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Culture Shock- A Star Trek/Battlestar Galactica Crossover
Part 1, by Senmut.
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Lieutenant Jolly of Blue Squadron thumbed the firing stud on
the control stick of his Viper, and watched the orange bolts of
energy lance through space, to burn their way into the hull of the Cylon
Raider before him. As always, he enjoyed the sight of an enemy fighter
ripping itself apart in a ball of destruction. Next to him, on his right,
he saw his wingman, Giles, do the same, and watched another Cylon fly
to bits.

"They're running," said Giles, looking at his scanner.

"Yeah, what's left of them," they heard Starbuck say over
the radio. "I told 'em to stay out of this galaxy, but would they listen?
Noooo."

"Okay, you guys," interjected Apollo, the Strike Captain of
their squadron. "We're getting the recall signal. Let's get back
to the Galactica."

"Roger, Skipper," replied Jolly, and the pilots banked their
ships, heading for home. Such as it was.

Jolly and Giles had been returning to the Battlestar from an
uneventful patrol when they had picked up the alarm. The Cylons had
found the Galactica and her fleet of flying wrecks once again. And this time,
they were moving in with two BaseShips, to catch the fleeing Colonials in a
pincer movement. As usual, the survivors of the Colonies fought furiously,
taking a murderous toll of the attacking Raiders. But with two full BaseShips
and 600 fighters, it could only be a matter of time. One stood off while the
other moved in, engaging the Galactica at close range. Adama, the
Battlestar's Commander, hosed laser energy into his opponent, but the Cylons, it
seemed, had something new in the way of shielding. The laser blasts from
the Galactica were being deflected with a surprisingly minimal loss of
shield strength. As he watched from the bridge, Adama weighed his options. He
ordered Omega the helmsman to orient their nose towards the enemy,
offering the Cylons a smaller profile, and concentrating his forward
batteries on the junction of the upper and lower hulls.

"Prepare missiles," he ordered. Omega opened his mouth, but
forbore to speak. Like Adama, he knew that the Galactica's missiles
were few and precious, and nearly impossible to replenish under current
conditions. That, and the fact that the detonation of one this close could
seriously damage them as well.

"Aye, sir," replied Omega, activating the appropriate
controls.

"Missile armed and ready, Commander."

"Fire."

"Fir..." began Omega, when the panel to his right erupted in
smoke and sparks. He yelped in surprise, then began batting out the
flames with his hands. "Fire control dead, sir. Missiles inoperative."

"What? Our lasers."

"Lasers operational, sir. It's the control circuits for the
missiles that are down."

"Commander!" spoke up Rigel, down in "The Pit". "I can
handle this."

"Excuse me?"

"My first assignment out of the Academy was aboard the
Rycon, in missile control, sir. I can launch them manually."

"Go," ordered Adama, as more smoke filled the bridge. He
cursed the decision, made by the Admiralty shortly before the defeat of
the Colonies, to slave missile control entirely to the bridge, freeing up
the missile bay crew for other duties. It was an idea of accountants, trying
to find ways to make running the Fleet cheaper, by reducing the number of
personnel aboard. Since fleeing the massacre at Cimtar, the Galactica had
managed to avoid resorting to her precious supply of fusion-tipped missiles,
and so the policy had remained in effect, and forgotten. No doubt, he
reflected, the Cylons would have approved.

Rigel ran along the corridor leading off the bridge, till
she turned left, then came to a locked hatch. Punching in the override
code, she entered and fairly flew up the ladderwell to the next deck.
Opening that hatch as well, she entered the missile control bay. Empty
and dark, it smelled of stale air, and bureaucratic stupidity. Cursing
loudly to the emptiness, she began powering up the equipment.
The ship moved under her, as another Cylon salvo went home,
and she cursed again. She actuated the targeting array, and lined up
on the BaseShip, careful to use passive sensors only at this
minimal range. According to them, the Cylon's shields were down only about
21%, not sufficient she knew for the Vipers or the Galactica's
batteries to do enough damage in time. She seated herself in a gunner's rig, and
gripped the stick. Counting down, she watched the missile hatches open, through
the transparent tylenium viewport, and then the system gave her the green
light. The missile's engine roared to life and the whole room shook
as the weapon slid along its carriage and out into space. Once
clear of the tube, it locked on to the enemy, crossing the distance between the
warships in less than three millicentons. This close, the BaseShip's own
tracking gear didn't stand a chance.

The Cylon was engulfed in a purplish-white flash of
incredible intensity as the missile slammed into her flank. The enemy
might have new shields, but what proof could they be against a cheek-to-
cheek fusion blast the equivalent to ten billion tons of solonite? Rigel
shielded her eyes from the awesome flare, and was sent tumbling deckwards, seeing stars of a different kind, as the shockwave reached the Galactica. She
picked herself up, and reseated herself. One monitor still worked, and on
it, she could see the BaseShip, still there.

But not for long. Its hull was black and buckled, its spin
erratic and without trim. Atmosphere and fuel spewed from seemingly
countless wounds, and there were secondary explosions visible through the
breaches in the metal. Rigel's scans read no shields, and the BaseShip's
engines showed dead. All defensive fire had ceased. Taking advantage of
this, Adama was continuing to fire, zeroing in on the rips in her crumpled
hull. Rigel watched one shot find such a rip, the shielded her eyes once
more as flame and debris were violently belched into space. Then, in a
silent flowering of light, the BaseShip evaporated, leaving rapidly cooling gas
and wreckage in its wake.

Without seeking permission from the bridge, Rigel targeted
the second Cylon carrier, now beginning to close on them. It did not at
once attack itself, but began opening its launch bay doors to collect
the surviving fighters, but Rigel didn't give a mong. She locked on to the
enemy, and loosed another of the Battlestar's missiles. This one was
caught in time by the BaseShips's own ABM, and exploded short of the target.

But it was close enough to hurt, nonetheless. The Cylons had
been caught with their shields down, recovering fighters, and had
suffered considerable damage to the lower hull, as well as losing a
large number of fighters into the bargain. For the moment, the BaseShip
seemed to be at the Colonial's mercy. Then, as if at the whim of some capricious deity, power began to fail throughout the Galactica, and all fire ceased abruptly. Lights died on the bridge, and haphazardly elsewhere. The BaseShip, itself in no condition to continue the fight, very slowly began to pull back from her opponent, gradually gaining speed till at last they were lost to
sight.

Rigel let out a great breath of air, and felt the tension of
battle begin to leave her. As her adrenalin level dropped, she
began to feel weak, and realized how much her head hurt, and that something was
dripping down the back of her neck. She reached up, and her hand came away
red.

Then she saw black, and hit the deck.



"Captain," said Spock, looking up from his sensors, "ETA
Lavinius V one hour and fifty-three minutes, sir."

"Very good, Lieutenant," said Captain Christopher Pike, and
returned to the reports he was perusing. The recent upgrades to the
Enterprise's engines were proving to be satisfactory. As predicted, the ship's
maximum velocity had increased by 2%, and the waste heat from the warp
nacelles was down by the same amount. He noted the extra work put into the
project by Lieutenant j.g. Scott of Engineering, and put a commendation in the
man's file. Pike liked it when his people went the extra mile, without his
needing to ask. He knew he had a good crew. This meant it was better than good.

He turned a page. The new weapons system to replace the lasers,
installed at starbase, had also performed as promised. Hhmm. Phaser. He'd have to get used to the new word. Done, he signed the report, and handed it back to
Yeoman Colt, who took it wherever it was yeomen took signed reports. He sat back, surveying the bridge crew. As usual, Number One was at the helm, her unerring hand guiding his ship through the darkness. Next to her, Jose Tyler, his chief navigator, was intent on his instruments, waiting for the change.

The United Federation of Planets had just admitted a new
member, Lavinius V. The Lavinians had just put their world back
together after a long period of chaos, and petitioned for Federation
membership. Since Lavinius was within spitting distance of a Klingon outpost,
the Federation Council was more than happy to say yes. Pike's current
mission was to transport the Federation's newly appointed ambassador to
Lavinius, pick up Lavinius' own diplomatic delegation in return, and deliver
equipment for the new station being constructed near Lavinian space. The
Klingons had yet to say word one about the Federation's newest, and closest,
addition, but Pike betted it wouldn't be long before they did.

Pike continued his survey, stopping to briefly gaze at his comm. Officer, Lieutenant Alden. Newly assigned during their layover at Starbase 12, he was proving an excellent officer, though Pike had as yet had little opportunity to
get to know the man. He turned again, eyes settling on Spock.
The young Vulcanian was a mystery to Pike, but then they
generally were to most Humans, and had been since the day they had touched
down in the middle of the Montana forest, and said "We're here". The son
of a wealthy and powerful family, Spock had, unusually, chosen Starfleet
for a career. While Pike knew little about it, rumor had it that Spock had
caused no small ripple on Vulcan by defying his powerful and iron-willed
father, the legendary Ambassador Sarek, and choosing to associate with
Humans in a professional and daily context. Perhaps the fact that his
mother was herself Human had something to do with it.

Pike shook his head, dismissing such thoughts. It was really
none of his business, and the Lieutenant was proving to be a
superlative science officer, if a bit stiff with the rest of the crew. But, he'd
acquitted himself well during that affair on Talos IV, and Chris Pike
decided that he could do worse than to have Spock of Vulcan at his side.
He was interrupted by a loud series of tones filling the
bridge. At Nav, Tyler punched a key, and part of his panel lit up. On
the arm of his chair, Pike watched a readout change. It went from
displaying today's date on Earth, to declaring it to now be Stardate 0.001. The
Federation's new standard time was in. The change had taken affect. With the
addition of Lavinius to the Federation, the long-acknowledged need for a
common time system could be put off no longer. Now, it was a reality.

"Captain's Log," said Pike, into the goose-necked monitor on
the arm of his chair, "Stardate 0.001. The Enterprise is proceeding on
schedule to Lavinius V, in accordance with that world's recent admission
to the Federation. The new time system has taken affect, without
problems. ETA Lavinius, one hour, nineteen minutes." Pike clicked off,
then turned back to the junior science officer. As usual, Spock was glued to his
instruments, oblivious to all. Pike often thought the Last Trump would
find the Vulcan calculating the variables in some obscure quantum
fluctuation. He got up, moving to Spock's station.

"Something interesting, Mr. Spock?" he asked. Though most
would never have seen it, Pike noticed a tiny frown on his subordinate's
face. Slowly, Spock looked up.

"Yes, sir. Deep Space Station T-4 has reported considerable
radiation bursts in System L-91. I have never seen energy signatures
quite like these before, sir."

"L-91? Where's that?"

"It is an uninhabited system approximately 1.3 parsecs from
the Tholian border, sir." He put a sector chart up on a screen. "The
system has never been visited by a manned Federation ship, sir, at least
officially. It has been charted by remote probes only."

"And these radiation spikes? What's so remarkable about
them?"

"They appear to be massive eruption of tachyons and
neutrinos, sir, but not from the star itself." Pike leaned over and studied the
readouts himself. The star in that system was a single Type-G, and
appeared stable.

"Indeed curious, Mr. Spock," said the Enterprise Captain.
"Check with Starfleet. If they give you a green light, we'll check it
out after we complete our current mission."

"Yes, sir," replied the Vulcan, and Pike thought for a
moment he saw…what? Elation? on Spock's face.

No way, he decided. Vulcans just didn't do that.


Once the BaseShip had retreated beyond scanner range, Adama
took stock. Alpha deck was badly hurt, and all remaining Vipers were in
Beta landing bay. As for the Galactica herself, her main drive was down,
and her auxiliaries were rocky, to put it kindly. Over half the ship
was without life support, and Life Center was overflowing with the
injured.

The Cylons had ambushed them near the edge of an uncharted
Solar system, four planets circling a slowly swelling red sun.
Only one planet was habitable, though just barely. Surrounded by a bevy of
rings, Adama decided to make use of them. Coaxing the Battlestar's maneuvering
thrusters to fitful life, Omega put them into an orbit around the ringed
world that matched its ring plane, effectively obscuring them from
view. Then, shutting down, Adama let the engineers get to work.

"Scans show this system rich in both water and minerals,
sir," said Colonel Tigh. "And there are traces of tylium on the
southern landmass."

"Begin survey at once," ordered Adama, signing off on
another report. "And expedite repairs to our launch bays. We have to be
ready when the Cylons return."

"Yes, sir," replied his exec. As Tigh left, Adama looked
down at the scanners. While he couldn't see the BaseShip, he knew it was
there. Repairing. Watching. Waiting.

"Sir," said Athena, his daughter. He turned to acknowledge
her. "Scans are picking up some bizarre energy readings close by."

"Oh? From where, Athena?"

"Very close." She studied her readouts some more. "It's
coming from the inner planet, Commander."

"Cylons?"

"This doesn't read like any Cylon energy signatures we've
ever seen, sir. It's very erratic. Fluctuating." She indicated her
monitor. The lines and squiggles were bizarre, bouncing all over. "Bursts of
tachyons and neutrino radiation. Bizarre EM patterns, though none are at
a high level."

"Concentrated scan, Athena." She complied, and the inner
planet zoomed in. High above it was…something. Something glinting in the
light of the dying sun. Something big. "Can you get any more?"

"No," she replied, after a few moments adjusting the
controls, "other than it appears to be a vessel of some kind. I'm reading
metal, but no specifics. Our scanners took quite a beating."

"I see. Colonel Tigh?"

"Commander?"

"I want a Viper launched at once, to investigate this
object. We daren't afford to take any chances, in our current state."

"Engineering reports launch tubes one through seven now
operational, Commander,"

"Good. Launch at once."

"Sir." Tigh checked the roster, and saw Bojay at the top of
the list.

Less than two centons later, he was rocketing off the ship.



Leaving Lavinius behind at Warp 6, the Enterprise tore
through the void towards Deep Space Station T-4. Starfleet had decided that a
brief detour there would not interfere with the mission of the new
Lavinian delegation, and granted Spock's request. Although it functioned as a
stopover for commercial vessels, the station's primary purpose was to
monitor the border between the Federation and the often-unpredictable Tholian
Assembly. When first contacted by a Federation starship, the Tholians had
replied with guns. Quickly defeated, thanks to their surprising lack of
warp drive, they had retreated behind their border, and scarcely a word had
been heard since.

"Mr. Spock?” asked Pike, of his perpetually occupied junior
science officer.

"We shall arrive at Station T-4 in four hours three minutes
present speed, Captain. I am still reading bizarre energy pulses
from the L-91 system."

"What do you think, Spock?" asked Pike. "Tholian activity?"

"Since we have incomplete data as to the nature of Tholian
technology, sir, it is impossible to be certain. However, the proximity
of the phenomenon to the border may well be indicative."

Was that a yes or a no? wondered Pike.

"Speculation?"

Spock looked at him with an almost hurt expression. Almost.
Pike remembered too late that Vulcans never speculate. Their
version of logic would never permit them such an undisciplined luxury.

"My error, Lieutenant. Does the available data lead you in
any particular direction at present?"

"The readings are incomplete, sir. However, the neutrino and
meson readings resemble those of a warp engine in anti-matter
imbalance."

"A wormhole?"

"That does seem the most likely interpretation at present,
sir. However, I cannot say as yet whether it is natural or not."

Pike brooded. L-91 was uninhabitable, and the Federation had
abandoned terraforming plans two years ago when the Tholians demanded
this as part of the price of continued peace. Left that way so that they
could use it? A wormhole, where none had been detected before, so near their
space? The Captain got a cold feeling in his gut, as scenarios began to
form. Trouble was brewing, he was certain. Vulcans might not speculate,
but he could.

"Lieutenant Alden."

"Sir?"

"Open an encrypted channel to Starfleet Command. Pipe it
down to my quarters."

"Right away, sir."

"Number One?"

"Captain?" replied the dark-haired helmswoman, turning to
him.

"Increase speed to Warp 7."

"W…aye, sir."

"Keep on those readings, Mr. Spock. Notify me at once of any
changes."

"Affirmative, Captain."



Bojay swung his Viper around the inner planet, a barren
world with only a tenuous, unbreathable atmosphere. It showed no signs
whatsoever of ever having supported life. But someone had been here before him.
In the Lagrange Point between this planet, its large moon, and the sun, sat…
What? It was huge, indeed sprawling. A gigantic rhomboidial cylinder of metallic grillwork, looking similar to the dock the Galactica had been built in, though on a vastly larger scale. Though obviously once placed in a stable position, it was now slowly tumbling end over end. Bojay got the impression of immense age from its scarred, pitted surface, punctured here and there by micrometeorites.
He also got the idea of size. From the dimensions displayed on his scanner, at least three Battlestars could fit comfortably abreast within its steely embrace. Moving slowly around it, he saw vast areas of its surface
covered with dishes, coils, solar panels, and things neither he nor his
computer could identify. Lights began to blink across its surface where it
had been dark before, and his scanner told of powerful surges of energy
coursing within it, though mere centons ago he had seen only minimal
activity.

"This is Silver Spar Two to Galactica," he radioed. "This
thing is huge. It looks like a gargantuan space dock, but not like
any Cylon construction I've ever seen."

"Any signs of life?" asked Adama.

"None, sir, but I'm reading plenty of power inside it."

Bojay flew under it, continuing to scan, and as he did so his scanners
told him that he was being scanned. Something, or someone, was tracking his
ship. At the same moment, he read a power surge within the alien machine.
Being trained as a Warrior, Bojay at once actuated his
attack computer. If the thing was going to paint him, he'd paint it right
back by the Lords! However, no sooner had his lasers locked onto the thing,
than beams of pale light lanced out from around the machine's maw, and focused
on his Viper.

"Commander!" he cried. "It's got me. I've been locked on to
by some kind of beam! It's pulling me inside!" Through his canopy,
Bojay could see the huge construction, blotting out the sky as he was drawn
inexorably into it.

"Bojay, get out of there!" ordered Adama. "Return to the
Fleet at once."

"I can't…der… Engines losing po…ing speed." Bojay's
transmission was breaking up.

"Commander," said Tigh, "scanners are picking up a massive
power surge from the object."

"Bojay! Bojay respond!" shouted Adama, but the Viper
channel, in a massive burst of static, had gone dead. Several screens on
the bridge snowed for a few millicentons, then returned to normal. When they
cleared, the monstrous object was still there, but there was no sign of Bojay.



Barely had the Enterprise taken up orbit around T-4 when it
happened. A massive burst of subspace distortion, coupled with gigantic
tachyons, neutrino, and meson emissions, rolled over them from the
direction of system L-91. Then, in seconds, it was gone.
Starfleet had concurred with Pike. Tholian activity was
suspected, and the Enterprise was to investigate and to take whatever
action was necessary.

Or possible.

"Mr. Tyler," said Pike, reentering the bridge.

"Sir?"

"Once the Lavinian ambassador is aboard the station, set course for the
L-91 system."

"Yes, sir."

"Warp factor 7, Number One."

"Warp 7, sir."

Scarcely half an hour after she'd arrived, the Enterprisewas once more
on her way.



"What in Hades Hole happened?' bellowed Adama, nearly deafening those
around him.

"Unknown, sir," replied Omega. "I'm diverting our scans, as well as
Viper telemetry to the main computer now."

"Red Four's patrol reporting in, Commander," piped up
Athena. "No sign of Cylon pursuit. All vectors clear."

"Thank the Lords of Kobol for that," sighed Adama, then
turned as a report was handed him. Beta landing bay was now 100%
operational, as well as all launch tubes on the starboard side. Adama signed off on it, glad of some good news for a change.

The rest was rotten, though. Auxiliary engines would be back up to about 60% in a few centars, but the main drive was in bad shape. Damage from the Cylons, plus the proximity of the missile blast, had blows busses and fused circuits throughout engineering. Repairs could take sectons. Something the Cylons were not likely to give them. Fortunately, one of this planet's moons was rich in several of the minerals they needed, and it was soon crawling with
shuttles. Fuel, albeit in dribs and drabs, was now coming up from the planet below, and as he studied the reports, life support came back up. Adama
sighed. The Galactica was in good hands.

"Commander?"

"Yes, Omega?"

"Preliminary computer analysis, sir." He handed Adama a
sheet of paper.

"Wormhole?"



"Slow to impulse," ordered Pike, and turned to Spock.

"Sensors?"

"The area is resonating with subspace echoes, sir. Residual
radiation is high."

"Any sign of Tholian activity?"

"None, sir," replied the Vulcan, returning to his readouts.
"However…"

"Captain," said Alden at comm... "I'm picking up a signal,
sir. Some kind of distress call. Very weak, sir."

"Sensors picking up a vessel, sir," Spock continued. "Very
small. 24 degrees, Z plus 4, range 8.5 million."

"Mr. Alden?"

"It's the source of the signal, sir." He put it on the
speaker. A series of pulses and whines, it repeated the same pattern
continuously. Clearly automated.

"Send it to crypto," ordered Pike. "And hail them. Mr.
Tyler, intercept course."

"Intercept course aye, sir."

"Captain, sensors are reading one life form aboard," said
Spock. He looked up. "Human, sir."

"Human?"

"Yes, sir. And it appears to be dying."

"Visual contact in 30 seconds, sir," reported Number One.

"No answer to hails, Captain," reported Alden. "Just the
same signal, repeating over and over. And it's getting weaker, sir."

"Visual," declared Tyler, and they all looked at the screen.

"What's that?" asked Pike, in a whisper.



Bojay, his vision swimming, struggled to remain conscious,
Reaching under his seat for the reserve oxygen bottle. For a moment
he felt better, but the tell-tale hiss of an air leak told a brutal truth.
He was losing his air, and quickly. He reached out, and tried his instruments
again. Over half of them were dead, along with the radio. He punched Auto
Distress to the Fleet. Maybe…

He tried to fire up his engines, but it was no good. Power
levels were too low to kick over the turbines. He swore, then fiddled
with the other instruments. After a centon or so, his attack scanner
fluttered to life.

"What the frack."

On his tiny screen was a vessel, but unlike any he'd ever
seen. Almost a quarter maxim long, it had a huge saucer forward, and
three cylinders aft. His computer could make nothing of its power function,
then failed entirely. He would be himself, soon, he realized, as his
vision began to go. He could hardly breathe, and scarcely noticed the greenish
light wash over him as he gasped for air. His vision was gone entirely, and
he…

Was still breathing? Slowly, awareness seeped back, and he
was aware of himself. He was still breathing, and he opened his eyes. All
he could see was a blinding light, and slowly, painfully, he reached
over, and popped his canopy. He took several deep breaths, and his vision
continued to clear. He was in some kind of landing bay, but unlike any Colonial
one. As he pondered this, he heard a hiss off to the left. A hatch was opening,
and several people were entering. There were about ten men, in red
tunics, and carrying some kind of weapons, pouring through the door. They wore
uniforms similar to the old Colonial Merchant Marine. No, not all were men.
One was short, stocky, with a white shock of hair and a face like a
porcius. What on Kobol...

"Remain where you are," came a voice, from one of the men below, as he rose to get out of his cockpit. "Drop your weapon." He froze, then saw two more enter the room. One with thick black hair and a block-jawed face, bore himself like a leader. The other, tall and thin, had less elaborate striping on his sleeves, and…
Pointed ears?

"Welcome aboard the Enterprise," said the leader.

"Where..." began Bojay, but a sudden wave of nausea washed
over him, and he passed out once more.



"We can't just leave him there! I want to go after him!"
Sheba stopped pacing and stared at the Commander. "I --

"Lieutenant, please." Adama held up a hand. He had called
the briefing in his office to discuss their current situation and to explain
their options. He had assembled his top officers - Apollo, Boomer,
Starbuck, Jolly, and Sheba - as well as Dr. Wilker and two of his assistants.
However, he had yet to begin the meeting because the moment the door had closed
behind them all, Sheba had practically exploded. The centars of inaction had
worn through the Lieutenant's patience and restraint; she cared for Bojay as
if he were her brother, and she had taken the news of his disappearance
very hard.

"Lieutenant," the Commander repeated when Sheba looked ready
to continue her protests, "I understand that this is difficult for you, but
acting rashly will not help Bojay. Now," Adama gave her a firm but
fatherly look, "please have a seat and listen."

The Lieutenant took several deep breaths, closing her eyes
but nodding. Still too agitated to sit, she moved to lean against the
wall near the entrance. Sympathetic eyes followed her, because all present
felt the distress, too.

"Now," Adama continued, "Dr. Wilker has analyzed the sensor
readings taken from the energy bursts transmitted from the alien machine
when Bojay disappeared. And he has a theory to share."

Wilker glanced at the faces scattered around the Commander's
office. All were solemn, weary, the pressures of the recent battle and
the uncertainty of the future evident in all of their eyes. Wilker cleared
his throat.
"Based off of the computer analyses, I believe that the huge
alien device is a wormhole portal, and Lt. Bojay's ship was inadvertently
drawn into it."

"So where is he?" Sheba asked. "And do you think he's all
right?"

"We have no way of knowing that," Wilker said. "There's only
one way to determine where the wormhole leads and if the device can
successfully transport a ship through to the other side - in one piece."
He paused.

"Let me guess," Lt. Boomer said. "That would be to go
through the wormhole."

"Quite correct," Wilker responded. "And I'm sure it's
apparent that such a mission would quite probably be a one-way trip, given all of the unknowns."

"So . . . are you saying there's nothing we can do?" Sheba's
voice was quiet, the fighting edge gone.

Wilker did not answer, but, instead, turned to look at the
Commander. Adama rose from behind his desk, letting his gaze sweep slowly
across his Warriors as he moved to lean against the front edge. He crossed his
arms and let out a slow breath. "Under normal circumstances," he said at
last, "I would not consider such a mission. It is just too risky and uncertain.
However," he said, "these are not normal circumstances. The Fleet is at a
Standstill while repairs - which may take sectons -- are made on the
Galactica's main drive. In the meantime, the Cylons could be massing for
another assault, assuming that the BaseShips were able to communicate their
position. Thus, I'm willing to explore any option, regardless of how remote,
as opposed to just sitting dead in space, waiting for the Cylons to show
up."

Apollo, Starbuck, and Boomer were staring at the Commander,
eyes narrowed in disbelief. The Captain finally spoke. "You're going to send
a mission through the wormhole, aren't you?"

"Yes. I am." The Commander's words were clipped, reflecting
the strong conflict the decision evoked. "If the chance exists that we
could move the Fleet through that wormhole, and then destroy the machine
once we were through, then we must explore that chance." Adama gazed at
his officers. "Imagine," he said slowly. "this alien device might offer us
the chance to lose the Cylons for good."

No one spoke for several centons as they absorbed the
information. Eventually, all faces turned expectantly towards the
commander. Sheba took a step forward. "I volunteer," she said.

Adama gave her a soft smile. "I know how badly you want to
help Bojay," he said. He looked at the others "And I know that all of you
would willingly go, even though the odds are that this will be a one-way
mission. Getting through might be easy, but returning . . . that's the
greatest unknown. So I've chosen a two-man team," Adama explained, "based off of
their experience and expertise. Wilker and I discussed this at some length.
He feels that a careful analysis of the data accumulated while the shuttle
traverses the wormhole might give him enough information to make any
necessary modifications to allow the shuttle to return. Thus, Wilker
himself will be going. The second member of the
team needs to be not only a very capable pilot, but also
needs to have the technical knowledge to be able to assist the doctor in
making the modifications."

Only one pilot fit that description; all eyes turned towards
Lt. Boomer. Boomer took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I see. So,
when do we leave?"

"In three centars. Dr. Wilker's team is currently making
some adjustments to the mission shuttle's shielding."

Sheba frowned but said nothing. Her disappointment and
frustration, though, were evident. And Adama could read the same emotions in the
others' eyes, as well. The odds were inconsequential to them. If such a
mission could not only save a lost pilot, but secure sanctuary for the Fleet,
all would have eagerly volunteered.

Knowing that, Adama had saved the next bit of information
until last, deliberately, to use as a distraction. "I need the rest of
you," the Commander said, "for another mission, anyway. The last recon
patrol did a series of low-level scans above the surface of the third
planet. They found different three regions where there appear to have been
vast, subterranean pockets of civilization. And there may be more. There are
also indications that the surface was once inhabited, but abandoned close to a
thousand yahrens ago, according to the sensor readings. It's not difficult to
understand why – Dr. Wilker says that the sun is dying. So it's a safe
guess that whoever once inhabited the planet built that wormhole device as a
way to escape their dying solar system. It's also a safe guess that they
left behind innumerable records and databases when they abandoned the
planet."

"And we need to explore those records!" Apollo's eyes shone
with wonder at the possibilities that awaited them.

"Yes," Adama said. "Not only do we need to see if there
might be any connection with the Thirteenth Tribe, but the knowledge we
might gain could be invaluable. I'll be sending three teams to explore and
document the areas that were located. Each team will consist of three Warriors
for security, three historians and/or scientists with a background in
anthropology or archaeology, and three technology specialists. Mostly likely,
we will barely have time to scratch the surface of this civilization with
just three small research teams, but for our own preservation, I don't want
to risk sending any more people than that. Everything is an 'unknown' right
now."

All knew that it was a precarious balancing act. People were
the Fleet's most valuable resource. With their own civilization reduced to
less than 500,000 people aboard 220 ships, they could ill afford to lose
anyone. Yet, to ensure the safety and success of any mission - to reduce the
risk of losing lives - the Commander need to send the most skilled people.
Thus, the paradox - he had to risk his most valuable resources to
preserve them.

The Commander reached behind to pull a datapad off his desk.
"The Warriors for each team will be as follows. Team One will be Barton
and Dietra, with Apollo in command. Team Two will be Greenbean, and Giles,
with Starbuck in command. And Team Three will be Brie and Jolly, with Sheba
in command. The computer has made the other assignments," Adama stated. "The
teams will organize and depart in three centars. And they will be
equipped for an extended stay of at least three days."



"Most interesting." Lt. Spock cocked an eyebrow at the
Galactican pilot.

Captain Pike leaned back in his chair and gave the Vulcan a
quizzical look. He, Spock, Number One, and Dr. Boyce were gathered in the
Captain's ready room. Bojay had just finished his lengthy description of
where he had come from and the history of the Colonies, as best he knew it.
"You evaluation of the Lieutenant's story?" Pike asked his science officer.

Bojay almost flinched at the word "story." From all that he
had seen aboard this vessel, from the landing bay, the sick bay and the
corridors that led to this briefing room, he had determined that their
technology surpassed that of the Colonials. And they appeared Human - well, most
of them did, anyway. So far, they had been gracious, yet cautious with
him. They had effortlessly repaired his injuries, had provided him with
temporary living quarters, and had given him a meal unlike anything he had
had in a long while. Or ever, since the foods had been - as explained to
him – completely safe replications of "local favorites." He had marveled at
the food, so real-looking and tasting, but, according to his hosts, it was
also 100% synthesized. And his hosts had revealed very little about
themselves, except to say that he was aboard the Federation Starship Enterprise
and to explain that an incredible device called a 'universal translator'
allowed them to communicate.

After the meal, he had been escorted to the briefing where
the Captain had asked him to explain his situation. Bojay had done so, in as
much detail as he could. Still, the looks from the officers around him had
seem to radiate skepticism as he had proceeded. Bojay felt acutely
uncomfortable as he waited for the unusual Humanoid to answer his commander.

"All indications are that he is telling the truth, as he
knows it, at least," Spock stated.

Pike shook his head. "It's so hard to believe. If what he
says is true, then historians will have to rewrite a portion of our history."

"If archeological records are analyzed," Spock continued,
"you will find that there is evidence to support the Lieutenant's story -- "

Bojay could stand it no longer. "Look!" he said,
interrupting. "Are you from Earth? I've told you about myself. Now it's your turn. Just what is going on here?"

"Yes," Pike said, "most of us aboard this vessel are from
Earth or of Earth origins. Which is why your tale is rather astounding for
us."

"My 'tale' is the truth!" Bojay shouted. He felt
overwhelmed, almost. Earth. They were from Earth. He had made contract with Humans from Earth. And they were obviously technically capable of taking on the Cylons. But could he ever get back to the Fleet to share this knowledge? He felt
tired and frustrated.

"Captain," Spock said, "the mere fact that he is
physiologically Human, yet with a genetic makeup that does differ from anything in our own medical databases, supports his statements."

"Doctor?" Pike turned to his chief medical officer.

"It's like Spock says," answered Boyce. "He is definitely
Human. And the variances in his anatomy and genetic patterns definitely
support that he is not from our region of the galaxy."

"Can you help us?" Bojay asked, feeling a relief that they
were finally accepting what he had been saying. Frustration was turning
into exhilaration. "Can you get me back to the Fleet? I must
let them know about you. Great Lords of Kobol, not only are you from
Earth, but I bet you could blast the pogees off the Cylons!"

Before the Captain could respond, though, the comm panel
chirped. Pike stabbed the button that sat on the table near his elbow. "Go
ahead."

"Sir," Lt. Alden's voice sounded loudly through the speaker,
"three Klingon Birds-of Prey just decloaked near the location of the apparent
wormhole and are approaching at sublight speed. Thus far, they are not
responding to hails."

Pike and the others were on their feet immediately. "On my
way," the Captain said. He nodded quickly to Bojay. "You might as well come,
too."



"Probe shuttle ready, Commander," said Tigh, on the
bridge. Adama looked about the bridge, watching the repair
crews busily at work, then turned to a monitor, where men in
space suits were crawling over the hull repairing and
replacing as fast as possible. He turned to acknowledge his
exec, the Omega handed him a report from engineering.
Maneuvering thrusters one and three were now back on-line.
He signed it, then turned back to Tigh.

"Launch."

They both watched as the shuttle sped away from the
Galactica, heading towards where Bojay was last seen. As he
sat at his post and watched the telemetry from the shuttle's
sensors, Adama mused again about the disappearance of the
Viper pilot. A machine, designed to generate wormholes on
demand, tunnels in the very fabric of space-time. Colonial
scientists had worked on the idea during the war. It was
simple in concept, really. Open a conduit directly to Cylon,
dump half a dozen Battlestars and their support ships on the
enemy homeworld, and poof! No more war.

But, the project had been plagued from the first with
myriad technical problems. Initiating even a small wormhole
had taken enormous amounts of energy, nearly equivalent to
two Battlestars with their engines to the floor, and they
had never found a way to stabilize the collapsar field long
enough to make use of it. That, coupled with the intense
hyperspatial distortion produced and its collateral affect
on electronic equipment had bogged the project down,
threatening its cancellation.

Until the Holocaust, and the cancellation of
everything.

But here, it seemed, someone had succeeded, not only in
solving those problems, but in solving them in a big way. As
he perused the various repair and mining reports, Adama kept
an eye on the monitor, waiting.

And there it was. A huge metal cage, metrons long, in
orbit around the inner planet, slowly tumbling end over end.
Across its length panels and circuits flickered and glowed,
and data began scrolling up Adama's monitor.

"Shuttle probe to Galactica," came Boomer's voice. "Are
you receiving telemetry?"

"Affirmative," replied Colonel Tigh. "Any sign of
Bojay?"

"None," came the reply. "No body, or indication of
debris."

"Boomer," said Adama, "any indications this machine
might be Cylon?" As he waited for a reply, he heard voices
in the background.

"Doctor Wilker reports no known Cylon energy
signatures, or known alloys in the metal, Commander."

"Commander?" came Wilker, his face filling the screen.
"Our studies would be easier if we could stabilize the
object's motion. Request permission to use the shuttle to
stop its tumble."

"Boomer?"

"We can do it, Commander," said Boomer, though he could
see the pilot had no liking for the idea. Still...

"Very well," said Adama. He watched as the shuttle
maneuvered over a spot near one end of the machine, and
slowly "landed", her forward landing clamps seeking
purchase. Then Boomer fired the thrusters, slowly increasing
the power till the tumble stopped.

All the while they had been scanning it, the machine
had been sending out scans of its own. However, the beams
Bojay reported as pulling him inside did not materialize. It
scanned them thoroughly, and then repeated the process.
Again.

"No life signs," said Wilker, bent over his
instruments. "Internal pressurized areas, though."

"Any signs of communication with the planet?" asked
Boomer, as the shuttle pulled away.

"None," replied Wilker. "No signals, no answer to
hails. But there are signs of civilization. Scans show
orbiting debris." He motioned Boomer to his monitor. Refined
metals, plastics, and radioactive materials. "When they,
whoever they were, left, they left a lot of technology
behind, besides this station."

"Any idea where they went to, Doctor?" asked Adama.

"Not yet, sir. I've barely begun to scratch the surface
of this construction. It could hold three Battlestars, and
then some. It's going to take some time." He went back to
his scans. Boomer could see the gleam in Wilker's eye. The
scientist was wallowing in his element, and loving every
centon of it.



Nearly a light-yahren away, Commander Noxius sat in the
control center of his BaseShip, and once more analyzed the
battle just past. Yet again, he could come up with no
answers. Once again, the organic corrosion had done it.
Escaped. And not merely that, but destroyed a Hades-class
BaseShip in the process. How? Try as he might, he could find
no answer to his question in the computer banks. That was
what made the Humans so…so vile! Their unpredictability!

He turned at last from his fruitless analysis, to the
various reports on his ship's repair status. It would take
considerable time for it to become battleworthy once more.
In the meantime, he had sent out a request for additional
BaseShips and replacement fighters.

"By your command," said a Centurion.

"Speak."

"Scanners have detected bizarre energy pulsation
readings emanating from the system the Galactica was last
seen in."

"Of what nature?"

"Unknown. They are unlike any previously encountered."
The Centurion handed his superior a data pad. Noxius studied
it. Though he was, of course, incapable of frowning, he
nonetheless gave a good impression of having done so.

"What is the status of our drive systems?"

"Main drive is still off-line. Estimated repair time
500 centons."

"Launch a fighter patrol to investigate."

"By your command."



"They're who?" asked Bojay, on the Enterprise bridge.
Impressed as he was with what he'd so far seen of Federation
technology, the Warrior in him was at once riveted to the
image on the main screen. Two vessels, greenish-gray in
appearance, were approaching. One was moving in close to
Enterprise, the second ship, slower than the first, was
holding behind it, as if in support position. Obviously a
military-minded people, these.

"Klingons," said Pike, taking his seat. "Enemies of the
Federation," he added. "Status?"

"Shields to maximum, sir." Reported Number One. “Phasers
on standby, torpedoes ready."

"Mr. Alden?"

"Still no response to hails, Captain."

"Continue hails."

"They are scanning us," reported Spock. "Both vessels
are fully armed, and have target acquisition."

"So, it would seem that reports of the Klingons having
a new version of their Bird-of-Prey are true," said Pike.

"And rumors of a practical cloak as well," offered up
Tyler.

"Mr. Spock, will we be able to penetrate it with our
sensors?"

"Unknown as yet, Captain," replied Spock, and returned
to his instruments.

"Lords, are they ugly," said Bojay, pointing at the
screen. "Graceful, like a cygnon, yet…savage, somehow."

"Beauty, Lieutenant," said Pike, "is not a Kling…"

"Incoming message, Captain," said Alden. "Visual."

Bojay actually flinched at the image that replaced the
enemy vessels. It was of a, well, man, but a very ugly one.
He had sharply pointed teeth, and a brow ridge from Hades.
Bony plates in the front of the skull seemed to collide like
a convoy of hovermobiles in a pileup, and the nose looked
like it was sloughing off. Behind, long dark hair cascaded
down his back, and he wore a Satanic-looking goatee. All in
all, he reminded Bojay of a Borellian Nomen run riot, or a
demon out of the old stories he'd heard as a boy out of The
Book of the Word.

"Federation ship," snarled the alien, "what are you
doing here?" Nothing else. Just a straightforward demand.

"All the courtesy of a Cylon," muttered the Colonial
Warrior.

"This is Captain Christopher Pike of the Federation
Starship Enterprise. To whom do I have the…pleasure of
speaking?" Both Spock and Number One looked at their CO.
Whenever Pike laid on the smothering treacle in his voice,
he was annoyed.

"I am Commander Kleege, of the Imperial Klingon Vessel
P’kuth. I repeat, Earther, what are you doing here?"

"We are investigating anomalous phenomena in this
system, Commander. Do you wish to assist us in our ex..."

"We do not assist Humans, Captain!" snapped Kleege, in
something between a bellow and a snarl. "Nor do we tolerate
them in our space!"

"Your space?" asked Pike, smoothly. "I was unaware of
any claim on this system by the Klingon government,
Commander."

"I speak of Lavinius, Captain! A system your Federation
stole from us. A system clearly ours, and..."

"And which asked openly to join us, Commander Kleege.
This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this, as
you well know. Now, I am very busy. If you have nothing
further, you will excuse me." He gestured to Alden, and the
channel was cut.

"Not exactly friends of yours?" asked Bojay.

"No, I wouldn't call them friends," replied Pike. "The
Klingon Empire is a brutal and aggressive military
dictatorship, Lieutenant. They conquer and enslave anyone
who gets in their way."

"Like the Cylons. Or the Eastern Alliance," replied
Bojay.

"Lieutenant Alden," said Pike, watching the Klingon
vessels on the screen, "inform Commodore Nogura at Starfleet
of the current situation, and ask about the status of the
nearest available ship."

"Aye, sir."

"Captain," said a voice, and Pike turned on the goose-
necked viewer next to him.

"Yes?'

"Lieutenant Scott, sair. We've succeeded in downloading
data from the computer in the Viper fighter. It's verra
interestin', sair."

"Briefing Room One, Lieutenant." He shut off the tiny
screen. "Spock, with me. Number One? Continue scanning the
wormhole's aftereffects. And keep me appraised of our
friends out there."

"Aye, sir."



Wilker was getting frustrated. For several centons,
he'd been trying to get the giant alien machine to do more
than just scan them. He'd even launched a remote probe. Like
them, it had sailed in.

And done zip. What in Kobol…

"Got it," said Boomer at last, straightening in his
seat.

"What?"

"Telemetry says Bojay actuated his attack computer
right before he vanished. That's what triggered it, Doctor.
I'll bet a secton's pay on one of Starbuck's systems it
did."

"That's all well and good," said Wilker, "but we're a
shuttle. We aren't equipped with an attack scanner,
Lieutenant."

"Not yet," replied Boomer. “Give me a screwdriver." That
done, he began pulling a panel off the main console.



Though Sheba had not been with them when the Galactica
crew had landed on Kobol, she had viewed the tapes. The
ruins on this unnamed planet were every bit as impressive.
Huge buildings soared upwards, high as any on Caprica, their
windows mostly gone, their tops disintegrating. Windblown
dust, debris, and plant life choked the streets, and here
and there the fragmentary remains of vehicles could be seen.

She shielded her eyes against the dust, and looked
upwards. The planet's rings blazed across the sky like a
comet's tail, incarnadined by the swelling sun. It at once
recalled for her the swords carried by every Cylon. Swords
stained red with the blood of her people. For a moment she
indulged in anger and hatred. Hatred of the Cylons. Hatred
of the traitorous Baltar who had set their flight in motion.
And, most of all, hatred of the vast distance that lay
between her and her beloved father, the legendary Commander
Cain, and the Pegasus. Did he still live? Did…

Father.

Returning to the here and now, she pulled her jacket
tighter about her. The sun might be swelling, but this part
of the planet was just coming into its winter, and the air
felt cold. Close by, she saw Jolly scanning a perimeter,
with Brie manning the gun tub atop the Landram. To her left,
the scientists were already at work, clearing away soil and
debris from a promising structure.

"What is it?" she asked one of them, of the ruined
building they were digging into.

"This appears to have been an administrative center,
Lieutenant," replied one of the men, Callidus, indicating
the whole city with a sweep of his hand. He'd been a data
analyst aboard the Pegasus before Cain had everyone he could
spare transferred to the Fleet at Gamoray. His father had
been an archaeologist, and he was as well read in it as
anyone in the Fleet. "Ours scans also confirm the flyover
data. There are huge underground areas, and we're reading
large amounts of refined materials inside as well."

"Electronics?"

"The scans say so. If we can find a data core, and get
it up and running…"

"I see. Carry on." She looked up, again. The sun was a
little higher, now. Maybe the day would warm up.



Apollo was seriously hoping it would cool off. Team
One's site was smack in the middle of a semi-desert area,
and it was bloody hot. Already, two of his team were down to
shorts and hats, as they probed the shimmering sands. As
with team Three's site, this had once been a large city,
covering a vast area. Buildings, sides and tops eroded by at
least ten millennia of sand, thrust upwards into the reddish
sky. Here and there he could see huge mounds of fallen
rubble, and slowly made his way around one, at last mounting
the summit. Far to the west, he spied a river, coursing its
way across the plain.

For a moment, the Galactica's Strike Captain felt a
stab of fresh grief over the loss of the Colonies, and their
billions of snuffed-out lives. The loss of home. He was
surprised at the sharpness of it, the bitterness of his
feelings after all this time. He didn't think the sight of a
nameless river meandering through a desert on an abandoned
planet would have.

He turned away, wiping the droplets ("Sweat! It's
sweat!”) from his eyes, and headed back towards the campsite.
Dietra, down to undershirt and boots, was helping one of the
scientists set up a GPR unit. Off in the distance, the other
two had already cleared sand from and area the size of a
house, and were cutting through the ancient pavement.

"Doctor?" Apollo asked one of them.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Anything yet?"

"Possibly, Captain. We've picked up a large number of
electrical conduits and tunnels running under this area.
They are immense. The nexus is right under our feet, in
fact."

"I see. Anything else?"

"I think this may have been a launch complex, sir.
We've scanned several launch pads, and hydraulic lifts,
about a metron to the north."

"Captain," came Barton's voice over the commlink."

"Yes?"

"Readings on the scanner, sir," said the other Warrior,
safely, and coolly, ensconced in the Landram. "Something's
out there, sir. Heading this way."



Starbuck looked at the wet, overgrown, decaying remains
of Site Two. There were huge buildings, yes, and the scans
told of vast underground chambers beneath the impossibly
thick growth. But looking at it all, and being reminded of
Attila…

"Why do I always get the swamp?"



"And…there," said Boomer, hitting the switch. The
shuttle's sensor suite sent out a pulse on the same
frequency as a Viper. At once, pale beams sprang to life,
searching for them. The shuttle was back beyond their range,
but they drew in the probe, like a hungry sea-beast.

"Look at that," said Wilker, as the whole of the
machine came to life once more. There was a massive surge of
tachyons and magnetic energy, and the vast interior of the
device swelled with pulsing radiance. Then, in a heartbeat,
the machine was dark and empty once more, and the probe was
gone.

"Telemetry?" asked Boomer.

"Gone. It continued for 2.4 millicentons before we lost
it. See?" he motioned Boomer over. There was an image on
Wilker's screen. Blurred and distorted, of stars. Stars, and
something else.

"What is it?"

"Not enough data, Lieutenant."

"Then let's go. We leave a relay beacon here, to
transmit whatever we can send through to the Galactica.
Transmit what we've got already, first."

"Right away."

Boomer brought Adama up to speed, and got the go ahead.
The beams took hold of the shuttle, and drew them into the
huge alien device. As the shuttle began to vanish, the
cockpit filled with brilliant light, all Boomer could hear
was Wilker's…

"Oh Lords!"



In the briefing room, everyone watched as the data from
Bojay's fighter was displayed on the big screen. The flight
recorder, star charts, and information from the Warbook on
various kinds of ships.

"The Lieutenant," said Spock, "originated in the Beta
Quadrant of our galaxy." Spock put up an image. A flashing
dot indicated the star system Bojay had last been in,
another the Colonies, and a third the location of Cylon.
Another dot, across the mass of the Milky Way, showed the
position of Earth, and a fifth the system they were now in.
"The Lieutenant's craft was transported over 50,000 light-
years in a matter of seconds."

"How?" asked Pike.

"This," said Spock, and changed images again.

"That's it," said Bojay, excitedly. "That's the machine
we found in orbit around the inner planet.

"What is it?" asked Doctor Boyce. Spock turned to look
at Scott.

"An artificial wormhole generator," said the young
Lieutenant. Pike and the rest turned to regard the junior
engineer. "It's capable `o producin' a stable warpfield in
space without movin', and projectin' it, where desired."

"Like a transporter, at all?" asked Pike.

"Nay, Cap'n," replied Scott, and launched into a
torrent of technobabble that only an engineer could love. Or
follow. Boyce chuckled softly, looking at the Captain. Pike
at last held up a hand. "Okay, Mr. Scott. Now, what I need
to know is, is it two way?"

"We canna yet tell, sair," replied Scott, who seemed a
bit miffed at being pulled up short. "Not enough data."

"What do we know about that area of the galaxy, Spock?"

"Very little, sir," replied the Vulcanian. "One of
Earth's Friendship probes was launched towards the Beta
Quadrant shortly after Zefram Cochrane's development of warp
drive, but telemetry was subsequently lost. The Federation
has never sent a manned ship into it, only probes. Our
charts only extend 15 light-years into it." He changed
images again. "But from the data in the Viper's on-board
computer, we have learned much."

"There she is," said Bojay, of the new image. "The
Galactica."

"She's a carrier," said Pike.

"A Battlestar," corrected Bojay, with some pride in his
voice. "The main capital ship of the Colonial Fleet. So far
as we know, she's all that's left."

"A combination o' carrier and battleship," said Scott,
clearly enthused about what he was seeing. "Aye, she's a
beauty."

"Incredible," said Pike. "I've never seen a ship that
huge."

"Like I said, the last one," said Bojay. "At least as
far as we know." He briefly explained the Pegasus. "The only
ship to escape the massacre, and our only protection."

"Protection from these, ah, Cylons. Correct?" asked
Boyce.

"Yes," replied the Warrior. "And that," he said, as
Spock put a picture of one up, "is a Cylon."

"A robot," observed Scott. "Similar to the old MP-44
Class service robots."

"Far more than that," said Bojay. He explained, for
those who had not yet heard the good news, about the Cylon
Alliance, and it's single-minded, one might almost say
psychotic, fixation with the eradication of all Humans.
Indeed, with all sentient organic life, period. As he
proceeded, low murmurs ran around the table. The Federation
had enemies, yes. But not like this.

"And your people?" asked Boyce?

"A few thousand survivors, crammed aboard about 220
ships. Private yachts, freighters, barges, liners, even some
converted old tankers. Whatever the Commander could lay hold
of when evacuating the Colonies, just centars ahead of their
BaseShips." They all fell silent at the picture of one. Even
on a screen, just a picture, it looked sinister. Evil. Bojay
had just gotten to Baltar's treachery, when the red alert
sounded.

"Pike."

"Captain," said Number One, "sensors show a massive
tachyon and meson spike directly ahead, sir. The wormhole is
about to open again."

"On my way," said Pike.

On the bridge's main viewer, the stars were obscured by
a misty smear of light, then a fountain of sparks and
glitter like an old-fashioned Roman candle. It seemed to
pulse, then grew brighter still.

"Object emerging," reported Spock.

"Identity?"

"Unknown, sir. Enormous sensor distortion." As he
spoke, the bridge lights dimmed slightly, and one panel
sparked. Then, the pyrotechnics died, and a small object was
visible. "It appears to be a small probe, Captain. I am
detecting sensor scans emanating from it, and…"

"And?"

"And, it is heading directly for one of the Klingon
ships, sir."

As they all watched, Bojay exclaimed "It's one of
ours!" just as the probe smacked into the nearest Klingon
vessel. And in the worst place, too, colliding with the Bird-
of-Prey's drive section dead on. There was an explosion, and
the Klingon lurched, then began to tumble, out of control,
trailing drive plasma. The second vessel began powering
away, out of range.

"How badly is he hurt?" asked Pike.

"The object impacted the open thruster ports, Captain,
rupturing the plasma vents. His shields were down."

"Down?"

"The sub-space distortions seem to have compromised his
shields, sir. Ours were momentarily down as well."

"I see." Pike watched the Klingon ship, drifting and
trailing plasma. Knowing it would be rejected, he was about
to offer his help nonetheless, when the alarms went off once
more.

"Wormhole opening once more," said Number One and
Spock, together.

"Oh great," grumped Boyce. "Bloody Grand Central
Station around here." Pike scowled at his CMO, then turned
back to the screen.

"A shuttle!" cried Bojay, pointing. "A Colonial
shuttle!"

Sure enough, the shuttle was coming out of the
wormhole, and at a fast clip, too. As the interference began
to subside, they got readings on it. It was manned, two
aboard, and its engines were flat out.

"Open a channel, Mr. Alden," ordered Pike.

"Sir!" cried Tyler. "Klingon vessel quartering in on
the shuttle."

"Lords of Kobol!" swore Bojay, wishing he were in his
Viper. "The shuttles have no significant defensive shields!"

"Number One, target the Klingon. Mr. Alden, warn them
off."

"Klingon vessel refusing contact, sir."

"Damn! Number One."

"Sir," said Spock. "Sensors have detected another
vessel. Tholian. Headed this way." Pike swore, but remained
focused. Glaring at the screen, he spoke.

"Number One, fire phasers."



The ground shook violently under Starbuck's feet, as
the solonite charge ripped away countless yahrens of
accumulated wood, sediment, and rock. A millicenton or two
later, another explosion followed, then several more in
sequence, all the way down the hill. As the smoke and debris
began to settle, he looked out from behind the huge granite
slab the crew was using for cover, and tried to focus. The
stagnant, turbid swamp that had obstructed their goal was
already beginning to drop, the water draining away through
the channel now blasted for it. He pulled the scanner from
his jacket, as surveyed the results. Soon, the submerged
buildings would be accessible, and his crew could get down
to the real work. Already, jagged pieces of metal and blocks
of slime-covered stone were emerging from the muck, and, as
if to crown their efforts, the sun was breaking through the
clouds.

"Our readings are clearing, sir," said the head
technician. "The chambers below are draining."

"Any idea how long till we can get down there?"

"Another fifty centons or so, sir. There's a lot of
water to drain out."

"Okay, let..."

"Sir," came a voice over his commlink. "Message from
the Galactica, Lieutenant."

"Coming. Carry on, Varica," he ordered the technician.

"Sir."



"Lieutenant!" shouted Callidus, head popping out of the
open patch in the ground. Sheba turned from her examination
of some a corroded statue in the square, and fairly ran for
the technician. "We've found something."

"What?"

"Take a look," he said, and motioned her through the
hole they'd cut. After a crawling over some debris, there
was metal lining the walls of a shaft, and a ladder bolted
to it.

"Is it safe?" she asked, reaching out to touch it.

"The metal is surprisingly sound, Lieutenant." They
stood on the edge, looking down as far as the lantern could
dispel the gloom. "This was an elevator shaft, and the
ladder looks to have been for service access."

"How far down?"

"After about a metron or so, there's a chamber. A huge
one, with passages branching out in all directions."

"Okay, get illuminators, and let's get going. I'll let Jolly
know."

"You're coming with us?"

"Like Hades Hole I'm staying behind," she replied.



"Hundreds of them, sir," said Barton, referring to his
scanner inside the Landram. "But they've stopped their
approach."

"Anything on bioscan?"

"Humanoid roughly, but the scanners have nothing
further in their database. We'd need the Galactica's main
computer to get anything definitive."

"Are they armed?"

"Yes, but nothing advanced. I'm reading swords, arrows,
that sort of thing."

"A lot more of them than there are of us," muttered the
Strike Captain. "I thought the flyovers showed this planet
to be empty."

"Apparently not, sir. It looks like someone got left
behind when whoever it was left this system. And from what
we've seen so far, they sure have regressed a long way, from
star travelers to sword-swinging barbarians."

"Captain Apollo?" came Dietra's voice over the speaker.
"We've broken through the first set of metal doors, sir."

"On my way. Okay, Barton. Keep your eyes on those
natives out there. If they get too close, call me."

"Sir."

Much to Apollo's relief, the first set of doors
referred to were the only ones. After cutting through the
pavement, they had found a tunnel sloping downwards, and
then at the end of it set of thick, steel blast doors. Once
through, they had expected to find more, but they had been
left open by the last people to leave here, and with lamps
alight, the Colonials stepped inside.

It was a huge, dusty-smelling room, filled with
consoles and control panels. It looked much as had the
mission controls from the early days of space flight.
Carefully moving into the chamber, they found papers on
tables, books, and piles of what resembled old-style
computer data disks.

"Computers, sir," said one tech. "Dozens of them. It
looks like we've hit a perfect pyramid!"

"I hope so. Try and see if you can power up any of
this. I'm going to report to the Galactica."

"Yes, sir."



In Life Station, Omega stood next to the life pod
containing the unconscious Rigel. He didn't say much as the
instruments bleeped and buzzed around him, just stared down
at her.

The diagnosis hadn't been good. When she'd crashed into
the deck in the missile room, she'd suffered a depression
fracture of her skull. By the time medics had reached her,
the effusion of blood into the brain had put considerable
pressure on the cortex, and she was in a bad way. She was so
far gone, said Selik, that she might die, even with an
operation. As he contemplated the future that might have
been, Omega was dimly aware of the frantic pace of Life
Center, as the doctors worked to save the many other wounded
from the Galactica's most recent engagement.

"Why don't you go and rest?" said Cassiopeia, hand on
Omega's shoulder.

"I can't," said the bridge officer. "I want to be with
her."

"And if the Cylons attack again, the Commander will
need you. Rested. Come on, Omega. Go get some sleep."

"I can't."

He didn't notice her moving away, or returning. He felt
the hypo against his arm, then her voice.

"Can too."


"Well, frack," Lieutenant Starbuck said into the landram's
comlink. "We can't just give up. How long have we got?" The Warrior
gazed through the viewport into the partially clearing sky, where rays of
sunlight broke through grey clouds, casting a warm glow on the surrounding
vegetation. The shuttle rested in a narrow band of thick, marshy grass near
the coastline. On one side, the vegetation gave way to a rocky beach and a
vast ocean stretched that out to the eastern horizon. On the other,
the foliage merged with a dense, tropical forest that extended to the west.
Hidden behind the canopy of the towering trees were the craggy peaks of a distant mountain range that ran the length of the coastline for hundreds of
kilometrons.

Using lasers canons and a landram, Team Two had had to burn
their way through the undergrowth to be able to reach the excavation
site, which was located two kilometrons inland. They had also had to
carefully navigate around the large areas of quagmire; thus, what should have
been about a 20 centon drive had, in reality, taken nearly two centars.


"According to the computer, the leading edge of the storm
will begin affecting your area in approximately four centars," said
the commander. "If it follows its current trajectory, the computer predicts
landfall in approximately 8 centars. And you'll get the main brunt of
the storm."


"Frak," Starbuck muttered. "Look," he said, thinking
aloud, almost, "we should be well underground by then. Those passages have
withstood yahrens and yahrens of storms."


"Yes, that's true," said Adama, "but we've got two main
concerns. One, the shuttle would not be able to withstand the winds, which are
projected to be up to 200 kilometrons per centar -"


"Greenbean can take the landram back and put the shuttle
into orbit until the storm passes." Starbuck felt a rising frustration,
coupled with a stubborn determination to not give up on their
explorations.


"Two," continued the Commander, "we have no way to predict
what the driving winds and rains will do to the excavation site around the
subterranean entrance. I think it'd be safer to pull out and wait until
the storm passes."


"But we'd lose valuable time!" Starbuck protested. "What
if we put up supports around the entrance?"


Adama's sigh was audible through the comlink. "That might
help. And then again . . . I recommend you explain the situation to your
team and get back to me. I will leave the final decision up to you, but, as
the leader of the expedition, you need to be sure to consider *all* factors
that might affect the safety of your team."


"Understood," said the Lieutenant quietly after a brief
pause. "I'll be in contact within the centar."


Apollo beckoned to Dietra. Turning, he made his way back
through the doors, leaving the technicians to their find. Halfway up the
tunnel to street level, he stopped, waiting for the Lieutenant to
catch up to him.

"Dietra, I want you to keep our comlink open while you're
down here. Let the team do whatever they need to recover any data but I
want all of you ready to move on a centon's notice."

"Are you expecting trouble from the natives?"

Apollo sighed. "I don't know. I'm hoping the presence of
the landram will be intimidating enough keep them from doing something
foolish but I'll do whatever I have to, to protect everyone. Keep me apprised of
any developments down here. I'm going to contact the Galactica
and let her know what we've found."

Dietra grabbed his arm as he turned to walk away. "Be
careful, Skipper."

"Sure," he smiled, demonstrating more confidence than he
really felt.

As he continued up the slope, Apollo noticed several
placards placed at regular intervals along the wall of the tunnel. In all
the previous excitement of opening the blast doors, he hadn't seen them.
When he looked back down the tunnel at Dietra's retreating back, he
realized why- they were virtually invisible in that direction. Only when he looked up toward the tunnel entrance from below, could he see them. He stopped
momentarily, shining his hand-torch at one but found the symbols stamped
on it bore little resemblance to any of the written languages he was
familiar with. Deciphering those would have to wait. As he neared the
entrance, he felt the chill of the darkened tunnel reluctantly give way to the
sweltering heat of the desert, and donned his sunlenses once more.

Just as he had instructed, Barton had stopped the
landram about 200 metrons away from the underground entrance. Apollo broke
into an immediate sweat, simply with the exertion of walking under the
unforgiving rays of the planet's sun. What seemed like waves of heat beat down on his back and made him all the more thankful for the strong screening lotion
provided by the Life Station. Much more of this, however, and he wondered if
even that would be of help. As if in response to his thoughts, a breeze
suddenly sprang up, blowing hot sand, stinging, against his legs. Then, as
quickly as it started, the wind died. But not before obscuring his last
few tracks in the sand.

The landram door nearest him popped open when he
approached. Gratefully, he clambered inside. Barton handed him a canteen
and filled him in on the humanoids latest movements as he gulped down
several swallows of water.

"They've stopped behind that ridge," Barton pointed to
the scanner, to a rocky outcropping just beyond where they could see from
the landram. "But there seems to be three distinct groups coalescing from the
mob. They've each sent out parties to the edge of the dune over the past
centar. The last one was about 25 centons ago." The dune Barton spoke of was
a thousand metrons away and the last terrain feature they could see in
that direction. Apollo stared out of the forward window toward it as if he
could see their targets, if only he looked hard enough.

"Nothing since then?"

"Well, I did pick up some strange electromagnetic waveforms
that seemed to come from their direction. But they've stopped. I think it
must have been an anomaly- some kind of intermittent sunspot disturbance, most
likely." Returning his attention to the humanoids, he added, "It's
getting late in the day. I'm wondering if those groups might be waiting for
nightfall to make a move."

"It's possible. I want to raise the Galactica and give them
a report on what we've found so far."

"Okay, sir, just let me . . . wait a micron, that's odd . .
."

"What?"

"Well, our communications beacon was fine a few centons
ago, but now I'm just getting static." The concern in Barton's voice was
unmistakable.

"Try changing wavelons, we've got to reach the
Galactica." Apollo leaned across Barton's outstretched arm to see the
transmitter waveforms displayed on the comm readout.

"I did, but it's not helping. Still nothing but static."

A small dust devil whipped sand across the front window of
the landram.

"Uh oh!" Barton exclaimed as he studied the scanner.
"Captain, two of the Humanoid groups are on the move." His brow furled as a
puzzled look crossed his face. "And I'm getting those funny electromagnetic
readings from them again . . ."

Apollo spoke into his headset microphone, "Lieutenant
Dietra, come in." He was greeted by the same static Barton was getting from the
landram's communications equipment. The Captain turned to look out the
side window of the vehicle, back in the direction from which he'd just
come. What he saw made his stomach lurch. "Oh ****!"

Barton looked up from the controls. "Captain?"

"There's a sand wave coming. A big one," he said simply as
he reached for a pair of work coveralls and began to pull them on over his
boots.

Suddenly the landram lurched with a strong gust of wind.
Their view outside was momentarily obscured by blowing sand. When it
subsided, they could see what looked like a dark, churning, tidal wave
approaching from behind where the rest of the team worked underground,
unaware.

"Barton, how far is that wavefront from us?"

"Uh . . ." Barton checked the scanner, "About fifteen
centons away but it seems to be accelerating."

Apollo pushed his arms through the coverall's sleeves and
fastened the weather-proof closures at ankle, wrist, and neck as he
spoke. "Get back to the shuttle and take it up over this wave. Contact the
Galactica and let them know what's going on. I'm going to get back to the
others. We'll ride this out down below." He turned and pulled two kits from
behind Barton's seat as the Lieutenant fired the landram's powercells and
put the vehicle in gear.

"What about the humanoids?" Barton asked. "What if they . .
." It had finally occurred to him that the strange electromagnetic
readings he'd picked up might be the cause of the sandwave. If that were
true . . .

"We'll be in a strong defensive position behind those blast
doors. And we can always work our way further inward if we have to. I'll
take some extra armaments and supplies in case we're holed up there for
awhile. Drop me off there," Apollo pointed to a flat spot about twenty metrons
from the entrance to the tunnel where the sand had been blown away and exposed
an ancient street. "Hand me those water rations," he told Barton. "And
get back to the shuttle as fast as you can."

Apollo donned his sunlenses once more, scrambled out of the
landram and slipped one of the backpacks on. He dropped the rest to the
ground as it took all his effort pushing and Barton's pulling to close
the landram door against the force of a wind gust. Apollo picked up the packs
once more then reached up to lighten the blocking capacity of his
sunlenses. The surrounding area had darkened considerably with the wind-
whipped sand preceding the wavefront. After assuring himself that Barton
was well on his way, he turned and began to stumble toward the tunnel
entrance. The force of the wind was increasing. Blowing sand stung his exposed face and hands as he pushed on. Soon he had reached the place where he estimated
the tunnel entrance should be. But it wasn't there. Looking around, he
finally spotted a wildly-waving Dietra about 5 metrons to his right,
crouched in the tunnel entrance. He leaned into the wind and made his way to her.

"I thought you were going to keep right on going past us,"
she said as she grabbed one of the kits from his hand.

"I almost did," he panted, moving further into the tunnel,
out of the wind, before stopping.

"Where did that sandstorm come from? It seems to have come
up awfully quick."

"I don't know," he replied, pausing to catch his breath.
"Barton said he picked up some anomalous electromagnetic readings, but we
didn't have time to figure out if they're related to the storm." Just then,
the wind howled loudly at the entrance to the tunnel as a large gust of sand
blew in across the floor. "Come on," Apollo pulled Dietra with him down the
corridor. "We'll have to get inside and close the blast doors."

"You don't think the storm will bother us that far down, do
you?"

"It's not the storm."

Dietra stared at him quzzically.

"It's the Humanoids," he replied. "They were scouting us
and now they're on the move again."

"In this?"

"We lost contact with the Galactica and I couldn't contact
you," Apollo continued, ignoring the question. "I sent Barton back to the
shuttle. He'll get up out of the atmosphere and report our status to the
Galactica. In the meantime, we can hole up down here and try moving further
into the complex."

"So they're attacking, then?"

"I don't know. But I don't want to take any chances. They
outnumber us, but their weaponry is primitive. I think we should be able
to hold them off with widefield stunning using our lasers."

"Unless they all decide to charge at once . . ." Dietra
reminded him.

"One problem at a time, Lieutenant," he grimaced.

They reached the blast doors, and with the help of the
Puzzled technicians, pulled them closed with a loud clang that
seemed to echo around the chamber for a long time after.

===============


A powerful reddish beam tore out from Enterprise’s
upper hull, cutting directly across the Klingon vessel’s
bow. It bucked slightly, but otherwise kept on, bearing down
on the Colonial shuttle. Her pilot had apparently seen the
Bird-Of-Prey, and was banking hard to port, and pushing the
shuttle’s engines into the red. The Klingon fired, the laser
searing close, topside. The second salvo was a near miss.

Pike’s second shot was not. The phaser beam struck the
P’kuth directly, sending her shields flaring up into the
visible. The next salvo buttoned her as well, knocking her
askew, allowing the shuttle to evade her.

“Sensors show moderate damage to shuttle, Captain,”
reported Spock. “Scoring on her hull, and a slight loss of
power.”

“Number One, open our shuttle bay doors, and direct the
shuttle there.”

“Captain, let me contact them,” said Bojay. “They won’t
know you.”

“Very well,” said Pike, and soon, the shuttle was heading
for Enterprise. So, also, was the P’kuth. Though battered,
the enemy vessel was not out, and was coming around again.
He fired, pencils of green energy sluicing off the
Enterprise’s shields, but doing little damage so far. He
fired again, then once more, till Number One sent a powerful
beam back towards him, tracking the enemy as he bore down on
them. A shield failed, and the P’kuth rocked, his hull
ripped by the Enterprise’s more powerful weapons, and began
to arc away erratically. Number One fired again, knocking
out yet another of the Klingon s deflectors.

“Cease fire, Number One,” ordered Pike. “Prepare to
receive shuttle.”

“Hangar deck reports ready, sir,” reported Alden.

“Drop shields. Damage report, Number One?”

“Deflector four weakened, sir. Minor buckling in number
two impulse vent. No other damage reported, sir.”

“Excellent.”

“Captain,” said Alden, “hangar deck reports shuttle
inside, sir.”

“Good. Mr. Spock, Mr. Bojay, you are with me. Mr. Alden,
have a Security team there. Doctor.”

“I’m with you.”



“This ship is incredible”, said Boomer, as he glided
towards the Enterprise‘s open hangar deck. After a few
seconds of negotiating, its flight control had interfaced
with the shuttle’s computer, and was taking them in on
automatic. As they approached the mysterious vessel, he
scanned her fully. “Her power signatures are a lot different
from the Galactica‘s, or any ship I’ve ever encountered.”

“She’s using some sort of anti-matter reaction system
for power,” said Wilker, scanning with the extra equipment
aboard. “Those nacelles are being fed plasma from some kind
of reactor. Totally unlike any method we’ve ever used.”

“I’ll say. But they saved us from that other ship, so I
guess…”

“Colonial shuttle,” said a voice over the radio, “this is
Enterprise control. Prepare to land.”

“Enterprise control, acknowledged.”

Boomer lined her up, and touched down on the flight
deck. Even as he moved to fire the retros, he felt the
shuttle slow, pressed by a cushioning force field. As he
powered her down, he watched the bay doors close behind
them, and the indicator show the pressure rising. He allowed
himself a moment s smugness, at the fact that for all its
technological prowess, this ship didn’t have atmospheric force
fields, like the Galactica. Once the hangar was re-pressurized,
he saw the doors open, and several people file in.

“The welcome wagon’s here,” he told Wilker, then saw
Bojay, at once recognizable amongst all the red his in
Colonial uniform. “It’s Bojay! Come on Doctor.”

“Alright,” said the scientist, and the headed for the
hatch.



It did not take long for the Galactica’s patrol,
numbering five Vipers, to wipe out the Cylon patrol sent to
probe their perimeter. Jolly and Cree both took a hit
apiece, but otherwise they emerged unscathed. Describing a
wide arc, sensors on maximum, they curved back towards the
Battlestar, alert for any further Cylon incursions.

“Viper pilots reports encountering and destroying Cylon
patrol, Commander,” announced Athena.

“Long-range scanners?”

“Engineering estimates another ten centons to full
power. Screens clear at the moment, Commander.”

“Thank-you.” While Adama couldn’t see the enemy vessel,
the very fact that they were probing with fighters said they
were fairly close. The Viper patrol had gotten lucky. Though
Adama would never know it, the Raiders had been scanning on
a very tight vector, and hadn’t seen the Vipers until it was
too late. It was, of course, only a matter of time till they
brought up another BaseShip, if not more, and then…

Hopefully by then, they would be gone. As he watched
the monitors, watching a shuttle with freshly refined fuel
head towards the Battlestar, he found himself growing ever
more anxious. He resisted calling Apollo again. His son, as
well as the other teams, would report when there was
something to report, and to constantly badger him would only
increase the tension that was nearly palpable as it was.

Looking at another scanner, he watched the predicted
storm front move in on Starbuck’s position. Another delay.
He shook his head. With the failure to receive anything but
a few moments of telemetry from the shuttle…

Feeling fidgety, he reviewed that data once more. It
was scratchy, and he ran it through computer enhancement
again and again, to try and clear it up. It would of course
be Dr. Wilker, the Fleet’s top expert in computer
enhancement, who was not present to enhance the data he
himself had sent back. Silently, Adama cursed the malicious
god irony, or at least the universe’s lousy sense of humor.
He viewed the images again and again, till at last a ship
began to emerge from the electronic muck.

It was fairly large, but its design was utterly
unfamiliar. A big saucer, with cylinders extending from it,
it looked like no ship in the Fleet. But, it was almost the
size of the Rising Star, and that bespoke power. But whose
power? And how far away? Stellar Cartography was still
trying to identify the few stars that had been seen by the
shuttle’s sensors, but so far no luck. That must mean his
people were far away. Very far.

“Too far. Colonel Tigh.”

“Sir?”

“Prep my personal shuttle, Colonel. Have two people from
Wilker’s department, and four Warriors report to me on the
shuttle deck.”

“Sir?”

“I’m going to investigate this wormhole machine myself.”
He got up, and headed towards the hatch.

“Commander? You…”

“I can, Colonel,” said Adama, half-turning. “Right now,
the Galactica is in good hands. But time is running out, and
we have none to waste.”

“C…”

“You have your orders, Colonel. The bridge is yours.
Athena?”

“Commander?”

“You're flying.”

“Yes, sir.”


Starbuck shook his head, trying to clear the annoying
whine from his ears, as the portable forcefield unit hummed
to life. There had been no time to brace the entrance to the
underground chambers, given current circumstances. They were
so old, as well as damaged by the solonite blast, that they
would have required virtually a total rebuild. So, they'd
pulled a portable unit from the shuttle, and effectively
used it to create a plug. As long as the power held out, the
chamber would ride out the storm.

And none to soon, either. Already, the winds were up to
58 killometrons per centar, and rising. The shuttle would
take off once they reached 100, and remain in orbit till the
storm passed. With so little data on this planet's weather,
though, they could not be certain how long that might be.

Starbuck looked about, taking in the chamber. It had
once been, apparently, a reinforced pen for some sort of
ocean-going vessel. Even now, sticking up out of the muck,
was the corroding conning tower of an old submarine. Making
their way past it, they reached the back bulkhead of the
long smelly chamber, and moved through the half-open
hatchway.

"There's a lift, heading down, sir," said Giles. "At
least half a metron."

"Well, it seems to be out of order," replied Starbuck.
"So, let's take the scenic route." Along the inner side of
the shaft was a ladder, bolted to the concrete wall. It
looked reasonably intact, despite centuries of disuse, and
Starbuck tested his weight on it. It held, and he slowly
moved to the next, then the next, heading down into the
darkness. It seemed to take forever, but he at last reached
the bottom, and found himself up to the calves in dark,
smelly water. He stepped aside, allowing his team to join
him at the bottom, and turned his attention to the vast
blast doors in front of him.

Unfortunately, they now saw, when the place had been
evacuated, no one had bothered to close them, so whatever
lay inside the chamber had been exposed to water and decay
along with the rest of this city. Still, they had gone too
far to just give up on that account, so Starbuck took his
lantern, and began to move towards the open doors. The air
that wafted from within was rank with mold and decay, and
his hopes were not high, but this was his job, his team,
and.

Beep

"Starbuck here," he said, into his commlink.

"Greenbean here, sir," came the tinny voice. "The wind
is almost to 100 sir. I'm preparing to lift off, and will
maintain synchronous orbit over the site till the storm
passes."

"Affirmative, Bean. See ya when you get back."

"Right, sir."

"I just hope the tinheads don't decide to come visiting
while we're mucking about down here," said Giles. "I'm more
comfortable in a cockpit than a catacomb."

"Same here, Giles," replied Starbuck. "But for the
moment, we're stuck with it."

Moving into the chamber, they shown their lanterns
around. At first, all they could see were vague shadows,
formless flittings amidst the ancient gloom. Then, they
slipped on their IR goggles, and stood there a moment,
taking it all in.

"Lords of Kobol!" whispered Giles. Starbuck just
nodded. The entire chamber was spherical, and a few paces to
their left, a ladder led to an upper level. Along the floor,
banks of equipment sat against the wall, corroded and rusted
into ruin by centuries of water. In front of each was the
rusty skeleton of a chair, and corroded cables and conduit
hung down, like the ancient tears of some mournful ghost.

"Not much we can get out of this stuff,' said Giles,
examining one console. Little beyond its shell remained, and
he gingerly fingered a remaining screen. "CRT screens."

"Yeah," said Starbuck.

"Shall we check out the next level up, sir?" asked
Varica.

"Right behind you," said Starbuck, and they carefully
ascended the ladder. Up on the next level, the machinery was
more intact, though the seats had long rotted away. Both
Warriors moved over to where Varica was examining a bank of
equipment. "Anything?"

"Well, I'm afraid all these centuries of humidity will
have degraded everything, sir. But I'm hoping I'm wrong." He
ran a scanner of one console after another. "These appear to
have been computer banks, sir."

"Think we can recover a data node, or anything for that
matter?" asked Giles.

"Give me a bit, sir," replied Varica, and set his lamp
down. He opened his pack of equipment, and pulled out tools,
and a portable power unit. "Let's see," muttered the tech,
now oblivious to his superior's presence. He tossed his
jacket over the ancient chair, and set to work.

The complex Sheba was now moving through was built
along similar lines to Starbuck's, though considerably
drier. Rows of long-silent equipment sat, as if waiting for
their masters to return, and she couldn't help smile at the
discovery of a cup and plate left lying next to a bank of
screens. As she perused the ancient machines, she found her
thoughts torn between worrying about Bojay, wondering where
he was and wishing she was the one going off to find him,
and again thinking about her missing father.

This lugubrious train of worry was cut short by a
sudden light, and a shout of success from Callidus. The
technician had successfully tied one of the portable power
units into the machinery, and brought one of the consoles
back to life. Then, slowly, one screen after another began
to glow and hum, lights to blink, and somewhere a
loudspeaker to hiss.

"Hey!" she exclaimed. "What have you got?"

"Not certain yet," said the tech. The screen in front
of him had gone from snow, to displaying unfamiliar symbols.
As they hooked in more power cells, more of the old facility
came up, till the even the ceiling lights began to glow.

"It looks like an archaic space flight control center,"
said Jolly. On one wall, there was a graphic of the planet,
with arcs describing the orbits of long-gone craft. Then, as
Callidus experimented with some controls, they got a sensor
graphic of…

"The wormhole machine," said Sheba. "There must be a
still-functional monitoring satellite nearby it."

"Correct," said Callidus. "And this." he switched on
another panel, "looks to be a tie-in to their mainframe."

"Can you access it?” asked Sheba?

"I don't know yet. I'll have to try and sample their
programming language, and run it through the Galactica`s
computer. Hopefully." he shrugged his shoulders.

"Look," said Jolly, pointing to another screen. This
one also showed the wormhole machine, and they could see
Adama's shuttle approaching it. "I didn't know they'd
launched another one."

"Neither did I," replied Sheba. "Let's see if we can
tap into their telemetry."


Which was exactly what Apollo was trying to do at that
very moment, half a world away. Like the rest, his team had
succeeded in reviving some of the old equipment. Like the
others, his site had been part of a redundant global network
of space flight control centers, predominantly geared
towards the wormhole device, or at least so he theorized.
Right now, all he was was annoyed.

"Your father left me in command," said Tigh, image
scratchy over the surface to shuttle link. "He was adamant."

"Can you put me through to him?' asked Apollo. "I think
we've found a clue as to the identity of this planet's
inhabitants."

"I'll try," replied the Colonel. "What have you found?"

"One of the screens here displayed script in a form
very similar to Old Gemonese, sir," said Apollo. He held up
his scanner, so Tigh could get a look. "I think the people
might have been from Kobol, sir."

"That's…" began Tigh, but the signal went dead. Almost
at once, Dietra called in.

"Sir, we're under attack." Apollo could hear the sounds
of laser fire from the Landram over the commlink.

"Lieutenant?"

"Holding my own, sir," came the reply. "I."

Silence.