CHAPTER 8

"Patrol One to Galactica. We are approximately three centons from sensor range of the target. Will transmit a direct feed of all data simultaneously. Apollo out."

"Acknowledged."

At maximum velocity, it had taken them only 80 centons to reach their current position. The captain had used the time to brief Boomer on what little they knew about the object. Both had made few speculations, then, to avoid any preconceptions, but the silent hope was that it would turn out to be an asteroid or other kind of harmless space debris. As they approached sensor range now, all conversation had ceased and they slowed to minimum velocity.

"One centon to sensor range," Apollo said. "We'll come to a full stop to perform the scans. Prepare to fire reverse thrusters to neutralize all forward momentum."

"I copy," answered Boomer.

"20 microns . . . 10 . . . 5 . . . now!" Both pilots activated a preprogrammed burst with the reverse thrusters to bring their ships to, essentially, a standstill.

"Okay, here it goes!" Apollo flipped a series of switches to initiate the preliminary scans. A moment later, Boomer followed the same procedures. For several long microns their screens remained blank and they waited. Then, the details began rolling up their displays, and while they were still too far out for visual contact, an outlined image formed on the screens. It was no asteroid.

"By the Lords of Kobol . . ." Boomer said. "What is it?"

"Commander, are you getting this?" Apollo asked. "It looks like a probe of some kind. . ." The image showed a round structure with two long protrusions extending from it. The two-dimensional diagram was difficult to interpret, though.

"We're getting it," Adama's voice sounded through their helmets.

"Negative on any known explosive compositions," Boomer commented, reading from his display. "The infrared signature is being generated, it appears, by a low level of radioactivity."

"Run a tighter scan on the source of that radioactivity," said the commander.

Boomer's display focused on the end of one of the two apertures. "It's being emitted from the object's power source, according to this."

"Yes. . ." Adama sounded thoughtful, even over the comline. "A radio isotopic thermal generator. An ancient and inefficient propulsion system. Ancient. . . Must be a leak in the shielding, though."

"Oh, Lords. . ." Apollo felt an intense excitement building from within. "This doesn't match any know Cylon technology." He stopped to refocus his mind. Too much was still unknown. They had to remain cautious. "Okay, Boomer, let's do that final scan."

"Will do."

The last precaution that they could take before risking a closer approach involved emitting a series of electromagnetic pulses designed to detonate any possible explosive devices that might be awaiting them. At least, the pulses would trigger the vast majority of any known explosive compositions; it was not a guarantee against other, more elaborate destruct programs. But then again, even the most detailed scans by the Galactica's top demolition experts could not provide a complete guarantee of safety.

Apollo and Boomer counted the microns, barely breathing, waiting. Nothing. After three centons, Apollo broke the silence. "Negative on known explosives. Boomer, let's take a closer look! We'll have visual contact in two centons."

Both pilots activated turbos. With monitors on standby, they watched their black, faintly flickering screens in anticipation as they approached. At last, sensors were able to lock onto the object, and an image appeared.

"Look at it. . ." Boomer said softly, feeling the excitement expanding to a sense of awe. The main feature was what appeared to be a large receptive dish. Protruding from the back were two narrow trusses, with paddle-like objects on the end of the four-wire extensions. Stretching out in the opposite direct was a long, thin pole. "That's a probe configuration, if I ever saw one. But where's it from?"

"Well, we know that we're nearing a binary star system," answered Apollo, pausing as he studied the readouts. "Given that its current velocity is sublight -- I mean, *way* below lightspeed! -- that might be the safest guess. If there proves to be evidence of intelligent life in that system."

"Let me check something." Boomer ran several calculations through the computer. Eventually, he said, "Its trajectory indicates that it could, indeed, have come from that binary system, but . . ."

"We can't be sure," Apollo finished. "It's course could have been altered by the gravitational forces of that system. We probably won't know until we are within scanner range of any planets."

******************
"Build me." Starbuck pushed two of the hexagonal cards forward, then relaxed back into his chair, taking a long drag on his fumarello. The dealer swept the discards into a pile and slipped two more cards above the lieutenant's four other cards. All those face up were green, the second highest of the three colors.

"No build for me." Chameleon sat next to Starbuck, arms crossed, the slightest of smiles on his face. The hand in front of him also revealed three cards of the same suit, purple, the highest of the colors.

Starbuck glanced at his friend's hand, then studied his face for a moment. If the three unrevealed cards in front of him were also purple and of the appropriate level, then he could have a perfect third-level pyramid. Then again, he could have nothing. As the play moved around to the two other players, Starbuck pondered which way the cards were likely to fall. With no computer in hand, the calculations had to be mental; that had been the agreement between Chameleon and him.

"Final bets," The dealer announced.

Starbuck ran the odds through his mind one more time, clamped the fumarello between his teeth, and deposited three even stacks next to the cards in front of him. "I'll hover with these."

Chameleon did not hesitate as he matched the three stacks. Then he added a fourth. "I'll meet the three hundred and raise it to four."

The next person matched the bet, while the fourth decided his chances were too slim and folded. The dealer turned back to Starbuck and raised an eyebrow. Fighting the wave of doubt that tried to well up, Starbuck slid another pile of cubits across the table. He flashed his most confident grin at the dealer as he nodded his readiness to continue.

The dealer added one final card to the house hand, which showed a perfect second-level pyramid, purple suit. Any third-level hand would beat the dealer; who won the pot depended on who had the highest hand. Starbuck, grin still in place, flipped his cards to reveal three more green cards -- a perfect third-level pyramid. The other player, not bothering to wait for Chameleon, tossed his cards forward, knowing he had lost. Starbuck looked expectantly at his companion.

Chameleon's face was impassive as he slowly turned over each of the cards, revealing all purple, and all of the appropriate level. A perfect third-level pyramid, also, but of the higher suit. Quietly, he raked the cubits towards him. "I believe that's three for me and one for you." His eyes reflected amusement.

"Fine, fine!" Starbuck dropped all pretense and frowned, eyeing the few remaining cubits that sat on the table in front of him.

"Let's take a break for dinner, hmm?" Chameleon said, scooping his winnings into a pouch.

"Okay," Starbuck answered, pointing the fumarello at him, Abut you're buying the drinks."

"My pleasure. And I'll also tell you where you miscalculated."


"Humph!" Starbuck pushed his chair back and pocketed the small stack of cubits as he rose to his feet. Under the current restrictions, no food could be served in the chancery, so Starbuck made his way out into the dinner lounge. After surveying the room, he spotted an empty table in the back corner and headed towards it.

Within a centon of sitting down, a waiter approached the two. "Will you be dining tonight?" He asked.

Starbuck nodded. Then, instead of a menu, the waiter placed a portable ID-scanner in front of them on the table. First the lieutenant, then Chameleon, placed their palms onto the pad. For each, a flashing green light indicated that they were cleared to receive their next -- and final! -- allotted rations. It also recorded the transaction as processed; a second scan of their palms would have been met with a flashing red light. Fortunately, Starbuck reflected, the restrictions would be lifted at 0000, and breakfast could be the feast after the famine. Talon-porcine patties and synthetic scrambled ovums never sounded so good!

"May I bring you gentlemen a drink?" The waiter gazed from Starbuck to Chameleon.

"Two ambrosas." Starbuck said. Not everything was restricted, and he intended to enjoy at least a part of the dinner. As the waiter left, the lieutenant leaned back and shook his head at Chameleon. "Okay. So how'd you manage to edge me out the last three times?"

"My dear lad," Chameleon said, "you've got to remember that I've been running these systems before you were even born. I've had much more time and experience at it."

"Is that all you're going to tell me?"

"There's not much more to say. It takes practice, that's all. Practice at using your head instead of those computers you've been relying on. You've got to let the patterns flow and become a part of your thinking when you're playing. Second nature." Chameleon smiled at Starbuck. "If it's any consolation, you're better than I was at your age."

"Really?" Starbuck paused as the waiter returned with their scant rations and two tall glasses of ambrosa. It crossed the lieutenant's mind that he had better watch his consumption level, because with those meager portions of food, it would be barely a step above drinking on an empty stomach. Starbuck looked up to watch Chameleon take a long, slow sip of ambrosa.

As he set the glass down, he grimaced. "Weak, too weak, but better than nothing, I suppose."

"Just what I was thinking." Starbuck gazed at his companion intently for a moment, brow furrowing, lips pursed."

"What's wrong?" Chameleon asked. "Why so serious?"

"Ah, nothing. . ." Starbuck took a long swig of his own ambrosa, feeling the alcohol, although weak and almost flavorless, still burn in his throat and through his sinuses.

"Does it matter whether or not we're related?" Chameleon asked, reading the lieutenant's expression and accurately guessing his thoughts.

"Yes, no -- I don't know! I suppose not." Starbuck gave a wistful look. "It's just that, well, how can we seem so, you know. . ."

"Alike? Well, maybe just coincidence." Chameleon stared for a moment at the face, at the deep blue eyes, in front of him as he took another slow drink of the ambrosa. Cassie is right, he thought. There's a need, an empty space that only one thing can fill. I thought that being friends would be enough, but it's not the same to him. A sense of trepidation pulled at him. He's my son, he mused. My son. Doesn't he deserve to know that?


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

Boomer stared at the probe through his canopy and felt a sense of deep amazement. He and Apollo had reached its location, finally, had circled it several times, taking detailed readings, and had then taken up positions on either side, flying at a matching velocity. The probe remained silent, oblivious of their presence. For how long, he wondered, had it been sailing the vast seas of the universe? Where was it from? From that binary star system? Or some other system much further away? Wherever it was from, given its current sublight velocity, it could have been in space for thousands and thousands of yahren, maybe more; at its present speed, it would take it over 500,000 yahren for it to travel one light-yahren. The thought was awe-inspiring and humbling. They might never be able to meet the makers of this probe. Maybe they could meet their descendants. And barring outside influences, the probe could sail on indefinitely, as close to forever as one could come . . .

"Commander, what are your recommendations?" Apollo's voice broke the silence and Boomer's reflections.

For a long moment that stretched well into a centon, Adama said nothing. Finally, his voice sounded through the comline. "Bring it in. Attach the tow lines and bring it into Beta Bay. We'll establish a security screen around it and perform a thorough decontamination, first."

"What about the radiation?" Boomer asked.

Another pause while the commander studied the readouts. Apollo and Boomer did the same, once more, looking for anything important they might have missed, anything that might be a danger to the Fleet, should they bring in the probe. Boomer had basically come to the same conclusion when the commander answered finally, "The level is not high enough to be a concern. I'd say that the power source seems to be just barely operational. We should be able to seal the radiation leak without a problem."

"What will you tell the Council?" Apollo asked.

The commander's sigh was audible, even over the comline. "We are obligated to inform the Council, but, at least, we can be fairly sure that this will be kept strictly confidential until we know more about this probe. At which point, we will inform the Fleet of our discovery. The Council is fully aware of the new procedures."

"So when do we bring it in?" The excitement in Apollo's voice was evident, despite his efforts to remain detached and professional.

"We will need at least two centars to prepare the decon screening and the security arrangements. We'll contact you when everything is set. For now, maintain current positions. Galactica out."

"Acknowledged."

Apollo turned to stare at their flying companion and tried to contain the emotions that were building up inside; an indescribable elation. This was the second time that they had intercepted an alien craft, but this was different. He could not explain it, but something was telling him that this was an extraordinary encounter.

The first time had been the encounter with the ship from Lunar Seven, when they had pulled the vessel from its course towards the planet Paradeen. In their enthusiasm, they had made countless mistakes in dealing with the unknown ship and its occupants. In addition, the commander and the Council had disagreed, miscommunicated, and done everything but work cooperatively. It had not only come off as farcical in the end analysis, but all had realized that their actions had almost killed the Lunar Seven passengers. Adama had vowed to not repeat such blunders. Working directly with the Council, he and they had established specific procedures and guidelines to follow on any future "first contact" situations.


This time, though, was different. The probe contained no life forms to complicate the situation. Procedures were straightforward: notify the Council and keep them directly informed and involved, but all decisions about Fleet security and *when* to release the information to the general population were up to the Commander. Period.

Apollo took a deep breath, savoring the intensity of emotions. This was it. This was the true reason he loved being a warrior. Not to fly and fight and defend. No, he was a Colonial warrior and viper pilot because it was the closest he could come to being a space explorer. At one time, before the endless war with the Cylons, man had reached out to the heavens, had sent out their own probes towards distant stars, and had dreamed of contacting other civilizations and races. Man had dreamed of exploring the universe. Then the unthinkable had happened. Man had reached out, only to encounter the Cylons, a race that viewed humans as illogical, as a disease to be eradicated. For over a thousand yahrens, humankind had had to fight for the right to exist. Since that time, all science and technology had been devoted not to exploration and discovery, but to war and preservation. Over a millennium.

So what tales could these people, these beings, tell us? Apollo closed his eyes in wonderment. Where was this probe from? What was life like for them when this craft was built? Even if the probe had been created by a race that inhabited the binary star system, it would have had to have been launched well over five hundred yahren ago. So what was their civilization like now? Did they even exist at all? Were they a race that still thrived, after thousands and thousands of yahren, or had they succumbed to the frailties and faults that had threatened the human race more than once? Apollo felt both great joy and an intense sadness as these reflections floated through his mind. Somehow, even after the incredible encounter with Count Iblis and the Ship of Lights beings, even after experiencing their awesome power and potential, this unobtrusive, quiet probe was more relevant, its implications more profound, to him.


***************
"Starbuck, surely you realize that genetics is only a small part of having a family?" Elbows resting on the table, Chameleon peered across the top of his drink at his son. He knew he needed to be honest with the lieutenant, but he also knew that this required a delicate approach, that he would need to use all of his persuasive skills to set the proper stage for the truth. "What about Apollo and the commander? It's obvious that they care for you a great deal -- like family. In my lifetime, I've seen countless blood relatives, many families, that couldn't get along, that treated each other with far less compassion than I see between Apollo or the commander and you."

Starbuck concentrated on his rations, staring at his eating utensil as he chewed, avoiding eye contact. Eventually, he looked up. "Look, I know that. I know that in my head. But I've always just felt that a piece of the picture is missing. I mean, you, Apollo, Boomer, the commander -- you all have a history. I don't even know my real age! When was I born? What was my name? What did my parents do? Did I have any brothers or sisters?"

Chameleon nodded, listening, wanting him to open up. Starbuck, he knew, seldom did this; he knew because Cassie had told him so much about his son over the past sectars, as she had tried to persuade him reveal the truth. So much of what she had said had sounded so familiar. The genetic link was undeniable.

Starbuck stabbed at the last piece of food but did not eat it. "I, I know it doesn't make sense, or really matter," he said, toying with the tasteless morsel, "but I just feel like there's this. . . this vast, empty void, where everyone else has a family history." He jabbed the last bite into his mouth.

"What if those missing relatives turned out to be thieves and scoundrels?" Chameleon gave a half smile, trying to lighten the conversation a bit, to keep the mood serious but too much so.

"Well, at least, I'd know!" Starbuck gulped down the last of his ambrosa. "I don't care if they were the worst bunch of murderers and cutthroats in the Colonies -- at least, I'd have a *reason* to say I didn't know them!"


"Look at it this way, then," Chameleon said. "You can imagine that they are whatever you want them to be."

Starbuck grimaced at the attempted humor and nodded when the waiter appeared with the decanter of ambrosa. He watched as the pale-gold liquid bubbled and fizzed as it filled the tall glass. Inwardly, he felt an odd mixture of frustration, tinged with what could only be described as recklessness, bubbling like the ambrosa beneath the surface.

Chameleon declined a refill and eyed the lieutenant. "A good player needs a clear head," he admonished when Starbuck gulped down several more mouthfuls.

"You've got all my cubits, remember?" Starbuck put the glass on the table, though. He was, after all, supposed to be back on duty the next day.

"I've been meaning to ask you something." Chameleon crossed his arms and stared intently at the lieutenant.

"What?"

"I've always wondered. . . well, I know that learning about your family is very important to you, so I've always been curious -"

"About what?" Starbuck raised an eyebrow at his companion's hesitancy. Although he and Chameleon had spent several evenings socializing and gambling, over the past sectars, they had always avoided the one subject that had brought them together in the first place. Until now.

"Okay. Just suppose that those tests we did had been, well . . . positive. Suppose I *was* your father. Would you really have given up everything to be with me? Remember that conversation we had in your viper? When you said that you were going to quit the service?"

"I - " Starbuck frowned, wondering, thinking. He let his mind float back to that moment. Not unlike the present, he had been battling the feeling of being out of control, as events and possibilities flew at him faster than he could deal with them. To find Chameleon, who *might* be his father, after so many yahren of wondering, after eventually accepting -- or so he thought -- that he would never know about his family. To see his closest friends doubting that possibility, when he learned that Apollo had had Colonel Tigh run a security check on Chameleon. He had exploded at Apollo and Boomer because he had been fighting and denying the more likely truth -- that the odds were against Chameleon being his father. At last, Starbuck answered, "At the time, yes. I was serious about what I said."

"But at that time you also thought that I was a genetic tracer and nobly trying to reunite children with their relatives."

"True . . ."

"The reality was that I was a dishonest conman who stooped so low as to use you and your orphan background to escape from those Nomen. Knowing that, I've always wondered what you would have done, had . . . well. . . had the results been positive."

Starbuck stared into the ambrosa for a moment. "I'm not sure," he said finally, quietly. What would he have done? The answer was nebulous, obscured. He tried to picture the scene, the one where Cassie had given them the test results, from that other perspective. But the emotions were just too intense to resolve into a clear image. At the time, he had been bombarded by the shock from learning the truth after nearly being killed by the Borellian Nomen, the deep, deep disappointment, the disgust at the way he had treated Apollo and Boomer. It had actually been easier just to push it all away and return to the familiar role of orphan.

"Okay, here's one more supposition." Chameleon paused, feeling his heart beating faster. Starbuck looked up at him, puzzled, as he pulled his mind back to the present. Chameleon continued. "Suppose the results had been positive. And suppose you were me. How would you feel if you knew you might cause your son to give up what you *know* he loves most -- his career and friends?"


"Why are you asking me this?" Starbuck had picked up his glass, absently, but did not drink. Something was tugging at the back of his mind. Or maybe he was just distracted by the jumble of memories and the odd direction of Chameleon's questions.

"I've just wondered what would have happened, had you been, really . . . my son. I would have hated to see you do something as rash and foolish as resign from the service. And have known that it was because of me. How could a father allow that?"

"But it doesn't matter, does it?" Starbuck asked, looking more confused. He set the glass down and stared at Chameleon. The nagging sensation was ringing like an alarm klaxon now. His own keen ability to sense what was going on, even before it happened, sometimes, had kicked in. He used it with Apollo all the time, allowing him to seemingly read his friend's thoughts. He had developed these instincts on the streets, as on orphan, and had honed them through his warrior training.

"It's just that this has been troubling me, that's all. Can you humor me? What would you have done -- in my place? Would you have told, right then and there, or would you have waited for a better time?" Chameleon felt the thumping in his chest and struggled to keep his face calm and curious.

"Okay . . ." Starbuck exhaled. "I would probably have waited. . ." His mind was only half aware of what he was saying. His voice trailed off, and he frowned at Chameleon. The man was sweating. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"I've just wondered what things would have been like if, well, you really were my son." Chameleon felt his control slipping. He had had everything, every word, planned out ahead of time. Gone over the possible scenarios in his mind. He had talked his way in and out of so many situations in the past that it was second nature to him. But now, he was feeling uncertain, afraid even, his will faltering. What was he doing?

It was too late, though. Everything clicked. Starbuck read his face as clearly as if he had shouted the words. "My God. What are you saying?"

"Starbuck, I -- I need to tell you -"

"You've been lying to me all this time!" Starbuck stood up so quickly that his chair tumbled over. At any other time, Chameleon's reasoning and approach would most likely have worked. Under normal circumstances, Starbuck would have followed the clearly laid out logic. But not now. His own words, his own admission that he would probably have waited, crumbled in the face of one thought: Chameleon had lied to him. His own father had lied. His father. Chameleon was his father, and he had not seen fit to tell him that. For all these sectars, he had been lying to him!

Starbuck glared at the man, the stranger whom he thought he had known, his father. His head was spinning. All the fury, all the self-doubt and fear, that had been pent up the past eleven days and eleven exhaustive, sleepless nights exploded. "You. Lied. To. Me." Starbuck pounded the table with both fists, hard enough to topple the glasses, then stormed out of the dinner lounge.

Chameleon just stared, unable to move, at the empty door where his son had disappeared.

******************
"Patrols One and Two, zero-gravity conditions are enacted. You are cleared for Beta Bay."

"Acknowledged." Apollo switched comlines. "Boomer, you go in first."

"Kay-O. Good luck." Boomer glided into the bay. Without the typical pull from the ship's gravitational field, Boomer used his reverse thrusters to stop his forward motion and bring his viper to a stop. He felt the tug as the viper's gear reacted to the magnetic field of the floor, which was activated when the artificial gravity was not engaged. In addition, a shielding wall had been employed to create a contained environment in that part of the bay, reducing their landing space by 40%. The enclosed conditions, at the moment, with both the gravity and atmosphere deactivated, matched the space outside the ship. Remaining inside his cockpit, Boomer used his rear monitor to watch the captain land.


Apollo approached carefully, gliding in at minimal velocity, keeping one eye on the bay in front of him and one eye on the probe beside him, connected by the short tow line. The angle of his approach was critical, because he wanted to bring the alien craft in as carefully as possible. Slowly, slowly, he activated the reverse thrusters in short, precise bursts until he appeared to almost be floating in the weightless, airless bay. Gradually, he eased his ship downward, until the magnetic field caught hold of the landing gear and pulled the viper to the floor. The probe, drifting several metrons above the viper, continued moving forward until it reached the end of the tether. It recoiled a little, and then, still being outside of the influence of the magnetic field, it settled into a gently rotating hover about the viper.

Apollo let out a held breath as he watched the probe through his canopy. Perfect. Given its design, which was not exactly suitable for landings, he had wanted to avoid damaging the delicate looking features of the probe. Finally he said, "This is Patrol One. Go ahead with phase two."

"Acknowledged. Atmosphere will be suitable for breathing in 70 centons."

"I think I'll take a nap," Boomer said with an exaggerated yawn, "Since we're already two centars into sleep period."

"Oh, Boomer," Apollo said, still staring at the slowly drifting probe, "I couldn't sleep if I tried! It's just incredible to look at."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," the lieutenant responded softly.

Once the atmosphere had been restored to the secured area, Apollo and Boomer were able to exit their vipers. The radiation exposure would be minimal and not hazardous in the amount of time it took to exit the bay. Apollo would have loved to have just floated up to examine the probe, right then and there, but safety procedures required both them and the probe to be thoroughly decontaminated. Following the most basic law of physics, all they had to do was aim at the containment wall and push off from their vipers.

"I'll race you!" Apollo had popped his canopy and was watching Boomer pull himself out of the cockpit. Riding on the euphoria of their find, he felt as giddy as their weightless environment. Without waiting for a response from his wingman, Apollo used the top edge of his canopy and launched himself towards the wall.

"Hey!" Boomer, feeling more awkward and cautious, not wanting to end up in the embarrassing situation of being stranded with nothing to hold onto, watched the
captain sail slowly by and, several moments later, grab onto one of the numerous handholds protruding from the containment wall. Still feeling a bit wary, Boomer followed suit more carefully.

It took another 50 centons before Apollo and Boomer were able to exit, though; they first had to spend time in the decon/decompression chamber that linked the shielding wall with the rest of Beta Bay. Finally, after normal pressure had been restored and decontamination procedures completed, the captain and lieutenant stepped out of the chamber. In front of them stood a small group with expectant faces: Adama, Tigh, Athena, Dr. Wilker, two assistants, and six Council guards, including Sergeant Reese, who was the second-in-command of security.

Apollo locked eyes with his father, after a quick sweep of who all was waiting. "It's beautiful," he whispered, Alike an ancient sailing ship." Apollo let his gaze slide to Athena. Her smile expressed that she understood; she knew her brother was fascinated with the history of the Colonies' astronautical, aeronautical, and even plain nautical technologies, anything that could sail or fly.

"So what's next?" Boomer asked, feeling and savoring the excitement and anticipation, like a child the night before his natal day celebration. "When can we get a closer look?"

"We're all going to have to be patient," Adama said. "First, to avoid runaway rumors, I've placed strict security restrictions on the Beta Bay and issued a non-communication order to all who know about this. As for everyone else, the reasons for the restrictions will be that Dr. Wilker is performing delicate experiments. The bay will be off-limits."


Apollo surveyed the group again, feeling the euphoria fading somewhat. He noticed the armed security guards and felt a sense of flashback as he remembered how the warriors and Council security had clashed during the Lunar Seven incident.

"There won't be any conflicts, this time," Adama said, following his son's gaze. As per established guidelines, The Council has deferred all decisions to me. We're going to keep this efficient and professional."

Apollo still looked skeptical as he asked, "How long will the decon take? And what's the next step?"

"Well, due to the volume of the bay, decon procedures will take at least 15 centars," Adama said. "In the meanwhile, Dr. Wilker and his team will conduct all of the remote analyses that they can and devise a way to restore the proper shielding on the generators. Also, they're going to recommend the best way to reestablish normal gravity without damaging the craft. Once we've sealed the radiation leak, determined it to be safe, and have the appropriate environment, we'll all be able to get a closer look. But that probably won't be for at least 18 centars." Adama smiled at the disappointment on the two warriors' faces. "As I said, we're going to have to be patient. Now, why don't you two, and you," Adama turned to his daughter, whose shift had ended centars earlier, "get some rest."

"Aye, aye, Commander," Athena smiled and motioned for Boomer and her brother to follow her. With a sigh, Apollo decided that there was nothing more that he could do, at the moment. Nodding to the commander, he went with Athena and Boomer towards the turbolift. At the same time, Wilker and his two assistants immediately began organizing their equipment, leaving the commander and Colonel Tigh with the security group.

"You are to monitor the bay continuously," Adama explained, "Colonel Tigh has assigned you to rotating shifts, in pairs, beginning now." He crossed his arms and gazed at the six men in front of him. "I am confident that you will keep this matter in the strictest confidence. I foresee no problems, but should any unauthorized persons enter the bay, please direct them back out and inform Colonel Tigh. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." The men nodded.

Adama watched as Tigh pulled out his duty roster and read the assignments. Then the commander turned towards the confinement wall. Dr. Wilker and his team were busy setting up monitors and a variety of equipment which could operate based off of visual data. The wall had three observation panels, and the commander gazed through one of them. The probe still floated above the viper, drifting almost imperceptibly now. The large dish pointed towards them. Adama stared at it, mesmerized, wondering about its origin and what all it had experienced on its, undoubtedly, long, long voyage. And he reflected on all that had happened to his people in the past yahren, the Great Destruction, the Exodus, the fight for survival, the differences between what they had once known and what life was like for everyone now. The vast majority of contacts that they had made with other people had been with those who had fled the Twelve Colonies. Even the people of Terra had had records of voyagers settling in their star system. But what of this probe's home? Was it of alien or of human origin? As he gazed at it, an odd, inexplicable sensation of tranquility seem to wash over him, an almost forgotten feeling. Hope.

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

Cassie stared at the bottom of the upper bunk, waiting, wondering, too tense to sleep. She knew that Starbuck had not returned to Blue Squadron's billet before curfew at 0000. She knew, because she had created a story to tell the other pilots about why she was looking for him at that centar. Her bold, late-night inquiry had been met with blank looks. They had not seen him all evening. She had apologized, thanked them, and walked slowly back to her quarters. She had written a message to Chameleon, but it would not be sent until 0600 in the morning. She would have to wait. And wonder. Where was he?

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

"Figures. Colonel Tigh *would* put me on the first shift. Didn't bother to check to see who'd already *been* on duty. They're all the same!" Sergeant Reese sat down on the crate that he had found and leaned against the support column.

"What do you mean?" Corporal Stokard looked at his partner as he paced back and forth. Stokard had been a Council Security guard for about five sectars now, and, for the most part, liked his duties. He had considered entering the Colonial Service, but the thought of trying to fly even a shuttle craft made his stomach lurch. Before the Destruction, he had been a law enforcement officer, so he figured that security guard would be close to his previous occupation, and probably safer; one of the small, small benefits of their current refugee status was the reduction of almost all crimes down to practically zero. Hardly a fair trade off, though, he reflected.

From the day he had enlisted as a cadet trainee in the Council Security Force, he had heard tales of the conflicts between the guards and the Colonial warriors. In most of the stories, the name of "Reese" almost always came up. That he despised the warriors was common knowledge. Rumors as to *why* were numerous, and several were quite credible, but in Stokard's mind, none fully explained the intensity of his negative feelings. Was there some major, unknown reason, or had all of the little incidents just warped the man's point of view? Or was his mind just warped, Stokard wondered, grinning to himself. At any rate, he would probably regret probing Reese for further information, but it was just his nature to be curious, morbidly curious, at times, even.

"Frakkin' warriors!" Reese growled. "I should be curled up in my bunk. Instead, I'm stuck watching a piece of space debris that's locked behind a containment wall, anyway!"

"I heard the commander say that that probe is not Cylon technology."

"Who cares?" Reese was in a particularly foul mood, even for him. "It's just a satellite, or something. No life forms. It's hardly worth all of this 'top secret' security."

"Um, did I hear that there was a big game going on tonight?" Stokard actually had not heard anything, but decided to take a guess at why Reese was so irritated.

"Maybe . . ." Reese admitted, his frown deepening.

Bingo, thought Stokard. So that's it. He had heard several tales about Reese and pyramid games, one of which, he suspected, had probably done a lot to fuel the man's dislike of Colonial warriors, and of one in particular -- Lieutenant Starbuck. The "event" had taken place shortly after the Exodus began, or so the story went. A group of security guards and warriors were playing a game in the Galactica's OC. At first, Lieutenant Starbuck had been soundly beating everyone, security guard and warrior, alike. Then the tide had seemed to turn, with Reese winning a streak of four consecutive hands. Until the lieutenant had figured out that Reese was cheating. Instead of getting angry and revealing it immediately, though, Starbuck had craftily used the knowledge to gain the advantage back. As Reese had grown more and more frustrated, Starbuck had finally backed Reese into a corner where he had to openly admit that he was cheating, something more embarrassing and degrading than just having the lieutenant accuse him of deceitful sportsmanship, which he could have denied.

"Ah, well," Stokard said, "look at it this way. By working a double shift, you'll earn overtime and have even more cubits to gamble away next time."


Reese scowled but said nothing further. Instead, he crossed his arms and closed his eyes. Stokard decided that that little bit of information had satisfied his curiosity. Sliding over another crate, he sat down, facing towards the turbolift and away from his partner. Reese was not the only security guard who felt resentment or -- what was it, really? Jealousy? -- towards the Colonial warriors, primarily because many of the guards had been in the academy, but had not made the grade as warriors. So whether it was true or not, some thought that the pilots, especially, looked down on them.

But for some reason, the animosity ran deeper with Reese. The card game incident may have been the catalyst, but Stokard knew, also, that the debacle with the Lunar Seven visitors had certainly exacerbated the resentment. Then, Reese had been made to seem responsible for the unauthorized launch of the Lunar Seven space ship, when he had had no actual idea of what had been happening. The truth had eventually been deciphered, but not before he had appeared the fool in front of the Council of Twelve. Both Lieutenant Starbuck and Captain Apollo had been involved in that one, and the fact that they were admired heroes by most people in the Fleet only heightened Reese's anger and bitterness.

Stokard sighed. It was all so tiresome. The pettiness was annoying. He did not care for it or about it. He knew his limitations, admired those who could do the job that the warriors did, and did not complain about his less-than-heroic duties, such as pulling shifts in the prison barge. He was just thankful to have a useful position in the Fleet. Turning to look behind, he watched Dr. Wilker and his assistants working intently with their instruments and scanners. Maybe his partner was not interested in the probe, but Stokard was glad to be one of the few chosen to be involved in this project. He, for one, found the possibilities of this discovery fascinating.

*********************
Frak. His hand hurt like Hades. Slugging metal walls would do that, Starbuck reflected. Not once. Or twice. But three times. Three times, as hard as he could, before the pain had finally penetrated his rage. And brought him back to reality. A reality that he was struggling to understand, to make some sense out of. It still felt like one of his nightmares, though. And he was so tired now, so tired. He sank down to the floor, back against the cold steel of the wall, not remembering why he had come here. Why here? Legs pulled up, he wrapped his arms over his knees and put his head down, too exhausted to know what to do next. Or to really care.

After what Chameleon had been trying to tell him had burst through his mind, like an exploding missile, he had stormed out and just walked, rapidly, away from all people, to the lower levels and the triad courts, deserted now because they closed at 2000 on non-competition evenings. One thought had held him at that point -- to get the Hades away from everyone before he totally lost it. And he had felt it coming. The furor was so intense, so consuming, that he was not going to be able to stop it this time. He just wanted to run, to escape.

Breathing in deep, ragged breaths, he had burst through the entrance to the triad court and had let go. Just let go. Yelling, screaming, cursing. Sobbing. And finally slamming his fist against the unforgiving wall. The pain had smothered the fury by the third strike, and he had stopped, pressed his back against the side of the court, and just stood for the longest time, trying desperately not to think, trying to shut out the jumble of thoughts, images, feelings that were still churning beneath the surface. Instead, he had concentrated on the throbbing, knifelike sensations in his right hand. And intently avoided dealing with what he had just learned.

Eventually, a sliver of rational thought had crept through. Time. What time was it? He could not stay on the Rising Star or in the triad court forever. He had to get back to the Galactica. And then what? He would worry about that later. For now, he just did not need the extra hassle of being stranded on this ship. The last shuttle back to the Galactica left at 2350. It was 2330. Taking several deep breaths, he pulled himself away from the wall and had gone to the docking lounge. It had crossed his mind that Chameleon might be there, as well, waiting for him. He could not face him at that moment. He shut out the thought.


To his intense relief, Chameleon had not been in the docking lounge. Nor had anyone else he knew. One small blessing. . . He had been able to maintain a relative stalemate with himself for the 15-centon ride. Outward calm, managed through slow, even breaths, and focusing on listening to the chatter of the two women who sat near him. That and the constant throbbing in his hand, punctuated by sharp, acute pain whenever he moved it. Beneath the surface, though, the turmoil still boiled.

Occasionally, as his mind had drifted from the shear exhaustive effort of deliberately shutting off his emotions and had started to lapse into sleep, chaotic thoughts had slipped through, visions really, images. Captain Connley's face, filled with pure hatred, as he pointed the laser at his head. The crazed lunatic, Sherok, ready to poison him as he lay paralyzed with the back spasms. Apollo glaring at him as he, himself, could not stop the angry, frustrated words only the night before, after the triad game. No control. Out of control. And just when he finally felt like he was getting a handle on it all. Chameleon. He could not fathom the words yet, only the deep, piercing feeling of betrayal, knowing that the man had been lying to him. No! Stop! He would not give in again. He was in control.

His head had snapped up as he realized that he had been dozing. His hand, which was tucked inside his flight jacket, out of sight of curious eyes, slipped, and the sudden movement sent a shooting pain up through his arm. He was awake now. He concentrated on holding the injured hand as still as possible and breathed through the intense but fading ache.

When the shuttle had landed in Alpha Bay, aboard the Galactica, he had exited and then stopped. Where now? Where? He could still feel the awful, overwhelming sensations threatening to erupt again, so he just walked, letting his feet carry him as he concentrated on forgetting everything. Everything. Everything was all muddled together now: the insanity of both Connly and Sherok, the helplessness that had almost turned to hopelessness in so many of his nightmares, and the shock, the slap in the face from someone who now claimed to be his father. If he was his father, why did he lie to him? Deny it? God, what was happening to him? He felt his control slipping yet again, and that, more than anything else, terrified him.

He had stopped, finally, when he realized where his subconscious had taken him. To Delta Deck, next to the Electronics Lab. To Copernicus's door. Hades, what was he doing here?

Starbuck lifted his head to stare at his blood-stained, swollen, discolored hand. It throbbed and ached, and he could barely move his fingers. Not without excruciating pain, at least. Cracked a few knuckles, and more, he mused, not really caring. Could go to the lifestation and get it taken care of. What would Cassie say -

He had the sudden sensation that the floor had been pulled out from underneath him. Oh, my God, he thought. Cassie. Cassie's known all along. She did the tests. She's known. So who else, except me, knows about this?

"Shit!" This was too much. Too much. His head was reeling now. He was beyond exhaustion and beyond dealing with any of this. Eleven nights with almost no sleep, filled with dreams that mocked his self-confidence, his faith that he was strong enough to handle anything. . . He inhaled, gasps, really, eyes squeezed shut. No. He would not let go. He. Would. Not. Lose. Control. Again.

The door whooshed open. Starbuck jumped, startled, and looked up to find
Copernicus staring down at him. For several microns, the lieutenant did not know if he were awake or dreaming. All other thoughts relented as he concentrated on figuring out just which side of reality he was on at the moment.

"Come in," Copernicus said. "Come in. Come in." He backed into his tiny
compartment, still staring at the lieutenant.

Feeling like he was running on autopilot, Starbuck climbed slowly to his
feet and followed Copernicus through the door. Once inside, he stood and watched his friend. Copernicus looked uncertain and glanced away awkwardly, lost as to what he should do next, it seemed. Starbuck, feeling drained, detached, and numb -- oh, so numb -- now, gazed at him, waiting, as if he were watching some drama unfold on an IFB vidshow, or letting a dream play out.

Copernicus finally seemed to reach some decision. Moving more purposefully, he went to his shelf and pulled out a small disk. Pulling his music device down off the shelf, as well, he inserted the disk and held out the invention towards the lieutenant. When Starbuck did not move, Copernicus thrust the device out again in his direction, insistently, and inched forward, not making direct eye contact. The quickness of his movements, little head jerks, deep breaths, reflected his growing tenseness and the effort his actions were costing him. Finally, he shoved the device at Starbuck and let go.

Instinctively, the lieutenant grabbed at it before it could fall, fumbling, catching it in his left hand. All at once, loud strands of music emanated from the device; somehow, Copernicus had activated it before letting go. The man had retreated back to his bed, in the back corner and now stared at Starbuck again. As the sounds of strings and wind instruments filled the compartment, starting out softly, then swelling to a crescendo, Copernicus broke into a broad smile and closed his eyes. His previous tension had dissipated, and he seemed to melt into the music, swaying and moving with the beat, oblivious now of his guest.

The volume was so loud that Starbuck could feel the base tones vibrating in his chest, but he did not know how to turn it down or off. And he did not want to, he realized. The symphonic piece was slowly enveloping him. With a sense of surrender, he simply sat down where he was, in front of the door, and put the music device down. He closed his own eyes, letting the melodic sounds, so vibrant and full of life, wrap around him. Slowly, slowly, he could feel himself relaxing, the tempest of his emotions abating. The effect of the composition, so loud yet entrancing, was hypnotic, almost. As the music washed over him and through him, it broke through his defenses, as well. He did not think, but he felt. Felt both the physical and psychological pain. And he let go once more, quietly, though, this time, no rage, just release.

Copernicus, lost in his own world and thoughts, did not notice the tears or hear the sobs that gently shook the lieutenant's body.