a temporary home she felt the pull of the soil.

Athena looked at the monitor and saw the other ships of the fleet at the same distance they had been in space—now more or less in the same position but spread thin in hyperspace. It was a strange feeling to imagine the Galactica not under the command of her brother.

The screen in front of her flickered and she saw the imposing visage of President Tigh. “I’ve finished checking the supplies,” he reported.

“For the whole fleet? When was the last time you slept?”

He inclined his head. “Time enough to sleep if we fail. There is plenty of time in eternity.”

She grunted. “Don’t talk that way, Tigh. How are the supplies?”

“I’m concerned about the food. It won’t last as long as, well...as everything else.”

She bit her lower lip. “Nothing new about that. We’ve been in this situation before.”

Tigh sighed. “How true. At least we are alive and the odds favor us.”

“Unlike Apollo and the others,” she finished the thought for him.

“But we can’t dwell on that. Apollo wouldn’t want us to do that.” She felt the way you do when an arm is missing but you think it’s still there.

They didn’t speak for some time but neither moved to end the transmission. The division of the fleet was a palpable presence. It still seemed unreal, a gesticulating phantom reminding all colonials of their mutual misfortune.

Athena had lived all these yahren under the assumption that the fleet would never be divided. For good or ill, its fate must be one. To split the fleet was akin to dividing a human body and expecting the separate parts to go on living.

The unthinkable became possible. Finally, it was made inevitable by the lottery. Survival must overcome sentiment. After all, she was more like Commander Cain than she was ever like her own father.

Was she jealous that Apollo could draw on the strengths of both men? He could negotiate like Adama and yet be the resolute warrior worthy of Cain when words failed. It’s not that she didn’t try to be a diplomat when Apollo asked her to be one. She just wasn’t any good at it.

That’s why it was always a relief turning to her older brother when she was out of her depth. The cold pain in her stomach reminded her that she couldn’t do that any longer.

Would she ever see him again? The thought weighed on her. Only a sense of decorum on the bridge of her own ship saved her from breaking down. The thought that the colonials under her command might run out of water reminded her of her duty. She couldn’t afford to waste any water—not even her own tears.

“Athena?”

Tigh’s voice seemed to reach her down a long corridor. She had to get a grip on herself. A C.O. didn’t have the luxury of drifting like a piece of space debris.

“Sony, Tigh. What did you say?”

He would have reached through the screen and touched her if he could. “You asked how long I’ve been without sleep. Now it’s my turn. Sleep is a requirement. What is the protocol for me to give you an order?”

She laughed. “You’ve held every position, Tigh. Let’s see. There’s President Tigh. There’s Commander Tigh. Most importantly I feel as if you’re my uncle.”

“All right then, Commander Athena. As your putative uncle I order you to have your first officer relieve you so you can enter the Land of Nod.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir. Except I need to take a last report from Dr. Salik.” The lights flashing on her console sharpened her focus. She hated to delegate authority, that was the problem.

“I’m ready for your report, Doctor.”

Salik was brief, for him. “Some of our sensor equipment is out of order. It was not damaged in the jump to light speed. We simply didn’t finish all the essential repairs when we were back in the other solar system. Fortunately, the radscanners are fine.”

Athena mentally reviewed that radscanners provided data on any kind of energy. Without the capacity to detect all radiation sources, the fleet was in constant jeopardy.

“Which ones need work?”

“The chemical and biological scanners. When we get to the new planet, we’ll need them to locate essential resources and to determine if there is any life on the new world.”

“The same as Paradis,” added Athena with a note of longing in her voice. She remembered Starbuck’s face with blue sky behind him. She forced the image out of her mind. Nostalgia was a fifth columnist sapping her will, undermining her command.

“Get all the scanners working, Dr. Salik. We’ll need them when we reach our destination.”

She switched off.

Tigh was still there. “I notice you didn’t say if we reach our destination but when,” he observed with a smile.

“Yes.” She returned his smile.

“You are a fine leader,” he said. “You now understand what it means to be a supreme commander. I don’t envy you the crushing weight.”

“You are a true leader, always,” she echoed the compliment.

But both were thinking of Apollo.

Back in the Paradis system, a lone humanoid figure experienced a loneliness inconceivable to the human mind. A ragged Centurion survived the nova of force that had reduced so many of its immediate comrades to their constituent atoms.

A pure brute killing machine, the damaged Centurion hung on to a piece of metal that had belonged to a Cylon basestar. There was no curiosity in its still functioning brain. Neither were there standing orders. Nothing had been left standing.

So it drifted and waited for orders that would never come. It was too damaged to send out a signal. If there were other survivors in the star system, the Centurion had no way of reaching them. As for Cylons outside the system, they would never respond in any case.

There were no contingency plans. A calamity of these dimensions had never happened in the short and bloody history of this malign species. The winner of the Cylon civil war had forged a seemingly unstoppable force.

There was no point in making plans for failure when success was unavoidable.

None of this provided any solace to the lone figure adrift in the Paradis system. Programmed for war and destruction, there was nothing for it to fight. It only existed to be part of a larger whole, to serve the collective through force and violence. Now it was a monster without a job. This is one of the generation of new Centurions. The reptilian brain could feel pain its brothers never dreamed of—because they didn’t dream.

The red light of its sensor winked feebly inside its crumpled helmet. The last orders had been to show no mercy and sweep across all opposition in the system. The only real opposition had been Count Baltar, but he had proven to be quite enough.

So the Centurion waited for something to attack. Any little thing. A rock. Another piece of space junk. But it was drifting away from all the interesting debris.

If it had gone the other direction then it might have found others of its kind and again regained purpose. Or perhaps the gravitational pull of one of the remaining planets might have given it something to shoot at before burning up in an atmosphere, or smashing and scattering into hundreds of pieces on a barren moon. If the Centurion had been moving in the direction of the sun, it could have fired off a few shots at the giant, fusion furnace before disintegration.

But no such luck. The Centurion was drifting out of the solar system. It was headed for a long stretch of absolute nothingness.

Before such time as the last sparks of its life support winked out in the eternal night, it continued the long vigil of waiting for a last chance to shoot something.

2

Starbuck was royally pissed off. He’d finally made peace with his gods. For a man who believed in luck, it was perfectly obvious that he must be dealt a bad hand one of these days.

The colonials couldn’t go on cheating death any more than Starbuck could win every time he played pyramid.

So what if Apollo always seemed to have an ace up his sleeve? The man was cursed with a vision of implacable hope. Sometimes Starbuck thought that hope was more insidious than the Cylons. No one lived forever. Couldn’t the better part of valor ever include rolling over and dying? Apparently not when Apollo was in command.

Starbuck often had a dream that he’d been shot up pretty bad and his Viper had crashed. He would have died except that he couldn’t get permission from Apollo.

So how was it that his old comrade and bosom friend had taken a certain-death detail? Hell, that was Starbuck’s department. He still wasn’t sure how Apollo had talked him into going with the main fleet. He should have simply ignored Apollo the same way he had so many times before and stayed behind to face the invading Cylon hordes in a few old rust-bucket ships. That was a proper way to go out.

Part of him admired Apollo for staying behind. That was a given. But the other part of Starbuck really resented his pal for ordering him to go with the main body of the Fleet. It always came down to Apollo’s quaint ideas about duty. In this case, he said the fleet needed Starbuck’s warrior skills. But there was a lot more to it than that. Apollo’s sense of duty extended to more personal matters.

When it came to Cassie, Starbuck couldn’t be the man Apollo wanted him to be. But by all the Lords of Kobol, that girl, that woman, inspired him to be a lot more than what normally fell into his comfort zone.

Starbuck was very good at procrastination when he didn’t want to make a decision—especially those pesky irrevocable decisions that Apollo found so commendable.

If he had stayed behind in the Paradis system, then all his worries about Cassie and her strange child would have fallen away from him. He would have been free again, the way he felt when he first became a pilot. As Apollo took a last stand and gently slipped out of the universe, one more warrior couldn’t be expected to solve all the problems of a tarnished civilization, much less his personal problems.

Besides, what did personal problems matter at a time like this? Starbuck had done his best as far as he was concerned. It wasn’t his fault if his best wasn’t good enough.

There was nothing for him to do right now except brood on the past. The eternal present was a taffy pull of spacetime paradoxes, a cloud of possibilities that science and engineering and mathematics sailed through without benefit of Viper pilots. There was nothing for a warrior to do in hyperspace but sweat it out with the civilians. Here, the big brains ruled. Fast reflexes meant nothing. Agile minds that could sift through complicated equations and make the right educated guesses were the only reflexes that counted.

Hell, Starbuck was still trying to understand the plain wonder of regular old outer space. Interdimensional corridors that warped space and time only succeeded in giving him a headache.

They would all live or all die for abstruse reasons beyond the ken of the average Viper pilot. But the odds were in favor of a successful hop to a new solar system. While in this cocoon, Starbuck grew ulcers over the fighting he’d left behind—and the grim certainty that Apollo and other close friends must be dead by now.

Hyperspace was mainly a good excuse for Starbuck to get roaring drunk. Except that he was too depressed to do the roaring part. Under other circumstances, he would have built his own saloon if necessary so he could get into a highly salutary brawl. Not on this trip, though. He was just too damned depressed.

So that meant sitting in his quarters and getting quietly smashed all by his lonesome. As a last attempt to cheer himself up, he considered that his private stash of grog might be more than what a lot of other frustrated fighting men had on hand during this latest quest to unlock the wonders of the universe. Yeah, he might be very lucky indeed to have his personal supply on this trip.

As he drank on an empty stomach, he reflected on the moments in his life when he had been happiest. That seemed like a worthy project for one evening.

Many of his comrades might be surprised that he didn’t choose a battle where he smeared Cylon brains across an expanse of stars. He didn’t even select one of those pure and perfect moments when coming to the rescue of another pilot in extreme peril. Most surprising of all for those who knew him best, he didn’t bestow the honor on a night of lovemaking when he was at peak performance. In the final analysis, not even the fresh-scrubbed and stunning white smiles of two honey-blonde nymphs edged out his one true love. Flying. Just plain old flying. In an atmosphere or in space, that was what gave meaning to his life. Now with everything changing for the fleet yet again, he thought back to the early days when the bug first bit him.

There were no battles with Cylons then. The phony peace was still in place, the betrayal of Adama and all the human leaders still in the future. All the young Starbuck knew was that he wanted to fly off into the horizon and never touch ground again. God, it had been such a thrill just to pilot planes. Vertigo was his friend. The sensation of falling might inspire others with fear of death but that was when he felt alive. It was all good.

It was preparation for space.

At first he was worried that he might not make the grade because of his disinclination to study. But he lucked out. There was no advanced math. He didn’t have to figure out relative distances in his head. Advances in computers made it possible to have space jockeys who would never master trigonometry. He only needed to understand the trigger on his guns.

There were no crash courses in ballistics; no tour of the engine compartment with handy tips about what to do when anything and everything went wrong. As for the basic class in astrogation, he could handle that. That was even fun.

Starbuck fell in love with space. He wanted to see everything. He wanted to see the exotic hues of the moons and the stars, even more splendid than the smiles of his exotic bedmates.

He wanted to drink deep of the purples and violets of planets wreathed in poisonous gases. The spaceman drinks of these whirling brews and doesn’t get sick. He drinks with his instruments that work with his eyes—and the wonders of the universe make a straight line to his heart.

Starbuck’s initiation was to be alone with himself in the vast, black immensities of space and not feel alone. Apollo had a spiritual side that he would never understand, but that was all right. Starbuck’s communion was with the real universe as surely as any holy man, philosopher, or mystic sought spiritual transcendence. Outer space was his own, personal back yard.

The reason he hated Cylons was that they wanted to conquer the universe: Starbuck just wanted to see it.

In a strange way that he could never explain to Apollo, Starbuck felt the same way about women as he did about the natural wonders of outer space. His first time was with a professional socialator aboard a space hotel. She was still one of his most prized erotic memories. He hadn’t met Cassie yet, who was also in the trade back then. The funny thing was that he couldn’t even remember the girl’s name.

But then he couldn’t name every comet whose tail had brushed his ship.

Falling in love with space was fine. Falling in love with battle was a good thing for his fellow colonials who needed good fighting men. Falling in love with women was all part and parcel of being Starbuck, a logical and happy consequence of his zest for life.

Then it all went to hell when he really fell in love with Cassie. Throw in the star-crossed kid who apparently wasn’t even his and things only got worse. So Apollo made him go off with the main body of the Fleet and do his duty.

As if all that wasn’t bad enough, Starbuck realized he’d just emptied an entire bottle of grog, In a large bottle. Under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but open another bottle. Navigating his way out of bed proved more difficult than expected and he ended up unceremoniously on the floor.

As he watched the empty bottle slowly roll away, he realized that he had one other great love in his life. Drinking. That, and gambling.

As a giant belch escaped, he considered that anyone with such a full life didn’t need to settle down with just one woman.

He decided that the moment he sobered up he should spend some time in the simulator. At least he could practice for future battles more easily than perfecting the right things to say Cassie.

Why couldn’t he get her out of his mind? Somehow, some way, it must all be Apollo’s fault. He was very sorry that his old friend was most certainly deceased by now. Life wouldn’t be the same if he couldn’t argue with Apollo.

Right before he passed out, Starbuck realized that disputation with Apollo was yet another enthusiasm of his full and surprisingly satisfactory life.

Back in the Paradis system, Apollo had more on his mind than relationships among his friends and loved ones. He and Sheba wasted no time organizing a first exploratory group to investigate the space srk. If all went well, he would order another three groups, each with their own specialties, to make maximum use of this surprising opportunity.

They did not have a full complement of instruments to tell them about who or what might be waiting inside. However, they still had their weapons. Apollo didn’t feel comfortable about going armed into the ship—the timely arrival of which had saved eight hundred lives. But military preparedness did not always have to lead to conflict. He carefully selected individuals who were not quick on the trigger.

“Well, we won’t need spacesuits,” said Sheba after running a simple test. Apollo was grateful that they had at least retained some basic pieces of equipment

“Thank you, Sheba. That would have been a bit ironic, after receiving air from the ship, to run into an alien atmosphere or an airless hulk.”

“Shall we?” she asked, holding out her hand as if she were a waitress offering him the best table in the house.

“I’d say ladies first,” he said, “just in case of danger!”

She laughed. “I would never dream of depriving you the first gander at something new, my hero.”

He nodded and stepped forward into...

He couldn’t find the words. All he could do was gesture to Sheba and other members of the party. There was a collective gasp.

The sight was more than breathtaking and spectacular. Even for those who had experienced as much as the Galacticans the interior of the space ark still overwhelmed them with a sense of wonder. The sight filled the mind with echoes of the immortal, and left an ache that such had never been felt before by any member of the party.

Every wall and floor was transparent; the immensity of the ship was spread out before them as though a gigantic canyon had been made of spun sugar and thick yet clear glass. Light suffused everywhere, emanating from no discemable source. A low, humming sound suggested almost incalculable power that might conceivably never run out.

Small metallic forms could be seen darting around at the extremity of the ship. Sheba pointed. “What are they?”

Apollo stroked his chin. “I imagine some kind of servo-bots, only I have a feeling they aren’t about to rebel against humans.”

“No Cylons in this gang!” she finished his thought. “And what do you think those might be?” she asked, pointing out teardrop-shaped craft large enough to hold twenty people.

“I imagine those might be some kind of scout craft. Hopefully, they still work.”

“What do we do now, Commander?” asked one of Apollo’s men.

“A good question,” he answered. “I have the feeling we’re all about to go back to school.”

3

“Gar’Tokk, how can I be a warrior like you?”

The Borellian Noman took a good hard look at the young colonial who, as Apollo’s adopted son, mattered more to him than he wanted to admit. The young man stood arm-in-arm with his girlfriend, Caran. The two had been through so much together that they were mature beyond their years. If only that could be enough. But maturity in a colonial didn’t necessarily mean fertile ground to grow the sort of crop this boy wished to harvest.

“Isn’t it enough to be a warrior in the tradition of your forefathers?” asked Gar’Tokk. He could see frustration in the young man’s face. No one likes a question in response to a question. That particular method of argumentation had been one of Baltar’s most irritating traits. Maybe employing it now would put an end to the boy’s quest.

“No,” Koren answered in a clipped tone. “My real father was only a revolutionary. He was no warrior.”

“What about Apollo?” asked Gar’Tokk, feeling the weight of his years as a barrier between him and the young couple.

“I’m always asking him that,” volunteered Caran.

Koren held up his hand in an uncharacteristic motion—palm out, fingers straight. He could be a professor subduing an unruly classroom.

“I know,” he snapped. “But Apollo has learned from you, hasn’t he?”

“Apollo is my friend,” said the Noman.

“Mine, too,” echoed the girl.

Koren surprised his companion with the next remark: “He may have too many friends.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the girl, suddenly pulling away from Koren.

“I know why,” said the Noman. “Apollo is a leader. His is a hard and lonely destiny.”

Now Caran laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Koren wanted to know.

“It’s just the way that Gar’Tokk said that. He makes Apollo seem cold and distant, when he’s just the opposite.”

“I was agreeing with your young friend,” said Gar’Tokk. “Apollo’s life is harder because of his openness. To friends. To lovers.” The Noman paused, realizing how much he was admitting to these young humans.

“Apollo is open to higher states of consciousness,” Gar’Tokk elaborated. “Sometimes a leader needs to close himself off to anything that might distract from a higher purpose. His duty is to place the good of the whole first. Many warriors are happy to face death rather than make choices like that.”

Caran sensed a strange energy in the confines of the Noman’s chamber. She imagined that she might reach out and touch waves of electricity emanating from Gar’Tokk’s brow and reaching into her boyfriend’s receptive mind.

“Perhaps I should leave,” she suggested.

“I’d prefer you stay,” said Koren. “If Gar’Tokk has no objection.”

“The real question is if I’m inviting either of you to remain!” Gar’Tokk reminded his naive guests. They did a slow double-take and began edging toward the door. Breaking the tension with his booming laugh, Gar’Tokk reclaimed the earlier mood. “Of course, you are both welcome. Do you remember why you came?”

The boy wouldn’t be thrown off. “To learn about being a warrior. It’s just that we ended up talking about Apollo.”

“A common enough occurrence,” said Caran, playfully elbowing him in the ribs.

“Before you worry about the differences between Nomen and human warriors, you need to ask yourself how high a price you’d be willing to pay to take on the responsibilities of an Apollo.”

“I don’t want to be a leader,” Koren admitted a bit morosely.

“What do you think a warrior does?”

“Fight.”

“Who?”

“The enemy.”

Gar’Tokk nodded his great head. “And how do you decide the nature of the enemy?”

Koren grinned. “We all know the answer to that. Cylons!”

Caran clapped her hands. “You see how easy it is?” she asked, but there was something impish in her tone.

Koren felt as if he were flunking a test. “You’re not making fun of me, are you?” he asked his girlfriend.

“A warrior is a gentleman, young one,” Gar’Tokk admonished him. “Your female companion sees exactly where I’m going. If there were no Cylons, wouldn’t we still need warriors?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“Well, to fight other enemies, I guess.”

“Like the Gamon?” asked Gar’Tokk, allowing himself a rare smile. “Hey, they weren’t really enemies. They turned out to be friends.”

“How did we find out they were friends instead of foes?”

Koren was sorry he had started down this path. There was no stopping now. Logic was a cruel taskmaster.

“Apollo had a lot to do with it,” he said.

“Leadership.” Gar’Tokk made the one word sound like an encyclopedia of knowledge. “It began in his warrior heart but ended in a leader’s brain. The warrior makes a leader’s choices from the very beginning when he decides to follow an order. That is every bit as important as the giving of an order. It is not enough that the warrior places himself in jeopardy. He must commit himself to the cause for which he fights. It must be with his whole heart. You cannot make that kind of life-and-death decision without embracing the duty of a leader.”

All this was giving Koren a headache. “What if you just want to fight?”

Gar’Tokk placed his large hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder. “Anyone can fight. Fill a coward full of grog and you’ll see what I mean. But a warrior must believe. Out of that belief comes his bravery.”

“Can a warrior be afraid?” asked Caran.

“Every living thing experiences fear,” the Noman told her. “But a warrior turns that fear into a weapon to serve his destiny.”

“I want to learn,” said Koren, “to be a warrior like you.”

“First, learn to be any kind of warrior at all! You must care enough for those whom you say you love to die for them. More difficult is to kill for them! You must have a sense of honor. You must be gallant. You must have dignity.”

“It sounds like you’re describing a hero,” said Caran, her voice suddenly tender.

“I am.”

“There are so few colonials left to be any kind of hero,” said Koren, and then felt embarrassed to realize that compared to the sparse numbers of the Nomen, there were still plenty of humans to fight and elude the Cylons.

Gar’Tokk did not take offense. Gar’Tokk was a warrior. To live without a female of his species meant a constant emptiness. These young people couldn’t appreciate the depth of his loss. “When your numbers decrease, that is when it is all the more important to hold tight to your values. Come, young ones, let us go for a walk.”

“It still runs!” announced Sheba. She felt like dancing a jig.

“How can you tell?” asked Boomer, hunched over a tangle of controls that he found every bit as difficult to decipher as the flickering console under Sheba’s sure hand. “This is the most mysterious equipment I’ve ever seen.”

“I agree with you,” she said. “But it could be complicated and broken. I wouldn’t want to try and fix it. I can run it if it’s working. And it is. Look!”

Pushing a button, she marveled at how simple the controls really were, given their myriad functions. She was going to enjoy this.

“What do you make of it?” asked Boomer, coming close and placing his dark hand on her pale one.

“I think it’s information about the Cylon fleet in this system.” Boomer bent down and took a closer look. “How can there be any data on that? If ever an armada was wiped from the sky, that was the one! Baltar did a number on them!”

“Yes, Boomer,” Sheba replied with a bit of impatience, “but you don’t destroy that much machinery and that many ships without leaving tons of debris behind. Don’t forget what the destruction of Paradis left behind.”

“Yeah, but that was a whole planet.”

“So? We just wiped out one of the largest fleets in history! We’re alone in this damned system without supplies or much hope. We may find what we need in the remains of that fleet.”

“As we’ve been given a second lease on life with this space ark,” said Apollo, joining them. “I’ve just come from examining our own ships. Many of the computers were fried by the electromagnetic pulse from Baltar’s explosion.”

“He gave us a mixed blessing,” said Boomer. “Wholesale destruction usually is. What about our sensors, and the med-equipment?”

“Not as bad, but there’s still damage. What I want to know is the status of all the equipment aboard this ship.”

“It’s too soon to give you a full report,” said Sheba, “but will you settle for an educated guess?”

“With you, that means a lot more education and a lot less guesswork,” he replied. “Shoot.”

“This Ark is more advanced than anything we’ve got. I don’t think it has sustained any significant damage. The data coming in suggests a few survivals among the Cylon fleet as well.”

“Good,” said Apollo.

“Good?” echoed Boomer incredulously.

“Yes. We can use the operable shuttles in this Ark and explore those Cylon craft. I am interested in exploring the new technology that these more highly evolved Cylons have developed.”

“I’ll bet Baltar gave you an earful,” Boomer said.

Apollo took that comment as an invitation to share. “He told me enough to realize that the civil war between the Cylons led them to a higher technological level. Without Baltar’s timely sacrifice, we didn’t stand a chance against them. Now, all that’s changed. If we are going to survive, we need better equipment than the junk we took from our own fleet, for what was basically a deathwatch. The ark is a treasure house dumped in our lap, but it may not be enough. Let’s go check out the remnants of the Cylon fleet and maybe we’ll hit the jackpot.”

“I’d like to volunteer for the first patrol!” said Boomer standing up ramrod straight and saluting.

“You can help me put together several patrols,” Apollo told him.

“Commander, may I suggest an objective for the first patrol?” asked Sheba. He gave her the curt nod she desired and she pointed at a screen on her console. “It appears that we have a partially damaged Cylon Basestar within range of the scout ships.”

“You have already ascertained the range of these new ships?”

“Yes, Apollo, and it’s better than our Vipers.”

He nodded again. “That basestar may be important to us. Let’s get on with it. I want three scout ships for this mission. Meanwhile, I have a stop to make by sick bay.”

“I didn’t even know we had a sick bay with what we scrounged from the fleet,” said Boomer.

“Yes, we most certainly do,” said the commander.

It didn’t surprise her that she missed Cassie. She’d been like a mother to her when she needed a shoulder to cry on. Cassie had also been a mentor to her and shown the young nurse the ropes in this demanding profession—even during the best of times.

The exodus of the Galacticans across the stars was not exactly the best of times.

The young trainee had drawn one of the losing numbers in the lotteiy. Instead of crying about it, she went to Cassie and asked what she could do to help in medical emergencies when she was left behind. The two women embraced and Cassie slipped the young nurse more supplies than were allowed under the stringent rules of the lottery.

Not surprisingly, the girl ended up head nurse of the new makeshift sick bay. She had plenty of work, even before the air began to run out.

Baltar’s explosion had made things even worse. But the funny thing—the really surprising thing—was that she found herself missing him terribly. There had been times when she’d dreaded checking up on him. At other times she anticipated her duty almost with a sense of satisfaction. Or maybe it was pleasure.

Well, she couldn’t brood on any of that now. When she thought that they were all going to die she had still been busy but somehow it seemed manageable. Weirdly, now that it seemed that they would go on living, there just wasn’t enough time to go around. Taking care of everyone was impossible when life bloomed on the horizon.

“Elayna.”

The voice behind her made her jump. It had the same sort of power to disturb her she’d felt from Baltar, only this was a more comfortable sensation.

“Commander,” she said, turning to greet his strong face.

“Call me Apollo.”

“Yes, sir. I mean Apollo.”

“You’re tired.”

“All that matters is that I’m in good health and on duty.”

He picked up a report and began to read. “I can see that you and your staff have your hands full.”

“There aren’t many of us.”

“Well see that you have more help.”

“Thank you.”

“I also see that the explosion didn’t help matters, especially when you already had to deal with so many suffering from oxygen starvation.”

She brightened at the opportunity to talk to him about the troubles of sick bay. The burden had been more than she’d bargained for.

The information poured forth in a torrent. “The main problem was the speed of the decompression. Those caught near the hulk that gave way were in the worst condition. They began losing bodily fluids.”

She reached behind him and picked up another report. This was a day of many surprises as she felt her hand tremble as it brushed against him. “Commander—I mean Apollo—I treated patients in time to save their vision in some cases; and their hearing in other cases. The main thing we’ve had to fight is dehydration. Thank the Lords of Kobol that the ark brought us water as well as air.”

“Yes, it is the Lords of Kobol we must thank. Elayna, I want to ask a favor.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Yes?” she asked, head tilted baek as if awaiting a kiss.

“We are going to be boarding a Cylon basestar that survived mostly intact. We don’t know what we’ll find there. If we bring back one of the new breed of Cylons, we don’t know what to expect. Do you think you eould help us try to keep such a monster alive?*

“I’ll nurse any monster in the universe for you, Apollo!” she said a little too forcefully. Then she caught herself.

“I didn’t mean to say that Baltar was a monster,” she said.

“I understand.”

“I meant I’d do anything for you!” Again, she was flustered. This time she blushed.

“Thank you, Elayna,” he said, and gave her arm a friendly squeeze.

Right before he left, he gazed into her clear and beautiful brown eyes and said, “You have the warrior spirit”

4

Sheba was glad she had stayed behind in the Paradis star system with Apollo’s gallant few. She imagined that her father, the great Commander Cain, would have approved her choice. There was a lot of her father in her when she elected to take a last stand against a seemingly invincible Cylon armada.

A final gesture of defiance against the enemy was an admirable way to make one’s exit from the universe. Her father’s career might be seen as a series of last stands that he kept surviving by some miracle—until even his luck ran out.

The enemy had outnumbered them a thousand to one. Their air supply had run out. But apparently it wasn’t so easy to die when enrolled in Apollo’s army. He had a genius for survival, a trait he had in common with his father, Adama.

She normally didn’t allow herself the luxury of thinking about such things. Only when alone, like now, did she reflect on the reason that Apollo was around to continue fighting, when her father floated in space as a cloud of dust.

Cain had wanted to fight more than he wanted to survive. That was the basis of the conflict that had existed between him and Adama. In contrast, Apollo wanted to survive more than he wanted to fight. It truly was a case of like father, like son. But when the battle came to him, there was no fiercer warrior than Apollo.

There had to be more to it than that. Sheba had come to know Apollo as only a lover can. She’d reached beyond the physical and touched the spiritual side of his nature. It was in his capacity to risk himself for those he loved that he’d proven to be the finest man she’d ever known.

Maybe good luck could be earned—but rarely by doing the expected thing!

As for now, Sheba waited to be called up for duty. Apollo had ordered her to take a rest. How typical of him! She’d just started to get the hang of working on the ark.

“You haven’t had any more sleep than I have,” she pointed out to him. But the commander wasn’t interested in logic. He ordered her to rest.

Well, she would forgive him if she was among those sent to investigate the enemy base star that somehow had escaped Baltar’s final solution to the Cylon problem. That could prove every bit as interesting as the ark, and a lot more dangerous.

Despite limited space aboard the ragtag collection of ships, private accommodations were provided for the warriors who stayed behind. Pretty soon, living quarters would be arranged on the ark. For the moment, Sheba would have to settle for the small cave of private space she didn’t have to share with anyone.

She made a good-faith effort to follow orders, but sleep eluded her. Her small supply of medicinal aids included sleeping agents, but she didn’t want to use them. She just knew that the moment she took a pill Apollo would need her.

Unlike Starbuck, she didn’t much care to drink alone. So, the small flask of Ambrosia she had been saving for a long time remained untouched.

She smiled. A course of action was suddenly clear. There seemed nothing else to do for the fearless warrior and daughter of Commander Cain. Reaching under her pillow, she removed a comb that her father gave her when she was a little girl. She combed her long, dark tresses. The old magic always worked. She felt a deep calm settle about her like the rich cloaks worn by the council. That is, before the council found the deeper peace of eternal night.

“Ouch!”

She’d hit her first snag. She didn’t mind. There were a lot more where that came from. It felt good just to run the comb through her hair.

For a moment, she looked at a few strands caught in the comb and pulled them out. For some reason they made her think of Cassie’s blonde hair—and how often her father’s strong hands had stroked those yellow tresses before Apollo did the same. She could never stop thinking about Cassie.

At times like this, Sheba wished that she could have been closer to the woman who had loved her father and Apollo and Starbuck. What did it matter that so many others had shared her bed when she’d been a professional? That shouldn’t be held against her any more than all the kills on a warrior’s resume.

She’d also had to learn not to hold against her father the fact that he might have sprinkled the colony worlds with enough brothers and sisters for Sheba to command her own fleet. She’d learned that hard lesson back on Paradis.

Her right arm grew tired and she switched the comb to her left hand. Another snag was defeated. Doing her hair put her in a forgiving mood.

Suddenly the light went out in her makeshift cabin and she instinctively flung open the heavy piece of canvas that afforded her a modicum of privacy. The comb was on the bed. Her right hand held her gun. She didn’t even notice she’d picked up the weapon.

“Everything’s all right,” a voice called out. She recognized Boomer’s deep tones. “There’s no emergency in this vessel. Just a glitch. The lights will be back on in a few centon.”

No matter. She was off duty. It was a wonder that they could make anything work with the materials they had. Thank the Lords of Kobol for the ark. There were little inconveniences, nothing life threatening.

Besides, sitting in the dark and combing her hair inspired a little trip down memory lane. When her father realized how serious she was about becoming a warrior he enrolled her in a program certain to shake the confidence of any but the most stalwart.

She was only fifteen when she was crammed into a slow moving transport ship. The CO was a man with the loudest voice she’d ever heard.

“You’re all a bunch of slaggers!” he shouted, setting the tone for a memorable excursion. She’d never forget him.

“We don’t have fuel to waste on the likes of you would-be daggit warriors! We’re using a transfer orbit because it’s fuel efficient. Hope you all appreciate that!”

One extremely foolish cadet dared to say, “We do, sir.”

“I’ll remember that you have a big mouth!” came the reply.

“To continue,” spat out their tormentor, “we took off in a sharply elliptical orbit that will result in reaching our destination at the peak of its orbit. I refer to an ellipse that just touches the orbit of your miserable home world and the orbit of the destination. There was only a launch window of a few days. We took off moving in the same direction as your planet’s orbit, which you probably think is the jewel in the crown of the Twelve Colonies. All you really need to know is that we are taking the most direct route our fuel will allow.”

“Where are we going?” another foolish cadet asked. A micron later Sheba was horrified to realize the words had come out of her own mouth.

“Since you’re so anxious to find out, I’ll give you the privilege of double-shifts as we near it.”

“I’ll bet it’s a real battlestar,” came a voice from the back. This time the CO didn’t place the owner.

“Enough felgercarb!” he yelled. “No more talk. You’ll listen to me. And since you want to see so much I have a little surprise for you.”

That’s when the lights went out all over the ship. The fearless leader had done his job well. No one dared to speak.

After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke in an almost normal voice. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “You kept your traps shut. No one even asked if this was an accident or deliberate. You’ve been so well behaved, I’ll level with you. For the next couple of weeks you’ll be in the dark except for a little treat I have for you because you’re so well behaved.”

Sheba had enjoyed the sensation of free fall shortly after reaching orbit from her home world. She was also just as happy when the artificial gravity was turned on. It seemed too sadistic to believe that after plunging a shipful of teenagers into darkness that some maniac would switch off the artificial gravity.

But that’s what happened next.

At that exact moment the young Sheba gritted her teeth as she imagined the annoying smile of her father. There was no way that Commander Cain was going to make her back down from her dream just because of a CO’s silly prank.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the blackness and she saw that everyone’s name tags were glowing in the dark. She was glad that she had been obedient enough to use hers. Then she made out vertical and horizontal slivers of light. A thoughtful officer had affixed strips of luminescent material to handgrips so the cadets could find them more easily. Sheba was in favor of anything that would allow her to go fore and aft with a minimum of bashing into people.

As Sheba grabbed a convenient handhold, she experienced an epiphany. It dawned on her that the military was no worse than other human organizations when it came to routine. Whatever revolting ritual they had planned would be no worse than spending time with the playground bully back at school. Whatever lay in store was no more than an elaborate game that the officers were stuck playing as well. The cadets would have something to think about other than the tedium of space travel. And it wouldn’t compare to the first time any of them faced an enemy that wanted to kill them. Although the council promised generations of peace, the warriors were the necessary pessimists.

No one bumping around in the dark of a spaceship on that special day of Sheba’s initiation had any idea of how important their games would soon be. The future waited for all of them and it wore the shiny, unforgiving face of a Cylon.

“Lights coming back!” came Boomer’s voice, echoing down the corridors of time and pulling Sheba back to the present; back to a world in which she’d lost her father but not before making him proud of his warrior daughter.

She was ready for duty. Apollo didn’t make her wait very long.

With his naked eye, Kornberg could see the bright star that was the Cylon basestar. He was proud to have been selected for this mission. He didn’t think the commander would entrust such a responsibility to a tech at his level. But he’d impressed Apollo with how swiftly he mastered the intricacies of the ark. He couldn’t put it into words exactly, but he was good at dealing with subtleties when it came to machines. These machines spoke his language. He knew how to talk to them better than he did people.

When the main body of the fleet left for a new solar system they’d taken most of the Vipers with them. But Tigh and Athena had refused to leave Apollo with nothing. There was no way Galacticans were going down without the means to fight.

Now the remaining Vipers were outfitted and ready to reconnoiter a big metal chunk of Cylon real estate. But more compact fighting ships were needed and that’s where the bounty of the ark came in.

The only trouble was that the new ships (which, in actuality must have been very old ships) were more advanced than the Vipers and difficult to master in the time allotted. That’s when every surviving hands-on tech and every cloud-in-the-sky scientist had to prove their worth.

Apollo chose Kornberg to provide tech support for one of the oddly shaped teardrop craft. He chose to fly this one rather than take an old comfortable Viper.

The tech found the commander’s words inspiring: “We are a ship short and I’m not going to ask anyone else to do what should be my responsibility.”

Sheba was with him. He gave her the choice and she insisted on coming aboard. “I don’t trust any craft that doesn’t have a proper navi-hilt or turbolasers,” she said.

“I offered you a Viper,” he responded.

She had a ready answer. “That ship is for Boomer. Besides, I trust you, Apollo.”

The young tech enjoyed listening to the spirited exchange between two people he greatly admired. He considered them heroes. Although he’d never imagine being in their league, a friendly squeeze on the arm from Sheba gave him hope.

“There it is,” said Apollo.

The commander’s eyes made out the defining lines of the ponderous craft from the viewport while Sheba and Kornberg were still squinting at the data on their flatscreens. Apollo was in his element.

The complicated console of color-coded buttons was behaving according to the projections. The only challenge was to keep down the speed of the teardrop shuttle so that the Vipers could keep up. The investigating team was going in together.

As the basestar filled the viewport and everything could be clearly seen, the tech gave a low whistle. Glancing sheepishly at his companions, he was relieved to see that they didn’t use that as an excuse for having fun at his expense.

Sheba even added her own exclamation: “You can say that again!”

Komberg had never seen anything like the Cylon basestar. Although he had been informed that it was the equivalent of a colonial battlestar, he never would have made the connection. To his civilian eyes, the gigantic vessel looked more like several modernist hotels from his own world all smashed together around a crazy pancake superstructure.

As they cautiously approached, he had another impression. He remembered all the time it had taken his mother to save up to purchase a chandelier for the family dining room. The deadly Cylon craft reminded him of that ostentatious lighting fixture from long ago.

Komberg would have liked to pay attention to the details of the orders Apollo was giving to the other ships but he was busy with his own job. He did notice that the Commander was succinct and changed broadcast frequencies.

“It would have been nice to maintain radio silence,” he told Sheba after signing off.

“You would have needed to send a probe first to check out the lay of the land,” she reminded him.

“We’re fresh out.”

“If we had had more time to figure out how to make use of the ark’s sensors we might not have needed to show up in person at all,” she added wistfully.

“Let’s ask Komberg about that,” said Apollo, next addressing the novice at adventure. “How long do you think it will take to make full use of everything in the ark?”

“We may never find out, Commander.”

“Exactly. We couldn’t wait any longer when it’s time to police our backyard.”

“That looks like an entrance,” volunteered the tech, pointing at a largely undamaged landing bay.

“No lights,” said Sheba. “Hopefully that means a dead ship.” She smiled. “I’m not always in favor of light.”

Inadvertently, Apollo and the tech exchanged glances. It was a classic male exchange of What the hell does she mean by that?

They didn’t have long to ponder the nuances of the war between the sexes. Another battle potentially loomed. The children of the fleet that stayed behind descended to a citadel belonging to their ultimate enemies.

The equipment aboard the shuttle proved its worth in the hands of the young tech. “Breathable atmosphere in most sections,” he announced.

“It’s amazing this basestar survived,” said Sheba.

“Baltar would not approve,” Apollo commented wryly. "We must be on our guard.”

Then came the moment that Kornberg both dreaded and desired. Apollo looked him in the eye and made him an offer. “It’s up to you, Kornberg. I know you aren’t trained for action but you can come with us and have a weapon. Or, you can stay here with a weapon. I wouldn’t normally bring an untrained man into a dangerous situation but may need your expertise.”

“I’m coming along, Commander,” the tech said with a smile. “When I lost in the lottery I figured that my life was on borrowed time anyway.”

Sheba gave him a weapon. “You’ve fired these before?” she asked.

“Yes, but I’m not very good.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Apollo with a grin. “If there’s trouble just point in front of you and try not to shoot any of us.” As they exited the saucer, Sheba tried to cheer him up some more. “If there are active Cylons still aboard this ship you might be in greater danger if you stayed here alone.”

To illustrate her point, the Vipers arrived and the tech was soon surrounded by trained warriors. He didn’t know many of their names or their particular exploits, but one look told him that here were men and women who knew what they were doing. Their confidence was contagious.

“Let’s do it,” said Commander Apollo.

The heavy metal door blocking their way into the first corridor wasn’t working on automatic, but Boomer proved himself a natural born tech in his own right. Sheba already appreciated that her friend could be a good electrician. He proved it again by doing what a man’s gotta do when the juice is off.

“We can open this door manually,” he said, and went to work.

Apollo gave the order that everyone knew by heart. “Weapons at the ready.”

“Look at that,” whispered Komberg. A bright light speared into the landing bay that had only been illuminated by lights from the Vipers and the shuttle.

“This place isn’t as dead as we thought,” said Apollo.

Right on cue, a huge Centurion, easily nine feet tall, came lurching into the corridor. It had a slightly damaged leg but all that did was make the monster limp. The important thing was that it was still functioning—to what extent they would soon find out. Its pulse rifle proved to be working just fine. Sheba acted with lightning speed. She pushed Komberg down just in time so that the raging column of blazing energy just creased the top of the tech’s head.

“Stay down!” Sheba yelled as he started to inch up. He did his best to obey her while still sneaking a peek at what was going on.

“Try to take it alive!” Apollo ordered. Kornberg could see the impacts of the weapon’s blasts in a close pattern on the Centurion’s bum leg. It was a good idea, but the results were less than satisfactory.

Instead of toppling over, the Centurion swiveled on its hips and got off its first sure shot. The warrior immediately behind the tech screamed as the pulse of energy tore through his chest. Komberg felt the man’s blood splash on his head and shoulders before the warm, salty trickle reached his face and mouth.

His desire to throw up was quickly overcome by sheer terror. It was as if all his bodily functions had been put on hold. All except the faster beating of his heart and his labored breathing. “Take cover!” shouted someone in the back. There was another hissing of the Cylon pulse rifle and the thud of another warrior’s body crumbling to the ground.

“Apollo!” yelled Sheba. “Are you sure that taking this mugjape alive is such a good idea?”

A volley of fire going in both directions over his head was so loud that Komberg thought he was going deaf. Then, through the ringing in his ears, he heard Apollo countermand the previous order.

“Destroy that Centurion!” It wasn’t easy, but the job was done.

From the floor, the reluctant addition to the warrior ranks watched the gratifying spectacle of the lone Centurion blown into a dozen pieces by the full fire of every warrior left standing in the landing bay. The only weapon that hadn’t been used belonged to the tech. He felt that his hand was frozen to the piece of metal and that wouldn’t make it very easy to pull the trigger.

“We’ve got a task ahead of us,” said Apollo, shaking his head. “This new breed demands further study.”

Sheba helped Kornberg to his feet and again said something he couldn’t figure out: “Sometimes the worst things aren’t in the dark.”

5

Imperious Leader retained his title. He was still leader despite recent setbacks. That’s why he insisted that his followers address him appropriately, even though they had been reduced to a handful. So long as he commanded a small force, there was always the possibility of one more campaign. But if his next sortie failed then it would truly be the end.

Imperious Leader understood that the new leader of the evolved-reptilian Cylons must consider himself master of all he surveyed. Victorious in the Cylon civil war, the usurper had imagined that his gigantic force would make short work of the human vermin in the Paradis system. The new leader had sent a sardonic message to Imperious Leader. The point was clear. The old war-horse was receiving a temporary respite from inevitable destruction while the new Cylons took care of old business.

And there was no older business than achieving final victory over the soft and repellant human race! So long as the Colonials lived, they provided a reminder that all breeds of Cylons owed their existence to human intervention in the evolutionary process. Count Iblis cast his long shadow over all of them.

Although Imperious Leader believed only in logic, he experienced something close to satisfaction fluttering in his silver-gray chest when his spy reported that the new Cylon expeditionary force had met with defeat in the Paradis system. The apparent cause was a gigantic explosion caused by none other than Baltar!

Upon receiving the news, something interesting happened. It wasn’t exactly an emotion that gnawed at the Leader’s three cold brains, but it was damned close.

Imperious Leader wished that a certain human reprobate he’d come to know quite well was still around so that he could talk to him. The old Cylon with his seasoned triple-brain would be surprised to learn that he shared this particular frustration with Apollo: they both missed Baltar.

Baltar had a certain flair—an original way of sizing up problems and a happy propensity of sharing his insights with anyone willing to listen. It was a crime to remove such a valuable resource from the spacetime continuum.

During the course of the seemingly endless war, Imperious Leader had discovered a quality that he shared with Baltar. In fact, he shared it with all the colonials. This seasoned veteran of the Cylons possessed a full and rich memory. For a cold and emotionless mind to have the capacity of drawing on the details of past experience without ever developing an honest feeling was a cruel irony. After all, that was the process by which intelligent living beings enriched themselves.

Baltar explained the problem to Imperious Leader when he was playing the role of both captive and collaborator in a Cylon basestar. “Humans laugh and cry for the same reason,” he told the gray eminence who hung on every word. “They remember experiences—their own or other people’s! Then they project possible outcomes from rearranging those memories. They are happy or sad accordingly.”

“I don’t understand,” his unlikely student admitted.

“What part don’t you grasp?”

“You said that humans can build these emotional constructs on the experience of others!”

“Yes.”

“How is that possible?”

“It’s called empathy.”

“It must be a weakness.”

“Not necessarily. It all depends. It can be a strength or a weakness depending on the context.”

On that particular day, Imperious Leader realized that he was close to solving part of the human mystery. He asked Baltar a crucial question: “Do you engage in empathy?”

“Not according to my enemies, but I’m a human being the same as they are. Of course I empathize.”

“When they call you a traitor and a villain, are they saying you do not engage in this human trait?”

“I doubt they think about it that profoundly. Speaking for myself, I can tell you that there have been times when I imagine the fate of the humans I betrayed so vividly that I live through a waking nightmare. I assure you that I feel guilt.”

“What is guilt?”

Baltar laughed scornfully. “That concept will come at the end of the course, Imperious Leader. Answering that question will be your final exam.”

“Again, I fail to understand.”

“What you want to know is how human emotions work. You have an engineering mind. You are looking for a formula that will enable you to predict behavior so that you can plan accordingly.”

“Yes.”

Baltar shook his head. “Emotions are a variable beyond the ability to compute. Sometimes they will lead humans to act stupidly and you can take advantage of that. Other times those same emotions will inspire courage and bravery. Those are the emotions one should learn to fear in the enemy.”

“Do you have courage and bravery?”

Baltar shrugged at that question. “Few of my kind would say I do. But they don’t understand me. It takes courage to betray the human race. As I was saying before, I have more empathy for my victims than you’ll find in these heroes like Starbuck when they blow an enemy to hell and back.”

“They hate you.”

“Yes. You understand the emotion of hate, at least in the abstract. It is a narrow emotion. It leads to anger, and that often leads to mistakes. There are more profitable emotions if you want to win a war over the long haul.”

“But why do your fellow humans hate you instead of simply working toward your destruction?”

“From their point of view, I have let down the side. I’m not playing the game. I have no honor and no sense of responsibility to other members of my species.”

“Do you agree with that assessment?”

Baltar smiled. “Yes and no.”

“I do not accept blatant contradictions.”

“Imperious Leader, I have explained that I acted as I did because I saw the larger picture. I assumed your inevitable victory—and it was better that certain members of my species survive on your terms than our DNA be wiped from the universe.”

Inevitable victory. Those words seemed long ago now. At some point Baltar had stopped believing in the concept. The question was whether or not Imperious Leader now shared similar doubts.

As he surveyed his ever-shrinking empire and drew up plans against the Cylon usurper, the Leader remembered something else that Baltar had told him in that fruitful conversation of long ago. It was what the man had said about hatred being a limited emotion.

Perhaps in the words of the human traitor were the seeds of victory against the new breed of Cylons. The entire movement toward the more reptilian Cylon—getting back to the racial roots—meant the reptilian brain would become predominant over the machine logic that had been the driving force of the First Cylon Empire.

A captured Viper pilot had said he was “giving in to his reptilian brain” when he died rather than give up information that should have been forthcoming from state-of-the-art torture techniques. When Imperious Leader asked Baltar what his fellow human being meant by referring to himself as having a reptilian brain, mankind’s greatest traitor chuckled. When the Leader pointed out quite reasonably that humans were the product of mammalian evolution, Baltar broke into uproarious laughter that lasted for an annoyingly long stretch of time.

Now, in a different place in a different time, as Imperious Leader thought back over an expanse of the dead that included Baltar, now finally did the Cylon’s cold and impervious mind begin to detect the meaning underneath Baltar’s laughter. Humor was about pain.

The human mind was full of jagged concepts and brittle dreams in a constant state of flux. When they rubbed against each other they produced sparks that created emotions. The strongest of these were love and hate, pleasure and pain. Imperious Leader was most interested in pain because it produced both laughter and tears.

Baltar had thrown down a challenge when he declaimed that not even a three-brained Cylon could work out a formula for seemingly unpredictable human emotions. Imperious Leader doubted that Baltar was right. Given time, a proper diagram could be produced for the behavior of all humans.

That would be something worth developing. Maybe such a template could be constructed to predict the behavior of the most unpredictable of all humans in Cylon experience—their greatest enemy, Apollo.

Meanwhile, there was a far easier task at hand. Only one emotion drove the usurper and the new breed of Cylons, the emotion that Baltar had promised was the easiest to understand and to map out.

Hatred.

That was what the dying Viper pilot had meant when he referred to himself as possessing a reptilian brain. Indeed, the new Cylons were nothing if not the embodiment of a reptilian brain.

How ironic. Reptiles carried no such emotional burden. But the new reptilian Cylons behaved as if they were narrow and bigoted human beings. They even intended to combine human and Cylon DNA in their biotech experiments, which could only make matters worse. Baltar’s words now burned in the brain of Imperious Leader.

Ultimate victory over the usurper might stem from the same thing that convinced Imperious Leader that he must also prevail over any human beings he would find in the universe, whether the ragtag collection of Colonials or even a whole nest of them on the mythical home world of Earth.

Humans had many emotions. The new Cylons were driven by the emotion of hatred. But the remnants of the old Cylons could still beat them all by the application of cold, remorseless logic.

It never occurred to this old Cylon, bred for thinking and planning, that he was experiencing an emotion right then—the emotion of hope. But there was something to his position. An enraged opponent lacked patience. For the new Centurions and their young leader, strategy and tactics were reduced to a headlong rush at the human target. That had not succeeded in the Paradis system because of an effective counter-attack launched by one human being with his emotions firmly under control. Baltar had died a calm man, firm in his resolve.

But two could play at that game. At no point had Imperious Leader panicked as the civil war went against him. There was no plan in the universe that would inspire irrational decisions from a single one of his pulsating three brains. If a plan failed, he simply dropped it and moved on.

He would find a plan to fight the usurper.

He would deal with the humans.

As for the latter, his methods would remain uncontaminated by hatred or any other irrelevant emotion. The original approach of the Cylons was still the best. Exterminating the human race was simply a job.

Elayna found Vesil wasting soap again in one of the makeshift bathrooms. She didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings but she had to put her foot down now or there really would be a problem. Elayna was only two years older but from the moment she was put in charge of this sick bay she’d felt the weight of years settle over her—and wished that she could reach through hyperspace and ask Cassie for advice.

“What are you doing?” Elayna asked, although it was plain to see.

“Oh,” said the girl, surprised. No other words escaped her rose-petal lips.

“We’ve talked about this before,” said Elayna.

“But I’m washing up between patients.”

Elayna came over and placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder. Vesil involuntarily pulled away. Elayna didn’t take offense.

“You know the rules,” she told the girl. “We have limited supplies and we have segregated the patients according to ailments. We can recycle the hot water but there simply isn’t enough soap to wash between each patient in the special wards. We don’t have sterile gloves. We don’t have enough of anything.”

“I’m sorry.”

“But it’s worse than that, Vesil. You are washing while still dealing with the same patient, aren’t you?”

Tears began to well up in the young blonde’s eyes. “I’m afraid,” she said.

“I know. But in a place like this, under these conditions, you must simply get control of your fears. You are germaphobic. You were even afraid of my contact right now and all I did was touch your shoulder.”

The other girl nodded and bit her bottom lip. She was still trying to hold back the tears. While she was suffering through being called on the carpet, she had hurriedly dried off her hands. The trouble was that even though her palms were dry she kept rubbing them until they were red.

“Vesil,” said Elayna quietly as she reached down and took the towel away. “If we had gone with the main fleet I’d relieve you of this duty. But I can’t do that. We are so short-handed that I’ve even asked for help from some of the technicians.”

“What do they know about medicine?”

“Anyone with a background in engineering can be taught the basics of anatomy. The human body is just another kind of machine.”

“I never thought about that.”

“Look, dear, I think it’s very brave of you to have volunteered for this duty given your fears. May I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a lover?”

“Why do you ask?” asked Vesil.

Elayna sighed. “I want you to think about your present and past. Do you have any idea of how many germs are exchanged during lovemaking?”

The other girl’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” she said. “I never thought about that.”

“So what is the point of this obsessive concern to try and avoid every germ? Even in a proper life center where they can sterilize everything, you still run a risk.”

“I know.”

Elayna touched the girl on the shoulder again, and this time she did not pull away. “It’s going to get worse, you know. Right now Commander Apollo and a search party are investigating a Cylon basestar that avoided destruction. They are going to want volunteers to work with possible survivors. Do you understand?”

“Cylons?” said Vesil with amazement. “What kind of diseases do they have?”

Elayna shrugged. “Not my field of specialization. Besides, these could be new kinds we’ve never seen before.”

“I see,” said the girl, closing her eyes.

“Look, honey, you don’t have to volunteer for any of those assignments.”

Vesil brightened at that and asked, “Are they bringing those creatures back here or leaving them there and having volunteers go over?”

“I don’t know, but that’s a good question. Right now, though, you need to focus on something else. Can I count on you to continue working with our regular old human patients without running from every possible germ in the place?”

The younger girl nodded and took the towel back from Elayna’s hands. She neatly folded it and then placed it on the counter. She wasn’t looking at the head nurse but stared at the floor instead, struggling with her decision.

She raised her eyes to Elayna and said, “I owe you an apology.”

“Thank you,” said Elayna, “but none is needed. Tend to your patients—focus on easing their pain and making them well. It’s an important job, but I think you can do it.”

“I will, Elayna. I have to.”

6

Waiting was the hard part in any battle. It didn’t matter if it was in outer space behind the controls of a Viper, or crouched down in a long blue-gray corridor, holding one’s breath.

Apollo knew all about waiting. He had fought so many battles and killed so many enemies that a part of him was numb forever. That’s why it was so important to him when he had the opportunity to operate on another plane. Meditation was a lifeline to sanity. Transcendental truth did more than bring meaning to life. It also brought meaning to death.

Every time Apollo had risen in the ranks he took on more responsibility. But he also learned to deal with emergencies and how to delegate authority. His was a uniquely human journey that the Cylons could try to destroy but would never understand. Apollo processed more data in his single brain than ever flowed through the three brains of Imperious Leader. When Apollo entrusted a command to a raw recruit, he was making decisions about character and fortitude. All Imperious Leader could do was run the statistics—and calculate how many times a particular function would have to be repeated by interchangeable Cylons until the mission was accomplished.

Now, as Apollo and his hand-picked team faced the toughest Centurions they had ever faced, he drew on past experience, allowing for the fact that the new incarnation of the enemy was harder to kill. But he didn’t know that their strategy had changed. How many Cylons had he personally destroyed? He couldn’t hazard a guess. His body and his mind operated on automatic pilot when going up against these gleaming, antiseptically encased foes. These monsters simply didn’t have the individual initiative of human beings.

At least, not until now.

The one they had wasted in the landing bay really didn’t have the opportunity to show any initiative. Surrounded by colonial warriors, it simply used up every erg of energy in its pulse rifle until it was reduced to scrap metal and bleeding tissue. The only thing Apollo learned from the encounter was that the thing was bigger, the armor harder, and the flesh inside was more resistant to heat.

Boomer said he missed the purely mechanical Centurions. The colonials had become adept at fighting them. Apollo didn’t think they should miss any past monsters. Why couldn’t there be improvements for the purely mechanical opponents if the new Cylon Empire was intent on improving everything else?

“Casualties?” Apollo inquired.

“Four. At least no one needs a trip to the life center,” Sheba answered dryly. When supplies were low, a clean death had its points.

At that moment Apollo could only think about Cassie in the real life center of the fleet. There was no comparison to what they were using for sick bay. But he was grateful that they had anything at all. They were still uncovering unexpected treasures aboard the great ark. Maybe they would find more medicines there.

“Do you want us to take tissue samples?” asked Sheba, wiping purple Cylon blood from her boot and then tossing the cloth away.

“There’s lots more where that came from,” Apollo answered grimly. “Besides, I want to find out the condition of the medical supplies and labs on this basestar. Let’s move out.”

They managed to go fifteen clicks before they heard the first sound, a single pair of boots—heavy, metal boots tramping down the corridor. The next sound was a whimper from the unhappy tech who gave every indication of preferring to be anywhere else.

“Kornberg,” said Apollo through clenched teeth.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Maybe it was a bit harsh but it had the desired result. Make the man afraid of his superior and he might forget, if only for a micron, his fear of the enemy. That brief moment when the man’s terror was held in check might conceivably save all their lives.

They were as well dispersed as possible under the circumstances, waiting for the next appearance of the enemy. Apollo felt prepared. He wasn’t expecting any more surprises, at least not on a conscious level.

But that’s where the mystical dimension of his personality came in so handy in dangerous situations. That side of Apollo always expected a surprise or two. That’s why he could actually adapt to a situation faster than he could think.

The Centurion did not announce, “Intruders,” or “Intruder alert!” Its flashing red eye scanned the corridor and the voice, still metallic but had a new sibilant quality; it threatened the men and women lying in wait, ready to attack him.

“You’ll never get out of here alive!” cried the Cylon voice.

Those words brought Apollo up short. He’d never heard anything like that from a Cylon. It was too personal, as though the creature actually wanted to avenge its fallen comrade.

However, there was no time to ponder the nuances of Centurion rhetoric, as a beam of pulsating force tore through the portion of bulkhead that was providing a modicum of protection to Apollo and his squad.

“Defensive action!” Apollo ordered. Those in back demonstrated their training by taking cover behind a bend in the corridor. Those in front with the commander performed a zig-zag motion that the corridor was just wide enough to accommodate.

“Fire at will!” Apollo shouted, as he got off the first shot, simultaneously diving out of the path of the deadly beam. He felt a burn on the upper part of his arm and caught a whiff of his own roasting flesh. The Cylon enemy fared less well.

Apollo’s shot hit square at the spot below the shoulder, where a butcher would use his cleaver for maximum effect. Despite the improved armor, the Centurion’s arm came off with a hideous pop and skidded across the floor, leaving a smear of bodily fluids that seemed to combine black oil with purplish blood.

Before Apollo could pull the trigger again, Sheba fired over his head with the sure aim she inherited from her father. Commander Cain could have done no better. Her shot took out the visor, burning the wet reptilian eyes behind the scanning equipment in the now ruined helmet.

So far, so good.

But what happened next was simply not in the rule book. With its remaining good arm, the Centurion ripped the smoking wreckage away from its face, fell to its knees and groped around until it found the pulse rifle that had been damaged by the blast. The Cylon soldier picked up the rifle by the barrel and started swinging it like a club.

“I don’t think it likes us,” Sheba whispered in Apollo’s ear.

“I believe you’re right,” he agreed, rising unsteadily to his feet. He took his next shot.

The Centurion screamed a sound such as no human ear had ever heard and ran straight at Apollo’s weapon.

This time the enemy fell under a barrage of fire, the body crumpling a few feet in front of Apollo. A last gurgling sound came out of the smashed helmet. They were the words, “Death to all humans.”

“This one is still in one piece, ‘cept for the arm,” said Boomer. “Maybe we can salvage some data.”

“We have to secure the base first,” Apollo reminded his old comrade.

“I can’t get over what it said,” was Sheba’s contribution.

“Don’t they all talk that way?” asked Kornberg, the tech as he sheepishly came up from behind him. Sheba glanced over her shoulder and then turned away quickly with a little smile. The man didn’t notice that he had been so frightened that he wet himself.

“No,” said Boomer. “That Centurion attacked like it was a Warrior.”

As if the tech didn’t feel out of place already he looked around nervously, with no idea why everyone was laughing.

“All right, settle down,” said Apollo, successfully managing not to laugh himself. “It’s like this, Kornberg. Warriors wouldn’t try something like that unless they had run out of options. But if there is nothing else to lose, why not?”

“I think I understand,” said the man in a hurt tone. His remorse was good enough for the fighters to stop giving him a hard time.

Boomer grinned. “I’d like to amend what I said. That was more like the last stand of a Borellian Noman. If we’d had Gar’Tokk with us, he’d back me up.”

“Why isn’t Gar’Tokk here?” asked Sheba.

“He wanted to come but I insisted he stay behind,” said Apollo. “I reminded him of the time your father and my father disagreed about using both their battlestars to go against three Cylon basestars, which would have left the fleet unprotected.”

“I remember,” she told him, hand brushing his arm so he would know that their own disagreement back then should remain in the past. Apollo didn’t mention that Adama had been right and Cain flat wrong.

“That example was good enough for Gar’Tokk,” he said. “We never know what new dangers are waiting for us! No matter how diminished our numbers, if there is only a handful of Warriors and a handful of civilians, the latter will never lack our protection.”

“Are we enough for this job?” Boomer asked.

“Time to find out, old friend. I want a complete sweep of this station. Every Cylon will be accounted for, whether living or dead.”

“What if we encounter more of them than we can handle?” asked a member of the team.

Apollo preferred raw recruits to show some common sense instead of pretending they were all Starbucks. You had to earn the right to be a Starbuck. False bravado could be more dangerous than cowardice. What the colonials needed was a strand of real heroes with the bravery to fight any battle—but the brains not to throw their lives away.

“We’ll deal with them, whatever their numbers,” said Apollo. “Remember that although they are new and improved, they’re only Cylons!”

“And you remember to take care of yourself,” said Sheba, doctoring the burned skin on his arm with a medi-patch. He was glad she’d come along.

The fleet slid along the corridors where time and the void meet in twisting, turning strings and super-strings of possibilities, bending to make the impossible probable. The long trek through hyperspace is the short trek through hyperspace. Eternity in a heartbeat. Eternity inside a delicate egg. Big ships already small in outer space made smaller, smallest, until reduced to firecrackers winking in the belly of the god-cave, of all the twilight caverns that cover up fragile living things and whisper that they will never again see the light of day.

For the fleet, the light of day was a sun in a system offering hope again. But what good is hope if no one can get to the place where it begins? There is no hope in hyperspace, only eternal waiting without a name.

Inside that quiet madness of infinite possibilities lay the living body of Cassiopeia, like a rare insect waiting to come out of a golden cocoon. She was not worried about hyperspace. She was not concerned about space or time. Her dreams were of her own personal universe, her heart orbiting around a dark star named Count Iblis.

Were those old, gray eyes the count’s; the eyes looking out at her from the fresh scrubbed face of her son?

Did Ibliss bend and twist everything in her in ways more bizarre than the forces allowing the Fleet to cross immensities without losing itself in eternal limbo? Did his cold, dead hand reach out and plunge her into secret, lost places beyond the blank, unfathomable walls of hyperspace?

Was he talking to her through her son?

Was her son some new incarnation of all his old evil? Or separate from him and therefore a person in his own right with free will and choices...and hope?

The boy would say things that a young boy should not say. He’d ask questions for which there can be no answer. So she would slide away from him as the fleet slid through the gullet of creation, and have fitful dreams that made no sense and provided no answers. When she woke up, he would still be there with his eyes like burning comets and his small, wet mouth again giving voice to words he should not be saying.

She needed Apollo, but she could not have Apollo.

Starbuck tried to comfort her, but what she needed Starbuck could not offer her.

In her dreams she hunted for Baltar, but when he turned his baleful gaze upon her, he would say nothing. He was the one figure in her dreams who wouldn’t speak to her at all and somehow that terrified her more than anything.

She would have to turn to Athena for help. Yes, Athena might have insights she could never receive from Tigh. But both Athena and Tigh were busy with far more serious problems than the night sweats of a delusional mother.

The boy was always waiting for her when she clawed her way back to consciousness. Why should she resent him for that? He was only a child, a boy, her son. Why shouldn’t he want contact with his mother? Surely the problem was her, all inside her, right down to the bone marrow. It couldn’t be him. It mustn’t be her son!

But then those eyes would look at her. The lids over those eyes wouldn’t blink enough, so there was an impression of staring when all the boy was doing was looking at his mother.

Maybe it would be all right if only he wouldn’t ask those questions. She knew they weren’t natural. Not even in the belly of the god-cave, in the logical insanity of hyperspace, did those questions seem at all reasonable coming from a little boy.

One time he asked, “Do you think perfection is possible? I mean a perfect understanding of things. If we try to understand things down to the root, then we see through them. We know that eveiy object made of matter has more space between the particles than there are actual molecules and atoms and other things. So if we see through things, we see that nothing is really there. And if there is nothing there, then nothing really matters. So if we live in a universe of invisible, empty things then there is no right or wrong. What do you think of that, Mother? Do you think that death is the only perfection?”

At first she thought she was still dreaming. She pinched herself and knew that she was awake. That wasn’t good enough for her. She started scratching at her skin until she bled. She knew that she was awake but the pain comforted her anyway. At least she could understand pain.

“Mother, you’re bleeding.”

“Yes, darling, I’m bleeding. How do you feel about that?”

“I think you should stop hurting yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because there is no point to it.”

“What about love?” she screamed, grabbing him and shaking him, enraged that even now he showed no emotion.

“You’ve never had enough of that, have you?” he asked.

Choking back her tears, she let go of him as if he’d just become radioactive. That cool response, so accurate and insensitive, was more disturbing than the impossibly precocious philosophy he’d been spouting. She didn’t mind his being precocious. It was the nature of what her boy was saying that made his mother’s blood run cold. She couldn’t accept the reality of it.

Impossibilities were the stuff of hyperspace. It would be nice if that were the explanation. But she knew better. Starbuck wouldn’t suddenly knock upon her door and come in riding a polka-dot Daggit, singing the songs she used to sing when she started her career as a socialator. Tigh wouldn’t materialize on her bed and start juggling the heads of all their lost friends. No, she couldn’t blame hyperspace for the crazy things happening between her and her son. It was in the boy and in her.

She started to shake. She couldn’t stop herself and the boy made no move toward her. But then why should he, when she’d almost attacked him?

“Mother,” came the calm, flat voice out of the young—the very young—face.

“Yes?”

“I can help you to stop trembling.”

“You can?”

“Yes. Do you want me to help?”

She hesitated but then blurted out, “Oh, yes.”

He reached over and touched her left wrist. Instantly the trembling vanished.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered in a small voice.

“You can’t help me with my question about perfection, can you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I have another question about our five senses. They limit us, don’t you think?”

She surprised herself by answering him. “We’d be a lot more limited without them.”

His placid, round face broke into a smile that seemed as preternaturally adult as his old eyes. “True, but we might be able to experience more with new senses. Don’t you think so?”

She laughed nervously. “I think it’s past your bedtime. And you need to brush your teeth. Remember I gave you a sweet today.”

She always felt relieved when he went to sleep. It felt like a vise letting go of her brain and suddenly it was easier to breathe.

Meanwhile, outside the great ship, the journey continued for the fleet. They were the lucky ones. The ship was either slowing down or speeding up or standing still, but it didn’t matter. When it popped out the membrane at the other end then, finally at long last, there would be hope.

If they all lived that long.

7

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Boomer asked. “Good news first,” replied Apollo.

“We’ve found a weapons cache. The Cylons who were guarding it are all dead. Best of all, some of the weapons still seem to be in working order and they have powerful stuff, let me tell you.”

“Nobody reconnoiters like you, Boomer. What’s the bad news?”

“There’s about ten of the bucketheads left and they have mustered out in front of the lab.”

“We must get into that lab, but I’m confused as to why they would leave something as important as weapons unguarded.”

“I was able to access their order files. They thought the weapons room had been compromised and its contents sucked into space behind the pressurized door.”

“I never look a gift Daggit in the mouth, Boomer. Let’s go take an inventory.”

They left Sheba to look after the men.

The lights still worked inside the weapons room. Boomer had not exaggerated. Although the pulse rifles were damaged from Baltar’s explosion, everything else was in good working order.

There were zap lasers that discharged electricity instead of the conventional beam of force. Next to those were bulky disrupters that turned electromagnetic force into a wave that literally vibrated the target to death. One wall was covered by small personal handguns that used sonic waves to shatter an opponent. And then there were explosives along with other odds and ends. There were also diagrams of the basestar.

“So what do you think?” asked Boomer.

“I’m changing my strategy. I was going to request another twenty of our people for this final assault, but now it is no longer necessary. We don’t need to risk any more lives. I’ll order the other twenty to hold the landing bay. If your information is correct we have all those new Centurions in one spot.”

“I’ve done a complete sweep with our own viewscreens and doublechecked it against theirs. If we keep those babies locked up in the lab corridor then the new guys at the landing bay won’t have anything to do.”

“Good. I want more scientists in the new group. The Cylons may have sabotaged their experiments in that lab. The sooner we get our techs and scientists in there, the better.”

“You mean like Kornberg?” asked Boomer impishly.

“I’ll take care to it, Apollo, but may I offer some advice?” the tech said.

“Go ahead.”

“We should ask for more specialists to volunteer for the next shuttle.”

Apollo took a moment to think about it. “All right, with one exception. The warriors I’ve already asked to stay behind with the civilians are not relieved of that duty.”

Boomer chose that moment to sit on the floor in a most undignified manner. Spread-eagled, he started to arch his back. He groaned while he did it.

“Boomer, what the frack are you doing?”

“I seemed to have strained my back. This is the best I can do until I ask Sheba for a little therapeutic massage.”

“I know what you mean. Hey, don’t lean against that!”

“Against what?”

“It looks like you’re leaning against a mortar that’s primed and ready for action.”

“Felgercarb,” exclaimed Boomer as, back forgotten, he jumped to his feet. “The Cylons must be crazy to store weapons that way.”

“Oh, it looks like it’s not primed after all.”

Boomer stared at Apollo and then burst out laughing. “I forget you have your playful Starbuck side.”

“Well, leaning against ordnance is a stunt worthy of Starbuck, too,” said Apollo with a smile as wide as a galaxy.

“Yeah,” said Boomer. “I sure miss him at times like this. Hell, I miss him all the time.”

Apollo proceeded with the new plan. “What you found in this room puts us on an even playing field with the enemy. It may mean we’ve got them out-gunned.”

“The ones guarding the lab mainly have pulse rifles, but get ready for more bad news. They also have some of these new toys as well. Will you need to bring up more reinforcements?”

“We’re not going to win by bringing in more untrained cannon fodder. We will lay down a suppress fire that may defeat them in the first sortie.”

“Do you have a contingency plan?”

Commander Apollo nodded. “That may be the most significant difference between us and our old comrade. Starbuck always seemed perfectly content with one plan.”

“You know what, Apollo? I’d say that’s the biggest difference between front line Warriors and commanders, except for one problem. How do we explain Commander Cain who also seemed a one-plan kind of officer?”

Both men laughed. “It’s good to have you along on this operation,” Apollo told Boomer. “But let’s not continue this conversation in front of Sheba.”

“You still haven’t told me about your back-up plan.”

“I think both Cain and Starbuck would approve. We know how dangerous these new hybrid Centurions really are. If they survive our attack they can blow a lot of us away. That’s why we’re taking along some of the high explosives. I prefer not to use them because they might also damage the lab or breach the hull.”

“How do we survive using those bombs?”

Apollo jabbed his right forefinger at the plans for the lab corridor. “That’s how,” said Apollo. “But I hope we won’t have to take the chance. Now let’s organize this.”

They brought the Warriors in two at a time and showed them the inventory. Some of the men and women were better marksmen. Apollo warned them not to brag but neither did he want false modesty. There was no time to check on everyone. They hadn’t come to a Cylon basestar with copies of everyone’s service records. Apollo and Boomer had the volunteers pick up the various weapons. If a young fighter showed reluctance or the least bit of discomfort with one part of the arsenal, Apollo retrieved that particular gun and put another into eager hands.

Slowly but certainly they assembled the team for going up against the most dangerous Cylon ever created. By the end of the prep, even Kornberg, the nervous tech, convinced Apollo that he could handle a zap laser. Boomer raised an eyebrow but when he saw the resolve on Apollo’s face, chiseled there like a military statue, he didn’t give the matter another thought.

Everyone on this leg of the mission had to carry his own weight. They learned that when they suffered their first casualty.

Finally, it was Sheba’s turn. She’d handled everyone in the corridor as if she were a school teacher dealing with unruly children. Now she was happy to stare at the arsenal like a lucky kid on her birthday.

“Which of these boomsticks do you want?” Apollo asked her.

“I hate Cylons but I have nothing against their technology,” she said. “Which do you think would cause the most damage to a single target?”

Apollo rubbed his chin. “Off the top of my head, I’d say it might be the disrupters but they are bulky and awkward to use. Those sonic guns are light and would give you more fun. After all, think of how many times you can keep hitting your target until you achieve satisfaction.”

“Like sex?” asked Sheba, squeezing his arm. “I’ll take your advice.”

Then it was time to get everyone together for a final prep. “Despite our losses, we have been fortunate on this mission,” Apollo told them. "The power plant is still functioning on this basestar and the artificial gravity is still working. As you know, the force fields were down when we arrived. Given the lack of deep structural damage, a lot more of these new Cylon killers could have survived the damage from Baltar’s explosion.”

Apollo waited for his audience to have a chance to grumble among themselves. From time immemorial it has been a soldier’s right to complain.

He continued, “It is always sad when you lose a comrade. Some of you are very young and have never seen this kind of action before. But when you lost in the lottery or volunteered to stay behind, you gave yourselves up for dead. We all know it. Now, by the Lords of Kobol, we have another chance at life.”

Apollo didn’t want to go on too long but he knew these raw recruits needed it, and his more seasoned Warriors understood the need for good morale.

“When the space ark arrived out of nowhere, we had a second chance. With this station in our hands, we have an unparalleled opportunity of better understanding the current status of the Cylon Empire. They have been busy while we have continued our long journey to the legendary Earth. They will never stop in their crusade to destroy us. But we will never stop exercising our right to survive. The human race will live for uncounted yahren to come.”

Although the corridor wasn’t suited to it, everyone cheered, even the unmilitary-like tech. Then Boomer outlined the plan. It didn’t take long to implement.

They split into two teams. Apollo hoped the second team wouldn’t have to do anything except be there as backup. Apollo trusted only himself to measure out the amount of high explosive for the contingency. Too much or too little could prove disastrous. It was at times like these that he’d learned to trust his instincts. Training and education were absolutely essential—but without that extra spark from the transcendental realm, a man made poor guesses when he was forced to choose without knowing every parameter of the facts.

Apollo had survived too many close brushes with death not to appreciate the mysteries that run through life like an eternal river. And the bigger the stakes, the better his educated guesses.

The team with the explosives took a deep collective breath and went down an adjacent corridor, moving in ahead of where the closely bunched Centurions protected the lab. Apollo, Boomer and Sheba led everyone else via a more direct route for a frontal assault. Shortly, Boomer broke away from the main body. He had volunteered for a special duty.

Apollo and Sheba continued to take point. “You’re worried about something,” Sheba whispered in Apollo’s ear. They were just far enough in front not to be overheard.

“I’m surprised these weapons fell into our hands so easily. The surviving Centurions didn’t even double-check on their arsenal. They just accepted the ship’s computer report when that computer was damaged by an explosion. Now they are guarding the lab. They’re treating it as the most important location on the ship, more important than any of their supplies. They must not want it falling into our hands.”

Sheba wrinkled her brow. Apollo always found it cute when she did that. She shared her thoughts. “So why don’t they just destroy what’s in the laboratory, if they don’t want us to have it?”

“Because they don’t think we can defeat them. They don’t know about our little weapons acquisition.”

“So, what are you worried about?”

“These new boys on the block have something we’ve never seen in Cylon fighters before, and never in the old mechanized Centurions. They seem to have individual initiative.”

Sheba wrinkled her brow again. It made Apollo think of how his sister Athena had the habit of ignoring everything in her immediate environment when she was trying to solve a problem.

“I know you, Apollo,” she said at length.

“You do?”

“Oh, yes. We’re going to take them down quickly so none of them have a chance to show off their un-Cylon initiative.”

“You read my mind, Sheba.”

The most difficult problem facing the assault team was how to sneak up on the enemy. The structure of the corridors did not allow for many surprises. That’s why they went with Boomer’s embellishment for this part of the plan.

The basestar diagrams came in handy. Boomer crawled into an air duct large enough to accommodate a human. He would draw the enemy’s attention with a grenade, a trivial explosive charge compared to what the second team was carrying—as gingerly as possible.

Finally, the moment of truth. Around the next bend was the enemy. Apollo motioned for everyone to get down and await the signal to attack. That would be the sound of Boomer’s grenade.

They didn’t have long to wait. First they heard the sound of the grate coming loose and then the welcome blast.

“Now!” shouted Apollo.

The Galacticans came around the corner, weapons releasing coruscating waves of energy that meant death even to this new generation of Cylon Centurions. But the enemy did not placidly accept defeat. Their armor again demonstrated its strength and resilience. And they had a disrupter set up in front of them that dissolved the kneecaps of one of the men.

Sheba picked one target and nothing made her break off the attack, not even when the blast of a pulse rifle scarred her cheek. She kept running and firing the sonic gun. The armor of her Centurion target began to ripple, reminding Apollo of desert heatwaves distorting the air. Apollo had a blaster in one hand and zap lasers in the other. He took out the Centurion that hurt Sheba with a shot to the head from both guns.

“Thanks!” shouted Sheba over the melee. A moment later she had the satisfaction of seeing her metallic target begin to crumple in on itself like melting wax. A man to Apollo’s left threw a grenade and took out the Cylon disrupter.

A scream from behind him marked the end of Komberg’s attempt to be a Warrior. Before he died, he managed to get off a shot that resulted in one Centurion spinning on the stump of his foot and knocking down another. At that precise instant the second Centurion had Boomer, who had dropped out of the air duct, on his sites. Thanks to last act of a the ill-fated tech, Boomer kept his head.

A gasp behind Apollo was impossible to ignore. He risked a quick glance and saw a gaping red cavity where a man’s chest had been. The young Warrior died with a look of surprise on his face. He was the one who had taken out the Cylon disrupter.

Apollo had no intention of letting the situation deteriorate any further. He had calculated the worst case scenario for the first squad. He didn’t want to sacrifice anyone else. And he’d never had any intention of filling these relatively cramped spaces with another helping of colonial blood.

“Fall back!” he cried, even though the door to the Cylon lab was tantalizingly near. The colonials took up a position at the end of the corridor and kept firing.

At a greater distance, the superior weapons again made a difference. The disrupters were especially effective now in the hands of Apollo’s force.

“Apollo, look!” Sheba yelled over the chaos. A lone Centurion had flattened itself against the wall and was inching forward toward the lab. Once again, Apollo was struck by the greater range of behavior in these hybrid creatures in contrast to the tin soldiers that had been the original Centurions.

“Maybe he’s trying to destroy the lab,” said Apollo. “Listen everyone, throw everything you’ve got against that Cylon.”

So much power was brought to bear against the creature that it seemed caught up in a spastic dance. It literally spun around as if performing a cosmic ballet before it fell, heaving and twitching, to the floor.

Apollo barked out another order. “Now direct all your fire at the others!”

Most of the Centurions were still functional. One of them took a series of hits that would have destroyed the robotic Centurions. It lifted its pulse rifle and calmly killed another of Apollo’s men.

Apollo kept up the pressure. “Direct your fire so that it forces them into the adjoining corridor!”

A few more strikes with the disrupters accomplished the task. No sooner was the enemy out of sight than Apollo heard the welcome sound of a metal panel sliding shut. The second team had isolated the Centurions. Even through the heavy wall of metal now separating the humans from their would-be exterminators, the clear sound of pulse rifles could be heard. The bad guys had no intention of staying where they were.

It was the only point of agreement between Apollo and the enemy. The second team had their orders and they carried them out without hesitation.

The sound of the explosion was loud despite the metal partition that buckled and strained against the released energy but fortunately did not give. That had been Apollo’s one concern. Explosive decompression is the most dangerous of games in space. Fail to secure the integrity of the other compartments and you can begin a domino effect that results in a series of blowouts that threaten the entire ship.

Apollo had no way of knowing that the giant armada that invaded the Paradis system contained robotic Centurions that had been captured and reprogrammed, adding more muscle to the assault of the hybrid monstrosities. But what he did know was that he finally found a disadvantage for the new breed of killers. Their life support systems inside the armor might keep them alive for a while, but not for long.

“Look,” said Boomer, passing along a handheld scanner tied into the basestar’s external cameras. The Centurions were drifting away like rag dolls, limbs without articulation. They had no more surprises up their Cylon sleeves. They wouldn’t be coming back into this station.

The other team contacted Apollo and began their roundabout trip through the labyrinth of Cylon corridors to rejoin the others. Apollo went up to the door of the laboratory, stepping over its final defender, and unholstered his gun as if to shoot off the lock.

The door wasn’t locked. Apollo walked in first, to receive his hard won reward.

It was pure nightmare.

8

Koren always knew where to find her when they’d had a fight. Caran was sitting in an observation deck. She always chose the same one. There was a splendid view of the cloud of debris that had once been Paradis. Although larger portions of the planet occupied the same orbit in their new role as asteroids, they were only visible to the naked eye as feeble stars when touched by the rays of the sun. The dust cloud was different. It would dissipate in time but for now it provided a large and constant reminder of the once-living planet. She liked to remember.

“I didn’t mean what I said, Caran,” he told her.

“I’ve never known a boy who can make me angry so fast but then apologize so sweetly.”

Koren allowed himself to relax a little. He blamed the greater number of fights they were having on their increased proximity. Usually their quarrels were about silly things he could barely remember the next day. But this time was different. The subject was Gar’Tokk.

“You’ve been riding him too hard,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s obvious that he’s told you as much as he wants you to know about the ways of the Borellian Nomen. He has a special relationship with Apollo that he shares with no other human, but I’ll bet you that our glorious Commander doesn’t ask him half the things you do.”

He sat down next to her and risked taking her hand. She didn’t push him away. “Caran,” he said, “I have a special relationship with

Gar’Tokk, as well. I am Apollo’s adopted son, after all. And Gar’Tokk has sworn to be my guardian in Apollo’s absence.”

She nodded. “That’s probably why he wasn’t sent on the trip to the Cylon space oyster.”

Koren smiled at her use of teenage slang that he’d never been able to pick up. “Everyone who went on that mission was a volunteer, but Apollo asked many of his best fighters to stay behind to protect everyone here in case something went wrong. He didn’t single out Gar’Tokk just for us.”

“Us?” Caran smiled. “I didn’t know that Gar’Tokk was also my personal bodyguard.”

“So what do you think it means when he offers to teach both of us? A bodyguard and a teacher rolled into one is the ultimate compliment a Warrior can offer to someone else.”

They sat in silence for a long time, just staring out the port at the cloud. Crystallized particles from the dead planet created an interesting light show and a rainbow spectrum of colors.

“I used to like the color red,” said Caran.

Relieved that they might have abandoned the topic of Gar’Tokk, Koren pursued the matter. “Why is that?”

“Did I ever tell you I used to paint?”

“No.”

“I only started when we were on Paradis. I met you about a month after I started.”

“The night of the big celebration and the fireworks?”

“It’s nice of you to remember it that way. Come on, you remember how I stupidly walked into the quicksand and would have died without Apollo and Cassie, and you.”

Now it was his turn to display diplomatic skill. “As I recall, Apollo and Cassie had a lot more to do with that than I did.”

She had an annoyingly good memoiy. “You were a good cheerleader. The problem was when you tried to take credit for it later!”

Koren felt a sudden need to cough. “What does this have to do with the color red, exactly?”

“Well, you see the red glare in the cloud out there?”

“Yeah.”

“It made me think how I used red to dull the highlights in my paintings. I mainly did landscapes on Paradis. I like to paint what I see.”

“But isn’t red a bright color? How can it make a picture dimmer?”

“Because when you mix it with other colors, you can get more realistic earth tones. You make the trees and grass and soil more authentic by mixing colors the way nature does.”

Koren marveled that in all the time they had know each other he’d had no inkling about this side of his girlfriend. He had no intention of letting this discovery slip through his fingers.

“May I see one of your paintings?” he asked.

She pointed out the portal of the observation deck. “There they are, along with everything else that was left on Paradis.”

“Oh.”

“It’s all right,” she said, squeezing his arm. “They weren’t very good.”

“Don’t say that. Did you rescue your paints and brushes?”

She sighed. “No, and even if I had I would have given them to someone going on with the main fleet. Remember, we’re supposed to be dead by now.”

“Except that Apollo is an artist—at the art of survival. But you still haven’t told me why you don’t like the color red!”

She looked him in the eye. “I’m a naturally peaceful person but if I had it in my power I’d torture every Cylon to death.”

“Every colonial would act to destroy our enemy. What’s more natural than that?”

“You’re not listening to me, Koren. That’s your biggest problem. You only hear what you want to hear. I said that I would torture them to death, not just kill them. I don’t believe that’s true of everyone.” Koren bit his lip. “So what does this have to do with the color red?”

“I used to see red and think of flowers. Now I see red and think of those red sensor eyes in those blank, expressionless helmets; I think of the oceans of blood that they’ve spilled, more red than could be soaked up by all the canvases in the universe.”

Koren hugged her. “Don’t you understand? You have the Warrior spirit. That’s all you’re talking about.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand, Koren. Apollo has that spirit. He’s the human version. Gar’Tokk has that spirit. He’s an alien version. But what I just confessed to you has nothing to do with it.

That’s why Gar’Tokk can’t do more for you right now. You’re still controlled by your emotions, the same as I am.”

Koren had never seen Caran like this before. Suddenly he felt as if he were being judged by Apollo or Gar’Tokk, and he was not going to receive a passing grade.

“A Warrior can have emotions,” he said. “What about Starbuck?” Caran shook her head again. “Apollo has emotions, too. So does Gar’Tokk. You still haven’t felt the depths of that Noman’s loneliness. He only has his pride to keep him company. As for Starbuck, he is another example of the ideal Warrior. You confuse his good humor and daring with being controlled by his emotions. None of them are guilty of that! A Warrior without emotions is a Cylon.”

“Then what do you think we are?”

“That’s easy. A human controlled by his emotions is a civilian. My father once told me that no soldier is as bloodthirsty as a civilian. That’s why I never felt comfortable with the powers held by the Council of Twelve.”

“Well, we only saw the tail end of their power. We weren’t around for most of the fights they had with Apollo.”

“What I saw was enough for me to believe my father.”

“Was he a Warrior?”

“No, Koren. He was a civilian, but of a very special kind. He was an honest civilian.”

Koren slumped down in his seat. It was all a bit much. “I don’t know what to say.”

She reached out to him. “You’re a fine boy, Koren. I think one day you will make a fine Warrior. I believe in you. Just don’t push Gar’Tokk. He’ll teach you what he chooses when the time is right, and he will choose the time. But you must know one thing about me. I’ll never be a Warrior. I could manage physically but I could never meet the challenge mentally. Surely you’ve noticed that Warriors tend to date among themselves?”

“There are exceptions!” said Koren, thinking of Cassie, whose relationships had never been a secret.

“I know. But you need to understand how I feel about it. I think I’m falling in love with you, and I’ll never be a Warrior.”

He took Caran in his arms and kissed her fiercely. He had crossed some invisible line with her. Although she responded, something wasn’t quite right. He became less intense and forced himself to be gentle. He’d prove to her that he had the discipline to make her happy.

Suddenly the kiss was perfect as the two teenagers grew closer. The only witness was the misty remains of the planet where they first met, spread out against the velvet canopy of space.

“Listen up, everyone. You are not to treat this as a normal laboratory. We are still at combat ready.”

Apollo’s men didn’t need him to repeat the order. No one stepping foot on the floor of that research facility suffered from any ideas of normality. The floor squished under their heavy boots. Although slimy bits and pieces of past experiments were scattered all over the place, that was not the reason for the many odd sensations reaching through heavy boots to quiver up and down the spinal chords of every human in contact with the floor.

Getting down on one knee, Apollo slipped on a glove and ran questing fingers up and down a small patch of the uneven surface. The damned thing quivered under his touch.

“Lords of Kobol!” exclaimed Sheba, jumping back. “What does this mean?”

“It’s like the room’s alive,” said Boomer.

“I’ll bet you’re not far off,” said Apollo. “Have you sent for the next team?”

“Yes, Apollo, and there are some real scientists among them.”

“Good. I’ll be leaving you in charge as soon we’ve made a preliminary investigation. Then I’m getting back to the ark. We need to transfer everything that’s useful or interesting.”

“Because of the better facilities?” asked Boomer.

“That’s one reason,” said Apollo.

“How can this floor be alive?” asked Sheba.

“For the same reason those are,” said Apollo. Sheba hesitantly followed his gaze over to the nearest wall, which was unusually moist and pulsing. Then Boomer joined his two friends, as they unwillingly raised their gazes to the ceiling.

“I’m going to be sick,” said Sheba. The ceiling was looking back at them with dull, large eyes spaced at varying intervals, yet all the same size. Apollo raised a hand and slowiy waved it over his hand. The pupil of the nearest eye lazily followed the motion.

“Reporting for duty,” came a voice out of nowhere.

Apollo spun on his heel. “Who are you?”

“Biological Research. Aardema’s the name,” said the young man.

“Where are the others from the landing bay?”

“Still trying to figure out these long corridors. Some of them just seem to loop around.”

“Then how did you get here so fast?” Apollo snapped.

“That’s my doing,” Boomer piped in. “I gave him the order to come here ahead of the others, right after we dumped those bucketheads into space.”

“Well, that’s better,” said Apollo, starting to relax. “This place gets on my nerves. Look at that!” He punctuated his last remark by pointing at the ceiling.

Aardema gave a low whistle. “I see what you mean.”

Sheba started to make a contribution but she was interrupted by the sound of a girl screaming. A second scream was cut off with a gurgle.

“Come on!” Apollo shouted. They all quick-timed it to the point of disturbance. Others got there before them but not by much. One young man broke ranks and started vomiting. A moment later Apollo sympathized with him.

The head at their feet wore a surprised expression—it belonged to a female Warrior who had been trained to expect a wide range of eventualities but certainly nothing like the thing that had killed her.

“What the hell is that?” asked Boomer.

The way it writhed looked like a black tentacle. The girl’s blood showed red against its dark surface. Aardema moved in closer to make his observations.

“Watch it.” Apollo stated the obvious, but he was in no mood to be mopping up after another victim.

“That’s what I’m tiying to do,” said the young scientist as he nimbly jumped out of the way of the questing tendril. “Look at the size of this tank—”

“Yes?” said the Commander.

“How many more of these containment units do you see in the immediate vicinity? I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

The colonial Warriors looked up and down the rows of Cylon equipment as alien eyes watched them from the pulsing walls of unarticulated flesh.

“There are a lot of tanks,” said Boomer, noting they went as far as the eye can see.

“This room is big enough to be on the ark,” observed Sheba.

“I was just thinking that,” said Apollo. “Basestars provide a lot of cubic space.”

“People!” called out Aardema. “I could use a little assistance here.”

The tentacle had finally succeeded in snagging the man by the right boot and was starting to upend him. A well-aimed blast from Apollo blew off the first few feet of the alien object without harming the scientist, who hit the ground running. A clear fluid splashed on the floor from the wounded alien organism.

“That’s funky looking blood,” said Boomer.

“It’s not blood,” said the scientist.

“At least we saved you from that tentacle before it could kill again,” said Sheba.

“It’s not a tentacle,” said the scientist.

“So what is it?” Apollo asked, running out of patience.

“You see those little knobs all over it?” Aardema asked, pointing.

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen them many times before, those little extensions of a substance harder than what you would find on the smooth surface of a tentacle. Ladies and gentlemen, what we have here is a spinal cord.”

“What?” gasped Sheba.

“I see it,” admitted Apollo.

“Each of these tanks must contain a single one of the cords. They are probably of varying lengths. I hate to imagine the height of the Cylon warrior who could carry this spinal cord around.”

“We’ve been fighting some really big ones—Centurions, that is,” said Boomer with a grin.

“Apparently, they plan to grow them even bigger,” added Apollo.

This is a biological lab for research and development of the Cylons. There’s no telling how much important data might come into our hands from this,” said Aardema.

“Let’s get to work,” said Apollo, “but first I want the remains of that Warrior taken out of here and placed with her comrades. We’ll give them all a proper funeral later.”

They soon discovered that the stretches of living, sentient walls, ceilings and floors existed at intervals. They were a new form of surveillance system built into the very structure of the lab.

Apollo assumed that the eyes would be matched by ears as well. Aardema suggested that the stretched surfaces of living matter would be so sensitive to any kind of vibration that they didn’t need any other form of audio stimulus. Literally, these walls had ears.

Apollo wanted to find the lab’s central computer. He’d spent enough long evenings talking and drinking with Baltar to know that Cylon space technology wasn’t that far removed from the human variety. Eveiy basestar had a central computer the same as any battlestar. So this lab must have its computer as well.

Except, they couldn’t find it...

Because they were looking for the kind of computer with which they were all familiar. The young biologist again proved his worth by finding something else.

“Commander?”

“Yes?”

“Look at this, sir.”

The tank of floating brains was a new kind of hardware, based on a much older and time-tested model. The wires snaking out of the bubbling giant tank of blue-green liquid led to a control console.

“You mean those switches aren’t simply for regulating the conditions inside the tank?” asked Apollo.

“Those are on the side of the glass, over there. This console in front of us, Commander, is for access to this biological computer. And I don’t doubt that the whole thing is hooked up to those walls of eyes we encountered coming in here.”

“Then all these brains are alive?” asked Apollo, reaching out to touch the glass.

“At the motor-function level, there is no doubt. I’m not sure what was done with higher brain functions to make them work as a team. But what we are looking at is this laboratory’s computer.”

“These aren’t all the same kind of brains,” said Apollo, peering through the glass.

“That’s most observant, Commander. They are of three types.”

Aardema walked over and used a pencil as a pointer. “This first group here is the typical reptile brain. You will notice that they have no neo-cortex.”

“Right. And the neo-cortex is responsible for...” said Apollo, wishing he could take a crash med course.

“Mammals use the neo-cortex for memory and planning. To put it another way, the big evolutionary advantage that mammals have over reptiles is in the rearing of the young. The neo-cortex is all about learning, you see.”

“The Cylons were the exceptions to a lot of things, weren’t they?”

“Of course they were! As we have all learned—thanks to our neo-cortexes—it was when Count Iblis tampered with evolution and performed his genetic experiments that he had to give his creations some kind of neo-cortex, but he made sure that it was more limited than ours. You can see for yourself with this second set of brains here. These are the superior Cylon brains but I sure wouldn’t want to trade my gray matter with theirs.”

Apollo studied the placid, convoluted, pulsing objects that were suspended before his eyes thanks to a few wires and a large volume of recirculating liquid. “These are the sorts of brains they string together to get their leaders, I imagine.”

“Yes.”

Apollo squinted his eyes. “Except these brains over here look a bit more promising. They have very large neo-cortexes.”

Aardema cleared his throat. “Commander Apollo, those aren’t Cylon brains.”

“What?”

“Those are human brains.”

Apollo fought an intense feeling of vertigo. He stared in amazement at the calm face of the scientist who, no doubt, thought he was doing a commendable job.

Apollo made a career out of studying human nature. The frightening thing about the Council of Twelve was that as bad as they were Apollo could always fathom their venial motives. But there was a certain kind of scientific mind that always remained alien to him.

Not all scientists had this strange quality of being able to disengage from their emotions so completely. Dr. Salik was nothing like this. Once again, Apollo found himself in a situation where he wished he had access to one particular human brain: the one that had resided inside the head of Baltar.

Apollo used his comlink and addressed everyone inside the alien lab. “It has just come to my attention that the Cylons were using human tissue in some of their biological experiments. While we are doing an inventory of the contents of this establishment, I want you to keep your eyes open for any evidence whatsoever of human experimentation. I also want eveiy piece of flesh, blood or bone that ever belonged to a human collected and removed from this hell in space! The one exception will be a human brain for which I’m taking full responsibility.”

9

It just wasn’t fair. Athena kept running the report from Tigh through her mind. She’d been prepared for every problem he enumerated. There were even problems he’d somehow missed that she was already in the process of solving. There was no one she trusted more than Tigh. Now that she found herself in her brother’s chair, she needed an old reliable friend like Tigh.

So why did he have to bring her the one piece of news that she dreaded above all others? Tigh had informed her that they might run out of food before reaching the new star system.

Every time she made a promise to herself, that’s when the universe conspired to force her to break it. Back when they had reached Paradis, she made a vow that her people would never go hungry again. They had been a sorry sight, desperate to claw out a living from the new world. Despite all the problems they faced with the Gamon and the insanity of a fresh, living world being doomed to destruction, the colonials had enjoyed a vacation from privation.

There had been no need for food rationing. Or water rationing. No lack of building materials for shelter, what with the abandoned ships and the timber and the rich mineral deposits. What a strange experience it had been for all of them to be free from want. Sure, there was the continuing state of danger. But they were used to that. If they were going to die, then let it be with everyone well fed and washed and comfortable for a change.

No wonder the people had been more recalcitrant than Apollo had ever seen them before. They didn’t care if they were being fair to the native Gamon. They didn’t care if they ever resumed the long march through the heavens in search of the ever elusive Earth. For the first time in many yahren, they were actually happy. That seemed enough reason for them to take a stand and die if need be.

Athena had respected the deep feelings of the civilians even when she resolved to stand against them. She understood what hunger had done to them and what a planet of plenty meant to them—now that they finally had farm land ready for planting, forests full of rich game and oceans waiting to be fished.

When that crazy architect, Ryis and the corrupt council members behind him tried to force her to use the full power of a battlestar against seemingly defenseless natives, she didn’t blame the people for the evil of such men. As she resisted those scoundrels, she never lost her faith that the average colonial would never sink to such moral bankruptcy. In a weak moment the people could lose their collective heads. That’s where lynch mobs came from. But that was a veiy different matter from the cold and calculated malice that turned dark emotions into institutions.

The fleet had been through enough of that for several lifetimes. She could make herself believe that they had learned from the past and that certain errors would never be repeated. At the same time, she had not assumed the mantle of leadership without recognizing the greatest dangers facing the fleet.

Hunger and thirst were always in first place. She could deal with everything else. True to form, there was a movement to elect a new Council of Twelve. She never ceased to be amazed at how people never really got over their bad habits. One day someone would have to explain to her a single right decision that had ever come out of the council.

If Apollo were here right now she knew he’d explain that the people had to believe they had some say in determining their destiny. A military dictatorship could be efficient, but it also deadened the population into rows of interchangeable units. She could just hear Apollo reminding her of the differences between the human race and the Cylons.

Despite all that, she still resolved to get roaring drunk in celebration of the first day a newly elected council made a couple of right decisions. She figured that the mathematical odds were such that decisions made by committees had to be right occasionally.

Meanwhile, her job was to stretch the supplies as long as possible and get these ships to the new world where they could replenish their vital supplies. Then what? She only hoped that there would be no repetition of the problems they’d encountered on Paradis.

She wasn’t ready to talk to Tigh yet about the thorough report he’d overseen. Every expert in the Fleet had thrown in his two cubits worth. There were at least a dozen ways the fleet could meet disaster before exiting hyperspace. Tigh included every dire possibility.

She would see to it that starvation was not one of them! Her memories were too vivid from the last time. If she could purge those pictures from her mind she would not hesitate to do so. It was not that the people for whom she felt responsible, had actually starved to death on her watch. She had been spared that horror. But she had seen the next worse thing, and that was more than enough.

Rationing was essential to avoid both hoarding and beggary. Left to its own devices, the community would quickly settle into the old-fashioned savagery of the strong dominating the weak. That was one more reason that Athena didn’t trust the democratic approach. She could too easily imagine the old being abandoned to die. Whenever parents fell, orphaned children formed into gangs as a simple expedient for survival.

Warriors had better things to do with their time than patrol corridors in a sweep for teenage gangs.

Hunger could produce all these hideous effects in less time than it took to launch a Viper. She’d seen it before. When people started to have that haunted look in their eyes, it was the first warning. When they let their personal appearance go and stopped concerning themselves with hygiene, it was another deadly sign. As a human being’s universe narrowed down to remembering his last meal and anticipating every possible detail of the next, so, too did his spirit shrink.

Athena and Tigh would have to calculate the number of calories a healthy human being required in a day; and then start breaking it down. When they started chipping away at the basic minimum of calories, that’s when the trouble would really begin.

The crisis was not on them yet. It was at least a month away before they would have to start getting serious about the numbers. But

Athena wasn’t going to wait. She wanted to make her plans now. If there was no way to speed up the trip, then she would ask her scientists to try and perform a miracle.

Was there a source of food in hyperspace?

While Athena wrestled with the sort of big problems that routinely bedeviled Apollo, Cassie wrestled with a smaller but no less serious problem. She continued struggling with her own doubts and fears regarding her son. The most important thing, she decided, was to keep herself from going insane.

She could never quite work up the nerve to ask Athena for help. Her personal problems didn’t make her forget the burden that Apollo’s sister was carrying. One empty and gray day she simply shrugged and reconciled herself to facing the problem of her son alone. A strange kind of peace settled over her when she decided that there was no longer anyone with whom she could share her life.

She realized she was wrong about that, when there was a knock on her door.

“Starbuck?” she asked, surprised to hear her own voice pronounce his name.

“Cassie, I’ve been a fool and I want to ask you an important question.”

“We can’t talk with you standing in the corridor.”

“May I come in?” he asked, flashing that boyish grin that still made her go weak in the knees.

“Of course. Please come in.”

He took a deep breath, taking in that special fragrance of hers. He could never really get enough.

“Where’s the kid?” he asked.

She forced a smile. “He’s in day care right now. I’ve found someone who can help me. Someone new. I figure he shouldn’t freak her out for a few days yet. I use up a lot of help.”

Starbuck took her hand and gently squeezed it. “Do you want to talk about him?”

She shook her head and started crying. “I’d like to but I can’t. We still need to talk about us!”

“I know,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “We’ve come so close so many times, and yet there seems to be a force that always separates us. Sometimes I think there’s a universal power that won’t let us stay together and be happy.”

“I feel the same way,” she said, choking back more tears. She hadn’t felt wanted and needed in such a long time. She grabbed onto Starbuck as a life preserver to keep her from drowning in her loneliness. The ache she felt for him was spiritual.

“You know, a guy can only spend so much time in the flight simulator. I feel so useless on this trip.”

“Don’t say that. You’re never useless.”

He turned away and went to the bar. He poured them two drinks. Cassie spoke next. “I can’t stop worrying about Apollo. Do you think he’s dead?”

“It’s odd you should ask me that. I’ve always had a strong emotional link with both of you. I always thought that when Apollo died I would feel something.”

“I know what you mean,” she agreed. She blinked as if removing an image from her eye. “I can’t make myself believe that he’s gone.” Starbuck finished his drink and then went back to the bar for another round. “I think I’d feel guiltier than I do if he’d really bought it by now. You remember how much I wanted to stay behind and fight whatever the gods threw at him?”

She walked over and gently patted his cheek. “I remember that he insisted on you coming along with the fleet.”

“So I could protect you,” he said softly, coming closer.

“So you could protect me,” she echoed with a whisper, and then they kissed. She dropped her drink and neither noticed.

Finally, Starbuck had to stop doing the easy thing for him and start doing the hard part. “I have to tell you things,” he said, coming up for air.

“What things?” she wanted to know.

“Secrets about my past.”

She gently tapped him on the chest. “But they won’t be secrets any more,” she chided him.

“Don’t make fun.”

“I never make fun of you, Starbuck. I just wonder sometimes what’s behind your facade.”

“I never knew I had a facade,” he said with a grin.

“I love you, Starbuck,” she said and kissed him again.

“I guess if I tell you all about my dark past, you’ll have to tell me some secrets of your own,” he said.

No sooner had the words come out than he regretted it. She pulled away. “I don’t want to burden you,” she said.

“What do you mean? You know I’ll never hold against you any of your adventures as a socialator.”

“Oh, don’t be a fool, Starbuck. I’m not talking about that! You and I are two of a kind when it comes to our sexual exploits.”

He shrugged. “That’s a relief. I thought I’d put my foot in it.”

She raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “You’d never get away with half the things you say to me with any other woman.”

“Don’t I know it.”

She went over to a couch and collapsed on it. “My secrets aren’t in the past. They’re right now. I’m worried about my son.”

He joined her and took both her hands in his. “You shouldn’t have to face parenthood alone. I want to help.”

Pulling away, she fell face forward on a pillow and began to cry. “If only it were that easy.”

“Why isn’t it? I can change.”

Her sobs were replaced with a chuckle. “As amazing as this may strike you, Starbuck, the problem isn’t you. Am I getting through? It’s not about you!"

Starbuck stumbled to his feet. He felt almost as helpless as the last time he left the flight simulator with no mission to remember and no new mission on the horizon.

“Is there anything at all that I can do?” he asked, sounding like a little boy himself.

She sat up, drying her eyes and flashing him the biggest smile she could muster. “Your coming here today has been more help than you can imagine.”

“Really?”

“Really. I want us to be together.”

“Well, that’s why I came here today. I’m sorry I forgot the flowers.” She playfully threw a napkin at him so he knew the last remark had put him back in good standing. He threw it back, of course. “Starbuck, I’m not trying to drive you away.”

He scratched the back of his neck and gave her one of his trademark, nonplussed expressions. “I know you’re not,” he said, “but it feels like it anyway.”

“Do you want to make love now?” she asked.

He gave her a low whistle. “That’s pretty direct, even for you.”

“It’s my way of offering an apology for becoming so emotional with you just now.”

Starbuck allowed himself to collapse in the chair facing her. “I’ve never known any other woman like you. All those years of your being a socialator is something I’ll never regret.”

“Me neither,” she said.

"But then you became like a...”

“You can’t say it, can you? I’m like a normal woman when it comes to my emotions. One of the things men like best about socialators is how we put our emotions on hold, the same way men do. We can enjoy sex the way a man does without using it as a weapon.”

Again Starbuck whistled. He’d always appreciated the honest sexuality of Cassie but she’d never said it so clearly before.

“Why are you telling me all this now?”

She nodded at his rare perspicacity. “Because you need to hear it. I’m not dealing very well with being a mother.”

“Well, I imagine it’s always difficult for a single mom.”

“Stop!” she commanded, holding up a hand. “It’s not like that. You must understand that my child is unusual. He’s going to be a problem child.” As desperate as she was for help, Cassie could not bring herself to voicing the true nature of her concern about her son.

“Oh, is that all?” Starbuck said, jumping to his feet and rushing over to place his arm around her. “What else should wc expect? Think about our lives. It’s always out of the solonite explosion and straight into a sun going nova!”

“You have a point.”

“So does that offer still stand?”

“The bedroom?”

“The bedroom.”

She squeezed his arm. “You better not be firing blanks, Starbuck. My bedroom is no flight simulator.”

“Lead on!”

They went into her bedroom and Starbuck was reminded that even in hyperspace some things are still very real.

10

“I won’t be the youngest any longer,” said Rhaya.

Bojay grunted his agreement. “I can’t believe how young some of these new recruits are. They aren’t just wet behind the ears, they’re total innocents—they know nothing.”

“Oh, come on,” Rhaya replied, picking up on his humor. “We’re not talking about mugjapes here.”

“No, I guess not. We’re talking about kids!”

“We have no choice about that,” said Dalton, eager to join in. She placed a hand on Rhaya’s shoulder. The two women exchanged smiles, and Bojay marveled at how quickly animosity can dissolve in the warm bath of friendship.

On Paradis, these two started off on the wrong foot. But that was then. They had been through too much together not to have been changed—and they were changed for the better.

Trays was next to join the merry band. Only Troy was missing. He was still busy doing a last minute bit of recruiting. That was all they had time for nowadays. The fleet was going to need a lot more Viper pilots when they reached their destination. It wasn’t easy handling initial training with only flight simulators and classroom assignments, but every experienced pilot had a job to do and they weren’t about to avoid their duty.

“I’ve got it easier than the rest of you,” said Bojay.

“What do you mean?” asked Trays.

“Look, my hands are full with doing repairs on the Vipers. I’m happy to help with the youngest and angriest kids you try to convert to our noble cause. But I can always take a break from those kids by getting back to my nice, safe job as a mechanic. The rest of you don’t have my escape route. Your job is handling the new recruits 100 percent of the time!”

“Quick,” said Dalton, “teach me how to repair Vipers.”

They all had a good laugh. Bojay wasn’t exaggerating the difficulty of their task. The ranks of the colonial pilots had been greatly diminished by the lottery. If Apollo and the others had survived the impossible odds, then they would be facing the same problem by now. They, too, would have to recruit from the untrained to bring their forces back up to proper strength.

Sometimes Dalton had special insights from being the real center of this group that had bonded on Paradis and then witnessed its destruction from space. She laid out the problem for everyone.

“You can’t imagine how pissed off these kids really are. If we can channel all that energy, everything will be fine. The trouble is that there’s no guarantee. We must move with caution.”

“Why do you think they are so angry?”

The voice was Troy’s, finally joining his friends. This was the time when they did their daily flight simulations.

“Think about it,” Dalton continued. “Many of these kids have not had parents to bring them up. They’ve had to do it the hard way, clawing for every scrap of respect and forming gangs so they can have a sense of belonging to something. No wonder they are hostile and defensive toward anyone in a position of authority.”

Rhaya slowly clapped her hands together. Dalton didn’t much care for the mocking expression of their youngest member.

“What these kids need is a firm hand,” said Rhaya. “We won’t get anywhere if we spoil them. Their trouble is a lack of discipline.” Dalton stared in wonder at her young comrade in arms. “Haven’t you heard a thing I said?” she asked. “I would think you’d be the first to understand the problems of these teenagers.”

Rhaya actually snorted before replying. “It’s because I’m closer in age to them that I have no sympathy. Lots of young people have troubles growing up but they don’t all turn into criminals!”

The other Warriors thought about that for a while. Finally, Troy spoke for everyone when he told Rhaya, “Those are your emotions speaking. We can’t base our policy on that. Some kids overcome their difficulties. Other kids are finally crushed by more problems than you ever faced, Rhaya.”

There was a flash of anger in Rhaya’s eyes until the moment she looked directly at Troy. She just couldn’t stay mad at him, no matter how hard she tried. So, with perfect female logic she turned back to Dalton.

Although they were friends now, she could still work up a good head of steam against Dalton. Maybe it was nostalgia for their first fight.

“It’s because you are Cain’s daughter that you always opt for the hard approach to solving any problem,” Dalton said.

This wasn’t the first time Rhaya had stood alone in the group, even though she felt more accepted now. There was one desire burning in her. Oh, to have Sheba with her! It fell to Rhaya to uphold family honor.

She kept her voice calm as she explained her position. “My father was harsh and demanding in his training methods because they actually work. There may be times to be soft with people but this is most definitely not one of those times.”

Bojay chose that moment to exercise his diplomatic skills. “Everybody hold your turbos!” he boomed out. “I’m too old and tired for this. What the hell are we actually arguing about?”

Troy opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Trays raised his hand as if he were in a classroom. “May I make a suggestion?”

The others happily grabbed onto anything that would allow tempers to cool off.

“Yeah, let’s hear it,” Bojay encouraged him.

“There are two new recruits who definitely have personal problems. I’m referring to Hass and Kender. They have the same type of personalities and similar backgrounds.”

“They’re real hotheads,” Dalton agreed.

“So my suggestion is that you take one of them, Dalton, and Rhaya takes the other. You each tiy your approaches, the hard and the soft. After a week, we see who has had more success!”

“I’m loving this,” said Bojay with a big grin.

“Well, how about it?” asked Dalton, giving Rhaya a you-are-sure-in-trouble look.

Rhaya responded with an I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-you-haven’t-got-a-clue look. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

The two shook hands.

“I guess we can go do the flight simulators now,” said Troy.

“Good idea,” said Bojay, as he returned to the safety of his Vipers.

Far, far away from the fleet, the remnants of a once united force did not wait for a journey to end or have any time for simulations. They were again eye-to-eye with the Cylon enemy, even if for the moment that enemy was reduced to what could be discovered in a lab.

“Is this report complete?” Apollo asked.

Aardema nodded. “It accounts for every human element we were able to identify in the Cylon experiments. We have retrieved all the organic material, except for the human brain in the biocomputer, of course.”

“Have you made any progress in accessing that, er, computer?”

“No, Commander. This is so alien that the problem is how to determine a method for retrieving data. We are having our best computer people work with our best biologists and genetic researchers.”

Apollo laughed.

The scientist was confused. “Did I say something funny?”

“Yes,” said Apollo.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t notice.”

Apollo made a noble effort to explain. “We’re dealing with a Cylon tank full of different brains including a human one, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you said we’re bringing together our best brains.”

“Yes.”

Apollo sighed. “Never mind.”

“Excuse me, but now that we’ve collected the human tissues from the different experiments, what do we do with them?”

Apollo was serious again. “Put them with the remains of our Warriors who died taking this basestar. We are going to have a mass funeral.”

Understanding shone in Aardema’s face as if a light had been switched on. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, what have you done about collecting the Cylon specimens we need?”

The scientist passed Apollo a neatly typed list. There was a lot there. Apollo’s vision briefly blurred and he had to rub his eyes. He was dog tired, but he wouldn’t let that stop him from doing what had to be done.

He stated his plan of action. “We are going to transfer some of this material to the ark and leave the rest here.”

“Nothing goes to our original ships?” asked Aardema.

“No, in case of unforeseen problems we should be able to contain the situation here. The ark also has better facilities than our ships if we run into difficulties. I’ll risk people coming over here and to the ark—but I’m not going to put the ships at risk.”

The scientist nodded and asked, “In case of infection?”

“Yes, or other things,” said Apollo. “We don’t begin to have the required medical supplies. Fortunately, I just received a report that the ark is starting to fill that need. It’s a full-time job finding out what is available in that floating city. The priority will be to get those new supplies to our sick. After that, we’ll figure out how these new supplies can help us work with the discoveries we’ve made aboard the basestar.”

“I know what you mean, Commander. It would be a cruel irony if after losing the battle, the Cylons could still hurt us with diseases.” Apollo rubbed his eyes again. “I wouldn’t put it past them to booby trap this laboratory with bioweapons of some kind. That’s why I’m making us take our time with everything we find here.”

As they spoke, the biologist developed a new respect for his leader. Gradually, it dawned on Aardema that while Apollo had been handling the strategy and tactics of a military campaign, that same mind was thinking like a scientist in terms of the benefits and risks of what victory would provide. Now, Apollo was checking off what would stay aboard the basestar and what would be transferred to the ark. Off the top of his head, the biologist thought the categories made a lot of sense. How long had Apollo been pondering the criteria by which to make such informed decisions?

“I’ll get to work on this right away,” said the scientist as he took the amended lists. “Do you want me to make arrangements for the funerals?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m assigning that duty to Sheba.”

“Did someone mention my name?” asked Sheba, seeming to appear out of nowhere within a micron of his mentioning her name.

“How did you do that?”

“Trade secret, Apollo.”

Having the responsibility for myriad Colonial lives never caused Apollo to overestimate his powers when it came to the women in his life. At the center of all the mysteries of the universe must be something purely female.

Apollo dismissed Aardema and then allowed himself the luxury of leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Sheba allowed herself the liberty of massaging his forehead with her gentle fingers. “When’s the last time you slept?” she asked.

“No fair,” he said. “You haven’t answered my question yet.”

“Oh, that’s easy. I was standing just behind that wall over there and eavesdropping.”

“What’s the point of you sneaking around when I tell you everything?” he asked.

“I like to keep in practice in case I ever need to be a spy.”

He squeezed one of her hands. “You’ll only spy for me.”

She kissed him on the forehead while he kept his eyes shut. It was so restful.

She wouldn’t give up. “When is the last time you slept, Apollo?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Then I’ll change the subject. I’m glad you’re doing the funeral for our fallen.”

“Yes.”

“And for the victims of these horrible experiments!”

“I never knew the Cylons were so interested in human DNA before.” Shivering, she blurted out, “It makes my blood run cold.”

Apollo opened his eyes. He wanted to.see her face when he said, “I used to think they were only interested in spilling human blood. Now we know they’re studying it.”

She returned to the subject she’d brought up.Tm taking care of the funeral.”

“All right.”

“You’ve given Aardema his orders. He’ll pass those on to the other scientists and techs.”

Apollo reached up and gently pulled on her right earlobe. “I think you’re trying to tell me something.”

“Yes, damn it! I’m giving you an order. I have to do this from time to time.”

“You’re very good at it. I expect no less from a daughter of Cain.”

“All right, then. I’m ordering you to get some sleep right away!”

“What? Right here?”

“No, you silly man. You’re going back to the ark on the very next shuttle and getting some sack time.”

“And that’s an order?”

She bent down and kissed him. “Do you believe me now?” she asked.

“You leave me no choice. But it may be a little while before the next shuttle...”

“No you don’t” she disengaged from his arm, which he’d placed around her waist. “I always anticipate you. On my orders, a shuttle is being held for you right now—and you better get a move on because there are a lot of people who can’t wait to get off this Cylon basestar!”

Apollo knew when he was beaten. He rose to his feet and uttered one word. “Mutiny.”

“It’s a wise man who knows when he’s beaten,” she said, giving him a playful slap on his rear.

He had no chance of going AWOL because Sheba personally escorted him through the long and winding corridors until they reached the shuttle. She had exaggerated the attitude of the other passengers, however. There was nothing wrong with their morale, and they didn’t seem the least bit impatient to get underway.

They cheered Apollo. They kept it up so long that he felt embarrassed. Colonials liked their victories. Despite all the adulation, Sheba didn’t seem to trust Apollo to return to the ark.

“You’re coming along?” he asked.

“Unlike some commanding officers I could name,” she whispered in his ear, “I’m able to delegate authority. Besides, Boomer wants me to help him with something back on the ark.”

“Which is?”

“Need-to-know basis,” she answered brightly. “Nothing to keep you from your bed.”

As they returned to the ark, he began to drift off; but he always forced himself to become alert again. Sleeping in the ark was a very different thing from sacking out in a small, vulnerable shuttle. The mere fact of the surviving basestar meant there might be other Cylon dangers. When his Fighting spirit was high, sleep seemed like a kind of treason.

But even Apollo could only hold out so long. Once the shuttle docked he experienced a moment’s dizziness. If not for Sheba’s quick action he might have stumbled. It wouldn’t do for the people’s hero to fall down like a drunken reveler! He could remember Adama telling him that a certain decorum was required in all public displays.

Sheba was right. He’d been too long without sleep. As he approached his quarters, and she finally left him, it was a relief to realize that he would be completely alone to collapse in an undignified manner.

Sleep was the answer. A nice, long, deep sleep. Suddenly he felt that he might sleep for a whole day.

As his head hit the pillow, he doubted that anything could wake him up.

He wasn’t thinking about dreams. He felt too exhausted to dream.

It would have to be a most remarkable dream to rouse him from the black pit where there aren’t any stars or ships.

But all of a sudden he seemed to be having a dream inside that dark pit.

“No,” he imagined himself saying. “I don’t want to talk right now. I can’t think of anything to say. Besides, it’s you who should be doing all the talking after all this time. I want to hear what’s on your mind.”

It was a peculiar sensation for Apollo to realize that he wasn’t exactly talking to himself inside a dream. He was talking to someone else, and yet there was no picture of a face or a figure.

A little voice inside his head was telling him that he had to wake up if he wanted to continue the conversation.

So he did...and saw who was standing at the foot of his bed.

“I’m awake,” Apollo said out loud.

It didn’t help. The person standing at the foot of his bed was Baltar.

11

“What do you think they are?” asked Boomer.

“They look like bodies,” answered Sheba.

“We’re going to have to inform Apollo.”

Sheba glanced at the time. “He’s been asleep for six centons by my count. I think we can let him have some more.”

“I guess you’re right. They’ve been here for a long time. A few more centons won’t matter. Hey, how long do you think they’ve been asleep, assuming they’re not dead?”

“I wouldn’t hazard a guess, Boomer. Suspended animation is not my field. But if they are dead, they’re awfully well preserved. They could have been here for thousands of yahren.”

“It’s definitely a job for the med staff. By the time they make a report we can wake up Apollo.”

“How did you find this compartment?” asked Sheba.

“I’d say it was dumb luck, except for one thing. I’ve been drawing up blueprints for each level of the ark. We don’t have plans like the ones we found for the Cylon basestar.”

“A fortunate discovery,” said Sheba.

“I never rule out luck. Anyway, I couldn’t help noticing on this level of the ark that the center bulkhead seemed larger than on the other floors. The idea of all this wasted space started getting on my nerves. I mean, they weren’t wasting space anywhere else.”

“So you concluded that there must be a secret room?”

“Maybe not a secret exactly, but a compartment that was understood to be off limits.”

“How did you find it?”

Boomer was always in the mood for a bit of bragging. “I didn’t do anything fancy. Basically, I put my nose right up against the wall and ran my hands along it until I found the first break in the smooth surface. It was imperceptible to the naked eye, but not to the naked finger! Whenever I came across uneven surfaces I sprayed a powder and left the fine lines you saw when you joined me here.”

“An elaborate lock,” she said.

“Yes, but a lock that could be picked once you knew where it was,” Boomer concluded with justifiable pride.

Sheba walked over to the bodies and peered at them inside the milky glass containers—if the material really was glass. It gave every indication of being glass.

Suddenly life was exciting again. She couldn’t get over how short a time it had been when she had given up all hope of ever drawing another breath. Then came the surprise of the ark, followed by the equally unexpected Cylon basestar. Aboard that enemy craft was the surprise of all those lovely weapons to use against the oblivious enemy.

Now, thanks to Boomer, there was perhaps the biggest surprise of all. These bodies must be remains of the long dead Thirteenth Tribe! What other humans would have been hidden away in the ark? Were the containers coffins or hibernation pods? Perhaps they were hibernation pods that had become coffins down the long, hollow stretches of time.

Maybe some bodies could not be recovered; that didn’t mean the others were all beyond their reach. As she walked up and down the neat, antiseptic rows she saw that the flesh tones of some bodies seemed fresh and vibrant. Others had a gray pallor that offered little hope of regeneration.

And then Sheba saw one container standing all by itself at the end of the rows. “Come look at this, Boomer,” she called out.

Boomer walked over. “What have we here?”

There was no mistaking the squat container among those that had the appearance of giant test tubes. The lone cube was a cryonic chamber. The one body inside looked to be in perfect condition.

“Let’s get a med team in here right away,” said Sheba.

“You’ll report to Apollo the moment they tell us something?”

She patted Boomer on the shoulder. “No, we’ll report this one together. We never would have found it without you.”

At first, Baltar hadn’t minded being dead. He was always open to new experiences. Never a particularly religious man, he had assumed that death would be the end of all his problems. The great nullity was the destination of all good materialists.

Things may have started getting out of hand when the Cylons discovered they could clone his brain. The next step was entirely predictable. They couldn’t leave well enough alone but pursued relentless logic to the duplication of Baltar’s mind. That also meant and endless series of copying his experiences.

Even when he was alive—that is, the original Baltar—there seemed to be some kind of telepathic link between the different personas that were all, to varying degrees, avatars of himself. He would feel himself slipping away, torn between multiple versions of his ego. Was it all one ultimate ego? Or did each one compete with the others for ultimate control? That was the way it was when he was ostensibly alive.

Dreams were always a threat to him back when he was alive. It was hard enough to maintain control when awake and supposedly in command of his senses. He came to dread sleep because that opened the door to dreams.

Too many dreams. They weren’t nightmares. They weren’t as civilized and tame as nightmares. They were a link to the innermost secrets of the Cylon Empire and a direct line to the hard-as-crystal thoughts of Imperious Leader. The occasions when his mind seemed to fragment into multiple points of view could be dismissed as fantasy—rather than accepted as irrevocable truth, transformed into a many-headed dragon.

Now that he was dead, there was no longer the comfort of manufacturing hopeful maybes out of dreadful certainties. Dying removed the scales from his eyes. He could no longer lie to himself about anything.

No one who ever lived prepared for death more assiduously than Baltar. On the last day of his life, he played a little mental game with himself. He would simply list his greatest crimes as a way of passing the time as he prepared to destroy the Cylon fleet invading the Paradis system.

The list had seemed like a good idea at the time. But when the number of his victims became too many to calculate, and the details of various betrayals weighed him down with unbearable lethargy, he decided to drop the exercise. At least, his conscious mind made such a determination.

His irritating subconscious wouldn’t stop taking inventory. That was the trouble. In a way, it made his impending death seem almost pleasant. At least he could stop thinking when he was dead.

What was the good of being dead if you couldn’t stop thinking?

After the ultimate explosion, when he was blissfully reduced to atoms, he remembered his pleasure that there had been no pain.

The next micron, the thought hit him with a force as great as any explosion that he was having a thought!

Dead men aren’t capable of thought.

Dead men aren’t supposed to notice the ease by which the transition was made from life to death.

Suddenly an uncountable number of minds, each one insisting that it was the only Baltar, seemed to collide in infinite space. There was nothing as satisfying as the sensation of floating in space. There was no body—no organ—to have such an experience.

There was only pure mind in conflict with mind. It was more interesting than nothingness, but also boring in the deepest metaphysical sense.

For a seeming eternity, all Baltar could do was try to consolidate the different minds into one integrated consciousness. The big discovery was not that his primary problem was fighting with the other Baltar minds created by the Cylons. Before he could get to that stage, he had a more difficult task. It was as if every single stage of his life had produced a distinct mind that now was at war with all the others.

It was as if every memory coalesced around a specific ego that claimed supremacy over all the other egos busily building castles in the sand of forgetfulness. There were thousands of Baltars, each trying to be the one and only Baltar. Finally, through sheer force of will, he had brought all the random and quarreling memories under the control of one contemporary mind.

That was the first step. Then he had to spend another eternity dealing with the other mature and complete minds whispering to him in the void that they were the true Baltar, while all the others (including himself) were simulacrums created by the Cylons. After an eternity he had succeeded in quieting whispering, nagging voices.

Next, his mind picked up where it had left off—with the inventory of his crimes. After the other mental torture, thinking about his crimes was an actual relief. It didn’t seem to take that long, even when he contemplated the names and lives of each and every human who died because of him. He had access to all that information in his current state.

Alive, he would have considered it impossibly time consuming to worry about the individual victims when they numbered in the millions. But compared to the reintegration of his mind, an inventory of crimes suddenly seemed like a piece of cake.

Feeling remorse for the dead seemed a necessary requirement to move on to the next stage. He began to re-imagine his body. He started with his head. An eternity later he had completed the job right down to his feet.

Sometime later the windows began to open. They weren’t real windows, of course, but that was the closest analogy he could come up with. Whatever they were, he was able to see into the living universe and see all sorts of events happening simultaneously.

Baltar was amazed to witness events of the now-divided fleet only a short time since his leaving the world of the living. After all the eternities he had experienced since being dead, he rather expected that millions of years would have elapsed and everyone he ever knew, human and Cylon, would be fossils for some future species to discover on an archeological dig.

Apparently, time flowed differently for the dead than for the living. It occurred to him that he might be able to open other windows and peer into the past or the future, but that was something he would not pursue until later. Once he figured out the true meaning of laterl It was a relief to have a handle again on the universe he remembered.

That’s when he decided to explore the possibility of communicating with the living. He didn’t know what was possible. He wished he could find some other dead people to ask for advice, but since crossing over his company had consisted of nothing but myriad versions of himself. Still, it would be nice to find some other mind to converse with.

There was no question about the first individual he would tiy to contact. It would have to be Apollo. There were many reasons for this but the best one was that the man’s mind was a beacon of energy that pierced through the veil separating the dimensions of life and death. Apollo had telepathic potential that was not fully realized. He embodied virtues and talents that were at the heart of the Lords of Kobol—forces that Baltar finally understood: there were certain advantages to being dead.

If Baltar could reach any living human mind, he assumed it would be Apollo’s. Toward this end, he devoted another eternity of persistent effort.

The first sign of progress happened when Apollo and his Warriors launched their attack on the remaining Centurions on the Cylon basestar. There were moments when Baltar gave Apollo a few suggestions, a subtle nudging of the gray matter. It only happened a few times, but the results were always favorable. Apollo’s fighting instincts were already finely honed. But in one instant Baltar suggested that he take cover a moment sooner than he might have done otherwise. Then there was the time when Apollo moved his arm a fraction more out of the way before a beam seared his flesh. The injury could have been far worse.

These were little things, but Baltar took note. He would even have tipped off the colonials about the hidden room of Cylon weapons, except that Boomer didn’t need any help finding it. Baltar even tried to reach some of the others but there was no effect whatsoever.

It was not that Apollo was the only Galactican with a telepathic potential. There were a few others, now spread out among the divided fleet. The important thing was that Apollo had a special affinity with Baltar. Also, there were qualities in Apollo that transcended any telepathic link. Baltar sensed the power in his old nemesis and only friend; but not even with the increased knowledge of his new circumstances was he able to fully understand what he sensed in Apollo.

He knew he had to reach him. He tried and failed, again and again. Finally, there was an opportunity. Apollo was so exhausted that he fell into a deep sleep, a natural trance-state.

By this point in Baltar’s new existence, he realized the limitations of communication in dreams. There was too much room for error when the waking mind attempted to recapture every nuance of what happened in the Land of Nod. For what Baltar intended, he must communicate with Apollo’s waking mind.

Apollo asleep and dreaming made the man receptive-tap him on the shoulder in his dream state and make him wake up!

Act quickly in those precious moments when Apollo was awake and make him see and hear.

Well, one out of two was better than nothing. Baltar concentrated so hard on having Apollo see him that he failed to be heard. It was kind of funny, actually, because during his life there were many who had prayed for Baltar to shut up. Not everyone was interested in his insights in the manner of Apollo.

While Apollo stared in disbelief, and Baltar failed to communicate a single word, the contact was broken and the astral projection faded from the room.

Baltar continued to see and hear what went on in the room, however. He was both amused and frustrated by what broke the contact. He thought if he’d had another moment he might have been heard.

Instead, he listened to Sheba say, “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Maybe I did,” was his terse answer.

Baltar appreciated that Apollo kept his encounter with the visitation to himself. The Commander might’ve thought he was recovering from the tail-end of a dream, and saw no reason to tell his friends about hallucinations. However, Baltar always had the feeling that Apollo guarded his privacy. Maybe this was one more example.

“Speaking of ghosts, we have something remarkable to report,” said Boomer.

Apollo’s eyes widened as he heard of the discovery of the suspended bodies. He asked the obvious question, “Is there any chance of survivors?”

“The med team says yes,” Sheba answered.

Apollo wasted no time jumping out of bed. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, glancing at the time.

“Almost half a day,” said Sheba.

“That’s really strange. I felt as if I’d just fallen asleep and then woke up because of a dream.”

“A bad dream?” Boomer wanted to know.

“A strange dream. Not bad at all. It didn’t even feel like dreaming.”

“How do you feel now?” asked Sheba.

“Like a new man! Now that I know how long I slept I have to be rested, don’t I? Let’s go.”

“One more thing, Commander,” said Boomer, as the three exited his quarters.

“What’s that?” asked Apollo.

“We’ve found more of the ancient language. It may tell us what we need to know about trying to revive the bodies. The med team can use all the help they can get.”

“They’ll have it,” said Apollo. “We can thank the Lords of Kobol that a certain friend insisted on staying with us instead of going with the main fleet. This is a job for Gar’Tokk!”

As the three went down the hall toward their latest rendezvous with destiny, the shade of Baltar agreed that it was fortunate they had the services of Gar’Tokk. Now if they could only avail themselves of the services of Baltar as well!

The great traitor who had become the great ally, the living man who died yet refused to go away, made himself a promise. The next time he was ready to reach out to the living, Baltar would be heard—because he knew things that must be shared with Apollo.

12

Athena missed Apollo so much that it hurt. She could share things with him. If he could see her now, he would offer sympathy that she couldn’t get from anyone else, not even Tigh. At long last, she was beginning to understand the burden both he and their father had carried for such a long time.

Life had been easier when she only had to worry about the Daedulus. Taking the captain’s chair aboard the Galactica meant so much more than the responsibility of one battlestar. When she first received her command of the Daedulus she couldn’t imagine a more daunting task. All that had changed now.

The more lives placed before a leader, the harder it became to consider the individual. All the time spent honing a sense of personal justice seemed woefully inadequate for the decisions that had to be made as supreme commander of the fleet. Gradually, a new calculus was growing inside her head, displacing the ethical code she had trusted to guide her life.

Everything that went wrong was blamed on her. It had never been that way on the Daedulus. The opinions of civilians had always seemed remote. Now they clawed at her consciousness like so many buzzing insects. But Athena knew that these new-combatants had rights that were entrusted to her. The fate of the Colonials was in her hands. She genuinely wanted to do the right thing.

Every military officer at whatever rank had to make difficult decisions. That came with the territory.

The new job was different because of the magnitude. Anyone who thought quantity didn’t affect quality had never been in the position of supreme authority. Adama had once said that power can corrupt. That wasn’t the worst part. In her short time taking Apollo’s place, she had learned that power creates a new paradigm.

The greatest good for the greatest number sounded fine in theory. It was when one person had to actually put it into practice that the night devils came and nibbled at the edges of one’s peace of mind. Every dream mutated into a guilt-encrusted nightmare.

The problems of time and supplies weighed so heavily on her that normal difficulties seemed a relief. Every day she was given reports about accidents that didn’t seem very much like accidents. Gangs of troubled youths wandered the halls of the larger civilian ships. There was even trouble aboard the battlestars, as each of these essential craft had taken on a contingent of civilians back in the Paradis system. This was to limit the numbers left behind after the lottery.

The silver lining around this particular cloud was how effectively the younger Warriors were recruiting from the disaffected young—and even a few old people who insisted on volunteering. Maybe a life in the military was a poor substitute for a disintegrated family, but it beat the hell out of joining a gang of incompetent criminals.

Whatever the social consequences of efforts by the Warriors, Athena had a lot more to worry about than vandalism and theft when recruitment failed. The scientists reported that there was no way of combining the elements available in hyperspace into any useful commodity—which meant there was no alternative to dwindling food supplies.

Sometimes Athena would just sit in her command chair and stare at the flickering consoles. Even though she knew the purpose of each and every piece of equipment, and could quickly evaluate the validity of the steady flow of data, she could feel the analytical portion of her mind slipping away. Then she would just sit there and stare at the pretty lights and the different colors switching on and off.

She wasn’t about to admit to anyone that she was letting herself be hypnotized by the light show. A little voice in her head promised her that if anything serious happened she would snap out of it. She couldn’t afford to let her mind drift. She had a job to do.

That was what she was telling herself when the superstructure of the Daedulus groaned and creaked. Something was out of the ordinary, or she wouldn’t have fallen out of her chair.

“Commander!”

The voice calling out was her first officer. She couldn’t let him know that she had been sliding into a waking dream as seductive with curves and sudden drops as the labyrinth of hyperspace.

“Commander Athena!”

The new voice belonged to Tigh, his dark and handsome features coming into focus on the screen in front of her, but then dimming again as if immersed in water. She realized there must have been something wrong with the transmission from the Galactica.

“What happened?” she asked, fighting to regain her concentration. She had no right to lose it now. She had no right to quit. She had promised Apollo she could handle the job. This was no time to turn back into a little girl hiding in a corner. She was Athena, daughter of Adama and sister of Apollo.

“I was hoping you could tell me what happened!” said Tigh.

“I believe that’s my department.” The voice belonged to Dr. Salik, who helped Athena resume her chair. Before they left the Paradis system he had been assigned to the battlestar’s new commander.

“Report.” She was glad she was able to get out the single word.

“I was on the way to see you in person because I thought my readings of the hyperspace wave patterns might mean exactly what they have proven to mean.”

“This is incredible!” said Tigh from the flickering screen as he was passed a report.

“We have come out of hyperspace much sooner than predicted,” said Salik.

Athena let the words sink in. Could it be true? It might be the answer to a prayer. She almost didn’t dare ask the next question. She forced the words up from somewhere deep inside where desperate hopes flicker. “Where are we?”

The crew on the bridge was checking on their whereabouts from the moment the ship stopped shuddering. Dr. Salik was ahead of them, however.

“We are near the new planet,” he told her.

“How near?”

“If the engines aren’t damaged and we maintain top speed, we will be there in three months.”

Even as Athena began to laugh, she realized that it wasn’t very professional. She could tell from Tigh’s expression that he fully shared her feelings, but he was doing a better job of keeping himself under control.

“I understand,” said Tigh.

“You do see the irony of it don’t you? We’ve been calculating how long our supplies would last if we came out at one of the libration points between this new planet and its moon. Then we’d move into a close orbit around the new world and get to work on what might be a new Paradis.”

Salik nodded. “We thought it would be two more months before we reached the planet directly from hyperspace.”

“And that would have gotten us all there, just barely,” said Athena. “Evetyone could have made it!” She looked around at the grim faces on the bridge. She dismissed the idea that she should be having this conversation alone with Salik and Tigh. Her bridge crew had all the same data and could do the basic math. Before the end of the shift she would order them not to repeat anything they had heard.

“It could be worse,” said Salik. “A lot worse. I don’t know what went wrong with the original calculations. But we didn’t lose any ships. We went in together and came out together. Hell, we could have reentered normal spacetime inside a star, or at the other end of the galaxy!”

“In other words, we were close,” said Tigh.

“Exactly,” answered the scientist. “In terms of what could have happened, this outcome is excellent.”

Athena sighed. “Yes, when you put it that way I suppose you’re right. Most of us will still survive. But tell me, Dr. Salik, could we go back into hyperspace and try again to save precious time?”

Salik was no fool. He understood Athena’s general problem even if he didn’t have every specific fact. After all, as one of the fleet’s big brains he’d been asked to work on the possibility of extracting food from what was available in hyperspace. That was as much a challenge to the physicists and astroplasmacists as it was to the basic chemists and biologists. Everyone came up empty.

“It would be very risky this close to our destination,” he told her honestly. “Besides, there’s another consideration.”

“Tell me.”

“Until we make a full study of what went wrong, we don’t dare go into hyperdrive again, in fact, I believe we’ll find out that the hyperdrive was damaged by the manner in which we suddenly popped back into normal space. It will need repairing.”

Athena looked at the screen. Tigh’s face was grim. He was contemplating the same bleak vision.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” she began, “but you must give me your best educated guess. How long do you think repairs would take?”

Dr. Salik hated to hear himself pronounce the verdict. “At least three months, maybe four.”

Athena gritted her teeth so hard that it hurt. Then she took a deep breath and forced herself to go on.

“Thank you, Doctor. You are one of the most valuable assets of the fleet. That’s one of the reasons Apollo insisted that you be one of the special individuals exempted from the lottery. You are essential to our survival. Put together whatever team you require and get on it.” She dismissed him from the bridge and again turned to Tigh, whose image had become considerably clearer. She could feel a wave of empathy coming from her old friend.

He spoke for both of them when he said, “At first I thought this sudden turn of events was the answer to our dreams. Now it’s just bad enough that you’ll probably have to declare martial law. You remember how it was the last time Apollo had to do that?”

She let her eyes roam over the other screens, each providing a different stream of data. “I wonder if there’s any chance of finding a source of food before we reach the planet,” she said.

Tigh allowed himself a weary smile. “Maybe there’s a cosmic mealprep floating in space between us and our destination.”

She responded with a chuckle. “Sometimes I think I made a mistake when I was a little girl and wanted so much to be like my older brother. Maybe I should have set my heart on a career in a good, old-fashioned mealprep instead of on the bridge of a battlestar.”

No sooner had the words come out of her mouth than she realized how inappropriate they were. At least she hadn’t been speaking very loudly. She glanced around to see if any of her subordinates had heard—and just as suddenly, she felt a deep calm settle over her. They were all in the same boat, figuratively and literally. No one else on that bridge cared about protocol, so why should she? Only a few important rules were what mattered in a life and death situation. The rest were trivial.

“Commander Athena,” said Tigh in a firm and steady voice, “speaking for myself and the rest of the fleet I can honestly say that I’m grateful you did not choose a career in the kitchen!”

Despite everything, talking to Tigh made her feel better. “Well, now that we’re back in the good old spacetime continuum it will be easier for transport between the ships,” she said.

“I was just thinking that,” he agreed.

Along with the other imponderables of hyperspace, it was incredibly risky to try and send shuttles between ships. They could just as likely disappear down some invisible corridor and never be seen again. Now it would be practical for the fleet to consolidate materials and personnel.

She and Tigh knew each other so well that they didn’t have to spell everything out. With a few more words he had taken on a planetoid of new tasks. They signed off.

She summoned her first officer and turned over the com. Her next communication was too personal for the bridge. She went to her quarters and used a private channel to reach one of the civilian ships that was being used for the sickest members among the colonials when they left the Paradis system.

Unsurprisingly, this ship had the largest population of any of the med ships. She knew the population numbers by heart. Everyone in the fleet made a point of personally contacting her whenever there was a new birth or death.

The ship she was contacting was called the Gardener. They had taken the name from Paradis, where so many colonials had enjoyed the terrestrial pleasures of growing flowers for beauty and fruits and vegetables for eating. The man who ran this hospital ship was a bit of a pompous ass but was nonetheless good at his job. Athena was not contacting the ship to talk to Dr. Zois.

“Komanah?” she asked.

The screen came alive with the face of a young girl, no more than ten yahren old, with golden hair and bright, blue eyes. Athena had gotten to know her during the lottery. The girl wanted to grow up to be a nurse. She had been friends with a mature teenager who had already been accepted by Cassie for the demanding profession, a lithe brunette named Elayna. The latter had lost in the lottery but used the opportunity to volunteer as one of the nurses for what was left of Apollo’s command, as long as they all lived.

Athena hadn’t forgotten the young girl’s desire to nurse the sick and the recommendation she had received from Cassie. Despite the girl’s youth, the supreme commander of the fleet arranged for her to assist a real nurse. In no time at all, the girl was given a surprising number of adult responsibilities.

Athena felt like Komanah was her daughter. She’d never felt anything like that before and it frightened her a little.

“Thanks for calling, Athena,” said the girl.

Athena had told her not to address her by rank. They were on a first name basis.

“You know what happened?”

“Yes, we’re back in normal space. I like it better than when we’re in the weird place.”

“That’s a good name for hyperspace. What don’t you like about it?”

“I get all congested. I think I’m allergic to hyperspace.”

“Me, too. Except I get a headache. How are things aboard your ship?”

Komanah shook her head. “So many of the patients are so sick. We have devices to keep them alive, but not to make them well.”

“I know.”

“Dr. Zois tries to make everyone interested in getting better. He does up lists for when patients improve, no matter how little. He says the ones who improve the most will make it onto his Best of the Yahren.”

Athena frowned. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

The girl was quick with her answer. “I think it’s stupid. He’s got one favorite patient and everyone else is tired of her ‘cause she’s on every list all the time. She tells really lame jokes that no one thinks are funny except Dr. Zois.”

“Well, I’m sure she does the best she can,” said Athena.

“Yeah, I guess so but I don’t even think she’s as sick as she pretends.

Maybe she shouldn’t even be here. She’s sort of a con artist. The other patients call her Conny.”

“Enough about them,” said Athena. “How about you?”

“I haven’t caught anything yet.”

“Good girl.”

“I’m always careful. I always wash my hands and take my shots.” Athena knew all about being careful. She had to tread very carefully with what came next. “Komanah, if I offered you a position on another ship, would you take it?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I gave you a promotion, but you had to move to another ship, would you take it?”

The girl wore a puzzled expression for what seemed like an inordinately long time. “But I’m a civilian,” she said Finally. “How would I have a promotion?”

Athena took a deep breath. “I mean, I could make you a full nurse.” Again there was the puzzled expression. “Wouldn’t a doctor have to do that?”

Athena felt the weight of a galaxy settling on her shoulders. She didn’t like the feeling that she was conning her young protege. At least she wasn’t making her listen to any lame jokes.

“I guess you’re right,” she said. “I thought you might like to see what it’s like on another ship for a while.”

“Thank you, Athena. I can’t really leave because I made a promise to some of the oldest patients that I’ll stay with them until we reach the new planet. I can’t break my promise.”

Athena couldn’t bring herself to say anything. It was sort of like when she couldn’t stop staring at the flashing lights on the bridge. She stared at the lovely young face on the screen and felt herself breathe.

“Athena, are you all right?” asked the girl.

“Yes,” she said in a small voice.

“Are you crying?”

“Am I?” She hadn’t noticed, but there did seem to be something wet on her cheek.

“Are you going to be all right?” asked the girl.

“Yes,” said Athena. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“Will you come over for a visit now that we’re back in real space?” asked the girl.

Athena swallowed hard. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

“Thanks,” said the girl brightly. “I have to go now.”

“Take good care of your patients.”

The screen went black. Athena reached her hand out and touched the dark screen.

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the screen. “I love you, Komanah,” she said.

She had already made her decision, but if she was careful and kept that fact partly hidden from herself, maybe, just maybe she wouldn’t throw herself out the airlock.

She had to keep a promise to herself and to the fleet. No one would starve. Not on her watch. No one would starve on her watch ever again.

Her hands were shaking so hard that she had to lie on top of them, on her bed where she buried her head in her pillow and sobbed like a child much younger than Komanah.

Somewhere in her mind were the lines of an old colonial poem:

The comet streaks through void’s black space,

Hiding from one and all its cold and icy face.

13

“What are we going to do with them?”

“We’re going to bring them back.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones we can.”

“How can we tell which ones when even the med team isn’t sure?” “Wherever there are vital life signs, no matter how faint, we have a chance. We must try to revive everyone who was put in suspended animation when we figure out how the system works!”

“Which methods will we use if there are several?”

“That’s why we have experts.”

The person asking the questions was Sheba. The person with the answers was Apollo. Together they faced a sight so incredible that the only way they could deal with it was to reduce it to the prosaic. To succeed with even one of the human subjects would be a miracle. They would finally have the opportunity of speaking directly to a member of the legendary Thirteenth Tribe!

“I’m here.” A third member of their company announced himself. “Thank you for coming, Gar’Tokk,” said Apollo. He had not seen the Borellian for some time, not since they were all saved by the appearance of the space ark.

“It is fate that we continue down the same path,” he said. “I am ready for any task.”

“Did they tell you what we’ve found?”

“I am fortunate that you have found more of the ancient writing.”

“You enjoy translating it, don’t you?” asked Sheba.

“When I can.”

Apollo again took advantage of the fact that this Noman allowed his human friend to make physical contact. He placed his hand on the bulky alien shoulder.

“Thank you for looking after Koren,” he said.

“It was your request.”

Apollo nodded. “But it was only a request. You chose to honor it.”

Gar’Tokk looked him straight in the eye. “It was a request from Apollo.”

“I appreciate it,” said Apollo, “whatever the outcome. Koren admires you.”

“I know,” said Gar’Tokk. “He admires you, as well. We have set him a high standard.”

The last remark surprised Apollo. It was one of the most human remarks he had ever heard from Gar’Tokk. “Where are the words of the Thirteenth Tribe?” asked the Noman.

“Here, I’ll show you,” said Apollo. He led the alien to one of the ciyonic pods.

“Only here?” asked Gar’Tokk.

“We’ve had a team go through everything with a fine-tooth comb, old friend. It was only by accident that one of the techs found this. He brushed against the side of the pod and enough dust came off to reveal the words.”

“Dust?”

“Yes, that struck me as odd. How could a hermetically sealed chamber that was completely clean have dust, even after several millennia? Chemical tests show that the dust flaked off the metal walls. We’re not talking about paint. This is a tougher alloy than anything we possess, but one of the experts says we’ve never had access to a chamber as old as this one must be, so we have to be ready for anything. We have a lot to learn.”

Careful not to touch the surface, Gar’Tokk peered at the message in the ancient language before asking, “They checked every other surface for more words?”

“Yes, and take it from me that this is the only place where they appear.”

“I feel it is important that we know the meaning of these words.”

“I have the same feeling, Gar’Tokk.”

“It may take several days.”

Apollo smiled. “Only days?”

“I would like to make a copy but I also want to work right here. There may be meaning in the surface of the pod itself.”

“I agree,” said Apollo. “I, too, have felt something powerful emanating from the message being on this pod.”

“Will my being here interfere with the tasks of others?”

“I anticipated you, Gar’Tokk. Take this!”

Apollo passed him a carefully prepared copy of the writing. “You can work with the pod directly until we begin recovery procedures. Then the copy will come in handy. Afterward, you can return to the actual pod.”

Gar’Tokk needed nothing else. He turned to his work. Apollo gestured for Sheba to join him. Others were milling about in the chamber, taking measurements and readings.

“How shall we begin?” asked Sheba.

“You seem eager,” Apollo told her.

“It’s so exciting! I can hardly believe that they are actual members of the Thirteenth Tribe. I used to wonder if it might not be made up. You know, a myth or something like that.”

Apollo wasn’t surprised. “You don’t take things on faith, do you?”

“Something else I got from my father. Now you, on the other hand, are very much Adama’s son! You see a bigger universe than we children of Cain.”

Elayna, the young nurse, approached Apollo with news.

“Dr. Du’bah is ready to attempt resuscitation on any of the subjects you select,” said Elayna.

“I’ll go see him. By the way, Elayna, I thought you were running sickbay.”

“I trust my new girl to stand in for me. She’s come a long way in a short time.”

“What’s her name?”

“Vessil.” She paused. “Commander, I volunteered for more dangerous medical assignments right at the start.”

“I know you did. You wanted to join us in the lab on the Cylon basestar to work with the specimens we found there.”

The young nurse’s face seemed tc light up. “You knew about that?”

“Yes, I turned down your request.”

“But, why?” she asked, crestfallen.

Apollo shared a sidelong glance with Sheba, whose wry expression gave clear evidence that she understood where the conversation was going.

“I decided you were too young,” he said.

Elayna’s hero worship for Apollo seemed to have run into a blank wall. “I’m qualified!” she blurted out.

“Yes, you are. But I only let colonials of a certain age go into that enemy ship.”

“Oh.”

As he reached out and touched her arm there was an electricity between them. He figured he’d been forgiven in that moment. “Thank you for approving me for this duty on the ark,” she said. “Would you rather be here or working with the Cylon specimens we brought over?”

“Right here,” she answered without hesitation.

Sheba chose that moment to jump in. “It’s probably safer here.” Apollo wished Sheba hadn’t said that. He understood better than most how young people were desperate to prove their courage. He made up his mind right then and there to share some of his deepest concerns.

“We don’t know what organisms might be in these old life systems of the Thirteenth Tribe any more than we do the Cylon tissue samples. Take it from me, Elayna, there is plenty of risk right here.”

She got his message loud and clear. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Just assure me that your sick bay is in good hands.”

“You have my word, Commander.”

“Good,” he wrapped it up. “Now let’s go see Dr. Du’bah and give him his orders.”

“Dr. Dubah is a woman,” Elayna said, correcting him.

“She’s a she,” Elayna corrected him.

The discussion with the med staff didn’t take long. The doctor in charge elected to try and bring everyone out of the hibe pods at the same time. The body in cryonic freeze would be saved for later as a different technique would be required from how they would approach the pods.

One of the younger med techs voiced an objection to what they were about to do. “Excuse me, Commander, but wouldn’t it be wiser to try one pod at a time in case we have made a mistake in our diagnosis?”

Anger flashed in the eyes of the matronly Dr. Du’bah. “What’s your name?” she asked the young man.

“Bell.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, Doctor. It’s just that I thought...”

“What you think is immaterial. I’m in charge here and my evaluation is that these pods are linked together through a central life-support system controlled by a computer that is programmed to revive everyone in a particular sequence. We don’t dare tamper with that program.”

Her critic didn’t give up easily. “It might be worth making the attempt in case of an error that would affect all of them.”

Du’bah made no attempt to hide her anger. She turned to Apollo. “Well, Commander, what is your decision?”

Apollo always disliked situations like this. What was the point of people spending a lifetime developing skills in a specialized area if they tried to pass the decision to someone outside their Field? Even though the final decision had to be from the commanding officer, it was a betrayal of professionalism if the med team couldn’t get it together for their own proposal.

Apollo lost respect for Du’bah the moment the woman attempted to dump her problem in his lap. He did the only rational thing.

“Tell me more,” he said.

The consensus was in favor of Dr. Du’bah. Of course, only those with seniority and degrees expressed their opinion. Elayna and the other nurses kept silent, along with the techs. But Apollo could tell that Bell’s opinion was not dismissed by everyone present. But challenging the opion of his superior could be a shortcut to demotion. Apollo wondered how the senior med staffer would take it.

Despite the prickliness of her personality, Dr. Du’bah impressed Apollo when she asked Bell to explain to all non-med staffers what they were attempting to do. He put it in layman’s terms:

“It’s like this, Commander. Cryonics is based on freezing. We basically use electricity to reactivate or restimulate the tissue in those cases. But the technique in these hibe pods is entirely different and considerably more advanced. As best we can make out, the process they utilized was a form of dehydration that preserved rather than destroyed the living tissues. We will be attempting to circulate a combination of fluids from a central pump that will gradually restore all the bodily fluids required for life. The organs are all in a state of perfect preservation, saturated with a fluid that prevented deterioration. Now we have to remove that fluid and replace it with others that will ultimately restore living, vibrant blood-streams, delivering oxygen to all the crucial organs. That’s the theory.”

"Thank you, Bell,” said Du’bah. “We’ve spent enough time in the pre-planning stage. The time has come for action. We’ll fix any problems we encounter along the way. What is your decision, Commander?”

“We will take the extra time and go with Bell’s plan,” he said.

Gar’Tokk understood Apollo’s signal and exited the inner chamber, but stayed behind to watch the experiment. Some of the med staff were nervous in the presence of the massive Noman standing in the background.

A tech crew worked with Bell to separate one of the pods. The old machinery still worked on the single pod. The engineers had done their job earlier and assured Apollo that the equipment was still functional. Murky liquids flowed through incredibly old tubes that had lost none of their integrity and resiliency over the eons.

The machines hooked up to show brain patterns and register heartbeats. Ever so gradually, the process began to work.

“No!” screamed Du’bah. “We can’t change the program!”

She halted the current procedure and re-initiated the original program. Warning lights began to flash. The alarm signal sounded like a miniature Cylon attack to Apollo’s ears.

“Slow it down!” cried Bell. “It’s not too late. We can stabilize some of these patients.”

A veteran of bloody warfare, Apollo had little use for anyone in command who froze in a moment of crisis. There was no greater crime in his book.

Du’bah stared in horror. How could her theory be wrong? Since the impossible had just occurred, she couldn’t bring herself to exert any further effort. She just stood there, a waxen lump of flesh. The other doctors, still cowed by her authority, waited for her to assert any control.

It fell to the med techs and the nurses to act. Bell assumed the mantle of leadership without even thinking about it. The others followed his lead as a matter of simple common sense.

“We can still save some of them,” he said. “We can’t reverse the process, but we can stabilize them at this stage of the restoration process. Check those life signs! Quick, isolate that patient from the rest. And that one, too!”

No one spoke except Bell. Apollo and the officers stood back and watched a battle with many similarities to the ones they had fought. The enemy was the same in both cases. Death was always ready and willing to take your people.

The crisis was quickly. Only three humans remained alive in the hibernation pods. They were much further along the path to normal life functions, but still in the equivalent of deep comas. The newly dead didn’t appear all that different from the living.

“Hear me,” said Apollo, his voice firm as steel and his eyes sweeping the room before coming to rest on Du’bah. “The three lives that were saved matter more than the lives lost, but we regret those losses from the bottom of our souls. The survivors are all the more precious because we almost lost them. Tell me, Bell, how long can you keep them in their current state between suspended animation and fully restored functions?”

"As long as the equipment holds out, Commander.”

“What is your estimate on that?”

“For all practical purposes, indefinitely.”

Apollo considered the situation for a moment before making a decision. “I don’t want to repeat myself, so listen carefully,” he said. “These three are alive. They are to be left just as they are until I give orders to the contrary.”

He turned from the spectacle of medical disaster followed by medical success. His eye caught Gar’Tokk’s. The nod that Gar’Tokk gave him was imperceptible to everyone else in the room.

“I love my child!”

“I never said you didn’t.”

Cassiopeia and Starbuck were arguing. It was the only disagreement they ever had nowadays. But if Starbuck could trade in this one bone of contention for all their older quarrels and relive the old arguments every day of his life, he’d do so in the time it took to fire a turbo laser.

Starbuck wanted to help with the kid but she really wouldn’t let him. Although a lifelong bachelor, he’d been around children before. He couldn’t date as many women as he had and not run across the occasional offspring from earlier boyfriends or absent husbands. Kids tended to happen now and again. So Starbuck had picked up some parenting skills by default.

However none of his past experience prepared him for his current challenge. For one thing, Cassie wouldn’t tell him her son’s name!

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” she said on more than one occasion. "Every time I give him a name he refuses to answer to it.”

“It takes time with a stubborn child,” he said, attempting to sound more authoritative than he actually felt.

It didn’t matter because she wasn’t listening to him. She never did when she felt the impulse to unburden herself.

“You have no idea what it’s been like. I did what I was supposed to do. I’d call him by the same name over and over when he was an infant so that he’d become used to it. Even then, when he was a little baby, I felt that something was wrong. After he became a toddler, that’s when I knew that something was really wrong. He just wouldn’t respond to any name! But if I addressed him the way I would a stranger with ‘young man’ or even ‘hey, you,’ I’d get a response.”

“It must be a phase he’s going through.” Starbuck dutifully trotted out the reliable cliche.

She only felt relaxed enough to make one joke about the situation. “I’ll have to give him a name before I send him off to school.”

“That would help a lot,” Starbuck agreed.

Now things were different. Starbuck had rescued the kid from a mob of other children who were chasing the boy down the corridors of the Galactica. Starbuck never imagined he’d see lynch mob frenzy in the eyes of children.

He was able to stop them and shelter the boy behind him. The other kids were in awe of the famous Warrior. He wasn’t above using his celebrity when it could help him or his friends out of a scrape.

But not even the famous Starbuck was able to get the other boys and girls to admit what had enraged them. Only one girl muttered something about the “latest accident,” but wouldn’t elaborate. Her tone of voice made it clear that she was using accident to describe something else.

That same girl was rubbing a red patch on her arm. It looked like a burn, but when Starbuck asked to examine it she ran away, followed by the other children.

He took the boy home to his mother. If he’d been smart, he would have told Cassie that he had another appointment and hightailed it out of there.

But he hung around and got in the usual argument with Cassie. By the time he realized that he wasn’t really involved except tangentially, he couldn’t figure out a way to escape.

She was arguing with herself and he was only an innocent bystander.

“But I do love him as much as I’m afraid of him!” she said. By now she had sent the boy to bed, but Starbuck didn’t doubt a youngster’s ability to hear through the thin walls.

“Cassie, calm down. We don’t have all the facts. Actually, we don’t have any facts. I couldn’t get anything out of those kids. Maybe he didn’t do anything bad this time.”

Damn! The minute he said it, he regretted his choice of words.

“This time?” she nearly shrieked. “What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t mean anything.”

“Then you shouldn’t have said it. He’s not responsible for eveiy little mishap aboard the Galactica."

“I never said he was.”

“Then be more careful what you say,” she said, pushing him out of her apartment and closing the door without even a thank you.

For a brief moment of total insanity, Starbuck almost knocked on the door. He was saved by the same instinct for survival that had kept him from death by bombs, and the entire Cylon Fleet.

He beat a hasty retreat to the nearest tavern, where he could count on a rational game of pyramid and a tall, stiff glass of anything alcoholic.

Starbuck was the best survivor in the galaxy.

14

Rhaya held up a finger to her lips in the age-old gesture that meant everyone should keep silent. Although a few of her comrades couldn’t keep smirks off their faces, they did manage, through a supreme effort of will, to avoid making any noise.

“Does that hurt?” Rhaya finally asked, pressing a finger against the purplish bruise disfiguring the young man’s lower lip.

“Yeah,” said Hass. “It hurts worse when you press on it.”

Rhaya gave him a sweet smile. “So it hurts if I do this?” Rhaya pushed harder on it this time.

A loud OW! came out of Hass’s mouth.

“Rhaya!” Troy’s tone was reprimanding.

“You’d like me to stop playing with your bruise?” Rhaya asked. Hass nodded without saying a word.

Dalton threw up her hands. “You don’t have to do any more of this, Rhaya. I’ll confess.”

“I want Hass to confess,” said Rhaya.

“I’ll say anything you want if you stop messing with me,” promised the boy.

Bojay got into the act. “Young man, I don’t think she wants you to fabricate. Rhaya wants you to tell us the truth.”

“All right, don’t get your engines in a warp! Dalton hit me, OK? She slugged me.”

Trays figured that the period of enforced solemnity was at an end. He burst out laughing so hard that Dalton contemplated giving him a good punch as well.

Rhaya was flushed with victory. She cocked her head at her friendly adversary and said, “I believe the young man’s bruise is mute testimony to your methods.”

“Mute?” came Dalton’s incredulous response. “You call that mute? There’s been a lot of non-stop talking as far as I can tell.”

Bojay had become the unofficial referee for the contest between the two women. He didn’t want his bias in favor of Dalton to prevent him from being fair.

“It doesn’t look good, Dalton,” he observed. “You were supposed to use positive reinforcement, remember? Our girl Rhaya was the one allowed to take the gloves off and use negative reinforcement.”

“The carrot and the stick?” Dalton shot back. “She didn’t hold back on using the stick, did she?”

They all looked over at Kender, who smiled back through a face covered in welts and bruises. Troy put his head in his hands to both cover his smile and play the role of the unhappy pedagogue, frustrated about educating the young.

“Hey, Rhaya was fair,” said Kender, flashing her a smile that demonstrated his next point. “She let me keep all my teeth.”

“Big deal,” said Hass. “Dalton only had to slug me once to keep me in line. You needed a full pounding! My teacher is better than yours.”

“That’s just ‘cause you’re a cross between a wimp and a mugjape,” was the other’s witty reply.

As if a referee had just fired off a starting gun, chairs were knocked over and the two were at each other’s throats.

“Attention!” shouted Bojay. What followed was as genuine a miracle, as great as if the Cylons had kept their original peace treaty. The two boys actually came to attention.

“I don’t believe it,” said Trays.

“What we have here,” Bojay slowly drawled, “is a success at communication.”

Dalton looked at Kender and then at Rhaya. Rhaya looked at Hass and then at Dalton.

Both women crossed the short distance between them and embraced. The rest of the merry little band applauded. The boys would have joined in except that they were still at attention.

“Does this mean Rhaya won because she used more violent methods?” asked Troy.

“Or does it mean that Dalton won because she only had to hit her candidate once, which is clearly a more permissive approach?” asked Trays.

Bojay winced at the complexities. “I’m tempted to call it a draw. Maybe we should ask the boys themselves?”

Dalton and Rhaya didn’t hesitate to give the thumbs up. Bojay asked Hass, “What made you come around and want to be a Warrior?”

“Dalton.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s as hot as a pulsar. I mean, just take a look at her!” Dalton raised an eyebrow. Troy chuckled and gave Rhaya his best what-are-you-doing-tonight expression right before asking Render the same question. He might as well not have bothered.

“Rhaya is even hotter,” exclaimed the boy.

Bojay believed they had made a great discovery. “So all we have to do to recruit juvenile delinquents is let our sexiest women in the Warrior ranks beat them into submission!”

“Apparently so,” said Troy.

The boys wore big grins that did not belie the point. Then Render surprised everyone present by volunteering, “It wouldn’t work with everyone in my gang.”

“Why not?” asked Bojay.

“Some of them are girls. ‘Course, now that I think about it, maybe it would work with some of them.”

Hass piped up with, “You’ve got some men who could bring the swins around.”

“What’s a swin?” asked Rhaya.

“What we call girls in my gang.”

“Well, I have a suggestion,” said Bojay. “We’re off to a good start, but if these lads are going to join our ranks they have to do some real work.”

“Flight simulators?” asked Render.

“Before you take out real Vipers you’ll rack up a lot of time in the simulators,” said Bojay. “Now that we’re back in real space you can at least look forward to actual Viper time.”

“Who knows?” Rhaya began. “You may be allowed to risk your lives on an actual mission before long!”

From their faces it was easy to read that the boys did not find danger a disincentive. A micron later those expressions took on a whole new aspect when Bojay gave it to them straight:

“First things first,” he said. “You have to do a lot of homework. We’ll start with astrogation. That means math! There is a class scheduled in two centons and you will be in it.”

Troy jumped in with a few choice points of his own. “You better get it through your heads that you’ll be going to school full time. You’ll have to learn how to think strategically. Do you know how to lay down a raking fire to protect one of your flanks in an attack? How do you use space debris to your advantage and avoid having it directed against you? What do you know about plasma streams? When do you trust the force fields and when do you drop them in the middle of a fight? How much do you know about space suits?”

“All right!” Kender wailed. “I give up.”

“Me, too,” said Hass.

“We’re with the program. We’ll take it all in, just not all at once, you know?”

“Yeah,” Hass added. “But it would be a lot easier if Dalton and Rhaya would take turns beating us up.”

Suddenly Bojay felt fine. His gut told him that these two were going to be an asset. “I’ll wager there’s time for one quick trip to a flight simulator before they attend their first class.”

The others were all of the same opinion. They all started for the simulators with a feeling of genuine camaraderie when suddenly the ship shuddered around them. It was similar to when they had come out of hyperdrive, but of shorter duration and greater intensity.

Troy grabbed onto Rhaya as she lost her footing.

“What the hell was that?” asked Trays.

“It felt like a shock wave,” said Troy.

“The sort we get from a nearby explosion in space,” added Bojay. “Switch on that transvid!”

There was nothing but static. Whatever was happening hadn’t been reported yet. Dalton acted quickly on a hunch. She ran into the adjoining room and opened a portal on the wall. She had guessed right, as the others saw when they joined her.

They had a ringside seat and they didn’t like what they saw. The explosion was still spreading out, opening up like a dreadful flower in the void. Explosions only looked that way in space. This one had been too close to the Galactica for comfort.

“Wasn’t that the Gardener?” asked Dalton.

“I believe you’re right,” said Rhaya. “I knew people on that ship. What could have happened?”

“Could it have been a meteor?” asked Hass.

Bojay wasn’t having any. “It would have to be pretty big to do that sort of damage to a ship of that size. Even a hefty chunk of asteroid would be more likely to split the ship into two than blow it to atoms.”

“The engines must have blown,” said Dalton. “There can’t be any other explanation, unless the Cylons have found us.”

“It’s not the Cylons,” said Rhaya.

“How do you know?” asked Trays. “We haven’t received a general alarm yet.”

“Nothing’s coming in on any of the channels,” said Bojay. “It must have been a terrible accident.”

“Yes,” said Rhaya, suddenly thinking of her father and experiencing a terrible, sinking feeling of how war makes everyone brutal in the end. “Accidents are always terrible. I prefer enemy action.”

Athena was expecting Tigh to contact her on his private channel. She wasn’t prepared for his personal visit.

“You risked a shuttle so soon after the accident?” she asked.

They were alone in her quarters, and could speak freely. Even a private channel wasn’t the same as a face to face meeting.

“I wasn’t worried about debris from the destruction of the Gardener,” he said. “I take my chances when the odds aren’t worse than that.”

“Remind me not to play pyramid with you.”

“I came in person because you need me to be here.”

She frowned. “I gave explicit orders that only rescue craft could leave their berths until further notice.”

Tigh sat down in her most comfortable chair without an invitation. At any other time, she would have insisted that he do so by now.

“Why don’t you consider my shuttle as a rescue craft?” he said. “Besides, we both know that there are no survivors. Not when you hit a rickety old ship like that with the full force of one of our most powerful particle beams.”

Her body sagged as if it were a rag doll and she almost seemed to grow smaller as she sat on the side of her bed. “Only a few others were involved. They had come to me earlier with even more draconian proposals than what I just did. They made the same calculations as I.”

“That we both made,” Tigh reminded her.

“I swore them to secrecy.”

“Of course.”

“They are young. I don’t think they fully feel the horror of what we have done.”

“You’re not old, Athena.”

She started to cry. Tigh sensed that this was not the first time she’d cried over her resolve to destroy the Gardener. “I feel very old, Tigh. I never understood what it was like to bear the responsibilities of my brother. Not until now. I couldn’t even imagine it all those times I was always giving him advice. All my wonderful, unsolicited advice.” Tigh had not come to condemn. He came to offer understanding. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. As I recall, Apollo asked your advice on those occasions.”

“A lot of good that does me now!” she almost screamed. “He wasn’t here for this, was he?”

“Do you think he’s still alive?” asked Tigh.

The question brought her up short. “I don’t think about it.”

“You frequently speak about him as though he’s still alive.”

In a voice barely above a whisper she admitted, “I believe he is. I know he’s not dead; or at least he’s still with me somehow. He’s not gone the way they are now—all those people!”

She pointed at the blank wall behind her bed. He didn’t doubt that she was pointing in the right direction. She had the coordinates in her head. Normally she liked having numbers and stats and maps up there. All sorts of technical things. But right now there wasn’t enough data in all the universe to push out the terrible memories and regrets from her tortured mind.

Faces. Her head was full of faces. Young and old. Male and female. But most of all there was a young girl who looked up to Athena and had been eagerly awaiting her next visit.

The jagged crystal that ripped through Athena’s soul was certain knowledge that if Komanah could reach out from beyond the grave and speak, she would forgive Athena. The woman who gave the order to destroy one of her own ships knew this to be true, just as she knew the law of gravity.

“Duty is a strange thing,” said Athena.

“What do you mean?” asked Tigh softly.

“For the first time in my life, duty is in no way a burden or a requirement. Now it’s my only lifeline.”

“How?”

She looked deep into the honest eyes in the broad expanse of his dark, good face. He saw a painful maturity in the face of one of the most beautiful women he had ever known in his life. There were times when she reminded him of a goddess.

Like a goddess, she dispensed life and death.

Like a goddess, she kept certain things to herself that mere mortals could never embrace.

She would never ask Tigh if he would have made the same decision, standing in her boots. He appreciated that she would not put him on the spot that way.

They did not speak of all the obvious facts. Such as the cold, cruel fact that barring any future obstacles, the remaining members of the fleet would make it to the new planet without anyone starving.

Neither could speak of that now. Perhaps they could never do so again.

The goddess did share one of her secrets with Tigh. He let her words sink deep into his soul where they would remain forever as his own private treasure.

“Duty is a lifeline because it is the only reason I won’t commit suicide and join those poor, innocent colonials who trusted me with their lives.”

Tigh closed his eyes. “The greatest good for the greatest number must be the rule for everyone in command. We have no other choice. It is the true meaning of torment.”

“Thank you for coming to me,” Athena said.

She walked over to the older man and embraced him. He returned the favor. What passed between them went beyond normal human affection. It was a new experience for both of them. Tentatively, with fear and trembling, they offered the limited comfort one human being can offer to another deep in the bowels of hell.

15

Apollo gave the order without hesitation. “Put her under arrest.”

“What if the procedure worked?” asked Sheba.

“It doesn’t matter. I gave explicit orders. I won’t hold the other medical people responsible but this time Du’bah is under arrest. She’s lucky I don’t clamp her in irons.”

They talked as they strode quickly down a wide hallway in the Ark. Apollo blamed himself that he hadn’t placed more guards around the hibe pods. Dr. Du’bah and her cronies simply waited for a changeover between single guards to slip into the hibernation chamber and resume the restorative processes. They were fortunate that they had not intruded when Gar’Tokk was there!

“Was Bell among them?” asked Apollo.

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so. Good. He’s in charge from now on.”

“Hopefully you won’t mind that I anticipated you and already gave him that very assignment.”

Apollo stopped walking so abruptly that Sheba almost tripped as she attempted not to speed ahead of him. For a micron or two, she figured he was going to tear into her. She braced herself for an attack of righteous wrath from her commanding officer and best friend.

“Sheba,” he began in a thunderous voice, “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

She started to speak but nothing came out. Apollo loved every delicious drop of her reaction. “Come on,” he said, taking her arm.

“Let’s hope we’re about to meet some new friends instead of holding a wake for three more corpses.”

Du’bah had been removed by the time they got there. Currently, there were enough Warriors to guard a shipment of tylium. He couldn’t help but think that it was a little like guarding the corral after all the bovas had stampeded out of it.

Bell arrived when they did. Together they shared the privilege of meeting the first living representatives of the Thirteenth Tribe.

At first, the trio awaiting them didn’t seem all that different from other human beings. One didn’t have to be around them for long before picking up on a strange sensation. The old man projected a quality of cheerful expectancy while at the same time seeming ready for any disappointment that might follow. He had seen it all, heard it all, lived it all before. He was the eldest—a wizened man whose fragility did not in any way contradict the sense of power that seemed to radiate from his very bones.

His companions were a much younger man and woman who shared similar features with an almost feline quality. They could be brother and sister with their high cheekbones, long necks, large craniums and yellow-green eyes.

Apollo felt a sense of awe to be in the presence of living people who were thousands of yahren old. He started to speak when Bell whispered in his ear. “They seem awake but the readings on my instruments show they are barely in a waking state.”

“You mean like sleepwalkers?”

“Yes. If it’s not presumptuous of me, I think it is premature to try and establish contact.”

“They seem so weak,” observed Sheba.

“All right then,” said Apollo. “See to their needs. Do they need to eat or drink yet?”

“Their bodies received full nourishment in the course of the resuscitation,” Bell said. “When they become fully conscious, however, they will be ravenous.”

Apollo saw an opportunity. “That might be the best time to try and talk to them. Millennia separate us. This is going to be a challenge. I hope Gar’Tokk has made progress in deciphering the message.” Apollo and Sheba left the med people to perform their ministrations.

They both had goose bumps from the close encounter with the ancient trio.

“Our forefathers among us,” he said. “I can’t get over it.”

“Neither can I.”

“We will succeed in communicating!”

“I’m certain of it.”

“What will they say when they discover that they are not where they are supposed to be?”

“They will be kind to us, Apollo. After all, we’re their children.” Tapping his chin, he said, “We’re their distant descendants. It’s not really the same thing.”

She placed her hand over his heart. “Trust me, Apollo, it is the same!”

Suddenly she sneezed.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Whew, I don’t know where that came from. I haven’t had a cold in a long time.”

He felt paternal all of a sudden. “Well, you know what they say. Get plenty of coneth stew and catch up on your sleep.”

“It’s a deal, Commander. Just so I don’t sleep for thousands of yahren!”

Starbuck had been right. He’d suspected that Cassie’s son listened through the walls when he and his mother argued.

But Starbuck only guessed part of the truth, the whole of which was a lot worse than he could actually imagine. The boy didn’t only listen to the conversations of adults as they happened. He could extrapolate from those conversations what the most likely next conversation would be, and maybe the one after that.

He wasn’t exactly predicting the future. That would imply certainty and a degree of omniscience that wasn’t part of his skill set. At least not yet. He was still a little boy, after all.

The area in which he already excelled had to do with running plausible scenarios. He would then sift through them, searching for the most probable outcome.

He imagined that the next argument between his mother and Starbuck would happen when her beloved Warrior learned just how many “accidents” were blamed on her son. Starbuck would assume that if even a small portion of the accidents were the boy’s fault it was still too many.

Too many accidents weren’t accidents.

The number of injured children suggested a malign influence directed against them.

Who could possibly be behind so many nasty pranks that pushed the envelope of criminality?

When Starbuck confronted the boy’s mother, she would deny everything. She wouldn’t share with him the unfortunate fact that she was already aware of many of these incidents. That’s what she called them—incidents.

The boy blamed himself for limiting his horizons. Yes, it was probably childish to spend too much time causing interesting things to happen among his peer group. Other kids annoyed him but he’d done enough to them. Obviously the time had come to branch out and explore the range of his growing power to include adults aboard the Galactica.

He’d wait no longer before extending his horizons to include a more representative sample of the colonials. He would act quickly before the next argument occurred between his mother and her paramour. His next project must be grandiose. They wouldn’t be talking about accidents after that. It must be something that would affect all the grownups.

Meanwhile, he needed to think through the nature of these contentious discussions between his mother and the man in her life. He projected how the arguments would probably play out.

Starbuck becomes more frustrated with Cassie as she withdraws from him. He is a fairly simple man, after all, and not terribly hard to predict.

As Cassie becomes more frightened, Starbuck demands that she seek help. That’s what his kind always does. She will resist (which is good) but become more depressed and distraught (which is bad).

When she attempts to explain what is going on inside her, Starbuck won’t have a clue. But he keeps at her because he loves her.

Love is the random factor. Love can throw off any carefully laid plan of action. Love can remove the cloak of blindness and make the recipient see clearly.

The most dangerous probability is that Cassie tells Starbuck everything she suspects about her boy being the son of Count Iblis instead of Apollo. Starbuck comes to believe all the worst possible ramifications.

Then Cassie succumbs to the inevitable and turns against her own flesh and blood, just because his soul springs from a superior being.

Cassie acts to destroy her own son.

No sooner was the scenario complete in his mind than the boy experienced something new in his short life. Fascinated by the power of a raw emotion he had never encountered, he stopped his ratiocination in mid-concept.

What was this strange feeling?

He studied himself in the small mirror of his bedroom, starting with his coal black eyes and then examining the bone structure of his face and the cranial development. He even became lost temporarily in contemplation of the delicate, swirling patterns inside his ears as he first turned his head to the right and then to the left.

Holding up his hands, he felt the Fine bones caught inside the flesh and clawing to get out. But the answer to his dilemma was not to be found in external surfaces.

Turning from the mirror, he returned to his bed and sat there for a long time, doing something he hardly ever did. He tried to find the answer deep inside himself, which happened to be a place that he usually preferred to avoid.

But on this occasion, the journey within was worth the effort. Waiting for him, down inside like a little dark seed, was the answer to the emotion he felt.

At the moment that he realized his own mother might reach the point where she would attempt to snuff out his life, he felt his most powerful emotion: fear.

Soon now. It wouldn’t take much longer. He was almost there. He could sense every dimension. He must hold them all together like the strands of a web. It wouldn’t do to be only halfway there. Not even seventy percent. Not ninety. This time it must be complete! It must be everything or nothing. This time he would succeed even if he had to rip the fabric of the spacetime continuum doing it.

This time, Baltar would reach beyond death and touch the living of his own choosing. His mind was greater than death. His mind contained universes, so why should some other universe get in his way and block him from achieving his purpose?

He had done everything when alive. He had been the bane of two entirely different species: his own, and an alien species that was force-fed into existence by another renegade of Baltar’s race.

Then through the force of his will, Baltar changed sides and brought gifts to his own kind; gifts as great as what he stole with his original betrayal.

How could such treason be washed away?

He did it with the fire of the gods and a destruction of the Cylons. Wiping out the largest armada of Cylon ships matched the destruction he had helped bring down on the sad and sorry population of his home planet of Caprica. He practiced an eye for an eye, even when a watery human one was paid for with a bright red glow of hate.

What traitor could compare to Baltar?

What hero, trailing Promethean fire in his wake, could compare to Baltar?

Death had met its match. He would pay it heed no longer. That grim shade better get out of his path. He would push away its tattered robes and grind the clattering bones under his heel. This time he would pierce the veil, by all the gods of space and time!

He was coming back.

The destruction of the Gardener affected eveiyone in the fleet differently. Although many had their suspicions, they kept their own counsel. It was as if everyone agreed to play a game of reverse pantomime. The object of the game was not to identify the shadows and silhouettes that might symbolize a truth no one wished to utter.

Aboard the Galactica, Bojay took it the hardest. No one could tell this from anything he said or did. He gave no outward sign of discontent. Inside his gut, however, was a very different story.

The only change in his behavior was that he spent less time with his beloved Vipers and more time with the young cadets. Going beyond that, he roamed the corridors during sleep shifts and tried to find the most incorrigible youngsters that not even his companions would consider worthy of reclamation.

He was a one-man team of missionaries and social workers. He deliberately left his weapon behind when he faced down the worst kids, the hopeless and lost ones who would just as readily slit his throat as ask for cubits to buy a meal.

The ones who tried to take him down learned their lesson fast. In a micron he changed from kindness and solicitude into a whirlwind of fists and legs that kicked like deadly pistons. But he managed not to cripple anyone.

Then, swiftly as the passing of a storm, the social worker returned, and by the Lords of Kobol they gave him their full attention and respect the second time around.

When he was with Dalton and Rhaya and Troy and Trays, the only sign that things had changed with him was a bruise here or a cut there, and deep circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. Attempts to bring him out of his shell got nowhere.

He was friendly and open, helpful and good natured. He was still very much one of the old gang, but he wouldn’t talk about what he did late at night.

Maybe it was the exhaustion that finally made a difference when he was hurt. He was always careful, especially during fires. It was hardly the first time he had risked his life before. It wasn’t his first fire.

But no matter how good you are, it’s standard operating procedure to be rested before you venture into the raging inferno of a landing bay that’s going up in smoke.

Maybe at first it was his love of Vipers that drove him to take exceptional risks. At first it was the Vipers, but then he found something more deserving of a crazy roll of the dice.

They had foamed down what they could and wetted down the rest; and most important, they were in the process of sealing the sections that were a lost cause. Bojay caught sight of two young cadets on the wrong side of the closing doors.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied other cadets hauling ass without even bothering to look over their shoulders. He was unimpressed.

Ignoring the cries of others to stay the hell away, Bojay dove into the furnace. Through the smoke and soot, he heard one of the boys sputter how he’d come back for the other. The cadets were Hass and Kender. Bojay had come for both of them.

Smoke inhalation took its toll and the boys were already half unconscious. That didn’t make it any easier getting one under each arm and stumbling for the big metal doors that were continuing to be manually cranked shut.

One kid slipped from his grasp but he managed to push the other through. The shouts from the leader of the fire brigade didn’t dissuade him from going back in after the other cadet. He appreciated the sincerity of the warnings and the curses that added a whole new dimension of urgency.

It didn’t really matter. If he died, then that was his fate. But he wasn’t going to leave anyone on the wrong side of those metal shutters.

Back into the flame and smoke he plunged. It felt like he was coughing up his lungs in spite of the wet rag that some helpful stranger had shoved into his hands so he could cover face.

The other cadet was doing what he could to save himself. Bojay could make out Render’s face. It was nice to know that whatever happened, he had at least saved Dalton’s protege, Hass. Maybe it would be a clean sweep and he’d make Rhaya happy as well.

Render was game to give anything a try. He did his best but stumbled. He was having difficulty breathing. Pulling at the kid didn’t work, so Bojay got behind and pushed. That worked except for one unfortunate development.

Bojay was left exposed just as enough rocket fuel blew up behind him to create a perfect fireball. He felt the heat and pressure on the back of his neck, as though a giant hammer were slamming down on his fragile and exposed head.

There was only one good thing about being alone in a room with a giant fireball. Bojay was only a few feet from the narrow slit that provided the final opening of the closing doors. The shock wave seemed to pick him up and helped add distance to his leap for life.

He gave himself up for dead even as he rolled on the right side of the doors as they clanged shut. The force of the fireball was contained.

Training came in handy for Bojay. He came down with his arms bent and palms out, the first stage of turning himself into a ball and rolling away from certain doom. His right shoulder took the brunt of the roll but the momentum kept him going as he got further out of harm’s way.

The good thing about his severe bruises and a few broken bones was that they helped take his mind off the severe burns on his back where his clothes had been seared off. He had no idea how serious his injuries were as several med techs ran to his aid.

He only cared about saving those two annoying cadets, one of whom had had the guts to go back for his buddy.

As for the other cadets he’d seen running away from their fallen comrades, Bojay had a lot he wanted to tell them in his most colorful language. He’d chew their ears off until the sides of their heads were as smooth and barren as a moon.

He had so much he needed to tell them about how they must learn to work together—and how they shouldn’t allow bad behavior to split their ranks.

He would have told them right then and there if they’d only been around to hear it. Or if he hadn’t passed out, and entered a dreamless sleep that was kind and peaceful to a man with no guilt on his conscience.

16

“What do you know about...?”

This time when Apollo awakened from a restless sleep, Baltar was again at the foot of his bed. The big difference from the previous occasion was that he could hear Baltar’s voice. It sounded weak and distant, as though broadcast over a great distance and not quite lip synching with the image of Baltar.

“Is that really you?”

“The crossover...incomplete.”

Jumping out of bed, Apollo came closer to the vision of his late enemy and friend. The image did not waver. It was Baltar, all right, following Apollo with his eyes. There was nothing transparent about this visitation but when Apollo reached out to touch the apparition, the hand of flesh and blood went straight through the seemingly solid body.

“Wherever you are, however you’re doing this, I’m having trouble hearing you,” said Apollo. “Your sentences are incomplete. Can you hear me?”

Baltar nodded. That, at least, was a relief. Again, the figure attempted to speak.

“Soon...danger...redemption.”

“Redemption?” Apollo echoed. “It’s so important to hear from you again. Is there any way you can make your speech more coherent?”

Baltar smiled as a thought occurred to him. Realizing that his image was constant and steady, he communicated to Apollo with gestures. The idea was simple but workable.

Every time Apollo heard a word, he wrote it down. The first time a word was garbled or didn’t come through at all, he would raise his hand. Baltar would keep trying until every syllable was audible. The process was laborious but it resulted in intelligible sentences.

Then it was off to writing down Baltar’s first statement. After several attempts, Apollo read it back to assure that he had received it properly.

“You’re asking what I know about the survivors of the Thirteenth Tribe. The answer is hardly anything. We have recovered three of them and they are currently resting.”

What Baltar said next was so brief that it came through on the first attempt: “Danger!”

“To whom?”

The next word came through with perfect clarity: “Sheba.”

“Sheba?” Apollo echoed. He’d been worrying about her ever since she insisted that she was only getting a head cold. He never remembered her being sick before.

“Others...translation...mistake.”

“Whoa, hold on. You’re losing me again.”

They resumed the slower approach. After completing the process, Baltar’s words offered cold comfort:

“I’ve come to warn you. There is much we need to discuss. Before we can consider the full implications of redemption, you must survive the current threat.”

“What is the threat?”

Again, it took several attempts to write down the answer. “Gar’Tokk has translated the words. What a pity he did so too late.”

“What do you mean?” Apollo asked.

The next sentence was as clear as a verdict from a court: “Go to Gar’Tokk!”

Apollo didn’t want to break off the communication, but he had no choice. Baltar shrugged as if to say that he could no longer maintain the link. Apollo couldn’t get over the happy expression on the face of the image. Even in the middle of providing a dire warning, Baltar seemed pleased about something.

Well, why shouldn’t he? His old nemesis cum friend had crossed over the chasm of death. The man’s achievement was as self-evident as the Gamon reaching out beyond the graveyard that had been

Paradis to give Apollo their message. But the Gamon were supertelepaths who were operating on a higher plane than humanity long before they lost their organic bodies. Despite these attainments, the communication from the Gamon didn’t begin to approach the level of dialogue that Apollo had just experienced with Baltar.

Apollo never stopped finding evidence that Baltar was unique. The previous occasion when he couldn’t make himself heard had struck Apollo as the tail-end of a dream. Apollo decided at the time that if he weren’t dreaming then Baltar would be back. Now he could look forward to more visitations.

There were thousands of questions Apollo wanted to ask his old sparring partner. All that would have to wait for later. In effect, a ghost had given the commander a new set of orders.

New peril required a fresh plan of action.

He tried to reach Sheba on her comlink. Receiving no answer, he sent out a message to Gar’Tokk.

“I was about to contact you,” said the Noman.

“You’ve deciphered the message?”

“Yes, a few centari ago. How did you know?”

“Call it a lucky guess.”

“It’s bad news, Commander.”

“Don’t tell me over an open channel. Meet me at the hibe pods.”

“Yes, Apollo.”

Although there is no wind in space, and no wind in the corridors of spaceships, Apollo had the sensation of a violent hurricane-force gale blowing through every nook and cranny of the ark. He ran, carried by that invisible force.

All the time, he kept attempting to raise Sheba. There was no doubt that something was wrong. Not even a deep sleep kept her from responding to a signal sent repeatedly. Besides, she was one of those Warriors who slept with one eye open.

Meanwhile, Gar’Tokk never lost his skills as a tracker and hunter, not even in the antiseptic caverns of spacecraft. He anticipated the path Apollo would follow and met him along the way.

“This was the shortest route I could find to the chamber,” he said, coming up alongside Apollo with an easy gait. He was not out of breath even though he must have pushed himself to pull off the rendezvous.

Apollo managed to sound as if he wasn’t feeling the strain that reminded him he was not quite as young as he used to be. “Give me the facts,” he said.

“The old man, the one who survived. You recall that the message was on his hibe pod?”

“Yes.”

“The message was primarily about him. He was ill with the plague.” Apollo stopped mid-stride in the corridor. Gar’Tokk matched him. It was all a bit much to take in all at once. The big alien watched his human friend bend over and finally catch his breath.

“Of all the fraekin’ felgercarb!” he said.

“You said it.”

“Gar’Tokk, do you ever have the impression that we’re under some kind of curse?”

“It’s fate.”

“It’s a pain in the turbos. Tell me more about this plague—if there’s any more information.”

“Only that it was the worst disease that ever befell the ancient Kobollians. The man was a carrier. That was on the pod, as well. He was not to be resuscitated until a remedy was found.”

“They took blood from the other two,” said the Noman. “They don’t have the plague.”

They resumed their trek to the chamber of the Thirteenth Tribe. As they reached the door, Apollo considered the fickle nature of how human beings perceive reality. There was a kind of virus of the senses. The mere knowledge of disease behind that door killed all the hopes that he’d felt so strongly when first entering the hibe pods, the chamber of the hibe pods had become a haunted place.

A lesser man would be congratulating himself on being vindicated that he had ordered Du’bah and her staff to wait before proceeding. If they had waited, then Gar’Tokk might have finished his translation in time, or maybe Baltar would have given a direct warning instead of an incomplete one. A lesser man would not ask himself if he would have taken the risk anyway because of the possible knowledge to be gained. Such critical musings would interfere with the self-congratulation of such a man.

Apollo did not torture himself with an infinite regress of if-only-this or if-only-that. He always thought about what came next. Right now, Dr. Du’bah was the furthest thought from his mind. The deck of cards had been shuffled and a new hand dealt in a cosmic game of pyramid.

The moment Bell was told of the situation the man stood at attention and asked, “What do we do, sir?”

Apollo told him, “The survivors have to be put in total isolation. Eveiyone who has worked with them must undergo a medical check. That includes you as well as Gar’Tokk, Sheba, Boomer and myself. Dr. Du’bah has to be isolated from other prisoners. Everyone who’s had contact with her must receive the same attention.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Apollo softened his tone. “It’s a tall order, but I trust you to see it through. Doctor.”

Bell looked down at the floor. “Thank you, but I’m not a doctor yet.”

“You’re a doctor,” said Gar’Tokk. Neither human present felt like giving the Noman an argument.

Bell quickly changed the subject. “I’m enough of a doctor to inform you that the elderly gentleman has regained consciousness and is currently having his first meal in thousands of yahren.”

“What’s he eating?” asked Gar’Tokk with genuine interest.

Bell smiled. “A nutritious gruel that should be perfect for his condition but I don’t think you’d much care for it.”

“We need to talk to him,” said Apollo.

Bell again proved to be on the ball. Med techs in protective suits put together a functional isolation bubble. It was made of clear plasteen. Air circulating devices were attached and speaker discs affixed so as to facilitate communication. The old man calmly watched the procedure and continued dining as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Perhaps this was similar to what had been done with him in his own world after the initial diagnosis.

Apollo used this time to contact Warriors and assign them to work with medical teams. The only criminal act now was to waste time.

Everyone had to be contacted. A report finally came in that he’d been dreading. Sheba was not in her quarters. Elayna, one of the many who had been reached, volunteered to find Sheba. Apollo thanked her but assured the young nurse that Warriors were equal to the task.

“How are you feeling?” he asked Elayna.

“Fine.”

“Good. Get yourself checked.”

“How are you feeling?” asked Gar’Tokk as Apollo signed off from the girl.

“Fine.”

“You’re not going to use that as an excuse not to be checked yourself?” asked the Noman, forcing a grimace that passed for a Borellian smile.

“That would be dangerously irresponsible. We’ll both be checked.”

Even as the words escaped his lips, one of the med techs came over to Apollo with a portable unit and ran a preliminary diagnostic on the commander. There was no sign illness, but only a complete battery of tests guaranteed a clean bill of health. The med techs were still in the process of setting up for those complete physicals.

“What about the surprises my physiology will provide when it’s my turn?” asked the Noman, watching the procedure on Apollo.

His old friend relished the answer. “If we can’t find you a specialist, you’ll have the unparalleled joy of instructing one of our boys or girls all about your physical superiority to humans.”

The big head nodded. “That will be a pleasure.”

The sound of Bell clearing his throat brought them back to the immediate situation. For all the times Apollo had been grateful for the company of Gar’Tokk, he was never happier to have the Noman by his side than at the present moment.

Gar’Tokk could talk the talk!

The Noman warned that a spoken language is a different proposition from a written one. He had difficulty in translating the highly technical medical language on the pod. He did better with the vernacular. Although he would be able to speak the words, it was anyone’s guess as to pronunciation. He needn’t have bothered. Apollo trusted the Borellian’s instincts as well as he did his own.

“Your being here makes the difference between success and failure, Gar’Tokk. We must communicate with this man.”

“A telepathic link might have worked without me,” said Gar’Tokk.

“And it might have been a waste of time! When it comes to telepathic links, you never know if you have two subjects with the same affinity. There is no substitute for the spoken word when it is available.”

Even as he said it, Apollo remembered the encounter with Baltar. He wasn’t sharing that with anyone else. He knew that Gar’Tokk would believe him but there was no pressing reason to share it. For the time being, Apollo was keeping the visitations from Baltar under wraps. At least he had the satisfaction that he wasn’t hallucinating, because Baltar had been correct about Gar’Tokk deciphering the message.

“Welcome to the future,” Gar’Tokk began.

“How long has it been?” asked the old man.

Working together, Apollo and Gar’Tokk did their best to answer but they couldn’t put an exact date on the hibernation chamber any more than they could the ark. There was archaeological dating equipment that might have provided the answer, but it was far away with the main fleet. The Ark might have equivalent devices but they were yet to be discovered.

The elder Kobollian decided to move on. “Let us agree that it has been for some considerable time.”

Apollo had a more important question of his own that Gar’Tokk found easy to translate. “Why were you put into suspended animation? Was this the treatment afforded to everyone who contracted the plague?”

The old man made a cackling sound and had to drink water before he could continue. “Hardly,” he said “Most were allowed to die. Many were simply put to death. I am a special case. I am the original designer and architect of this spaceship.”

Even Gar’Tokk was impressed.

“It’s an honor to be in your presence,” said Apollo with sincerity. “You know that all your other companions perished, except for the two with you.”

“Yes.”

“There is one other exception. We discovered a more primitive suspended animation device that used freezing techniques.”

“Yes, that is separate. It is strange that it ended up in here with the rest of us.”

“Why do you say that?”

The old man sounded almost apologetic. “The freezing containers are used for criminals.”

“Do you know who is in that unit?”

“No, and I’m not interested.”

Apollo was surprised to realize that his guest was displaying a kind of snobbery. Gar’Tokk’s translations were too good for there to be any doubt. The galaxy was full of surprises. Apollo never imagined that there might be a sort of class system among those in suspended animation.

The polite interrogation continued. The old man held nothing back, even though he was weary. For a brief moment, Apollo wondered if the man might be dissembling, but his own inner light shown on the old man and reflected back an equal integrity.

“I was one of a select view they considered too valuable to leave to the ravages of the plague.”

“You don’t show the ravages of the disease.”

“I have the slowest progression rate of the disease. They used me for research. All our best medical engineers worked night and day to defeat the plague but their efforts were to no avail. I must warn you that it develops at different rates depending on the individual.”

Every now and then, Gar’Tokk required that they stop until he caught up on the translations. There were subtle nuances that he thought might be important to Apollo. Nothing should be left out.

The old man continued to unburden himself. “Finally, the plague forced us to leave our planet and search for another world. We finally found that planet in a distant solar system. We called it Earth.”

“Was this the destination of all Kobollians?” Apollo wanted to know.

“Other survivors who were not yet infected searched for other habitable planets. When we left the home world it did not prove feasible to keep everyone together. Freedom is like that. People held together by tradition or geography were suddenly drunk on the heady brew of possibility. Many went their own way and never looked back.”

As Gar’Tokk translated the passage about the Diaspora of the Kobollians he became distracted. Apollo was so wrapped up in what he was learning that only gradually did he become aware of the Noman’s growing obsession with something that only he noticed.

“What is it?” Apollo finally asked.

“Look!” said the Noman excitedly. “Over there!”

Apollo followed the pointing finger but only saw that the old man had tired himself out with his recounting of lost worlds. The elder’s eyes closed and out of the ancient nose came the sound of snoring.

“He’s falling asleep, I can see that,” said Apollo. “Well, we probably have more than enough for now. I’m thrilled with what he told us about Earth.”

“I don’t mean that,” Gar’Tokk almost shouted. “See the other two, the young ones. I never noticed before. This is the closest I’ve ever been to them, and I can make out every detail! Do you notice the shape of their skulls and the markings on their necks? Do you not see?”

Suddenly, like the rising of the sun on Paradis when his friend Gar’Tokk would run in the open fields, Apollo felt a force of life emanating from the great chest of the Noman, as if another sun was glowing there. Apollo recognized the cause of Gar’Tokk’s excitement.

The young two had a different bone structure from the old man. It was decidedly different. They could be the forefathers of the race of Borellian Nomen!

Gar’Tokk did not fail to notice that one of the two was a woman. Apollo was equally aware of the fact. This woman might help keep the Borellian race from extinction.

While Apollo was hoping that the male next to her was a brother and not a husband he received an emergency call on his comlink.

“We’ve found Sheba,” said the voice.

Apollo left Gar’Tokk in the hibe pod chamber. Suddenly the most important thing in his life was to see Sheba. Why had she hidden herself in an isolated storage room? Why did she refuse to come out?

He dreaded the obvious answer screaming inside his head. There was only one logical conclusion, but he held onto any shred of hope—however remote a possibility that the truth was something other than the dark machinery of horror.

Please let it be anything else.

“Are you alone Apollo?” Sheba asked through the closed door.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want you to see me.”

“I have to.”

“No.”

“It’s an order. You never disobey my orders.”

“Hardly ever,” her voice cracked with her old humor. “All right, then. I’ll let you see me but whatever you do, don’t touch me! Promise.”

“I promise.”

The door opened. He saw her head in shadow. With all the courage in her warrior’s soul, she slowly stepped into the light. With all the courage in his warrior’s soul, Apollo forced himself not to gasp or recoil from the sight.

Her skin was gray. Her eyes seemed like two sickly pools sunk in a skull with the skin pulled tight. Blue-green sores covered her face like the craters of a moon. Her clothes were covered with a dried, putrescent slime that could only have come from decaying internal organs, coughed up through her mouth or the collapsing beak that had been her nose.

She spoke her next words with all the deliberate care of pronouncing her own epitaph. “I’ve always loved you, Apollo. You are the best man I’ve ever known and I admire what you have done for all of us.”

Then she collapsed.

With a superhuman strength he resisted reaching down and holding her. Instead, he summoned a medical quarantine team and guarded her until they arrived.

“I won’t let you die,” he said. “If I have to fight all the monsters in the galaxy, I won’t let you die.”

17

Troy and Rhaya lay in each other’s arms, enjoying the silence that followed a long session of lovemaking. They both knew that one of them would have to broach the subject that rested heavily on their minds.

“When’s the last time you saw Bojay?” she asked.

“Last shift.”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday. How’s he doing?”

“Today was the same as yesterday,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she answered even more quietly.

They had the same thoughts. How do you live with it, when a close friend sacrifices so much? When you and he believe in the same things, but he goes that extra metron beyond sense or sanity and puts everything on the line?

If Rhaya or Troy could give up part of their own bodies or whittle away at the years of their own lives just to ease Bojay’s pain, they would do it without hesitation. But there was no magic elixir, no magic wand.

All they could do was offer comfort to each other and wait the long wait for a friend to get well; a comrade in arms who might never recover.

“I can’t stop being pissed off at those damned cadets who chickened out,” Rhaya almost hissed.

“Bojay wants us to forgive them,” Troy reminded her. “They’ve learned the hardest lesson of their lives. You think we feel bad about it! They feel a lot worse.”

“Good,” she said. “Let them suffer. I don’t care about them at all.” Sitting up in bed, he reached for her neck as if he were going to strangle her. Instead, he started massaging the part of her neck where her muscles always bunched up when she was angry.

“Bojay wanted to set a good example for those youngsters,” he said. “You must admit he did that.”

She interrupted her feral sounds of pleasure induced by the massage and reminded him that she was still Rhaya. “You’re asking me to be rational and fair. I don’t want to be! I intend to stay good and angry at those mucoid losers.”

“That’s my Rhaya,” he said, not really angry, but not giving up, either. “Out of the ranks of those kids comes the next generation of people like us.”

She grunted. "What a revolting idea.”

“It’s true. And don’t forget that your and Dalton’s proteges didn’t act like cowards.”

“You did it!” she said.

“Did what?”

“You mentioned her after promising not to,” she scolded him.

“Oh, yeah, I did. All I said was Dalton’s name. I didn’t...”

“You did it again!” She was stern.

Troy rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand, a nervous mannerism he’d acquired lately. “I’m sorry,” he said lamely.

Rhaya couldn’t stay angry with him when he was like this. “I’m being a little rough on you,” she said, starting to massage his neck. “It’s all right. It’s my fault.”

“Hey, who seduced whom?” she teased him.

“You took me by surprise when you came after me,” he admitted. “I’m addicted to you like a drug. I can’t help myself, even though I still love Dalton!”

She patted him on his stomach, often the prelude to a dangerous bout of tickling. “You brought up Hass and Kender. They weren’t cowards, just stupid!”

Troy chuckled. “You can’t fool me, Rhaya. When those are the choices, you’re always going to vote for stupid!”

That did it. She tickled him but he used his greater bulk to his advantage and simply rolled on top of her. “Remember, my fair beauty, that no female Warrior can stand up to the secret male weapon. We always weigh more.”

“And your hands are bigger, too,” she admitted. “Don’t you want to be a complete sexist and explain how your hands make you a better Warrior?”

He managed to tickle her despite her efforts to crawl up into a ball. “I would never make such a stupid argument,” he said. “So what if we are better with a battle axe than you dainty damsels could ever be. The old weapons are out of date. All the new weapons are high-tech and equally formidable whether in small hands or large ones—when a trained brain is behind them. Besides, no one is more formidable behind the controls of a Viper than you!”

Rhaya relaxed. “That’s much better,” she said. “You had me worried there for a moment.”

“It must be because I admit to the male’s greatest weapon that guarantees our superiority,” he said in a light and mocking tone of voice.

“Your greater weight?” she asked, going along with the joke.

“Not that alone, my lovely. Even after many sweaty centons of exercise, it is clear that one part of our anatomy is mightier than yours.”

“I don’t imagine you’re referring to that,” she said, grabbing his crotch.

“Nah, I mean our bellies!” he crowed and flopped on top of her again.

“Oh, if you’re going to be this playful we might as well get back to work,” she said.

“You mean go back on duty early?” he asked.

“I mean get back to work,” she said, grabbing at his crotch again. This time she meant it. He was most happy to oblige his lady.

They didn’t mention Dalton on that occasion. They didn’t mention Bojay either, which is exactly how he would want it.

“What do you know about that fire?” Cassie almost screamed in her child’s face.

“Fire?” he asked, a bit dazed. He wasn’t faking. He’d been asleep when his mother burst into his room and shook him awake.

“Don’t play the innocent with me,” she said. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I could put up with everything else. I’m pretty good at looking the other way. I can thank my earlier profession for providing me with certain useful skills. It doesn’t always pay to notice eveiy little thing. This time you went too far. When people die and the fleet is damaged, you’re no better than a rotten Cylon!”

The boy was not prepared for this. After all, there was absolutely no evidence linking him to the disaster. He’d made certain of that. “Mother, you’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” she responded fiercely. “Let’s see, now. Why don’t you have a name? What would you like? Imperious Baltar the Second! How’s that one?”

She let go of him and he took the opportunity to sit up in bed and inch away from her, pressing his back against the wall where his pillow was all scrunched up. “Mother, you’re not making any sense.”

“It’s the first time I’ve made sense in a very long time, young man. Put on your robe. We’re going for a little walk.”

“Mother, I’m more awake now. At first I didn’t understand what you were talking about when you mentioned the fire. Of course, it was a terrible disaster that upset me very much and I can see how much it distresses you.”

“Hurry up,” she said, watching his every move with an intensity that kept him on his guard.

“I can see you’re really upset about this. Maybe you should take a drink and try to calm down. You’re the best mother in the whole fleet, but even you can have a bad day.”

It was like talking to a blank wall. Normally he could get through to her but something was different this time. When she first came into his room, she couldn’t stop staring at him. Now she avoided looking at his eyes. She also wouldn’t look at the gift he had made for her, a small box containing a beautiful liquid light show.

“Where are your shoes or slippers?” she asked, examining the floor around his bed.

“Maybe they’re in the closet,” he said.

“Never mind,” she snapped. “You can go barefoot.”

He didn’t even recognize her when she was this angry. All he could do was question his calculations of the probable. There must be something wrong with his equations. She shouldn’t be threatening him this soon.

Why, she and Starbuck hadn’t finished their quota of arguments yet! He shouldn’t be in danger tonight; yet every fiber in his cold body warned him with a hot flame that he better do more than walk the corridors with his mother during the sleep cycle.

He better watch his step.

“Let’s go,” she said, grabbing him by the arm with so much strength that he could hardly believe the hand belonged to his mother.

They walked quickly down the darkened corridors of the Galactica. Suddenly he had a flash of how much this old ship meant to her. So much of her life had been lived inside this giant, metal world that she had formed emotional attachments to it.

That was the first time the boy understood that a human being could form emotional attachments to inanimate objects. He was still having difficulty with the idea that one person could love another.

Then it struck him like a blow to the heart. He had hurt the Galactica. It was one thing going after other kids. This time he had done real damage to the ship.

His calculating mind didn’t stop there. He realized that Cassie cared more about lives than the ship. But if significant damage occurred, it had an impact on countless lives.

Usually, empathy was alien to little boys because they had not matured to the point where they could understand the needs of others. This little boy was different. He had an adult mind that was impervious to empathy, a very different matter from immaturity. And yet his first inkling that one being can care for another was in the recognition that Cassie cared for the Galactica.

Apparently, the ship meant a lot more to her than her son did at the present moment.

“Where are we going, Mother?”

She didn’t answer. He almost asked her whether she was plotting against her own offspring, a betrayal of the evolutionary process, but then, he thought better of it.

She’d have to let go of him eventually and then he’d simply run away. That seemed the best course of action.

But once again he underestimated his mother. There was one isolated corridor that made a perfect dead end. She positioned herself so that she blocked any possible escape route. That’s when she produced the knife.

“Mother...” he began, but couldn’t gel out the second word. It stuck in his throat and died there.

“I’m sorry that I have to do this,” she said. “It’s a wicked thing and I will punish myself. First, I’ll use this on you and then I’ll use it on myself. I’ve left Starbuck a letter. He’s been worried about you and me, but there’s nothing he can do. I won’t let you destroy him or anyone else. It ends here. Tonight.”

That strange emotion he’d felt in his room now welled up in him again. Fear was a good teacher. He realized that if he was to survive he must take action. He couldn’t decide what course was best. Cassie was a strong woman and had her wits about her, aside from the unfortunate circumstance of her plan for murder and suicide.

He didn’t forget for a micron how small and weak he was relative to adults. There seemed no alternative but to rush her and hope for the best. If he could knock the knife out of her hand, he might get a head start and run fast enough to avoid her. At no point did he consider trying to use the knife.

He took a deep breath and—suddenly his plans didn’t matter any longer.

Suddenly the universe changed right then and there in that claustrophobic corridor.

Suddenly Cassie and he were no longer alone.

He’d never seen a picture of Count Iblis. But the moment light flooded the corridor and he saw the imposing figure, the boy felt a deep sense of peace he’d never experienced before.

The tall man with the high forehead and wry smile came up behind her so that, at first, only the boy saw him. The first thing Cassie noticed was the light. When she turned around she made a gasping sound that was so unlike anything the boy had ever heard before that he couldn’t help laughing.

“Impossible,” she said.

“Not at all,” Iblis replied serenely. "I’ve been projecting myself like this for some time now. I’m very good at it. Just between you and me, there’s a new fellow trying to fit in on the astral plane but he’s not veiy good at it. He’s got possibilities, though, just like our son.”

“Iblis,” she sputtered. “I’m going mad.”

“When I refer to our son’s possibilities, I mean all the wonderful things he’ll do in this lifetime. If you’ll be decent enough to give him a chance!”

“Father?” the boy dared to speak.

“Hush, now,” said Iblis, his smile radiating such joy that it washed over the boy and made for perfect obedience. “Your mother and I are having a little chat. You might find some of it boring, so you may sleep now.”

Immediately, the boy curled up on the floor and was fast asleep. Just as swiftly, the beneficent expression left Count Iblis’ face. In its place was a mask of pure fury that frightened Cassie so badly that she dropped her knife and backed into a corner.

“You do well to tremble, woman,” thundered Iblis. “I deign to let your genes intermingle with mine and you repay me with such an act of brazen betrayal!”

“He’s done bad things,” she sputtered. “He’s so young and yet he has evil thoughts and does bad things.”

Iblis seemed to grow even larger. “Don’t talk to me about evil. What do you know about it? No more than your flaccid and putrid ideas about good. This child is sacred. Do you understand? He’s sacred. You are blessed to have carried him in that insipid cavern you call a womb.”

Sobbing, Connie fell to her knees. With all her heart and soul she prayed that she was suffering a mental breakdown, a more severe punishment than her intended suicide. That would be an appropriate sentence for a woman who contemplated murdering her own son.

Madness was something to be wished for when the alternative was Count Iblis. Better for one lone woman to be crazy than the universe itself to gibber in the depths of malice and chaos; a place where Count Iblis never died but kept returning from a guilty conscience to haunt both colonial and Cylon.

It just wasn’t fair.

“Get up,” he said, and she did. “Stand your ground, mother of my son.” She did less well with that order. A sudden dizzy spell forced her to steady herself against the nearest wall.

“You are stronger than that,” he said. “I wouldn’t have given you my seed if you were a weakling. Now heed me, Cassiopeia. If any harm comes to my child, you and your lover Starbuck will be the first to feel my wrath, but not the last.”

“Who else?” she dared to ask.

“You don’t want to test the limits of my vengeance. It suffices that you and Starbuck will be first to die.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Your son will one day save the Colonials. I promise this great truth. Would you let a few minor practical jokes of his youth cost your entire people his help in the future?”

She was numb and could not respond. As though her brain had lost all volitional power, her body sagged against the wall and seemed to stick there.

Across the countenance of the immortal Iblis there spread an almost imperceptible ripple. Maybe it wasn’t sympathy, but a moment later his voice was less of a thunderstorm, although retaining a quality suggesting a lightning bolt might strike if his mood changed.

“By your standards, Cassie, it is not as bad as you think.”

“What?” she dared to respond. “What are you saying?”

“Your son has not caused the worst disasters. Only small ones.”

“Not the fire?”

“No.”

“But I could swear he had something to do with it.” As the words flowed out of her, her body straightened and pulled away from the wall.

“He thinks he caused the fire,” announced Count Iblis.

Cassie perfected her gift for understatement with, “I’m confused.”

“I want him to think he caused it. He needs the sense of power it gives him. I want him to have a sense of invincibility and irrevocable power.”

“Was the fire a real accident?” she asked. “No one’s found a cause yet.”

“There are outside forces at work,” he said.

“Outside?” she echoed.

“Forces beyond your understanding. They are seeking to destroy the fleet and our son. You see, he guarantees the future of the colonials. These forces are your true enemies.”

Just as the boy’s fear left him the moment Count Iblis flooded the corridor with his presence, now Cassie purged her dread, as though a blister had been punctured and a noxious fluid allowed to drain out.

“Then you’re not using your son to destroy us?” she asked.

“Our son is a savior.”

“What am I to do about his delusions that he is behind so many bad things?”

“Nothing. They are childish fantasies, nothing more.”

She couldn’t stop herself from frowning. “He thinks and talks like an adult.”

Iblis had an answer for everything. “That is how advanced he is over everyone else. When he is an adult, he will look back upon his time as a five and six and seven year old; he will recall it with perfect clarity and be amused by his immaturity.”

For the first time in endless nights of pain, she looked upon her son as a child. “I can’t believe what I was about to do,” she confessed.

Count Iblis was magnanimous in victory. “I appeared to save him and give you a warning. I stayed to take you into my confidence and set your mind at ease. My threats were real but you need fear them no longer, now that you understand.”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“One day he will lead the fleet to a new homeland where he will rebuild civilization. The colonials will reach the highest pinnacle of their history.”

“Yes.”

“All you need do is spare your child’s life in exchange for protection that will flow both from him and from myself. Trust me. Trust him. All will be well.”

“Yes,” she said yet again, as she picked up her sleeping son and began to carry him the long trek back to their rooms. He felt very light to her all of a sudden.

“You left your knife behind,” said Iblis.

“I don’t need it.”

The wide, deep face smiled without pleasure. “You never can be too careful, Cassie. You might encounter someone who is an unwilling pawn of the dark forces I’ve warned you about.”

“Who?” she asked, turning back to the slowly fading light and the figure of Count Iblis becoming transparent.

Right before he disappeared, he gave his answer,

“Starbuck.”

18

“Are we going to die?” Caran asked.

“Yes, everyone does,” answered Koren.

She was too scared to be in a playful mood. “I’m not kidding around. I’m worried.”

“I’m not,” he said.

Her eyes went wide. “Why not? The plague is spreading. They don’t have a clue as to how to stop it.”

He placed his hand on hers. Neither were showing any signs yet, but every day more Colonials were showing the early stages of the disease. Whatever happened, they’d promised to share each other’s fate.

“We have scientists and doctors, right?” he pointed out. She nodded without much conviction. “We have all the cool stuff from the ark and the Cylon basestar. And those ancient Kobollians aren’t dead yet. They can still tell us some things.”

“They’re the reason we’re all in danger!” she reminded him.

“Sure, I know,” he said. “I’m telling you why I think we’ll beat this thing.”

“You’re not making me feel any better. You’re describing different pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I don’t have any faith they can be put together.”

“Hear me out,” he said. “You’re the reason I’m being optimistic.”

“Really?” she replied with genuine surprise.

“Remember when you told me that you have a civilian soul but that I could develop the Warrior part of myself?”

“I still believe that,” she said.

He kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t take this the wrong way but I think your pessimism is part of your civilian way of thinking.”

“Go on,” she said, intrigued and glad of anything to take her mind off the sights and sounds and smells of pestilence.

He was on a roll. “When we stayed behind with the losers in the lottery, that’s when I gave us up for dead. Didn’t you feel the same way?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“We all did. There was no conceivable way that we’d survive. It was different when there was all the fighting on Paradis because lots of people could survive that, and did! It was different when we left the planet just before it exploded. Most of us survived that.”

“I see all that, but what’s your point?”

Koren brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “The way things are at this moment helps me to remember how it was back then! There was always a chance to live until the main body of the fleet left us. That’s when I finally stopped hoping. Don’t you get it? If we beat certain death that time, we can beat this! Somehow, some way, they’ll find a cure. This is better than being abandoned in the middle of nowhere. We’re not running out of air. No one is pulling our food and water. We still have a chance.”

“Wow! You’ve restored my faith,” she said. “You want to hear what I think?”

“Hey, you listened to my lecture!”

“I don’t have a speech, just something that scares me. What if every living person has a certain amount of luck and we’ve used ours up?”

They sat in silence for a while and then he gave her his considered opinion. “It’s the Cylons who are running out of luck, not us.”

“I love you,” she said.

They kissed as they had many times before, but this was different. It was one thing to find an isolated part of the ark and make it their own private sanctuary. Not knowing how much longer their bodies would be firm and healthy added urgency to every meeting.

“Make love to me,” she said.

He loved the feel of her body under his hands as he took off her clothes. Her hands were even more eager as she pulled down his pants. They continued kissing the entire time.

There was a sheen of perspiration over her entire body and a musk that he’d never smelled before. She’d never been this excited—as if this might be their last time before they were ravaged by disease.

He was intoxicated by her scent. The future didn’t matter. There was nothing to worry about.

All that mattered was the glory of the moment.

The ark did not become a plague ship all at once. The elder Kobollian had warned Gar’Tokk that the disease worked on individuals at different rates. Nowhere was that more self-evident than in what happened to Sheba.

Bell was still working to find out what caused the accelerated rate in her metabolism. It was just as important to discover why the progression of the disease was so slow in people at the other end. The majority of those infected were right in the middle. After he drew a picture of the statistical model with a big bulge in the middle, Elayna gave it a name, the Bell curve.

Apollo agreed to let Dr. Du’bah out of jail. Eveiy medical person had to work around the clock until the problem was solved or else everyone would die. The plague was spreading.

There was some satisfaction in that Du’bah would be working under Bell’s authority. Even if she came up with a good idea it would have to pass through him.

After Apollo underwent a full medical check that required two centons, he received the news philosophically. Plague germs were in him, too. He was probably one of the first to have been infected; the quick medical scan he’d received in the hibernation chamber did not show his true condition.

He counted himself fortunate that he was at the slow end of the Bell curve. He needed time to organize and delegate. Whenever someone was found who was completely uninfected, they were treated as a rare gem. They were given full body protective suits and private quarters that were completely sealed from contact with the rest of the ark. Fortunately, the Ark provided everything they needed to implement these procedures.

The ark seemed to offer everything except a cure.

“It won’t be long now,” Boomer said between coughs. Apollo had stopped by to see him on his way to Sheba’s bedside. Boomer’s face showed the first patches of gray, the stigmata of the relentless disease. Apollo’s trustworthy ally fell right in the middle of the curve.

“Before what?” Apollo asked.

“Before we all have it, including your specially isolated ice creams.”

“Ice creams?” Apollo asked nonplussed.

“That’s what we’re calling the guys and gals in the protective suits. We figure they’ll get it last. There’s no escaping this damned bug. It reminds me of a summer house I had on the old home world before the war. No matter what I did, I couldn’t keep the crawlons out of the place. Finally, I found a spray that killed them all.”

“So you succeeded.”

“Yeah, I succeeded except that the environmentally friendly spray I used to kill the crawlons turned out to be a yummy delicacy for a swarm of flanchettes!”

Apollo surrendered to his friend. “I see your point.”

“It’s always something.”

“Well, I wanted to see how you’re doing. Can I get you anything?” Boomer smiled. “Just pass on my good thoughts when you see her. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it, to see Sheba?”

“Yes.”

“She’s still in a coma.”

“Yes.”

“I know how much you love her. We all love her.”

“Thanks, Boomer,” said Apollo, patting him on the shoulder.

“Is that safe?” Boomer asked, glancing sideways at the hand on his shoulder.

“Do you think I’ll catch it?” Apollo asked with a smile.

Boomer bit his lip. “Sometimes I forget, man. You look fine.”

“I’m tired a lot and it’s not from lack of sleep. I can tell the difference.”

“Yeah, I used to think you never slept. You know, Apollo, it may be a mercy she’s out of it right now, I mean, not suffering from the pain.”

“I know what you mean. The doctors tell me she’d be in agony if she wasn’t in the coma.”

“Even with the pain-killers? The ark is well supplied and I’m not feeling anything right now.”

Apollo looked at Boomer’s chart. His condition was as stable as anyone else. He was slowly deteriorating.

“In the final stages, the coma kicks in when the pain-killers stop working.”

Boomer coughed and then forced a weary smile. “What a thoughtful plague. Thanks for checking on me, man.”

“I’ve got your back,” said Apollo. Boomer raised a weak hand and gave a salute. Apollo made a fist and gently pounded on the shoulder of one more person who meant the world to him, and all the worlds he would ever find.

Then he promised himself he wouldn’t despair and went on his lonely pilgrimage to be with Sheba.

She was in a private room just beyond the crowded ward. Rank had its privileges. Apollo hadn’t asked for this special treatment. Elayna had arranged it without asking anyone’s permission.

Every time he saw her, it was the same. Her vital signs continued to diminish. As he stood by her bedside and watched her dying, he was of two minds.

The commander saw in her the fate of everyone he was trying so desperately to save. Apollo, the man, didn’t give a damn about any of that. He couldn’t deal with the terrible realization that he was about to lose another beloved member of his family of friends. Was there never to be a time of peace? Was there never to be an end of the strife that seemed the price they had to pay for the privilege of mere existence?

Gazing down at the wretched mask that had been the face of the gorgeous Sheba, he thought again of the lovely features belonging to his brave and noble sister. He needed Athena right now more than he’d ever needed her.

And then there was Starbuck, his best friend who helped fill the void left by the death of Apollo’s brother in the first battle of the Cylon War. Adama never really recovered from the loss of that crazy, brave kid. Adama didn’t have anyone to do for him what Starbuck had done for Apollo.

The splitting of the fleet was a tragedy but there had been no choice if humanity were to survive. Apollo did not regret his decision. Under the circumstances, the colonials had increased their chances by splitting up. That was very different from what the old man of Kobol said about the ancient race splintering into different groups because they didn’t want to stay together.

Maybe that had been the greatest achievement of the Galacticans. A disparate group was forced together by a common enemy; then there came a day when the people had a solidarity independent of the Cylons. It was chosen camaraderie, the opposite of the forced collectivism of the Cylon hive society.

It was impossible for Apollo to think of his friends and lovers and fellow Warriors without remembering what they had done together. They had good reason for joy.

Sheba was a marvelous person. Somewhere Commander Cain must be looking down on his strong daughter with inestimable pride. He’d take her in his arms and she’d be well and happy and pretty again. Yet even as thoughts of Eden fleeted through his mind. Apollo wasn’t satisfied.

Sheba was still breathing, wasn’t she? Her heart was still beating. While there was life, there was hope. Apollo refused to give up even as he felt his own bone-weariness. He barely noticed his first cough. Then there was an ache in his jaw. The slow and patient enemy was moving in on him.

Suddenly a hand in a bulky, plastic glove touched him on the shoulder. The hand belonged to one of the fortunate ones Boomer called an ice cream.

“The med staff needs to see you, sir,” came the voice out of a scratchy speaker.

“Be right with you,” said Apollo. They could have called him on the comlink but he was glad to see the spectacle of human beings moving around without fear, at least for now.

As Apollo followed behind the bulky suit he found himself wishing the man in front of them wasn’t walking so fast. Then it dawned on the commander that no one could possibly walk so quickly in that contraption.

Apollo’s knees suddenly felt like water as he stumbled to the floor. The man in the suit didn’t notice and kept walking. Hands came from behind to help Apollo. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw two female nurses, neither in protective suits. That meant they’d been diagnosed with the plague. They must have gotten it later than Apollo because they showed no signs of ill effects.

Apollo smiled to see it was Elayna. “Who’s this?” he asked, glancing at the other girl.

“I’m Vessil,” said the girl and actually blushed.

“She’s excited to meet you at last,” said Elayna.

“You’re both very darling.” he said. “Maybe you shouldn’t touch me. I’m not feeling well.”

Apollo was amused to hear the exact same words he’d used with Boomer repeated back to him by Elayna. “Do you think I’ll catch it?”

“We’ve got it, too,” Vessil completed the thought.

“Commander,” came the scratchy voice of the ice cream who had finally noticed he was a procession of one. “They’re waiting.”

“I know the way,” said Apollo. “Go on without me and say I’ll be attending the meeting with my own med staff.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man who obligingly left them.

“Commander,” said Elayna, “we have a favor to ask.”

“Apollo,” he said, smiling. “I never grant favors unless I’m on a first name basis.”

“Yes, Apollo,” they said in perfect stereo.

He was dizzy and weak, but the presence of these charming young girls gave him a new burst of adrenaline. At least he’d be able to get to the meeting on his own two feet.

“We may not have much time left, not any of us,” said Elayna. “Don’t give up hope,” he told her.

"I’m not, but just in case we’re running out of time I’d like something from you.”

While Apollo waited to find out what that might be, Elayna calmly put her arm around his shoulders and drew his face to hers. The first kiss caught him by surprise. As he was opening his mouth she’d already pulled away to study his reaction. She saw what she wanted in his eyes and went back for more.

“That’s the favor?” he asked. “But we shouldn’t...”

“There’s one more.”

Elayna stood back and literally pushed the other girl into position. Elayna was not shy. Vessil needed extra encouragement. Apollo was still protesting but to no avail.

Vessil was shorter and had to get on tip-toes to follow her friend’s lead. Again he did his duty to help keep up morale despite the dire circumstances.

After a quick, chaste kiss, the three resumed their trek.

“You’ve made me feel better,” Apollo said, even as the flush of the excitement began to ebb and the weariness flooded back even stronger. They were all operating on borrowed time. He would fight to the last micron.

Apollo cared about a lot of people, and he intended to save them all.

Bell was waiting at the door of the large meeting room that the staff had been using ever since the emergency began. It was conveniently near the hibernation chamber.

“The old man is dying,” he told Apollo.

“Was Gar’Tokk able to acquire more information from him?” asked Apollo.

“I’m not sure. We haven’t spoken to your alien associate since this new development. We need Gar’Tokk back for something more important!”

“What’s that?” asked Apollo, fighting to remain alert despite the waves of exhaustion washing over him.

Lowering his voice, Bell leaned in close and almost whispered, “I’d like to talk to you about that when the official meeting is over.”

“All right,” Apollo consented.

Everyone took their seats and the meeting was called to order. Bell elaborated on the subject of the Kobollians.

“Because of his weakened condition, we can’t put the old man back into suspended animation. He’d never come out of it again. Which means that we’re going to lose him, no matter what. He’s dying.”

“What about the other two?” asked the tech who specialized in correlating medical data.

“They are stronger, of course,” said Bell. “But the situation is hardly better. They have slipped into comas without ever having reached full consciousness.”

“Do you think they could have told us more than the old man?” asked a tech in the back of the room.

“Idle speculation at this point, right Commander?” replied Bell, attempting to draw Apollo into the conversation.

Apollo was finding it difficult to participate. His arms were sluggish and his head suddenly seemed heavier than usual.

He did manage to say, “Unless the other two had a cure for the plague, it’s not important that we talk to them at this time. The old man told us that none of them found a cure.”

“There’s more bad news,” Bell continued. “We have finished running the final tests and the minority we have isolated in the environment suits might as well take them off.”

“No,” gasped several voices at once.

Bell continued, “The plague is a persistent and patient enemy. Every human aboard the ark is now infected. A few colonials never came over to the ark and we thought they might have escaped infection. Foodstuffs and supplies delivered to them from the ark since the outbreak, as well as contact with our personnel, have unfortunately led to the same results.”

Apollo was past the point of shock as he heard the solemn sentence of death. “No one is immune?” he asked without hope.

“No human being,” was the grim answer.

“What can we do?” asked one of the voices in the grip of terror.

“Keep working,” was the only answer. “There must be a cure.”

The rest of the meeting was procedural, proving that out of the human mind’s creations, the most difficult to exterminate was plain old bureaucracy.

Bell, Du’bah and a few other doctors gathered around Apollo.

“You don’t look well,” one pointed out.

He grimaced and said, “My time is coming soon.” Then he noticed a nervous expectancy from part of the group surrounding him.

“We need to tell you something in private,” was all that Bell would say.

The commander followed them into a small office adjoining the meeting room. Bell unrolled charts while one of his associates began shuffling papers as if his life depended on it.

“What’s all this?” asked Apollo.

“Our last hope,” said Du’bah in a tone of voice so measured and calm that for a moment Apollo barely recognized her.

“We need to keep this between ourselves until we’re certain,” said Bell, “and even then it’s advisable to maintain security.”

“Go on,” said Apollo.

“It appears that Gar’Tokk is our last hope.”

“I always assumed he would be the last to get sick because of his strong constitution,” said Apollo.

“He’s not going to get sick,” said Bell simply. “Although Noman blood is similar to human blood, they are not subject to most of our diseases. Gar’Tokk is unaffected by the plague. But due to his Borellian body chemistry, we assume that his blood wouldn’t have antibodies present. We can’t approach this situation the way we would use typical human blood if we found someone with immunity. In Gar’Tokk’s case, we’re afraid that if we inject a massive dose of the plague into his body, it would simply kill him instead of helping us develop a serum.”

“Then we’re back to square one,” said Apollo, as hope faded once again.

“Not necessarily. The mere fact that the Noman is immune gives us something to work with. Remember that although his blood has differences from ours it also shares similarities.”

As long as he had their attention, Apollo asked, “Why are we keeping the facts about Gar’Tokk’s condition under wraps?”

A short med tech with a bald head volunteered the answer. “Some people might go nuts if they found out there was the remotest possibility that Gar’Tokk’s blood might offer a cure. They might form a mob and go after him.”

“You’ve got a point,” said Apollo. He kept to himself the suspicion that under such circumstances he’d bet on Gar’Tokk single-handedly defeating a crazy, half-sick mob that wanted his blood.

“You’ve explained the conditions,” said Apollo. “We’re not beaten yet. Let’s find Gar’Tokk and see what he has to say about your discoveries. Meanwhile, I’d like someone to help me back to Sheba’s quarters. There are two nurses who may still be waiting for me outside. They are most suitable for the job.”

“Why do you want to go back to the sick ward?” asked Dr. Du’bah, again demonstrating her lack of a good bedside manner.

Apollo didn’t have to respond but he gave a pointed answer.

“In case we fail, I want to die with my friend.”

19

Gar’Tokk was not hiding from the humans aboard the ark. If aware that they were looking for him, he would have made himself available. After realizing his link with the young Kobollian couple, he simply wanted to be alone to meditate. It was always easy for Gar’Tokk to be alone when he wished.

He disposed of one obligation before embracing a period of solitude. He knew where Koren and Caran had their special meeting place. He was the only one with whom they shared their harmless secret.

The teenagers weren’t showing the gray splotches on their face yet; but they had a listless quality that the Noman recognized as the first warning sign. He didn’t mention it.

“You remembered our lesson?” Koren asked happily.

“I did.”

“There probably isn’t much point to it, now,” said Koren, “until we get past the current crisis.”

“You believe that you will survive?” asked Gar’Tokk.

Caran answered for both of them. “He doesn’t want to give up,” she said.

Gar’Tokk shocked both of his young charges by reaching out and touching the boy. It was widely known that the Noman never touched any human, or allowed himself to be touched by any human, except Apollo. Koren felt that the honor was the equivalent to discovering a treasure chest full of oregg.

“You don’t need this week’s lesson,” Gar’Tokk intoned, “because you’ve already learned it. Promise me something.”

“I will,” said Koren.

“You don’t spend enough time with your adoptive father. I’ve spoken to you of this before.”

“I know you have, but he’s always busy!” said the boy defensively. “I don’t want to bother him.”

“Do you have any idea why he doesn’t spend more time with you?” asked Gar’Tokk. “It’s because he knows that he’s an imposing figure and doesn’t want to dominate you. He’s proud of you and wants you to find your own way in life.”

“For however much longer that lasts,” added Caran morbidly. Gar’Tokk turned his searching gaze on her and she involuntarily jumped back. “Life in this moment is the same as life over many yahren. Eternity is now.”

“I’m sorry,” said Caran. “I’m just afraid.”

The length of Gar’Tokk’s stride was such that in a few steps he was at the doorway and about to exit the chamber. Before exiting, he looked back at the young humans and said, “Together you will defeat fear.” The words were all the more powerful coming from one who had been alone for so long.

“Go to Apollo,” Gar’Tokk said and left them.

In the next moment, the Noman felt the total freedom of undertaking a personal quest. Empty corridors substituted for green valleys and wide fields. The gray expanse of ceilings took on an aspect of leaden skies. The sterile air did not make him forget the magical aromas wafting on the breezes of his home planet.

He ran a long time in one direction, and then sensing the presence of others, reversed direction and maintained the sense of solitude a while longer. After all the adventures shared with humans, his instinct for avoiding them was nearly perfect.

Since the arrival of the malignant epidemic there were many places in the ark that simply stank. No highly developed Borellian senses were required to anticipate the company of humans where they lay dying. The air became thick with the sour-sweet stench of putrefying flesh. The worst part of the plague was the sensation of flesh rotting while the person was still alive. Gar’Tokk had seen and smelled enough death to last many lifetimes.

Suddenly he stopped running, as a horrible vision came to him. What if Apollo survived but every other human died? Then his one true human friend would be in the same circumstances as Gar’Tokk. They would wander alone in the black spaces.

There were few ideas capable of making a Noman shudder, especially in the case of Gar’Tokk. But although there was not a shred of evidence to support it ever coming to pass, Gar’Tokk could not easily shake the waking dream that Apollo might recover only to stand alone. He should not suffer the same fate as Gar’Tokk.

To be cut off from your own species was a doom that no one deserved. The Noman wouldn’t wish it on a Cylon.

The plague must not be allowed to snuff out the lives of these humans! Gar’Tokk wouldn’t countenance it. Whatever was in his power to do was entirely dedicated to ending the plague.

He was done with running. He walked purposefully back in the direction of the hibernation chamber.

By this time, it was a sleep cycle and he encountered no one on his lonely sojourn. No one, that is, among the living. A crumpled gray doll turned out to be a dead child. What appeared to be a bum panhandling at an intersection of corridors was a scarecrow of a man who had died in a sitting position. The cup between his legs was not for alms but contained the crust-laden remnants of what was once a hot beverage.

Surrounded by the dead and the dying, Gar’Tokk retraced his steps to the source. The ark had brought life to the colonials. Then the hibernation chamber had turned that salvation into a floating cemetery.

The doors of the chamber were standing wide open but there was a female med tech on watch. She was young and even Gar’Tokk was taken in by her flaming red hair. She had not yet developed the gray pallor of the plague victims. Her only deficiency was that she was asleep. That was a serious offense to someone left in charge. The Noman did not arouse her as he entered that hated locus of death.

He approached the plasteen cocoon containing the three Kobollians, revived only long enough to plunge their would-be rescuers into chaos. The trio seemed peaceful in sleep, innocent of the crimes they committed when they took their first breath after so many millennia of the deep sleep.

Gar’Tokk closed his eyes and sent his mind back down a corridor longer than any in the ark. He pictured himself when first initiated into the mysteries of his tribe. A younger self reached through the mists and merged with the older self.

Barely remembered rituals became as vivid as when he first witnessed them under the constellations of his own world. He remembered how the stars were supposed to be when a young Noman looked up to the night sky.

He began to dance. His legs were thick and strong, like the trunks of small trees, but as the spirit flowed through him those legs became agile and supple. The rest of his body became responsive to the notes of a music that only he could hear.

He danced effortlessly, his heavy body almost seeming to become weightless. Gar’Tokk did not require a condition of zero-g. The dance provided a better way of defying gravity.

Chanting, he reached the next stage of the ritual. At first the sound was guttural, but then came the high notes. Between the dancing and the chanting, Gar’Tokk both threatened and cajoled the invisible, microscopic enemy the carried the plague. The magic was elemental. First it was necessary to gain the attention of malign spirits before they could be defeated.

Announce your presence To the enemy! Then challenge it to face you in personal combat! This was the one law of life and it applied to spirit as well as to matter.

Gar’Tokk challenged the plague and the essence of those who had delivered all these new victims into its cruel embrace. He would not accept the plague’s dominion. He would be its master.

As Gar’Tokk began to howl at the waxen faces of the comatose old man and the young ones, the med tech woke up. The plague would have had to claim a new victim right then for the woman not to hear the piercing sound of a Borellian death chant.

Still groggy from sleep, she rubbed her eyes in disbelief. Wasn’t that Gar’Tokk, the one individual everyone had been trying to find for nearly a day? She rose unsteadily to her feet and approached him.

Her next problem was how to attract his attention. It would be an understatement to say that he was preoccupied. There was something very intimidating about Gar’Tokk when he was concentrating on a task.

Gathering her courage, she dared to speak. “Excuse me!”

As deeply immersed as he was in the ritual, Gar’Tokk never completely disconnected from his immediate surroundings. An alert Noman stayed alive with such habits.

It was like coming out of a whirlwind of lights and sound, but he turned and saw the young woman. In his normal tone of voice, he said, “Female human, you were asleep on watch.”

She wasn’t expecting that. “I guess you’re right,” she said.

“There is no room for doubt.”

She made a feeble attempt to assert a modicum of authority. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Without hesitation, he told her, “My tribe heals people this way.”

“Uh,” was all she managed to get out of her mouth. Then she tried again. “Has this procedure been approved?”

Gar’Tokk responded with a question of his own. “Has your sleeping on duty been reported?”

“No,” she said sheepishly.

“Why is there no Warrior here?”

“Well, there’s really no threat to this place. We’re a medical facility and it was my turn to mind the store.”

“Do you know who I am?” asked the Noman.

She brightened at that question. “Everyone knows you, Gar’Tokk. You’re Apollo’s friend! We’ve been looking for you.”

“I am found,” he said simply.

“Do you mind if I report that you’re here?”

“Why do they need me?”

She was becoming comfortable with him and shared what she’d been told. “They want to do more tests.”

“I will offer you a bargain,” said Gar’Tokk. “What is your name?”

“Jen.”

“Here is the bargain, Jen. I will stay here the rest of this sleep shift and finish the ritual. I will not leave. Here I will be when the next shift comes in. I will not tell anyone that you slept.”

“That’s fine,” she said with all the sincerity she could muster. “May I ask one small personal favor?”

“What?”

“May I watch?”

He agreed and picked up where he left off with the steady cadences of the Borellian rhythm. His movements barely contained his limitless energy. He went on like that for centons.

Suffering from the early stages of the disease, Jen fell asleep again. When Gar’Tokk finished the ritual he saw her curled up on the floor. It was just as well. He didn’t want her to see what he would do next.

He went over to a table with medical equipment. Removing a syringe and a notepad, he headed for his objective when a blue light caught his attention. He heard the voice before he saw the figure of Baltar.

“You are a special one who pays the price for the redemption of others,” said the voice.

Gar’Tokk did not waste a moment wondering how or why Baltar appeared. All Nomen were trained from earliest youth to accept manifestations for what they were and deal with them directly. Contact with other planes of existence was often brief so it was wise to say what was on your mind.

“What of you?” asked Gar’Tokk of the vision. “How will you be redeemed?”

There was a puzzled expression on Baltar’s face and then the image faded. Gar’Tokk continued with his plan.

He’d seen doctors and medical researchers do their work. He was aware of their procedures for testing and the modern rituals of sterilization. As the time grew short, they worked harder but stuck to the methods in which they were trained. They kept each tissue sample separate and were careful not to cross-contaminate. They ran computer models of possible outcomes.

The experts would never approve of what the Noman was about to do. No matter. He’d made his decision.

Entering the isolation chamber, Gar’Tokk drew blood from the frail arm of the old man. Then he injected it into himself.

He only had time to scrawl a few words before passing out.

Athena felt a lot better. She hadn’t forgiven herself, but had managed a self-reconciliation. As she told Tigh, it was her sense of duty that would carry her through all of her remaining days.

The Gardener was behind her now, somewhat diminished by more recent events. The most serious event was the fire. There was evidence proving it was no accident but, as yet, no clue pointed to the identity of a perpetrator.

Reports of accidents had been coming in well before the conflagration. Preoccupied with the food stores and other basic supplies, she paid inadequate attention to the “accidents” because they weren’t directed at the Fleet’s basic needs. Besides, she was busy scheming her own supposed accident that led to the destruction of an entire ship.

Basically, she was psychologically incapable of applying herself to solving the mystery of stupid pranks and juvenile vandalism when she herself was planning so much destruction. The conflagration in the landing bay of the Galactica was an entirely different matter. That was a disaster touching directly on the essential requirements of the fleet.

She promised Tigh to work full time on dealing with the aftermath of the fire. She shuttled over to the Galactica life center in person and awarded a special medal for valor to Bojay, having been told about his heroic deeds.

She talked to many of the old comrades she’d been ignoring through the period of the most difficult decision of her life. The list of people she intended to interview grew even shorter. For some reason, she could never quite arrange an audience with Starbuck, but she had no reason to single him out by pushing him to the top of the list. There were many people to interview. The young Warriors had enjoyed seeing her again but they didn’t have any useful information. There was a lot of shuttling going on to no effect.

Rhaya said that she could believe all their current problems were the result of incompetence instead of deliberate planning. She thought there was one exception that needed investigating: the Gardener. As Athena swallowed hard, Dalton pointed out that there was not a shred of evidence left from that doomed ship, so Rhaya should find something else to investigate.

Athena only trusted Tigh with the intelligence she gathered about what was happening on the Galactica. They both agreed that there were two unusual facts. The first was that the first wave of so-called accidents seemed almost benign compared to the fire. It was difficult to believe that the same person or persons could be behind all of these events.

The second and more salient fact was that since the fire, there had been no further incidents of any sort.

“Do you think that our mysterious saboteur is laying low?” she asked Tigh at one of their private meetings.

“There seems no other explanation.”

“That’s not going to make it any easier to find him,” she complained.

“Him or her, or them,” said Tigh. “It could be worse. We can’t survive anything else like that fire even if more clues lead to the culprits. Everything you have done to guarantee that we have what we need to get to the new planet could be jeopardized if we suffer one more internal attack like the fire.”

“I agree,” she said. “Under the circumstances, I prefer playing detective with a paucity of evidence.”

Elsewhere in the Galactica, a similar conversation was taking place at almost the same moment.

“Is he safe?” Starbuck asked, looking at the boy who seemed so harmless in sleep.

Cassie shrugged. “I pray he is. I think he’s sleeping normally now. I used to think he was faking most of the time.”

"I don’t know if he had anything to do with that fire but the ship can’t stand anything else like that. The only reason I’m not reporting my suspicions is that I can’t make myself really believe he had anything to do with it; and you haven’t proven it.”

“Do I want to?” she asked. “Any more than you’d really want to report me for withholding vital information?”

“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted, taking her in his arms. “I’m suffering from divided loyalties.”

“Tell me about it!” she threw his lament right back at him.

“Do you really believe what Count Iblis told you?” he asked. Pulling away, she poured herself a drink. He could tell that she was preoccupied because she didn’t offer him one. “I told you the whole story because I don’t believe in holding anything back from you. I’m not convinced he ever appeared to me that night! Maybe I’m crazy and imagined the whole thing, including the part about his fathering my child.”

“You need to give that kid a name,” Starbuck pointed out. “How about calling him Apollo, Jr., and breaking the curse that way?”

She hated talking about that. “I can’t give him Apollo’s name.”

“How about Adama?” Starbuck asked. “You’d be honoring Apollo through his father and admitting you are sure about the parentage of your son.”

She finished her drink in one gulp.

“Don’t you understand?” she demanded. “I’m not sure! I don’t dare give him a name like that when I’m not sure. I don’t know what to do about anything.”

She sobbed and he took her in his arms. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I’m confused I find that sex is a big help.”

She couldn’t stop from giggling. “Oh, you’re incorrigible,” she said, but she wasn’t arguing.

Despite everything, they were always good for each other.

20

Baltar was annoyed. Twice now he’d almost accomplished what he wanted to do. He’d made himself seen. He’d made himself heard, however briefly, however sporadically. The results were incomplete but he had broken through with sight and sound.

The trouble was that he couldn’t sustain it long enough to communicate in an effective manner. He needed longer contact if he intended to influence events in the living world.

There were other problems with controlling his astral self now that he’d gone to all the trouble of integrating his post-life ego. A more powerful force sometimes blocked his attempts at breaking through the veil. He could never make out exactly who or what that force might be but it was bathed in a powerful blue light.

He realized that he only succeeded in brief contact with the spacetime continuum by linking up to other living human brains with which he had an affinity. Apollo held a unique place in Baltar’s psyche. The Noman had a powerful telepathic aura and also shared a link with Apollo.

But both times he had reached through, the results had been less than satisfactory. He could not sustain the image of himself. The verbal contact was brief and sporadic.

He needed to do better. If only there was another source of energy he could tap! He needed more broadcast power and he had exhausted what was available to him on the astral plane.

If only he had some idea of how much time he had to reach back into the good old universe and influence events. Vaguely, he had the notion that in his current condition he might be able to choose when he penetrated back into the world of his lifetime, and not just where.

Meanwhile, in a manner of speaking, he needed to extend the duration of his manifestations, and improve the audio while he was at it. There must be something he hadn’t tried yet that could make a difference.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he was overlooking an obvious advantage. What was it? Why did it nibble at his imagination?

Then he realized what he’d been missing. When he succeeded in projecting himself back into the Paradis system to visit with his favorite Galactican, there was a sense of being pulled somewhere else in that same solar system. An unknown entity seemed to be exerting a magnetic influence over his astral self.

What if he tried to reach that entity instead of linking up with a known quantity like Apollo or Gar’Tokk? What could he lose in such an endeavor?

No sooner did he have the thought than he was back on the living plane. Instantly. No intense concentration required. It had never been this easy before.

At first he thought he was on the ark, as usual, but the stark and inhuman architecture suggested otherwise. He was on the Cylon basestar in the laboratory. The colonial scientists had abandoned the work they were doing. The plague didn’t allow for any extracurricular activities.

Baltar could see that a large amount of materials had been removed and obviously transported to the ark. Certain experiments could not be moved, however. One was the large biological computer consisting of living brains in an activated solution, which was integral to the Cylon laboratory that any attempt at moving it would have resulted in its destruction.

There was something familiar about one of those brains. He could see that it was human but there was a quality about it that was really appealing. Yes, he sensed it. Behind the gray convolutions was a familiar personality, the prism through which a powerful intelligence exerted its will over the lesser brains in the tank.

Baltar always liked looking at himself in the mirror.

No wonder he’d been pulled toward this place! How could he have a better affinity with a living brain than one of his own?

Hadn’t Imperious Leader made it painfully, very painfully, clear that he was going to clone a lot of Baltar brains? While alive, Baltar never knew how many of them might exist in the Cylon Empire.

Maybe now was the time to find out. It would be like going on a field trip. Instead of picking berries, he’d be picking brains. Each time he found one it would be like having a little personal landing bay.

And what if he could figure out a way to link all of them together? That would solve the problem of inadequate broadcast energy.

One of the many advantages of crossing over to the other side was the information dump. No sooner was he a dead man than Baltar knew that Imperious Leader had not been destroyed by his little solonite firecracker. The wily old reprobate was many solar systems away at the time that a lot of Cylons who rebelled against their original leader were destroyed, courtesy of Baltar. If he hadn’t died, Baltar might still be under the illusion that he whacked all the Cylons on that occasion. There’s only so much a person should be expected to grok in a single lifetime.

Also, a man has a right to check on his own property. And it was truer than ever that Baltar had a lot of brains!

It was such a pleasure to stabilize the projection of himself that Baltar began to explore the laboratory as if he were really there in the flesh. In fact, he was so good at it that he almost forgot he couldn’t just reach out and touch objects of interest.

He forgot his limitation when he found something very interesting indeed that was marked Danger! Do Not Touch! by colonial researchers in the lab. These were items that could have been transported to the ark and were not.

“Maybe human and Cylon reptilian DNA don’t go together all that well,” he muttered. “Who would have guessed?”

Gar’Tokk entered the deepest part of the dream place. He’d never ventured there before. This was the greatest of his vision quests.

Finding that every demon of his Borellian childhood was waiting to greet him with tentacle and fang and claw, and reinforced his beliefs. Bracing himself to fight them all, Gar’Tokk was surprised by how they congratulated him on reaching this spot. They even insisted that here there would be no fighting.

It sounded too good to be true. He remained wary as roughly a million eyes followed him to a throne where he was given a flagon of the best grog in the universe. The food wasn’t bad either, but he remained suspicious.

“What more can we do to put you at your ease?” asked a million voices.

“You can send me back to my friends,” he said.

“Ah,” whispered a single, and very feminine voice, “that is up to them. We can bestow another gift for the mighty warrior on his vision quest.”

“What is that?” he asked.

“More visions,” whispered the voice.

An opaque wall in front of him changed color a few times and then showed a perfect picture of Gar’Tokk stretched out on an operating table.

“That’s the last standard procedure,” sighed Bell, leaning over Gar’Tokk. “I can’t revive him.”

“Is there nothing more we can do?” asked Du’bah, wiping perspiration from his brow and clearly accepting his authority.

“Now we start making stuff up,” he said. “I’ll work on him until I drop dead.”

“The shaman is also a warrior,” said Gar’Tokk approvingly, from down in the deep place.

The humans continued to work on the alien. At one point, another doctor came in and said, “Bell, the younger Kobollians have come out of their coma!”

“Don’t bother me now,” he snapped, “unless they can help with this patient.”

“Sorry, Doctor.” They all called him doctor now. “The Kobollians muttered a few words in their language and lapsed back into unconsciousness, but it’s normal sleep. They are definitely out of the coma.”

“Contact Apollo on his comlink,” instructed Bell, never once lifting his head or losing the steadiness of his hands as he applied other stimuli to the inert Gar’Tokk.

Apollo was reached, his tired voice inquiring, “What’s happened?”

He already knew about Gar’Tokk and placed his faith with Bell, who was finally showing the first signs of the plague. Eveiyone on the Ark considered it a miracle that the best man for fighting the Grim Reaper was spared until the last.

After Apollo was filled in on the latest developments, he said, “Only Gar’Tokk can speak the language. If the ones just out of a coma are offering any useful medical advice, he would need to revive in order to find out so he could tell us how to revive him!”

Deep in the dream place, Gar’Tokk laughed at Apollo’s graveside humor. This was one of the few jests that had provoked such a reaction from him in his entire lifetime. Nomen were not known for their sense of humor.

“How is Sheba?” asked Bell as he continued to work on Gar’Tokk.

“The same.”

“How are you?”

“Not strong enough to join you, I’m afraid. I’m sharing accommodations with her.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about Nomen that could help?” asked Bell. “You know more about them than anyone else.”

“If I did, you’d be the first to know,” said Apollo.

“I’ll keep at it, Commander. He may have killed himself trying to save us! I can’t let him go.”

Down in the dream place, surrounded by a host of now friendly monsters, Gar’Tokk said, “I am tired of waiting for that human shaman to bring me back. He’s a good man but he doesn’t understand our ways.”

“You said he had the warrior spirit,” many voices reminded him.

“Yes, but he lacks the tools for what he is trying to do. If I were human, he might have succeeded, but he doesn’t understand that my anatomy is as stubborn as I am.”

“So we can enjoy watching his failure,” said the female voice.

“Enjoy?” thundered Gar’Tokk.

“I meant accept your fate,” the voice corrected itself.

“You said enjoyl” shouted Gar’Tokk, spilling his grog. “That is not the Noman way.”

Tentacles and claws and paws began to smother him. A million voices said, “Your time is done. Rest is your reward. They are only humans, after all. You’ve done more than enough for the likes of them.”

“Ah, hah!” shouted Gar’tokk. “You thought to deceive me, but I see through your tricks! You are monsters, after all.”

“You have no weapons with which to fight!” screamed a billion voices.

“A Borellian without weapons?” He defied them. With one smooth motion, he threw the heavy tlagon into an almost humanoid face that turned into a leering skull. Then he jumped up, bent over and ripped the throne from its stone foundations. Swinging the heavy block of masonry with both hands, he began to smash the moist and ululating throng into a carpet of blood and quivering entrails.

“Know this!” he shouted, finally tossing away the gore encrusted throne and swimming through the thick coils of smoke toward a distant light. “I am my own weapon!”

Apollo wiped Sheba’s face with moist cloths every half centon. The plague had hit her harder and faster than anyone else on the Ark. When he first saw her in the doorway, he thought her face was permanently deformed but that was the illusion of the secretions hardening on her skin. Underneath, she still had the same profile but was now emaciated and covered in sores.

As his condition weakened, Apollo elected to get in bed with his lover. He still had the strength to attend to her needs. He would be her personal physician at least for simple ablutions until he succumbed as well.

He didn’t care about the spreading gray splotches he saw on his own arms and hands as he tended to her. He didn’t even waste any of the medicinal lotion on himself. Sheba had become his own personal religion. He gave her the same tenderness he had when they were lovers.

Elayna brought the lotions until she passed out and was placed in a bed herself. Vessil’s condition was not as advanced and she continued to bring Apollo whatever she could scrounge. It came as something of a surprise when the girl showed up with Koren.

Apollo almost fell out of bed, trying to get up. “Son, I mean Koren—it’s good to see you.”

The boy’s skin was gray and there were dark circles under his eyes, but otherwise he seemed strong for his stage of the disease. “I promised Gar’Tokk I’d come to you,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Apollo.

“I heard what he tried to do for all of us.”

“He is a true hero.”

The boy collapsed into Apollo’s arms. “So are you!” he almost cried.

Apollo was embarrassed and touched, as he supported the boy in his arms. “Where is Caran?” he asked.

“She’s in bed. She’s a little worse than I am. She needs sleep.”

“You’re a strong, young man,” Apollo complimented him.

“We’ve been through so much,” the boy began, then choked as if he might lose it. But he fought back the tears and said in a steady voice, "I thought we’d win this time, as we have so often before.”

“Can you keep a secret?” Apollo asked.

“Sure.”

“I did, too!”

They hugged again. “Well, I need to be getting back unless there’s something I can do for you,” said Koren.

“There is, indeed,” Apollo told him. “You can bring me an info-sphere. I’ll tell you where to find one. I’d get it myself but I’m not sure I’d have the strength to return!”

Koren’s grin was so broad that it was almost as if things were back to normal. “There is nothing I’d rather do than help you. Tell me where it is—I’ll be right back.”

Apollo lay back in bed and worked on staying awake. The visit from Koren was like a tonic. It had given him the extra burst of adrenaline to do what might be his last act.

The boy returned swiftly with the info-sphere. They hugged again and he called Apollo father.

When the commander was alone, he activated the data storage device and began dictating.

“This is the official ship’s log with my final instructions to the crew. The last survivors of the plague are to burn the bodies of the dead. Before they lose consciousness, they can place themselves into suspended animation. If the more advanced Kobollian tube technique is deemed too complicated there are unused Ciyonic freeze chambers all of us understand quite well. Only one of those units is currently in use. Although the last survivors may decide to destroy themselves and blow up the Ark, it is my recommendation that they give themselves a chance the same as the Kobollians did. At least those of you listening to this can do a better job of putting up warning signs than the Thirteenth Tribe! Of course, the final decision will be for the last survivors, but my recommendation is to give life a chance.”

“That’s a good idea,” crackled a familiar voice over the comlink. For a micron, Apollo thought he was hallucinating.

“Is that you, Gar’Tokk?”

“I’m back,” said the Noman.

“He did it without any help from me,” said Bell’s voice in the background.

“But how?” Apollo asked, dumbfounded.

“I never told you, but if we undergo certain rituals, it isn’t only for those on the receiving end of our prayers. Those same rituals help us reach a near death state. Sometimes we come back.”

“Gar’Tokk!” was all Apollo could manage.

Bell added, “In that near-death condition, our favorite Noman’s body had an optimal chance to repair and rebuild itself.”

“I’m glad that you’re alive,” Apollo told his friend.

“What, so I can listen in on you dictating your last will and testament? It’s not over, Apollo. We have a way out.”

“What?” gasped Apollo, barely able to believe what he was hearing. “We have one more meeting with those representatives of the Thirteenth Tribe,” announced Gar’Tokk, “and I’m going to see them right now.”

21

“She went after him. It wasn’t the other away around,” Dalton said with grim finality.

“Have you talked to either of them about it?” asked Trays.

They were alone, sharing a drink in a dimly lit tavem.

“What’s the point? Rhaya isn’t a naturally monogamous girl, is she? If she wants something, she goes after it. She’d only admit everything and tell me it’s none of my business.”

“How could she be so insensitive?” Trays wanted to know.

Dalton shrugged. “I’m not saying that she doesn’t have values. They just happen to be different from my own.”

Trays idly stirred his drink and watched the ice cubes knock up against each other. “If you don’t mind my saying, it sounds like your problem is really with Troy.”

“Don’t I know it!” she shot back at him.

Trays had waited a long time for this opportunity and he had no intention of blowing it. He’d admired Dalton from afar for what seemed like forever. A part of him, a veiy small part, really did empathize. Troy and Dalton had been happy together. The rest of the merry band pretty much accepted them as a unit, the way a person doesn’t give a second thought to having a right arm and a left arm. Trays never wished unhappiness for anyone; but he wasn’t above taking an opportunity when it presented itself.

Trays barely admitted to himself that at the most fundamental level he took certain things for granted. One of those absolutes was that if Dalton and Troy ever broke up then it would be his turn! The mere fact that he and Dalton were together, and that she was unburdening to him, provided all the confidence he needed.

“Do you know the worst part?” she asked her fellow Warrior. “I’m losing respect for Troy. He’s acting like some poor animal caught in a trap. He changes the subject if we even get close to it.”

“Do you think Rhaya knows how you feel?”

Dalton shook her head. “I told you before that she’s not a representative female of our species. She wouldn’t care how I feel.”

Trays swallowed more of his drink. “It’s just that everyone was aware of you and Troy. Why would she move in on him?”

“Because she could,” Dalton answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “She saw an opening and took it. That’s why she’s a good Viper pilot.”

“You’d never hurt someone like that,” said Trays, reaching out and taking her hand.

“I’m not Cain’s daughter. Like I said, it comes down to values.”

“You keep bringing that up, but you haven’t said anything about Troy’s values.”

She snorted. “Why should I? We’re talking about sex and he’s a man.”

“I thought you were talking about love,” Trays countered, for the first time disappointed in the woman of his dreams.

Dalton sensed a sea change in what was passing between them. “Oh, I hope you weren’t offended by the remark about men! I guess I’m really bitter.”

“I’m not offended,” he said sincerely. When she was this upset, he figured she had a right to let off steam. His problem was a growing sense of confusion. He’d been serious when he brought up the subject of love.

“Does he know how you feel?” he asked.

“Of course. He pays attention to everything going on around him, another good Viper pilot.”

“Have you hinted that you’re unhappy or told him point blank how you feel?”

Now it was Dalton’s turn to reach over and touch his hand. “It’s elemental, my dear Trays. He flirted with me and I did not reciprocate. He pushed his advantage and came up against my force field.”

“I get it,” said Trays, his spirits rising. “I’m like you, now, Dalton.”

“How?” she asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“You know how I used to play the field. You’re such an ideal that you’ve changed me. I prefer involvement with one person.”

“Hmm, Maybe that’s been my mistake. Maybe I should play the field more.”

Trays suddenly wished there were flight simulators for this sort of thing. Love simulators were a great idea! What do you do when you’ve talked yourself into a corner? How do you say that you’re available to the woman you adore regardless of her mood of the moment? Men could really use love simulators. When a woman brought up principles and values, men were usually stupid enough to talk about principles and values. In the absence of such a fabulous machine, Trays would have settled for advice from Starbuck.

“Are you looking for someone else right now?” Trays asked, regretting the choice of words the moment he used them.

“I’ve already found him,” she said, looking Trays right in the eye.

His heart skipped a beat. “I’m glad,” he said and squeezed her hand.

“I’m glad you approve. Besides, I think you’ll like him!”

It was exactly the same as the sun going out. As Trays felt himself spiraling into a place he didn’t want to be, she kept talking; but her voice seemed to be reaching him from a greater distance.

“He’s one of the new recruits,” she said. “Do you want to know who?”

“There’s no rush,” he said in a weak voice. “Why don’t you surprise me?”

She nodded. “That might be best. He’s very attracted to me. It’s raw animal magnetism. I’m sure it will piss off Troy when he gets wind of it.”

While Trays wondered how many times the new guy in Dalton’s life would have to listen to her talk about Troy, the TransVid flickered to life with an emergency announcement.

Commander Athena was on the bridge of the Daedulus with Dr. Salik. A split screen showed Tigh on the bridge of the Galactica. This was definitely serious business.

After a few terse words, Athena turned the broadcast over to Salik.

“I have issued my report to the Commander,” announced the scientist. “She asked that I present my findings to everyone. As you all know, we came out of hyperspace prematurely. Initial analysis suggested a lengthy repair time for the hyperdrive equipment; it would have been risky to make another jump this close to the planet of our destination even if the drives were functional.

“Since then, there have been other findings. It does not appear that the fleet came out of hyperspace accidentally. A wave of energy we have yet to determine swept us back into normal space. We have reasons to believe that it was not a natural phenomenon. That energy has left some kind of negative charge on all the working elements of the hyperdrive. Nothing we do seems able to remove that charge.

“It would be an entirely different matter if some of those elements had simply melted down. We could replace many of the parts. Now the original estimate of four months to repair the hyperdrive must be reevaluated. We will have to rebuild the hyperdrives from scratch. We don’t even begin to have everything we need. We all know how we are constantly running out of materials that we used to take for granted.

“So the point is simply this: we may never again be able to travel at FTL. Hopefully, the problem is temporary, but there is a real chance that the new solar system will be our final port of call.”

Trays surprised Dalton by taking the bottle that was sitting between them and lifting it to his lips. The bottle was still half full but that was fine with him.

He started to chug. He had one thought driving him crazy and he hoped the booze would drive it out of his head.

The fleet was always running into problems. That was par for the course. He didn’t even care any more. Some colonials got nervous at the idea of being stuck in one place for too long because that made them sitting ducks for the Cylons. They had been stuck on Paradis for a nice stretch. Despite all the reasons to stay and all the reasons to go, and despite the lack of ships and Colonials falling in love with a green planet, there never was the kind of barrier that had just been erected by Dr. Salik.

Trays didn’t care about any of that. He had a problem of his own—one thought, one problem.

Whether the fleet could roam the universe or be stuck in one backwater solar system, one fact remained.

The lousy life of the Warrior named Trays remained the same.

Gar’Tokk returned from his close encounter with death only to see the human he admired most embraced in the dark folds of that same wraith—but fighting for life the same as the Noman. He wished that Apollo had the strength to join him now but the wan face he saw on a tiny, flickering screen was a gray shadow of his formal self. Apollo might remain on that deathbed with his beloved Sheba unless a force of life reached out and pulled him back.

Perhaps such a salvation greeted Gar’Tokk as he entered the hibernation chamber and saw the young duo waking up from their deep sleep, as he had returned from his.

Again, he marveled at the subtle similarities between their faces and his. There was a suggestion of their profiles in his own more rugged features. The sleepers awakened and blinked themselves into consciousness.

This time Gar’Tokk fell more easily into the spoken version of the ancient language than he had when conversing with the old one. Practice makes perfect. Besides, it was easier for him with these two. The telepathic potential was so great that they seemed to slide back and forth between mindspeak and vocalizing without even noticing.

It was a good thing that they could communicate with such speed. There was so much they had to learn quickly. Naturally, they had many questions. He gave them a crash course in what they needed to know so that they, in turn, could do the same for him.

There was so much they had to tell him. Time was a monster grinding the bones and drinking the blood of his friends. Gar’Tokk needed allies in fighting that monster. He hoped these would join the war on his side.

“You are my brother and sister,” he said. “We are of the same root and branch.”

“Yes,” said the male.

“Yes,” said the female.

“Did you revive the elder?” asked the man.

“We did,” answered Gar’Tokk. Then he told them what had been passed on by the old man.

“Some things can’t be helped,” said the woman.

“Why is your race immune to the plague unlike your Kobollian brothers who died in the millions?”

“Don’t you know?” asked the woman.

Gar’Tokk thought hard. Having returned from the most intense vision quest of his life, reality took on a new radiance. It was also easier to peel away surfaces and see the truth waiting beneath.

“I can think of a few possibilities,” he said.

“Which one does your heart tell you?” asked the woman.

“Your race came to Kobol before the humans,” Gar’Tokk’s answered. “Yes,” said the man. “The humans arrived thousands of yahren later. They fell ill from a form of the plague that now threatens the humans on the ark today.”

“What of your people?” asked Gar’Tokk.

“They, too, fell ill, but had stronger immune systems. Those that lived developed immunity. This gift was passed down through the generations, even to those who left Kobol during the great migration.”

“You had your own spaceships?” asked Gar’Tokk.

“Yes,” said the woman, “but we turned away from them when we found our true home.”

“We were a highly technological race,” said the man, “until we were disgusted by our own weapons of mass annihilation. We abandoned the machines.”

Gar’Tokk bowed his head. “I respect you, my great forebears. In this vast universe I believe that we are not the only ones to have made such a choice.”

“And yet I suspect that we are different from many who rejected the machineries of war,” said the woman. “We called ourselves the Borellian Nomen and became warriors.”

“You mean we gave up the most powerful weapons but not the martial spirit,” said Gar’Tokk. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“Others have been horrified by what the scientists and engineers wrought,” said the man, “but become pacifists. I doubt that they last long, especially not at first contact with aggressive beings who use every technological advantage. The Borellian Nomen fight. A spear can be better than a gun, depending on who is holding each weapon. Warriors survive.”

Gar’Tokk repressed a groan. “There are other ways not to survive,” he said, unable to take his eyes off the woman.

She returned his steady gaze. “There are more ways to live than to die.”

Silence settled over them. It was not another shroud on the ship of death. It was a good silence.

“Gar’Tokk!” a voice shouted...and the spell was broken.

A med tech approached, brandishing a sheaf of papers. “Your blood and the blood of these two patients are related,” he said.

The three who were not human exchanged very human expressions of pleasure and amusement. They were not surprised by the news.

“Then take my blood,” said Gar’Tokk.

“There’s a problem,” said the tech. “We hoped to extract antibodies to the plague from your blood. Once you survived the injection, that’s all any of us thought about.”

“What is the problem?” asked Gar’Tokk, and he could tell that the other two were also concerned.

“Noman blood isn’t compatible with human blood. Bell says we can overcome that. It’s possible we can use the antibodies to genetically engineer counterparts in human blood.”

“So what is the problem?” Gar’Tokk thundered.

The young tech was so startled that he stepped back as from a blow. “There’s not enough time, sir. I mean, by the time we can do this, it will only help those like myself, for instance, who are still in the earliest stages of the disease.”

“The plague has its own timetable,” said Gar’Tokk’s forebear behind the clear wall of plasteen.

“What about Apollo?” grunted Gar’Tokk.

“I don’t know,” said the young medical man.

“I do,” said the alien.

“You are going to him?” asked the woman.

“Yes,” he said. “He is my friend.”

“Take our hopes and prayers to your human friend,” said the man.

Gar’Tokk waited until he was out of the hibernation chamber before he started running. There were too many things to accidentally break or knock over in the chamber.

Once he was in the massive hallways of the Ark, he literally flew down the smooth floors. As he had felt in the ritual dance, again it was like defying gravity.

His body must not hold him back. If he could have done so, he would have willed himself to Apollo’s sickbed.

To come so close to saving his friend and then fail at the last minute would be a nasty trick of fate. Especially when the means of victory existed.

Time! There was never enough of it. Time was the cruel tyrant of the universe, teasing with possibilities and then yanking the carpet out from under everyone as they saw a chance of achieving their dreams. Gar’Tokk wished time had a throat so that he could cut it. He didn’t notice that he made the best time of his life in reaching the objective.

Apollo was almost out of time. Gar’Tokk kneeled by the bed and took the comatose form into his arms. No wonder Apollo hadn’t joined him. He must have passed out shortly after their conversation on the comlink. Next to the bed was an info-globe. He must have dropped it shortly after issuing the ship’s log.

The wailing sound that rose up and was heard all over the ward made a number of patients wake up—patients the doctors declared to be comatose.

But that Borellian chanting of loss and regret did not bring Apollo out of his deep sleep.

“You’ve left me no choice,” said Baltar.

“What?” asked Apollo, confused. “Where am I?”

“You’re dreaming, of course.”

“I thought so.”

“That’s what I don’t like about entering dreams,” said Baltar. “It’s hard work, just the same as reaching into the waking state. But there’s one big difference. At least when a person is awake, he has no doubt about what happened later. He may think he’s as crazy as a Cylon hairdresser, but at least his memory is clear. It’s a different matter when dreaming.”

Apollo was starting to enjoy this. Even if had to die for a typical conversation with Baltar, at least he wasn’t having to jump through hoops to understand what was being said.

“I’ll make you a promise, Baltar,” said Apollo.

“What’s that?”

“If I ever wake up from this dream, I’ll remember every part of it.”

“I’d appreciate that, old friend. After all, I’ve done the hard part by reaching you. Remembering a dream ought to be the easy part.”

The longer they talked, the more clearly Baltar came into view. Apollo reached out and touched him.

“My hand’s not going through you this time,” he said. “There’s one advantage to dreaming.”

Baltar put on his favorite quizzical expression. “You have a point there.”

Apollo shook hands with Baltar and said, “You’re overlooking something else.”

“What?”

“You were droning on about the hard part and the easy part.”

“I thought I was being succinct!”

“Well, I think my waking up may be the really hard part.”

Baltar looked up at the gray clouds swirling over their heads and angrily shook his fist. “I haven’t come all this way to fail now,” he said. “You’ll wake up when you hear my information. You’ve still got a little life in the old corpus.”

“Let’s have it,” said Apollo. Baltar’s excitement was contagious. “The remedy to the plague is aboard the Cylon basestar.”

“What?”

“Are you ready for another irony? If the plague hadn’t resulted in canceling the work your people were doing over there, they might have discovered it by now. The materials might even have been with the next batch you brought over for more intensive study on the ark.”

Apollo was glad that his dream-self had a fully functioning anatomy. He scratched his head. “How is this possible?” he asked.

“Our old friend. I refer, of course, to the one and only Count Iblis, a man without any of my redeeming qualities.”

“You can say that again,” Apollo agreed.

“Back when he was a human being—so to speak—the genius of Iblis was ever fertile. So thousands of yahren ago, he genetically engineered this very plague to destroy the human race.”

“I wonder why he would go to the trouble,” Apollo wondered, “when he was so busy developing the Cylons to go after us.”

“Redundancy!” Baltar crowed. “Think of all the safety systems aboard the fleet. Why does every ship have back-up systems? To maximize chances for life. Count Iblis is a lot like that, except he wants to maximize the chances for death.”

Apollo sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked. That maniac seems to have turned a large portion of this galaxy into a minefield for the sole purpose of causing us grief.”

Baltar continued. “You have to remember how Iblis thinks. He sees the human race as suffering from a fatal flaw. Anyone else would just accept that as the price of doing business. Not Iblis. He has to sweep away all imperfection.”

“They should have executed him instead of banning him to the planet Cylon,” said Apollo.

“I sympathize with your point of view,” said Baltar, “but given my own peculiar circumstances you might appreciate why I used to be against capital punishment.”

“Used to be?” Apollo noticed the tense.

“Since dying, it is no longer a pressing issue with me. I’m interested in the big picture now. Getting back to Iblis, he decided the human race must die and give way to his superior species, which would evolve into ever-greater things. But despite his desire to be a god, Iblis ran into the ultimate problem. I never noticed this sort of thing when I was alive.”

Baltar had Apollo’s undivided attention. “Go on. “ he said eagerly.

“To truly be God, you need to create ex nihilo."

“Out of nothing,” Apollo echoed the sentiment.

“When someone is able to make something out of nothing, I’ll think about building him an altar,” said Baltar. “Iblis couldn’t do that. He couldn’t even generate life at the molecular level. He had to work with the materials at hand. Living tissue!

“The ultimate irony was that to build something better than the human race, he had to use human DNA, which he combined with the indigenous reptilian DNA. He played with every combination, like a kid in a celestial toy store. He turned human cells into reptilian cells. He turned reptilian cells into human cells. But he could never do better than when he combined the two.”

“Cooking up diseases must have been easy,” said Apollo.

“Child’s play to Count Iblis,” answered Baltar.

“And why not a cure, as long as he’s at it?” Apollo finished the logical chain.

“Naturally! If he’s doing everything else, he’s not going to stop until he closes the circle. Iblis didn’t like to quit a project until he’d exhausted the possibilities. The remedy is aboard the Cylon basestar in section four, category ten, of the human DNA experiments. I’ll bet you want to wake up now!”

“You’ve been trying to tell me all this since you first contacted me?” asked Apollo.

Even I have a learning curve,” said Baltar. “I had to put the pieces together myself. So, are you ready to wake up now?”

“You better believe it!” Apollo shouted to the heavens, which were becoming more like water and less like air with every passing moment.

Baltar was like a cheerleader. “Go find that experiment and transport it to the ark. If it had been under the nose of your scientists all this time, the plague might have been stopped by now. One of the doctors might have worked on it as a hobby! You have good scientific people. They will know what to do.”

Apollo was starting to swim in the liquid that had seemed like air a short time ago. It was becoming harder to breathe and talk. He sensed that lots of good air was waiting for him at the end of his swim.

“Will I see you again?” he managed to ask.

“Yes, but first I have to finish a little project of my own. Take it from me, Apollo, it’s not your time to stay in a place like this. Go back where you are needed!”

The next micron, Apollo was awake and coughing up a lung full of liquid. Through wheezing gasps, he got his breath back. He had help. Gar’Tokk held him and struck him on the back when he needed it most.

“Quick,” said Apollo. “Take me to a shuttle. We’re going to the Cylon basestar.”

“Why?” asked the Noman in wonder.

“Because there’s a cure for the plague and I can take us to it without delay. Contact Bell and get his team ready. We’re about to do the best day’s work of our lives!”

Epilogue

On the astral plane, two figures passed so near to one another that they almost overlapped. That would have been a most inopportune encounter. Fortunately, the collision did not occur.

One entity was Count Iblis. Despite trying to keep an eye on the widespread calamities of the Cylon Empire, he kept returning to the object of his greatest obsession: his son.

Cassiopeia was no longer a threat to the boy physically. She was presenting another problem. As the boy’s powers expanded, he was showing a dangerous tendency toward helping people. He was just as pleased by manifesting his power in positive as well as negative ways.

What had started out as a perfectly good minor poison was transformed by the boy into a cure for the common cold. When he shared the discovery with his mother, she was inordinately happy. This did not bode well for the future plans of Count Iblis.

If Iblis realized who passed close by him on the astral plane, he would have other causes for concern. The figure, coming so near to the malign thing that had once been human, retained his humanity. Unlike Iblis, Baltar had never confused rising above nature with falling below it.

Baltar hung around the Paradis system just long enough to make sure that there were no mishaps in carrying out of his good deed. Apollo was never braver than when he received the first injection to make certain it worked. When Baltar showed him the road to hope, Apollo traveled it with a firm step despite what was ravaging him internally.

Then came the greater miracle. Bell thought it might be too late for Sheba. For once, that good man was wrong. He was never happier to be shown that science can work hand-in-hand with a miracle. Sheba returned to her old self, and to Apollo’s arms.

Four hundred lives were saved.

As Baltar sped to his next rendezvous, he relished the thought of the four hundred. Perhaps it was a drop in the bucket set against the millions of lives that haunted him down the corridors of eternity. But it was a start.

He moved with a certain grace and dignity toward his own personal redemption. And every step he took on this most personal path helped him better appreciate the redemption of others.

He was still basking in the warm glow of such reflections when he reached his destination. Ever since he had started scouring the spacetime continuum for evidence of his cloned brains, he suspected that he would have to check on his old host and captor, Imperious Leader.

The Cylon mastermind had relocated to a new quadrant since the Cylon civil war. It would have been exceedingly difficult for the living Baltar to locate the old reprobate. Even in his altered condition, the journey was something of a challenge.

At first Baltar didn’t recognize the hunched figure, holding its remarkably large head in pain. Closer scrutiny revealed not only the presence of Imperious Leader but a new development.

The Cylon now had a fourth brain and apparently it was causing him considerable pain. Baltar doubted that even Cylon dictators grew extra brains, like a mushroom suddenly sprouting on an unsuspecting head. This brain had been very carefully cultivated and surgically attached.

For the first time since dying, Baltar felt the human emotion of terror. He did not approve. He did not like any part of it.

Imperious Leader had already been dangerous. Proof that the fourbrained tyrant was going to be even more of a threat was not long in coming.

Without ever looking up from his unimaginable headache, Imperious Leader said a few words.

“Welcome back, Baltar. Thanks to your invaluable contribution, we can finish what we started.”

Table of Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

Epilogue