"Someone's leading you a merry chase, Warrior," Old Lil said in a gruff voice, her cloudy blue eyes vivid in her wizened face, even in the dim light of the Arian Freighter. A delicate black shawl covered her wispy grey hair, and a shapeless coarse robe hung loosely on her. The ancient woman slowly stepped forward with her cane, squinting up at him, her bent and twisted body not hampering her determination to look him in the eye. She crooked a gnarled finger at him, beckoning him closer with an unspoken authority that he reacted instinctively to.

"Call me Starbuck, Mater," he said, sensing this woman was deserving of respect. Starbuck leaned down a little closer to the old dame, picking up the distinct aroma of Leonid Balm on her. His distinct impression of kindness and wisdom in her reminded him of several matrons he'd known over the yahrens during his time at the orphanages of Caprica.

"Only if you call me, Lil," she replied with an engaging smile that could lighten the dourest of days, even in space.

"All right. What makes you think I'm being led on a chase, Lil?" Starbuck asked, wondering if maybe she wasn't quite as sharp as he'd first presumed. After all, it looked like she and Sagan had played in the same sand box, Sagan being the younger of the two.

"I may be old, but I'm not crazy," Lil told him, as if she had heard his thoughts. "This Honour of which you speak doesn't exist. At least not here."

"But . . . that's . . . not possible," he replied, shaking his head. After all, he had living proof that she existed back on the Galactica. "She lived here. She boarded a shuttle with her daughter from this very freighter at the start of today's cycle. They have her listed on the ship's manifest!"

Lil simply shook her head sadly at him. "I have no reason to lead you astray, Starbuck. She doesn't bide here."

"But . . ." he murmured, straightening his frame and raking a hand through his hair as he tried to make sense of it. He couldn't.

"I know every man, woman and child on this deck and every other, Alpha to Omega Sections. I know the bridge crew, the engine crew, the galley crew, and all those in between. Trust me, boy, I know or knew everyone who's called this pile of corrosion with an engine on it home, since we fled the Colonies. I don't know Honour," Old Lil said, reaching forward shakily to lightly squeeze his hand.

"I don't get it . . . I mean, how . . ."

"But I do know someone who might."

xxxxx

Getting information out of Honour was like coaxing a scared turtle out of its shell. The woman had obviously been terrorized and traumatized by this "maniac" who had allegedly killed two women and children in the Fleet, covering up both incidents with enough skill that they appeared to be suicides. The subject obviously had enough relevant experience and knowledge to confound Colonial forensics during their exhaustive investigation. Based on his yahrens of experience in the Caprica City Civil Security Force, it made Proctor suspect that if Honour could identify the man, that he might already know the killer, at least by reputation.

Proctor had given her a moment to get herself a cold drink of fruit juice and to try to compose herself, but if anything, on return to her seat she looked more pale, actually verging on sickly, than she had before.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, adjusting the kerchief over her head, tucking a few damp tendrils of hair back inside.

"Don't be," Proctor replied, pulling out his datapad. "I know this must be difficult for you, but we'll get you through it."

She nodded. "Thank you, Officer."

"Who is he, Honour?" Proctor asked again.

She ducked her head once again, her hands compulsively wringing her robes. "He's a serial killer, responsible for the termination of twelve poor souls during a two yahren period on Aries."

"Jephte?" Proctor gasped. His memory thus jogged, he remembered the Arian cases well. Before news of the upcoming Armistice had driven it from the news-vids, it had been the lead story on half of the colonies.

The killer struck every two to four sectars, selecting a victim or victims, but in each case the murder at first appeared to be a suicide. Open and shut. Sometimes single women, sometimes sealed, then one finally accompanied by a very young child; it took over twelve sectars before the authorities realized they were dealing with a serial killer, and not some mysterious suicidal sect that they were investigating when an eerie similarity to an obscure passage in the Book of the Word was revealed.

Jephte had been a chieftain of the tenth tribe of Kobol during the most bloodthirsty period recorded in the annals of mankind. God bade him lead a holy war against the Molech, a people who had fallen from favour for their wicked ways. Yahrens of bloody battle ensued, and finally the day came when what finally remained of two mighty armies faced each other across a blood-soaked battlefield. Weary, Jephte wanted an end to the hostilities. It was time for his artisans of destruction to pour out God's indignation, breathing His fiery wrath upon the enemy. The Molech were to be fuel for His fire, their blood was to flow throughout the land. Swords were drawn for slaughter, burnished to consume and to flash lightning through the hearts of the enemy.

No, it wasn't on the agenda for the usual Holy Day teachings.

Determined that God's will would finally be done, Jephte swore upon his honour that if God should grant him victory over his enemies, then he would sacrifice for His glory whatever or whoever came out of the doors of his home to meet him when he returned in peace. Victory did come, after such carnage and butchery as even he had rarely seen, but at the cost of humanity. After the Molech army had been destroyed, the enmity of Jephte's army turned on the nearest Molech villages. Women and children were terminated, burned alive, to appease a vengeful God.

Then when the day finally came that a weary, tired Jephte had returned to his home, what first came out of his home was his twelve beautiful daughters, arm in arm. Having fought over who would be the first to greet their heroic father, they had laughingly decided to greet him en masse. He had dropped to his knees, groaning, tears streaming down his face, tearing off his armour in anguish, proclaiming, "My daughters! My heart is breaking! What a tragedy that you came out to greet me, for I have made a vow to the Lord and cannot take it back!"

Proctor wracked his brain, recalling the names of Jephte's daughters: Grace, Glory, Chastity, Destiny, Bliss, Melody, Harmony, Charity, Joy, Faith, Hope, and Honour. In order of their age and two to three sectars apart, in ancient times they had been burned alive, sacrificed for the glory of God, or perhaps as an example of his displeasure. Theologians had, of course, theorized that Jephte paid through the lives of his daughters for his army's sins against the women and children of Molech.

Lacking any credible leads and as a result of the story, the serial killer on Aries had been labeled "Jephte". Now that Proctor thought about it, nine women, three with children, had been terminated before the Destruction. Faith and Hope had been terminated within the last couple sectars, leaving only Honour's death to complete the cycle. There had been a link between Faith, Hope and Honour, but it wasn't anything to do with them being single mothers or relatives. They simply had been called after one of Jephte's daughters, the Martyrs for Humanity in Kobollian theology.

Profiling on "Jephte" had indicated an organized offender with above average intelligence, with a consistently high degree of control over his crime scene and a solid knowledge of forensic science. Proctor recalled the fear that had swept over Aries and the growing rage with the Arian Civil Security Force when they failed again and again to apprehend the killer. And, as if to add insult to injury, taunting letters began to arrive, mocking the authorities for their failure to find the killer, daring them to catch him. The severity of the crimes even had bureauticians rehashing the debate over the long-abolished death penalty. Every husband, brother, father, and son familiar with the case would have cheerfully volunteered as executioner if "Jephte" had been brought to justice.

"Yes, Jephte . . ." Honour whispered, shuddering involuntarily. "Who else could it be?"