It had been a near thing, Barton told himself, as he clawed for
space, the shuttle’s engines screaming in protest. He’d be sure to
get his skin peeled off when he got back to the Galactica, he told
himself. He’d disobeyed a direct order from Tigh, and launched a
shuttle, even as the fleet was pulling out of orbit, to return and
pick up Apollo's team. No matter what, he couldn’t reconcile
himself to just leaving his Strike Captain, and friend, to die on
some nameless alien rock, while he and the fleet rocketed off to
safety. Or whatever safety they Cylons were likely to permit them.
He looked at his scanners. Behind him, the BaseShips were just
coming into range, and would soon, doubtless, launch fighters. If
he didn’t make it back before then, he was a toasted mushie.

As were his passengers. On the floor, still as death, lay
Apollo, Dietra next to him. Seated behind him were the members of
Apollo’s team, all their data and artifacts dumped unceremoniously
in a heap on the floor. The one medtech he’d convinced to come
with him was running an instrument over both prostrate Warriors.
From her expression, he didn’t think it looked good.

“It doesn’t look good,” said Cassiopeia. “Dietra’s lost a hell
of a lot of blood. And Apollo…”

“Yeah?”

“His neck was fractured.” She ran a scanner over the insensate
man. “That’s weird.”

“What? His neck. The vertebrae looks like it’s been fused.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Barton, utterly ignorant of matters
medical.

“I don’t know,” said Cassie, shaking her head. “How are we
doing?”

“Got the Galactica on scanners. We’re closing, Cassie.”

“Hey, hey,” said Cassie, as Dietra opened her eyes, and tried
to rise. “Just hold it a centon, Lieutenant.”

“Where…”

“On your way back to the ship, Dietra,” the former socialator
told her. “Just be quiet.”

“Where is she?” asked Dietra, looking about the shuttle. “Where
is the other one?”

“Who?”

“The Lieutenant that found Apollo and I in the Landram,” said
Dietra, voice raspy. “She called for help.”

“I don’t know who you re talking about,” said Cassie. She
looked up at the rest of the team, questioningly.

“We’re it,” said one tech, motioning to the rest of the team.
“There was no other Warrior, man or woman.”

“But someone called up over the commlink,” said Barton. “A woman’
s voice, giving me the exact coordinates where the Landram was. I
homed in on the signal.”

“And someone called down to us, telling us exactly where you
were,” said the tech. “That wasn’t you?”

“No,” Barton shook his head.

“But she was there,” insisted Dietra. “I saw her.”

“I said, stay still!” said Cassie, and pressed a hypo to her
patient’s arm. Dietra sank to the deck.

“Galactica ahead,” said Barton. “Prepare for landing, everyone.”
Cassie buckled in, and sat back, watching the landing bay draw
closer. As ship’s flight control took over, she couldn’t help but
wonder: They had Apollo, Lords be praised.

But what about Starbuck?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~

Starbuck jerked awake. They had stopped. And he had dozed off,
He realized. He glanced at his chronometer and at the faces of the
others. He was not the only one who had succumbed to the gentle swaying of
the transport; all but Varica were shaking off the effects of their
brief but much needed rest. "It's been almost a centar," Starbuck commented
as he stretched and climbed to his feet.

"Yes," said Varica, "and according to my scans, we've traveled
14.3 kilometrons due east. That would put us on the far side of the
mountain range."

"Let's find out where we are," said O'Kala, shouldering her pack
and moving towards the exit. The others did likewise, and the scientist
moved to press the pad key inscribed with the word that translated to "open."

"Wait!" Shauna slipped her breather over her head. "We don't
know if there's a breathable atmosphere out there, or not."

O'Kala shook her head, wondering how she could have forgotten
that, donned her breather, and waited until the others were ready. The she
pressed the pad. The doors parted. Cautiously, she stepped out and gazed
around, moving aside to let the others exit, as well. The chamber was
vast, and, unlike the musty, dank submarine control center, this place had
been well preserved. And the power had been activated; thus, artificial
lights shone brightly off gleaming, metallic surfaces. Like the other, the
chamber was circular, and panel after panel of controls and equipment lined
the perimeter. In the center, an enormous core device, perhaps the
generator, stretched up to and through the ceiling some thirty
metrons above them, as well as down through the floor, by all appearances. In
addition, part of the chamber had expansive windows that looked out beyond
… to what? They were not close enough to discern, yet.

O'Kala took a few more steps, then stopped and wrapped her arms
Around herself. "Frak, it's cold!" she said.

Starbuck was the last to leave the transport. The dry chill of
The environment stung his ears as he moved out into the chamber.
"What's the temperature?" he asked as he pulled his flight jacket around him.

Varica had his scanner out. "37 centons," he said. "But it's
Slowly rising."

"Okay, okay," muttered Giles. "So it takes awhile for the systems
to return to normal. After all, they've only been operational for a little
over a centar. For the first time in a thousand yahrens."

"Well, what about the atmosphere?" asked Starbuck.

"Still too thin to be breathable," answered Varica.

"We'll have to make due," said Starbuck, squinting through his
breather as each warm breath began to condense on the mask. "Let's spread out
and see if we can figure out some of these controls."

Equipped with hand-held languatrons, now programmed to correlate
the alien scrip with ancient Gemonese, the team eagerly scattered to examine
the gleaming control panels that seemed unfazed by the passage of
time. Excitement and the prospect of finding a functional exit to the
surface overruled the cold. Varica and Thomson headed towards the center
core structure, while the others spread out towards the panels that
ringed the chamber.

Giles and Starbuck walked towards the huge windows, curious as to
what lay beyond. Whatever it was, the power did not appear to be
functional, because all was dark. At first, they could see nothing. Starbuck was about to turn away, when Giles suddenly pointed. "There! Look! Is that what I think it is?"

Starbuck risked swiping the fog from the inside of his breather
and then peered down to where Giles was pointing. The light from the
chamber was reflecting off a metallic object. As the Lieutenant followed the
outline and shape of the thing, he realized what Giles was saying. "Yes!"
he shouted loud enough to bring everyone else trotting over to the
windows.

"What? What is it?" asked Sirrion. All he saw was darkness.

"Down there!" Starbuck pointed to a location below the chamber.
"Look! It's a ship!"

Indeed, as they all stared and their eyes adjusted, they could
just barely discern the grey forms of at least half a dozen ships. "A
hangar!" shouted Giles. "It must be a hangar bay!"

With a determined fervor, their hopes soaring, the team searched
the control panels for a way to access the bay and to operate any portals.
Logic told them that this chamber was the control center, and where there
were ships, there had to be an exit. Passage out and to the surface. Their
escape.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took nearly 50 centons, but with O'Kala's linguistic finesse,
They finally deciphered not only the controls for the hangar bay doors,
but also for the power system for the interior. Artificial lights
flickered on, then off for several moments, then back on again, revealing what could only be a huge hangar bay; they could now see maybe twenty different ships
and transports. More importantly, they could see the sealed blast
doors opposite the control center.

They also discovered a sensor array. Varica studied the lines of
script and the graphics, inputting what information he could into his
Languatron. It did not take long for him to realize that the readings were of the planetary system. As he checked and rechecked the information, he felt a
cold knot in his stomach that had nothing to do with the temperature of the
chamber.
"Frak," he muttered. "Frak and felgercarb . . ."

The others turned towards him. "What is it?" asked Starbuck.

"Take a look," Varica said as everyone gathered around him. "The
graphics tell it all. The written text just confirms it."

"Lords of Kobol . . ." whispered Starbuck. Only two ships were
present in all of the system. Two. Not 220. Two. "Where's the Fleet?" he
asked quietly, fighting the foreboding feeling that was welling up
inside.

All were silent for several long centons as they absorbed the
information. Had they located an exit only to discover that they were stranded?
On a world where they could only tolerate the radiation levels above
ground for a couple of days? "****!" muttered Giles.

Then one of the blips vanished as the readings indicated a power
surge. "The wormhole!" shouted Varica.

Starbuck turned, walked purposefully to the windows and stared at
The vessels below. "Well, I guess we'll have to fly ourselves outta
here," he said. The cold dread was suddenly replaced by a fierce
determination. "We need those bay doors open and a way to get down to those ships."

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

Cloudy daylight now filled the hangar bay after the technicians
had managed to activate the blast doors from a panel near the doors
themselves. In only 20 centons, the internal atmosphere had equalized with the
outside. The air was now breathable and the temperature was only ten centons lower inside.

Finding access to the bay from the control center had been easy;
locating a transport off the surface was proving anything but. The team had
been scanning ship after ship. Most, it turned out, were clearly
inoperable. Upon closer inspection, it looked as though they had been salvaged
for spare parts, undoubtedly before the people left the planet for good. Of
the twenty-three vessels in the bay, only two now remained as viable
possibilities. The team had divided and each group was working to
decipher the systems and controls and to determine if their ship was space-
worthy.

Giles, Varica, Shauna, and Nila were checking out a small craft
near the center of the bay. It appeared to have some fuel and they had
even, after a careful analysis of the controls, fired up the engines. It would
be a snug fit for eight people, but it looked like a good possibility. It
had two flight chairs in its small cockpit, one set of controls, and what
must have been a cargo hold. And despite the ancient, alien background of
the vessel, the systems seemed surprisingly familiar to an experienced pilot.
Giles was naming the controls over and over, using his Languatron as a
reference. The biggest drawback with their ship, though, was the fuel level. The bar indicator was uncomfortably below the midpoint mark. Not knowing
how much fuel it would take to just lift off, they considered the craft
their second choice.

Starbuck, Sirrion, Thomson, and O'Kala were examining a slightly
larger ship that rested close to the open blast doors. It had a passenger
section with ten seats, in addition to the two-person cockpit. The systems
seemed to be operational. And the fuel level seemed acceptable. Starbuck had
settled into the pilot's seat and O'Kala was reading the labels on the
controls and gauges for him.

"Is this the altimeter?" he asked, pointing to a familiar-looking
gauge.

"Seems to be," answered O'Kala.

"Okay!" Starbuck grinned. "This looks easy enough. Why don't we
…"

An ear-piercing explosion cut him off and rocked the ship.

"What the frak was that!" shouted Starbuck, pulling O'Kala up and
heading out of the cockpit. Another explosion threw them against a wall.

Thomson was gesturing frantically at them. "Get out! Get out!"

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

Starbuck grabbed the linguist's hand and hurried through the short
passage. As they stumbled along, they could hear the deafening and
unmistakable sound of laser blasts. They ducked out of the narrow exit, jumped down to the deck and ran. A moment later, the ship exploded as it took a
direct hit. O'Kala screamed and fell. Starbuck dived on top of her as the
force of the blast knocked him off his feet. Shrapnel rained down. He covered
her and his own head as well as he could. A few microns stretched
into an eternity as the pieces battered the tarmac all around. He
grimaced as tiny particles burned into his flight jacket and bit through his
uniform. Then a sharp, jagged piece sliced into his left arm.

"Cylons!" Starbuck heard someone shout as he fought against the
searing pain. "Close the blast doors!"

Hands were pulling him to his feet. Thomson. The tech supported
him as they hurried towards the back of the hangar. Looking around, he
saw Varica carrying O'Kala, who hug limp in his arms. Then, suddenly, the
doors slid closed and an eerie silence gripped the bay.

“How stupid of us!" cried Thomson as he carefully lowered the
Lieutenant down to the floor next to the unconscious linguist. They were
close to the other craft, now their only means of escape. Starbuck coughed on
the thick fumes from the burning remains of the seven ships that had been
blasted. Someone slipped his breather over his face.

"Just hold on," said Giles as he plopped a first-aid kit next to
his friend. Thomson was still supporting him. The others, he noted with a
glance, were crowded around O'Kala.

"What in Kobol's name happened?" Starbuck asked. He looked down
at his left arm and saw the sleeve of his flight jacket was saturated
with blood. He felt light-headed and queasy. Thomson eased the Lieutenant
onto his right side.

"I'd say that when we opened the blast doors," said Giles, "we
practically invited the Cylons in! They must have picked up the energy
readings and zeroed in on our location."

"That lone ship on the sensors . . ." Starbuck grimaced as Thomson
began to cut through the sleeve to attend to the wound and tried to
concentrate on the flight sergeant, who was kneeling in front of him. He vaguely remembered that Thomson and Sirrion had had basic-level med tech
training.

"Yeah, a Cylon BaseShip would be my guess," said Giles.

"Frak. I shoulda . . ."

"We all should have thought about it," Giles said. "But we were
too excited about our discovery. But, hey …?" he stopped as Thomson motioned
with a hypo from the first-aid kit.

"It's an anesthetic," the tech said. "I've got to remove the
piece of metal before I can bandage the wound. This will take just a centon to
take effect." He injected the local sedative into the Lieutenant's
shoulder. He had cut away the sleeves to both his flight jacket and uniform to
reveal a deep, jagged gash.

"How's O'Kala?" asked Starbuck looking over to where the others
were tending to her.

"She's in pretty bad shape," Thomson admitted. "She got hit in
the back. I think the piece pierced a lung."

"Oh no. Frak, no," said Starbuck, fighting a rising sense of
panic.

"Just hold still, buddy," said Giles quietly. "We'll get out of
here as soon as we can move you both aboard the ship. Then we'll make for
the wormhole." Giles was talking to distract the Lieutenant as
Thomson worked on his arm. "My bet is the Fleet went through to escape the
Cylons. They're probably just waiting for us on the other side."

"Yeah, ‘cept," said Starbuck, grimacing in pain and taking deep
breaths, despite the numbness of the anesthetic. "'cept *they* didn't know
we'd find a ship." He gave Giles a troubled look. "If O'Kala …?"

"She'll be okay," insisted Giles. He sounded like he was trying
to convince himself as much as Starbuck. "Just hold still."

Thomson had cleaned the wound as much as he could with sterile
wipes and had wrapped a pressure bandage around the Lieutenant's arm. Next, he
and Giles eased Starbuck onto his back. The tech then moved to check on the
others' progress with O'Kala. Looking over, Starbuck could see the
linguist's face as they worked on her back. Eyes closed, lips parted, she looked pale, too pale. Her lips were blue.

"Lords of Kobol, no . . ." whispered the Lieutenant.

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

Not long after they had sealed the doors, they began to hear
Muffled explosions and could feel the ground vibrate. Evidently, the
Cylons were persistently trying to blast through to the hangar. The doors,
however, appeared to be holding. Still, Giles mused as he strapped himself
into the cockpit, the ride out would be eventful, to say the least. For
starters, the blast doors had to be activated from outside the ship. They
had located a panel near the back of the bay, not too far from their small
craft, but it would still mean a delay of nearly a centon between opening the
doors and when they were able to launch. Plenty of time for the Cylons to
take up nice and cozy defense positions or to simply bombard the exit with
laser volleys.

Nila came forward and sat down in the co-pilot's chair. Of the
Five specialists, she was the one with the most flight knowledge, and,
thus, was the logical one to do what she could to assist Giles. "Okay,
Sergeant," she said, "everyone's tucked in as best as can be."

"Right." He let out a long, slow breath. The sound and
vibrations from outside attacks had stopped, but Giles knew better than to think
that the Cylons had left. More likely, they were waiting. Waiting for the
blast doors to open. He glanced back to where Sirrion stood at the
ship's entrance. "Okay. Let's do it!"

Sirrion trotted over to the panel. After a brief pause, he pushed
the pad and sprinted back towards the ship. The doors slowly pulled
apart. Dim sunlight spilled into the bay. Giles was counting the microns
under his breath. " . . . seven, eight, nine . . ." Sirrion jumped into
the ship and closed the hatch.

Immediately, Giles fired the engines. They pulsed slowly to life.
"Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two . . ." The opening to the hangar bay was
still quiet. The engines were maddeningly slow! "Sixty-three, sixty-four. . ."
They finally reached full capacity. "Hang on tight!" Giles shouted
and pulled back on the controls, initiating their take off. They moved
forward, gradually gaining momentum. Giles did not want to press his luck
with the unfamiliar controls and risk smashing into a wall.

Suddenly, though, laser volleys seared through the open doors.
"To Hades with it!" Giles yelled and revved the engines. The ship shot
forward with more acceleration than he had expected. It went straight through
the wall of laser fire, seemingly unscathed, and shot up into the sky.

"Hey!" screamed Thomson. He had been knocked back into Shauna,
and the two were entangled in the back, held immobile by the g-forces. With
no seats, in the bare cargo hold, he and the others had strapped down the
Starbuck and O'Kala as securely as possible, then gripped whatever they could
find. "We've got wounded back here!"

Giles eased back on his angle of accent and his velocity, and
Shauna and Thomson, battered and bruised, pulled themselves back to the
middle of the hold. Each wrapped an arm around one of the loops on the floor
that must have been intended for securing any cargo.

"Scanner . . ." Giles flipped a switched and seven blips appeared
on the round screen. Assuming that his position was in the center, the
blips were closing slowly. "Okay, hold on tight!" he shouted.

With a little more caution, he increased the ship's velocity and
angle of accent. Nila, watching the occupants of the cargo hold,
especially O'Kala, warned him when to hold steady. The distance between the blips and their ship was now increasing ever so slightly.

The cloud cover thinned, and they finally flew out of the planet's
exosphere. Using visual markers -- the position of the sun, the
planet, and it's rings -- as much as the ship's instruments, Giles oriented
the craft towards the wormhole device. Nila was now eying the scanner. A
different blip appeared ahead of them. On a direct course. Nila pointed.

"Frak, frak, and frak," muttered Giles. It was too soon for that
blip to be the wormhole. Besides, it was moving towards them. A few centons
later, it came into view. Large, menacing strobes of laser pulsed towards
them. "A BaseShip! Sorry, guys," he shouted. "But speed is the only way
to get past that thing! On three. One, two three!" He opened the throttle
once more, and the ship shot forward with almost twice the velocity of a
viper. The BaseShip could not track them, and the craft sped within a
kilometron of the enemy vessel, then on past. Following mostly instinct, Giles
adjusted their heading.

Nila was pointing at the panel. "The fuel!" The indicator was
dangerously close to zero.

"Okay," he shouted back to his companions, "I have to cut all
power until I need to align with the wormhole device. We'll have to make do
with our current velocity and trajectory." Giles switched off the engines
and alternated between staring ahead for any sign of the wormhole
device and gazing at the eight blips on the scanner. They were closing. The
seven Cylon Raiders had passed the BaseShip. They would be within
firing range in only a couple of centons. "Where is that device?" Giles
muttered. The inner planet was looming nearer.

A blip appeared on the scanner in the appropriate location just as
The Raiders opened fire. The first volleys went wide. Giles finally
Spotted the wormhole device ahead of them, a tiny speck against the
crescent shape of the inner planet, illuminated by the system's sun off to their
left. Launching from the ringed third world, Giles had swung the craft
in an arc so that they were approaching with the wormhole device in a direct
path in front of its planet.

The ship shook from a near miss. They would be in range of the
device in seven centons at their current velocity. By then, Giles
reflected, they would be space dust. It was now or never with what little fuel
they had remaining. Should he burn it all, he realized, though, they would
not be able to slow their approach. And then they would most likely
crash into the planet . .
.
"Okay, hang on!" Giles took a deep breath. "Counting on the
Starbuck luck . . ." He activated the engines, wincing as the craft shook from
A lancing laser blast. The engines were so slow, too slow, to rev
up. The next volley blasted the ship's portside wing, and the craft
shuddered violently. This time sparks exploded from a side panel, and it
burst into flames. Ignoring it, Giles opened the throttle one last time,
knowing that he had to put some distance between them and the Cylons NOW.
Whether or not their approach would be within the wormhole device's range, he
could only hope. The ship shot forward.

Smoke was filling the vessel, but all still wore their breathers.
The flames, however, were spreading, feeding on the air supply.

They were rapidly approaching the device. They would be in range
in less than a centon, now. He tried to decelerate, but the fuel was dry.
"Brace yourselves!" yelled Giles. "Here we go, one way or another!"

Still malfunctioning, the wormhole device activated ten microns
before the craft entered its range. That, and only that, allowed the
device's field to capture the vessel. In a blinding pulse of energy, the small,
speeding ship vanished.

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



“There she is!” cried Athena, as the Galactica came into view
on one of the stations monitors. As she did so, Tigh was calling
Adama, the Battlestar slowly decelerating as they approached the
wormhole device. They were, Adama said, going through the
wormhole, to wherever it took them.

“Wherever that may be,” said Tigh.

“Right now, a system on the verge of a supernova would be an
improvement, Tigh. We have four BaseShips moving in on us.”

“I see them. They really mean to finish us this time.”

“Well, they won’t by God,” replied Adama. “Prepare all ships for
wormhole transport. We‘ll be aboard in a few centons.”

“Understood, sir.”

Only, it seemed, they would not. The blast door to the
control deck would not open. They tried the panel. Nothing. The
techs tried various permutations of the numbers, but still no go.
It seems the control deck was sealed during any kind of emergency
situation. One of the techs started to remove the panel cover…

“Oh to Hades Hole with it!” snarled Athena, and drew her
weapon. “Get cover!” She moved away a few paces, ducked behind a
chair, and fired. The shaped solonite charge on it blew
spectacularly, sending the door to meet its maker. At once,
another klaxon and the alien computer voice began blaring through
the whole structure, but they ignored it. Athena in the lead,
Adama taking up the rear, they headed back the way they had come,
down to the landing bay. Athena leapt through the hatch, and had
the turbines moving before her father was inside.

‘We’re launching now, Tigh,” Adama said into his commlink, the
words barely out before Athena slammed them all into their seats,
screaming out of the bay like a vespertilon out of Hades. The
scientist in her was saddened, even annoyed, that they had been
unable to examine or salvage any of the alien craft left behind in
the bay, but the desperate Human in her decided that continuing to
breath was the preferable course of action at the moment.

She swung the shuttle around the station, arcing towards the
Fleet, and spared a look at her scanner. She swore, loudly and
with a full-bodied robustness that would have done a pirate
skipper proud. Adama stared wide-eyed at her, but forbore any
immediate paternal admonitions in favor of information.

“BaseShip closing, Father. Sixty microns.”

“Commander,” came Tigh’s voice, as they completed their arc
around the station, “Cylon…”

“We see them, Tigh. Prepare to transmit a signal towards the
station on the Viper attack frequency the centon we’re aboard the
Galactica.”

“Yes, sir. Scanners show BaseShip launching fighters, sir.”

“I see them,” said Athena, twisting the shuttle in ways that
would have given its designers serious fits. “Six centons to
landing bay.”

“We’ll be aboard in six centons, Colonel,” said Adama.

‘Understood, sir.” There was a pause, then he came back. “Lead
Cylon fighter ETA seven centons, sir.”

“So I’m cutting it close,” growled Athena. She lined up on the
bay, and poured on more speed. The cavernous bay filled the
windows, but she didn’t slow, or let landing control take over.
Racing past the huge engine section, she kept barreling along,
till she felt the bump of the shuttle hitting the force field, and
the ripple of the ship’s gravity field. Hitting reverse thrusters
much too suddenly, her charges were tossed about like dolls, as
the two forces fought each other. Finally, amidst the sound of
screeching landing gear, the shuttle at last came to a halt,
slamming into a partition and ripping a gash in it.

“Athena!” said Adama, struggling to undo his belt. “What in…”

“We’re here, aren’t we?” She got out of her seat, and looked
about the shuttle. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying
Miracle Spacelines. The only Spacelines where Lady Luck is your co-
pilot.” She saw her father, slack-jawed, but spoke first. “Come on!”



“They are aboard,” said Omega, to Tigh, loud enough for
everyone to hear him. “Cylon lead fighters at five microns!”

“Transmit!”{ ordered Tigh, and the man did so. For an eternal
millicenton, nothing seemed to happen, then power began surging
through the vast frame of the station, panels glowing with energy,
as it built up towards the next event. Then, the pale green beams
shot out from the machine, and latched on to the Galactica’s
forward hull. Slowly, the Battlestar began to move, the ancient
alien device pulling her in.

“All ships, follow us through,” ordered Tigh over the
interfleet commcircuit. One by one, the rest of the Fleet began to
move, as the Battlestar was pulled deeper and deeper into the huge
station.

“Cylons attacking!” reported Omega, as Adama and Athena raced
onto the bridge.

“All ships, defensive posture,” ordered Tigh. On one monitor,
he could see a Raider diving on the mineral ship, Mother Lode,
only to catch a laser volley for its trouble, and die. Another
headed for the Rising Star, but then his attention was diverted.

“Wormhole opening!” cried Omega, then the bridge lights dimmed
slightly.

“Sensors sweeps to full!” ordered Adama. “All science
departments, tie in! Positive shield now!” A panel sparked, and the
lights flickered. Through the viewport, they could all see the
weird, twisting energies of the wormhole building, brighter and
brighter, swirling like a spinning mist on a moonlit night, then…

Then the entire ship lurched, as if violently sucked into the
mounting wave of energy. The inertial damping seemed to cut out
for a moment, and they all held on to whatever was to hand. The
whole bridge was filled with a howling vibration that seemed to
rumble through the decks, then the huge warship was gone.



Noxious stood in his Control Center for nearly a full centon,
utterly silent. According to his scanners and pilots, the
Galactica and her Fleet were gone. Not destroyed. Just gone.
Vanished. Once more, his electronic brain raced to try and
understand this unwelcome turn of events. One micron, the Fleet
was coming under the guns of nearly a thousand fighters, more than
enough to finally put an end to the annoying pests. Then nothing.
The Humans and their ships were nowhere to be seen.

“How?” he demanded.

“Unknown,” replied an underling. “Our scanners were temporarily
affected by an anomalous energy surge.”

“Of what sort?”

“Unknown. There is no analogue to it in our database.”

“By your command,” said another Centurion. “Commander Lucifer
for you on Commline.”

“Put him on,” ordered Noxious. At once he was greeted with the
despised image of the IL Series who had once been the Executive
Officer of the traitorous Human, Baltar.

“What you have witnessed is a wormhole,” said Lucifer, without
preamble. How the IL could have known what he was pondering was
unknown to Noxious, as well as why Lucifer knew something their
database did not, but some part of him did not like it.

‘A wormhole?”

“Yes,” said Lucifer, once more dismayed at the shockingly
limited abilities of the Warrior class. He explained what he’d
meant, and ordered Noxious to board the station to obtain
information.

“By your command.”

“Yes,” purred Lucifer, and signed off. So, he mused, a
wormhole. How fortuitous for the Colonials. Well, soon they would
follow, and then there would be no escape. No escape, and new
worlds to conquer, perhaps. That, and a technology that would
extend the grasp of the Cylon Alliance beyond anything they had
ever imagined. For a moment, as he looked around his empty throne
room, Lucifer missed Baltar. Command could, he decided, be a
lonely thing.

“Do not worry, Lucifer,” said a voice. The IL looked down, and
beheld the creature with whom he was currently sharing his
BaseShip. “It will not be long, and you will have all you desire.”

“Let us hope so. So far, your information has been completely
accurate.”

“Naturally,” said the smiling seeming-Human. His white robes
flowed around him, and to anyone looking in, he would have seemed
a robust, middle-aged Human.

“A pity we were delayed reaching this system. Your brethren
seemed ill-disposed to allow us to proceed.”

“They are of no concern,” said the other, a bit sharply. “Soon,
the Human’s will be hunted down, and Adama will meet his just end.”
He smiled, a smile of charm, humor, and utter malignancy.

“Yes, My Lord Iblis,” purred Lucifer once more, and returned to
his contemplation.






Pike resumed his seat, as the Klingon vessel took up
position near his compatriots. As he had feared, the enemy
ship had arrived first. As the crews raced to repair the
damage caused by the fighter s suicide run, they were
hailed.

“It’s the Farragut, sir,” said Alden, his smile of relief
evident to all. “She’ll be here in four minutes, Captain.”

“Thank God,” said Pike. “At least we’ve evened the odds a
bit. Status of Klingon forces?”

“Holding with the first two ships, sir. Scanning, but no
contact yet.”

“The Tholians?”

“Still on course, sir. ETA, seven hours, four minutes.”

“Very well.”

“Captain,” said Spock, “full sensors restored, sir.”

“And deflectors?”

“Engineering estimates repairs will take at least
another hour, sir. Phasers and torpedoes operational.”

“Excellent, Mr. Spock. All torpedo tubes loaded and
primed.”

“Aye, sir.”

As he watched his crew scurry to make Enterprise ready,
Pike was relieved to see Farragut drop out of warp a few
thousand astern. He was less pleased with the casualty
reports. So far, the fighter’s impact had resulted in 23
casualties, of which, fortunately, only four were deaths.
The hull had been breached in an area where few crewmen had
been on duty at the time, so thankfully everyone, living and
dead, was accounted for. Emergency atmospheric force fields
were in place, and the engineers were scurrying like
startled mice to fit emergency plating over the savaged
areas of the hull.

Obviously, their gunnery and tracking was not well
suited to an attack by multiple small targets, like the
Cylon fighters. Not at all. And, though armed only with
lasers, those lasers had been surprisingly powerful for
craft of that size. How fortunate, he decided, that no one
known to the Federation used such nimble craft! Once
engineering had completed it’s analysis of all the data, he
would be making recommendations to Starfleet about changes.
Big changes.

And, knowing the bureaucrats at HQ, those changes would
get implemented about the time…

“Boyce to bridge,” came a familiar voice. Pike activated
the gooseneck viewer next to him.

“Doctor?”

“Updated casualty list, Chris.” The Enterprise’s CMO
looked tired, haggard. Hell, he looked wiped! “Chief Engineer
Alvarado just died. That makes five, so far. And Specialist
Johnstone doesn’t look good.”

“Understood, Doctor,” he replied, with a sigh. “Keep me
posted.” He clicked off, and swore softly under his breath.
Spock’s raised eyebrow told him that his invective had not
gone unheard by all. Somehow that felt good.

“Mr. Spock.”

“Captain?” said the young science officer.

“Have you been able to track the remaining Cylon ship?”

“Yes, Captain. After it recovered, it retreated to a
position well out of the way of both ourselves, and the
Klingon forces.” He put a sensor plot up on his board. “It is
also broadcasting some kind of distress signal.”

“Fortunately, their ships are too far away to ever pick
it up.”

“Yes, it would seem that the crew of the fighter are
unaware of what has happened to them.”

“Not surprising, with them being just robots programmed
to fight and nothing else. Robots,” said Pike, shaking his
head. “It doesn’t seem possible. An entire society, made up
of cybernauts? How could such a thing be?”

“Recall what we have learned from our guests. The Cylon
race was originally an organic sentient species, which
allowed its own technology to overcome it. Rather like some
of your Earth fiction, sir.”

“Frankenstein’s monster?” asked Pike, with a slight
smile. “Still, something like that would have to have a
catalyst, wouldn’t it? From what we’ve seen of these
Centurions, they wouldn’t have the initiative to foment a
rebellion.” He crossed his arms, and shook his head. “Well,
let’s just pray that we never allow our robots to get too
spiffy, or do too much, Mr. Spock.”

“Indeed, Captain,” frowned Spock. He opened his mouth to
ask a question, when there was a beep, and the Vulcanian
turned back to his instruments. “Starship Constellation now
entering the area, Captain. ETA, two minutes to rendezvous.”

“Some good news,” said Pike. He stood, and moved to the
turbolift. “Keep me posted on events, Number One. I'll be in
Sickbay.”

“Sir,” replied the helmswoman. She turned back to the
main screen, and watched as the Constellation slowed, taking
up position to starboard of Enterprise. To port, Farragut
stood guard, her deflectors giving her wounded comrade
cover, till her own shields were back up. She contemplated
the ships for a moment from the esthetic viewpoint. Like
Enterprise, Constellation was built with her warp nacelles
swept back, soaring up on pylons from the engineering hull.
To her, it was a beautiful, even ethereal design, combining
beauty with functionality. On the other hand, with her warp
nacelles slung close underneath the saucer section, and
without a separate secondary hull, Farragut reminded her too
much of the Klingon ship sitting across this solar system
from them, with its nacelles arranged much the same way. To
her, everything Klingon was ugly. Harsh. Brutal. Why copy
that?

For his part, the esthetics of starship design was far
from Spock’s mind. Charting the subspace radiation echoes
left by the last opening of the wormhole, he had no time for
such frivolous pursuits. He had more important things to do.
Once his analysis was complete, he turned his attention, and
the ship’s library computer, to finding out something he
just had to know. Research. Pure research.

Spiffy.



Pike just hated the smell in Sickbay. The smell of
death. As a young officer, he d cut his teeth on battle
against the Klingons, being one of only forty survivors out
of a crew of over 200 to make it back to safety in a ship
shot to bits. He despised them, and he hated what war did to
people.

But these were not the victims of Klingons, he reminded
himself, as he moved among the injured, chatting with some,
trying to comfort others. They had fallen to an enemy they d
never even heard of, most of them. An enemy whose homeworld
was over 50,000 light-years from here, and who by all rights
should never have come to this part of the galaxy.

But, as he often reminded himself, effluvia happeneth.
And, he could not blame the Human survivors of the Cylon
massacre for seeking escape, by any means. And while he
fully expected more ships to come through the wormhole at
any time, he just hoped to God they weren’t Cylon. The last
thing they needed was one of those terrifying BaseShips to
come barging through. He moved on from a badly burned
crewman missing a leg, to find Scotty on a biobed, a nurse
tending his left arm.

“Mr. Scott?”

“Och, Cap’n,” said the young engineer, trying to rise.
Pike motioned him to remain at ease.

“How are you?” asked Pike.

“Well, aside from a wee scorch, I m fine. I was in a
Jefferies tube, sair, double-checkin a deflector power bus,
when that beastie hit us. The whole relay blew out. But I'll
be fit fer duty…”

“When I say so,” said Boyce, coming up next to Pike. “And
not a second before, Mr. Scott.” The CMO handed a report to
Pike.

“Well, Mr. Scott,” said Pike, after a moment, “as you
know, Chief Engineer Alverado is dead.”

“Aye, sair. I haird,” said the Scott, obviously both
still shaken and angry.

“So, in our current circumstances, I am promoting
Assistant Chief Engineer Walpole to Chief, and you, Mr.
Scott, to Assistant Chief. Along with a field promotion to
full Lieutenant.”

“Sair? I canna…”

“Ye can, and ye will,” replied Pike, aping Scott’s
accent, and smiling slightly. “None of the rest have either
your record, or aptitude. Now, as soon as Doctor Boyce
deems you fit for duty, I want you back down there, working
on the repairs.”

“Aye, sair,” said Scott, obviously pleased, as the news
sunk in. He extended his arm to Boyce, who gave it a look-
over. He let Scott go, and both he and the Captain watched
as the Scot fairly went into warp to get back to
Engineering.

“Were we ever like that?” asked Pike.

“I don’t know,” said Boyce. “I can’t remember that far
back.” He turned to take a report from another doctor. “When
all the excitement dies down, Chris, how about you stop by
my cabin for one of my Sirius Screwdrivers? It’s about
time…” He was interrupted, predictably, when the red alert
sounded once more.

“Captain to bridge,” called Number One. “Wormhole opening!”

“I'll have to take a rain check on that drink, Phil.
Duty calls.”

“Ha! Convenient excuse,” muttered Boyce, and headed back
for his office.




Aboard the Klingon vessel G’roth, First Officer Kang watched
as the telltale shimmering of the wormhole began to form in
front of them. He d informed the Commander, and his CO had
ordered all weapons readied. As usual, the ship s skipper
had decided, loudly, that all this was some sort of
Federation treachery, a plot to seize yet another system
preparatory to a strike against the Klingon people. While he
had no love for the Earthers, Kang thought his CO full of
targ g'dayt. The Enterprise had taken a suicide hit from the
unidentified alien craft. Somehow for the young officer,
that didn’t t sound like an effective strategy.

For his part, Kleege, aboard, the P’kuth felt much the
same. However, he didn’t t really care. He yearned, lusted for
battle, and with his anger still boiling over the recent
skirmish with Enterprise, fighting for fighting s sake was
good enough for him. Next to him, the B’ath signaled ready
as well.

“Arm all weapons!” he ordered, as the space in front of
them began to flare.



“Here we go again,” said Tyler, as the darkness split
open, spewing light and energy out into the void. Like a
flower, the wormhole unfurled, momentarily connecting two
distant areas of space.

“Vessel emerging,” reported Spock.

“Defensive systems?” asked Pike.

“All manned and ready, sir,” reported Number One.

“Good God,” muttered Colt, as the emerging vessel began
to take coherent shape. This time, it was no tiny shuttle or
fighter that came forth. It was quite simply the biggest
vessel they’d ever seen.

“Mr. Alden,” said Pike, “have Lieutenant Bojay and his
people report to the bridge at once. Readings, Spock?”

“Mass reading at over one million tons, sir. Sensor
distortions obscuring most else. But it appears to be the
Battlestar.”

Like a dolphin or whale leaping from a foamy sea, the
Galactica slowly sailed out of the wormhole, her grace and
lines holding Pike in awe. She dwarfed Enterprise, making
him feel as if he were in a shuttlecraft somehow, as her
massive form partially blocked the wormhole orifice from
view. It seemed an eternity, though it was actually only a
few seconds, before the huge vessel was entirely visible,
her massive engines at last leaving the rift behind. Almost
at once, she was followed by another ship, its design
equally unfamiliar to Pike, a craft consisting of three
circular sections, similar to Enterprise s saucer section,
in tandem with power plant astern. Then another, an ugly,
bulky barge, with dirty, smudged lettering all over the
sides. He heard the doors to the bridge open, and then the
voices of their guests.

“She’s here!” cried Bojay, almost childlike in his glee.
Boomer repeated his words, and the two Warriors embraced
each other like long-lost brethren. Even the usually
reserved Wilker let out a whoop, slapping Boomer on the
back, and getting the same from Bojay.

“Lords of Kobol, they made it!!” Boomer boomed, nearly
deafening Alden. “By God, they did it!”

They continued to watch as the ships of the Colonial
Fleet continued to come through. One after another, the
battered wrecks that had eluded the Cylons time and again
emerged into this space, putting the hell of pursuit behind
them. 50,00 light-years behind them.

”Look, it’s the Prison Barge!” said Bojay, pointing.

“And the Celestra,” added Boomer. “The Agro ships.”

“And the Rising Star!” Bojay went on. “Hey, it’s the
orphan ship.”

“Hades Hole, we did it!! We fracking did it!!” cried
Boomer again, and the three Colonials did an impromptu gig
on the bridge till Pike told them to settle down. From his
post, Spock watched them, trying to understand the emotions
involved. It was, certainly, logical that their comrades
would discover how to follow them through the wormhole.
Flagrant emotional displays were hardly called for. One did
not rejoice over the culmination of logic. Why did Humans
always…

“Sir!” cried Tyler. “Klingon vessel moving in on the
emerging fleet, sir.” He studied his board a moment, trying
to filter out interference. “Arming torpedoes!”

“Move in, Number One. Phasers, stand by.”

As Enterprise and B’ath moved in, no one immediately
noticed the remaining Raider powering up as well. Like the
other ships, it also was moving in on its target. As it drew
closer, the Klingon vessel moved across its path, and the
Cylon did what Cylons always do to unidentified ships full
of non-Cylons. It opened fire.

The Klingon’s shields flared brightly as the Raider s
guns struck home, shunting the lasers aside. The Cylon kept
firing, slamming the Bird-of-Prey repeatedly till they
roared past. The Klingon broke off his attack on the
Galactica, banking hard to port to evade. The Cylon stayed
on the Klingon however, managing to strike home again
several times, this time penetrating his screens. The Raider
fired again, its lasers ripping through metal, and this time
B’ath‘s hull erupted in smoke and debris, her flight going
wild. The Cylon came around for another pass, opened fire…

And blew to bits, as a shot from Enterprise nailed it
dead center. The Cylon evaporated as the Klingon struggled
to regain control. Wobbling and trailing plasma, it was a
hopeless effort. Within moments of the Raider s destruction,
the B’ath followed it into oblivion, ripped by a powerful
explosion that tore the stern section completely in half,
and sending the bow tumbling wildly towards the Galactica.

“Tractor beam!” ordered Pike.



Adama held on to the railing as the Galactica shook
from her passage through the wormhole. Around him, many of
the bridge crew were doing the same. As he watched, two
screens went dark, then a third. A panel burst into sparks,
and for a moment he felt as if the vision was being squeezed
out of him.

“Status?” he shouted, over the din in his ears.

“Velocity completely off the scale,” reported Tigh.
“Scanners erratic, sir. Electrical fluctuations in all
systems.” As he spoke, one crewman collapsed. “Medtech to
bridge!” As he turned back to the image before him, something
flew by. Something small. Small, blue, spherical.

Down in the launch bay, Sheba looked up from her
misery. Her instruments were fluttering, just as the lights
in the bay flickered off and on. Static roared over her
craft s radio, and she popped her canopy. All around her,
the other pilots were having the same problems, and a few
had collapsed to the deck. She leapt from her ship, to kneel
next to Sheldrake, the one she had bitten in half earlier.
He seemed to be alive, then she felt darkness swarm over
her, and fell insensate across him.

Apollo opened his eyes, seeing only the ceiling in Life
Center, then total, purest white. He was standing, dressed
as he had been twice before aboard the Ship of Lights,
bathed in a radiance that no mortal could have endured. Why
was he here again? He thought a moment, remembering. Yes, of
course. Was he…

“No,” said a voice, and he turned. More radiance flooded
his eyes, yet he felt no need to shield them. A figure stood
before him, gowned in utter white light. “You are not dead,
Apollo.”

“Then why am I here?”

“It is not yet your time, My Beloved. You and the Fleet
will go on.”

“But you were there. In the Landram! You…”

“It was not your time, Beloved. I told you. You have
much yet to do, Apollo. So much to do. And Boxey needs you
still.”

“I…I don t want to go back. I want to remain here.
With you!”

“And what of Sheba, Apollo? Do you not know that she
carries your child? You must return to that world.”

“But...why? Why bring me here if only to send me back?”

“Your life hangs by the thinnest of threads, Apollo.
Death is near, but you will live. And, it was needful to
show you certain things.”

“What things?”

“Behold, Brother,” said another voice, one as familiar to
Apollo as the first. Another figure approached, and waved an
arm. The very fabric of the light parted, and Apollo could
see, within the hull of a BaseShip, the one person in the
Universe he had most feared to see again.

“Iblis!” breathed Apollo, his hands clenching in anger.
“What…”

“It was he, Brother, who brought the Fleet to the system
with the wormhole device. There, he planned to have the
Galactica move through, pursued by the Cylons, allowing them
to seize the technology, and thus spread their reign of
terror across the galaxy. HIS reign of terror. But, he will
not succeed.”

“Are you sure?”

Yes, Apollo, smiled Zac, hand on his brother s
shoulder. Battle yet awaits, but you have almost reached
your goal. Father was right! Earth lies ahead. An Earth that
will be safe from Iblis scheme, at least for now.

Zac, said Apollo, feeling the tears come unbidden. I m
sorry. I&I couldn’t t save you. I should never have left you
behind, little brother. I&

Apollo, when will you learn that you are forgiven? His
brother smiled at him. You had to. If you had stayed with
me, the Galactica would have been destroyed, along with the
rest of the Fleet, and you would not be here.

“Come, it is time,” said the other voice. “The Fleet is
almost through to Federation space.”

“To where?”

“Come, Beloved,” she said, taking Apollo by the hand. “Do
not fear, Apollo. Iblis will not succeed.” As the words fell
on his ears, Apollo could feel this ethereal realm begin to
fade. No, please! I want&

Then he was back in Life Center, and dimly saw Salik
above him. The physician looked down, and smiled at his
patient. He listened as Apollo spoke, the one word barely
making it to his ears, before he moved on.

Serina.



As he contemplated his plan, Iblis watched the
Galactica enter the wormhole. Soon, his scheme, a thousand
yahrens in the making would…

“No!” he hissed, as an unwelcome presence touched his
awareness. “Them!?? NO! LUCIFER!!!”



The vibration seemed to reach an almost audible pitch,
when, suddenly, the bright smear of the wormhole opened up
before them, and Adama saw blackness. Blackness and stars.
Then, they were through, and apparently surrounded by normal
space once more. Gradually, one instrument after another
flickered back to life, and the lights began to brighten.
Adama tried the scanners, and there directly before them…

Was a Cylon fighter, heading their way! Swearing
silently, he ordered laser turrets activated, when something
flew between them and the Cylon. It was a ship, totally
unfamiliar, and the Cylon opened fire on it instead.
Repeatedly nailed by the Raider’s guns, the alien craft was
stricken, then blown to bits, all within a couple of
centons. Then, a powerfully bright beam from somewhere close
did the same to the Cylon. Who…

“Sir,” called Tigh. “The Fleet is emerging from the
wormhole behind us!”

“All of them?”

“Yes, sir!” said Tigh, heartily, for once letting his
emotions show through.

“Thank God for that. Defensive screens?”

“Coming back, sir. And both launch bays are operational.”

“Excellent. Scan for both the Viper and shuttle,
Colonel.”

“Sir,” said Omega, “another ship quartering in.”

“Transfer to my console,” he ordered. He studied the
alien ship, scanner data scrolling up alongside the image.
He recognized it from the fragmentary scan sent back earlier
by Boomer’s shuttle. Large saucer-shaped hull forward, with
cylinders projecting behind. The computer could make nothing
as yet of its power function, but residual distortion from
the wormhole was still high.

“We’re being hailed, Commander,” reported Tigh.

“Put it on.” Almost at once, Boomer’s image appeared on
his monitor. The young pilot broke into a huge smile, and in
a page right out of Starbuck-

“Well, look who showed up. We wondered when you guys
were going to make it!”

“Lieutenant Boomer! I never thought I d be so…”

“Another hail sir,” reported Tigh. “From the other vessel,
sir.” This time it wasn’t Boomer, or any friendly face. It
was, in fact, quite an ugly one, with bony forehead, long
hair, and snarling lips. Through crooked teeth, their owner
bellowed:

“This is Commander Korrd, of the Klingon Empire.
Identify yourselves, or prepare to face attack!”

“Oh frack,” muttered Tigh.



O CYLON!!! CYLON, HARVEST MOON!!!! LA DE DA, DUM DE
DUMMMMMMMMMM




For a few centons, the Cylon forces were in disarray
and confusion. The Colonial Fleet had simply disappeared in
a burst of static and interference. Fighters near the
wormhole device that did not get sucked through flew about
crazily, trying to get their bearings, and avoid crashing
either into the huge machine or one other. Some failed, and
a number of Raiders either flew into the path of the
stations automated defenses, getting blown to bits, or each
other, achieving much the same effect.

Then, they all received a recall signal from Lucifer,
aboard the command ship. Slowly, order returned to the
squadrons, and the BaseShips recovered their fighters. They
were checked, refueled, rearmed, and left waiting for the
next mission.

Lucifer did not quite know what to make of Iblis just
now. The normally suave and urbane being was raging and
spluttering, much as Baltar had when enraged by one of Adama’
s miraculous escapes. The IL was even more taken aback when
he saw the seemingly Human face waver, revealing a
countenance of unspeakable ugliness, quickly wiped away. Not
knowing what else to do, he let the apoplectic being wind
down, storing away all the unfamiliar words for later
translation and decryption. What was it about those blue
spheres that had upset him so?

“What is the status of the attack force?” asked Iblis at
last, finally bringing himself under control. Before Lucifer
could answer, there was a call. Noxious reported that a ship
of unidentified type had escaped from the ringed planet, and
eluding pursuit, dove into the wormhole device. Did Lucifer
wish them to pursue?

Such intelligence and drive, thought Lucifer. Such
initiative. No wonder we defeated the Humans so easily.

“Not yet,” replied Lucifer. “Rendezvous with me, here,
Commander.” He looked up from his console, to regard Iblis
once more. If it were not for those damnable code words the
strange being had spoken, in the voice of Imperious Leader,
triggering programs he wasn’t even aware he carried inside
and compelling his obedience. “We have suffered some minor
damage from the wormhole energy pulses, Lord Iblis, and the
fourth ship’s main drive is still off-line from the
Galactica’s missile attack. We shall, however, be ready to
resume our pursuit of the Galactica within a centar,
according to the engineer’s estimates.”

“Half a centar,” said Iblis quietly, face cold.

“But…”

“Half! No longer!” he spat, and strode from the room.

“What is his major malfunction?” muttered Lucifer.

“Sir?” asked a Centurion standing nearby.

“Never mind,” said Lucifer, and left the room as well.

“By your command.”


DEATH TO CYLONS!!! DEATH TO CYLONS!!!


No sooner had the snarling Humanoid delivered his
ultimatum, the red alert sounded once more. Several Cylon
fighters had, it seemed, come through the wormhole with them
uninvited. All defensive stations leapt into action, and
soon the Galactica was in battle once again.

But they were not, it seemed, alone. While most of the
Cylons concentrated on the Colonial ships, some fired upon
the other vessels. Adama watched as the alien craft, with
considerable precision, erased one Raider after another from
the sky, recklessly hosing power around like it was water.
As with the ship Starbuck had hijacked, their scanners could
make nothing at first of the strange power signatures, but
their intent was clear.

They were helping.



Aboard the G’roth, Korrd went from threatening to
fighting. Unseen at first, several dozen of the mysterious
fighter craft suddenly appeared from behind the gigantic
vessel that had emerged from the wormhole, and immediately
opened fire. Most, Korrd noticed, were attacking the
mysterious Human vessel and its collection of flying wrecks,
but some moved in on the Federation ships, and then his own.

“Report!” he demanded.

“Alien fighters armed with lasers, sir,” replied Kang.
“Our shields are holding.”

“Gunner, return fire.”

“Returning fire, sir!” the gunner, Kruge. The G’roth’s
lasers swept out, finding first one Cylon, then another.
Korrd was pleased with his gunner’s acumen, and surprised to
discover that their targets were manned by…

“Robots?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the scan officer. “No living beings
aboard.”

“What Federation treachery is this?” he asked, to no one
in particular.

“The ships show no Federation power signatures, sir,”
supplied the scan officer. “The alloys in their hulls are
also unlike any Federation metallurgy known to us.”

“Uhhh,” grunted Korrd, still trying to assimilate it all.
He ordered his ship to bank hard over to avoid a Raider, and
opened fire. One Raider evaporated, the other sailed past,
buttoning him right behind the bridge. The G’roth shook, and
something sparked, but he held together. Then coming around…

“Hang on!!!” someone bellowed, as a Raider, under the
range of their guns, made a high speed suicide dive on the
bridge, guns blazing. Korrd bellowed in rage, and…

Then fell silent, as the Cylon was destroyed.

“Enemy craft destroyed by a shot from the unidentified
vessel, sir,” said Kruge, obviously impressed. So was Korrd.
A salvo from the Galactica had saved his ship! Why? He moved
to the scan station, and studied the readouts on the
mysterious ship. Bigger than anything in the Imperial Fleet,
it was studded with over seventy defensive laser turrets,
several high-power pulse-laser batteries forward, six
missile tubes, and carried several squadrons of fighters.

“Well, children,” he said, actually impressed, “it would
seem that we have been saved by someone who actually
deserves our respect.”

“Sir?” said Kruge, unsure if he had misheard.

“Look at that ship, Kruge. Bristling with guns. Armor
three times the thickness of our hull. Over ten times the
size of out largest ship. That vessel was built by someone
who truly understands war!” Korrd actually laughed, nodding
at the image of the Battlestar. He touched a few controls,
and studied the letters as the ship’s name was translated.
“Gal Aktee Kah. Amazing. Communications, open a channel.”



The Enterprise had barely locked onto the surviving
piece of the Klingon vessel B’ath, when the wormhole swelled
to life once more, then faded just as quickly. The wormhole
effect caused the tractor beam to cut out momentarily, but
it was reestablished before the errant chunk of ship could
slam into the Galactica s hull.

“Wooo, that was some ride,” said Starbuck, as the
brilliant swirlings of transit passed. Though his voice was
muffled by the breather he wore, no one missed his words. He
looked over Giles shoulder at the instruments. Several were
dark, one flickered, and others still smoked from the love
pat the Cylons had given them. One engine whined
intermittently, then died, leaving them coasting on without
forward propulsion. “Man, and I thought Robber’s old
freighter was a bite to fly.”

“Well, at least that old bucket didn’t have a wing shot
off, one engine toasted, and no fuel, Buckers. If I read
this right, we have no fuel, and reserve power cells will
only last us maybe twenty centons, tops.” Giles looked back
at the wounded O’Kala. ‘How is she?” A shaken head was his
answer. Though she still breathed, even he could tell that
her end was near from the death rattle in her chest. He
turned back to the instruments, and swore.

“What?” asked someone.

“Power level’s dropping faster than I thought. The
batteries don’t seem to be holding much of a charge.” As if
to reinforce his words, the faint sound of a ventilator
suddenly stopped. “Damn. Life support’s out.”

“What can we do?” asked Sirrion.

“Nothing,” replied Giles. “We’re shot to bits.” Just then,
something on his board beeped.

“What’s that, Giles?” asked Starbuck.

“Ship quartering in. She’s big, too.”

“Can you see the Galactica?” asked Sirrion.

“I think so, if this scanner is telling me the truth.
But the comm unit is shot to Hades.” He hit a button, but the
speaker gave only static. Thompson dug through their gear
for a communicator, and passed it to the pilot.

“Look,” said Starbuck, pointing. Through the view port, a
ship was moving in, one shaped like a huge saucer. A Cylon
fighter also raced past. “Frack!”

The entire vessel shook as a salvo from the Raider hit
them a glancing blow, shearing off part of their remaining
wing. Sparks and smoke filled the cabin as the last of the
power went, and they all began to float up off the deck, the
ship tumbling end over end. A long crack appeared in the
view port, and a loud hiss filled the cabin. Giles cursed,
enraged at being so helpless, when the Cylon, diving
directly for them once again, suddenly evaporated in a
boiling cloud of wreckage.

“Who…” asked Thompson, when the little craft suddenly
rocked, the hull beginning to buckle, then the view port
exploded out into space. Someone swore, and everything faded
out…

To fade back in, inside a room the likes of which they
had never seen before. They were all in a chamber, built in
the round, and set with glowing pads on the floor, and
cylinders over their heads. For a moment, no one could move,
and their ears were filled with a loud buzzing. Then, it
faded, and they could all move and breathe again.

“…that?” finished Thompson, as the effect faded. He
slipped his breather off, took a deep breath, and could at
once sense that though the air was recycled, it was a lot
cleaner.

“Starbuck?” asked Giles, and turned around. He found his
comrade, then saw, across the room, two Humans standing
behind a console, regarding them. Slowly, Giles got to his
feet, and helped Starbuck up as well. “Uhh…” he began.

“Medical team to the transporter room,” said one man, a
young, tussled haired fellow about Starbuck s age. “Captain
they’re aboard safely.”
“Good work, Jim,” replied someone over an intercom. Their
rescuer wore a turtle-necked uniform, slightly auric in
color, and the man next to him held a weapon, similar to
what the Colonial Warriors themselves carried. He had, Giles
decided, a kind if cautious face, and inquisitive hazel
eyes. Welcome aboard the Farragut, gentlemen. I’m Lieutenant
Kirk.”






For one of the few times since his initial activation,
Lucifer wondered what it would be like to permanently cease
functioning. Did Cylons have an afterlife, such as Humans
seemed to believe in? Normally, he wouldn’t t have wasted the
CPU space pondering such an irrelevancy, but with Iblis in
his current state of…excitement, his own immediate future
seemed somewhat in doubt.

Once Noxious’ vessel had regained main power, Raiders
were transferred aboard, so that each ship could launch
fighters once they had regained contact with the Galactica.
That done, they moved up on the inner planet, then directly
in front of the mysterious space station, and waited for…

Nothing. Whatever effect had taken the Colonial Fleet
beyond their grasp did not materialize. They sat there,
transmitting all sorts of signals, then moving into the vast
cage, then out again. All through it, despite a steadily
rising power level in the object, the wormhole did not open.

It did, however, open fire. Once the wormhole had
closed, the machine’s energy level read as very low.
Gradually, steadily, it climbed, till once more power
coursed through the construction. It also scanned and
analyzed the intruders, transmitting a variety of messages.
While most were on frequencies the Cylons did not use or
monitor, one was. It was an ultimatum.

Withdraw.

Cylons, of course, don't respond well to ultimata, and
promptly transmitted one of their own. In response, the
station opened fire on the lead BaseShip, blasting one
landing bay door to slag, and seriously damaging several
laser guns. Predictably, the Cylons returned fire, only to
find some serious deflectors between them and the annoyingly
disobedient alien device. They continued to fire, till
Iblis, once again in a purple rage, descended screaming on
the Control Center, demanding that they to cease fire at
once.

The BaseShips pulled back some, to lick their wounds
and mull the next course of action. Even so, Iblis
continued, at times even slipping into the ancient Cylon
tongue, no longer used save in a few places on the Homeworld
where small groups of the original race survived. Lucifer
was surprised, but held his peace for now, extremely
desirous of holding on to his head.

“Fools! Blithering tinker toy idiots!” bellowed Iblis,
striking the command chair with his fist. It shattered,
falling over in a buckled heap. “The mighty Cylon war
machine. HA! A war machine that cannot even follow one
pathetic Human vessel? Have I wasted my time or what?” The
evil being stopped, glaring at Lucifer, clearly expecting
some sort of an answer from the IL.

“We have not yet discovered the code that triggers the
device, My Lord Iblis,” replied Lucifer, choosing carefully
the words that might very well prove to be his last.
Fleetingly, he wondered what Baltar might have said, then
even more fleetingly, the Human Warrior Starbuck. That one
seemed to have a word or retort for every possible occasion.
If they ever caught up with the Galactica, he decided, he
wanted Starbuck captured alive. That particular Human had
been so interesting, so educative, so...entertaining.

“The Humans had no trouble finding it!” glowered the
demonic creature, fists clenched. The Lord of Evil seemed to
consider a moment, then turned to one of the Centurions
manning the Control Center. “Review all frequencies used by
the Colonials, and collate them.”

“By y…” began the Cylon, when once more, the blue spheres
that seemed to upset Iblis so reappeared. One flew directly
through the body of the BaseShip, while others scurried
around the Cylon fleet. “Unidentified objects have returned,”
droned the Centurion, turning to Lucifer. In a fury, Iblis
reached out, and grabbed the Cylon by the head with one
hand.

“I told you to search for the frequencies!!” he roared,
and squeezed. The Cylon shook, then sparked as his head was
crushed by Iblis grip. A chunk of it came off in his hand,
as the twitching Centurion collapsed to the deck, spewing
smoke and sparks, its voice synthesizer squealing. Iblis
slowly finished crushing the head, and dropped it next to
the destroyed Centurion. As he did so, the mysterious
spheres vanished both from sight and scanners once more.
Iblis looked up from his latest victim, and glared death at
Lucifer, giving even the IL a real sense of fear.

“Do not fail me again, Cylon!” he said, ominously, and
then strode from the room, his robes billowing behind him.


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


“He’s a what?” asked Adama, of his Exec. Once all Viper
squadrons were back aboard, and all Raiders destroyed, they
had received another hail from the snake-headed ship, whose
name the translator matrix could make nothing of.

“A Cling On, sir,” replied Tigh. “It seems to be the name
of their race, Commander.”

“To what do they cling?” muttered Adama, before the
transmission was transferred to his station. Much to his
surprise, the bumpy-headed man did not snarl, spit, growl,
or demand surrender. Instead, he was offering thanks.

“You saved my ship, Human,” said the fearsome-looking
alien. I salute you! Then, pounding one side of his massive
chest with a fist, then shaking it savagely, he uttered
something hideously guttural.

“Q plaH!”

“What in Kobol was that?” said Omega quietly.

“Omega?” said Adama.

“Uhh, the word seems to translate roughly as success,
sir,” replied Omega.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” said Adama. “I think.
Ship’s status, Colonel.”

“Main drive still down. We have a hull breach on deck
nine and ten portside aft, and our water recycling plant is
damaged. The Rising Star was also hit by a suicide run, sir.
No casualties.”

“Another hail, Commander, said Omega. It’s from the
other ships, sir. A Captain Pike of the…Enterprise wishes to
speak with you, sir.”

“Put him on, Omega.”



“Did I mishear you, Commander?” said Kruge, turning from
his station to stare questioningly at Korrd. “Q plaH?”

‘You have a question, Lieutenant?” asked Korrd, almost
leisurely.

“Humans! You speak so to…Humans?” Kruge almost spat out
the word as if it were dead gagh.

“You have a different view, perhaps?” Korrd sat up
straight. “Please, Lieutenant. Enlighten us.”

“It’s disgusting!” snarled Kruge, rising from his seat,
to face Korrd. “You speak to them with words of Brotherhood.
Of peace.”

“They did save our ship, Lieutenant,” said Korrd, a hint
of warning just beginning to creep into his voice. “And at
risk to themselves. Surely that is worth something?” His tone
made it clear he was giving his underling the opportunity,
the chance to back down, but Kruge seemed to miss it.

“Save our ship? They robbed us of…” He broke off, as
Korrd’s gloved fist struck him across the face. Blood and a
tooth flew across the bridge.

“Honor?” said Korrd. “A glorious death in battle?” Korrd
laughed. “The day is not over yet, Lieutenant. Battle may yet
grace us with another visit.”

“But…”

“No buts, Gunner,” said Korrd, his voice going hard-
edged. “Or, do you challenge my decision?”

“I challenge softness,” snarled Kruge, and drew his
dagger. “I challenge weakness.”

“I see,” said Korrd, and drew his own weapon, almost
lackadaisically. “That is your right, soldier.” He locked eyes
with Kruge, his expression somewhere between challenge and
derision. Snarling, Kruge lunged, but the heavy-set Korrd
side-stepped his attack with surprising ease, bringing his
heavy boot up, into Kruge’s gut. The gunner oofed, stumbled,
and reached out to catch himself. Barely had he done so when
Korrd clamped a meaty hand on one arm, whirled him around,
and with a smile, plunged his dagger into Kruge’s abdomen.

The gunner grunted, and gagged up a mouthful of blood
before sagging to his knees. Korrd pulled the knife from his
foe, and wiped it off on his subordinate’s uniform before
returning it to its sheath. He let go of Kruge, who plopped
down onto his face, and motioned for him to be removed. As
the bleeding officer was dragged away, he looked at Kang,
and slowly scanned the rest. No one else challenged him.

“He'll make a fair officer, if he lives,” said Korrd. “But
he is utterly lacking in subtilty. Sometimes, putting your
enemy at his ease can be a powerful weapon, my children. If
these newcomers are no threat to us, so be it. If they are,
then allaying their fears strengthens us.” He was silent a
moment. “Any questions?” There were none. “Very well,” said
Korrd, regaining his seat. “Kang!”

“Sir?”

“Ship’s status. Scan officer, disposition of Tholian and
Federation forces!”




Pike found the ride to the Galactica in the Colonial
shuttle to be much smoother than he’d expected. That, and he
had an escort, as well. As he looked out one of the ports,
he could see Bojay, flying alongside in his Viper, as they
approached the Battlestar. As soon as hostilities had
ceased, he’d sent a standard hail to the huge vessel, and
once the translator had gotten a handle on the language, he
had accepted the invitation of the vessel’s commander, a man
named Adama.

Bojay’s fighter led the way, and while it was still in
need of some serious work, it would hold together until they
reached the Galactica. As he watched the alien warship grow
larger ahead, Pike reflected that the Viper had fared better
than the Klingon ship, B’ath. Blown apart in the recent
fight, Pike had used the Enterprise’s tractor beam to grab
hold of the bow section before it could ram the Battlestar
at high speed.

Of the six Klingons in the forward section, only three
had survived. Two, Lieutenants Mara, a female, and a huge
brute named Worf, snarling about Federation treachery and
spitting threats, were warming a cell in the brig, utterly
lacking in gratitude at being saved from certain death. The
third, an Ensign Korax, was in Sickbay, his life hanging by
a thread. Pike had never met a Klingon woman before, didn’t
even know they served aboard warships. He shook his head,
smiling slightly.

What funny names Klingons have.

He came back to the here and now, as they approached
the Galactica’s port landing bay. Once again, the sheer size
of this ship impressed him, as did its collection of
ramshackle remoras. Here and there, the Battlestar’s hull
was scarred and burned by the wounds of war, yet they had
kept her going. Once inside the bay, he felt the gravity
shift, and the shuttle touched down. It taxied to its berth,
and he stood, along with Spock, Number One, and Doctor
Boyce, and prepared to debark.

“What do you think of her so far, Captain?” asked Boomer,
as he powered down the shuttle.

“Impressive, Lieutenant,” replied Pike, sincerely. “I’ve
only seen space stations this size, never actual ships.”

“I wish you could have seen our Fleet when we had many
Battlestars,” said Boomer, unbuckling. “Now there was a sight
to behold.” The Warrior led them aft, and popped the hatch.
As he stepped out onto the Galactica’s deck, Pike was at
once aware of the difference in gravity. A normal one gee
for these people was definitely a bit stronger than what a
man from Earth was accustomed to. He also could feel the
slightly greater air pressure.

Differences.

Across the bay was a lift dropping down from above, and
among those in it, he caught sight of a tall, white-haired
man he at once recognized as Adama. He wore a blue uniform,
similar in style and cut to Boomer’s, but with more
elaborate insignia. He also wore a cape, which struck Pike
as an odd affectation, but perhaps the culture these people
came from went in for that sort of thing. Adama crossed the
distance between them quickly, his movements full of vigor
despite his apparent age, and greeted his guests. Spock, in
a rare concession, shook hands with the man, utterly
oblivious, so it seemed, to the looks he was getting.

Pike introduced his people, and Adama did likewise. At
that moment Bojay rejoined them, and the Commander actually
embraced the wayward Viper pilot, like a returning prodigal.

“He’s in Life Station,” said an older, husky black man,
introduced as Colonel Tigh, in response to Bojay’s inquiry
about Apollo, who always greeted guests with his father.
Dismissed, he at once ran for the lift.

“A very impressive ship, Commander,” said Number One,
looking around the cavernous bay. Here and there, they could
make out sections of deck and bulkhead that looked decidedly
the worse for wear. Metal plates darkened and buckled,
welded haphazardly into place. Electrical conduits routed
willy-nilly. Lights gone dark. Obviously, the Galactica had
taken her share of punishment getting her load of survivors
this far.

“Thank you. So are yours,” replied Adama. “If you will
accompany me, gentlemen, madam.”

Adama took them on a brief tour, including the bridge.
Pike was once more impressed by the layout of the area, so
different from the standard Federation design. Across the
vast room, the open view port gave a panorama of the stars,
and the Federation ships. The place was a veritable hive of
activity, as techs scurried about like bees, racing to make
the ship battleworthy once more.

“An efficient, logical layout, Commander,” said Spock,
watching some techs work on Omega’s helm console.

“Thank you, Lieutenant…ah…”

“Spock, Commander. Spock.”

“Spock,” said Adama, trying out the unfamiliar word. “Yes,
we have found it the best arrangement for what our ship has
to do. It’s been refined over generations of war experience.”

“How sad,” said the Vulcan, “that your people have not
been permitted to direct their obviously formidable talents
in more peaceful directions.”

“My sentiments exactly,” replied Adama. “All things
considered, I’d much rather be back home, in my back garden
on Caprica, enjoying the sunshine and my family, then here. No
offense.”

“None taken,” said Pike.

From there, they’retired to Adama’s quarters. Though he
personally eschewed emotion, Spock could see that the
Galactica’s Commander was under considerable stress. The
slight break in his voice, when he had spoken the word family, had made it plain that something more than just the
Colonial Fleet was amiss. The pilot Bojay had spoken of
Apollo. A relative? Perhaps Adama’s son?

On their way, they were met by a striking older woman,
introduced as a Siress Tinia from the Council of Twelve.
Adama explained how they had, even during their flight,
attempted to keep alive their political institutions. This
Tinia was sent by the Council to meet and assess the
newcomers.

They sat for over two hours, discussing the situation,
and the flight from the Cylons. Adama felt sure, and Pike
agreed, that sooner or later, the Cylons would figure out a
way to follow them through the wormhole. The old man shook
his head.

“Over 50,000 light-yahren. It’s incredible, Captain. I
would never have believed it possible. Our finding that
abandoned system was truly a Godsend.”

“At that distance,” said Pike, “you’re effectively beyond
their reach forever. Even assuming they knew which direction
to head.”

“Thank the Lords of Kobol for that,” said Tinia. “Now, you
said you are from Earth?” The tension in her voice was palpable. But then, from what they’d heard, Earth was the virtual raison d’etre for their
existence, since escaping the Cylons.

“We are,” said Pike, indicating his people, “but Mr. Spock
is a native of the planet Vulcan, which is an ally, and
fellow member of the Federation.”

“We have sought Earth for so long,” said Adama, the
weariness in his voice becoming evident. “Our ancestor
brothers.”

“I see,” said Pike. He gestured at Spock, who handed his
tricorder over to the Captain. Opening it, Pike brought up a
file, and turned the device towards Adama. The Colonials
gazed, seemingly enrapt, at the image of Earth on the tiny
screen.

“The same,” Adama said, almost reverently. After a few
moments, Adama activated the monitor on his desk, and called
up a file of his own. He turned it towards his guests. “This
is the only image of Earth we still have, Captain. Sent back
to our motherworld of Kobol by a probe long, long ago.”

“You were right, Adama,” said Tigh. “It is real.’

“And you'll get to see it very soon,” said Pike. “Provided
the Klingons…”

They turned as the door to Adama’s quarters opened, and
a little boy of about seven or so entered, accompanied by a
bizarre, furry robot. The intrusion was completed by a
slender, attractive blonde woman, dressed in a type of
uniform they had not yet seen.

“Grandpa, I…” began the boy, but the woman interrupted.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Commander. I didn't realize you had…” She
stopped, as she caught sight of Spock. “Ah…” Adama introduced
them, and then noticed Boxey’s expression. Red-eyed, tight-
lipped, the boy was in great distress.

‘Apollo?” asked Adama, for a moment his iron control
slipping.

“It’s bad, Commander,” said Cassiopeia. “He’s slipped into
a coma. Doctor Salik gives him maybe twenty-eighty.”

‘He's gonna die, just like momma!” cried Boxey, utterly
miserable. Adama embraced the boy, despite the guests, and
let him sob.

“Pardon my asking,’ said Boyce, “but my interest is
medical. What is the man’s, uh, Apollo? What’s his
condition?”

“He has a broken neck,’ said Cassie. “As well as a
punctured lung, and other internal injuries. It’s bad. He’s
paralyzed, and in a lifepod.”

“Commander,” said Boyce, “we have several of your people
aboard one of our ships. I’m told that our physiological
compatibility is excellent. I would be happy to offer
whatever help our Sickbay can provide.”

“By...by all means,” said Adama, his reserve slipping
slowly back into place. “Come.”

He led them through the vast ship, which at almost
every turn seemed to be swarming with repair personnel. Life
Station, as it was called, was packed to the ceiling almost.
Boyce could at once instinctively recognize his Colonial
colleague. Sweaty, tired, scrubs bloody, racing from patient to patient,
the fellow looked like a one man ER all by himself.

“Cassie!” he called, seeing her, “four’s ready to be
transferred.”

“Right, Doctor.” She sped off to comply.

Adama introduced the Enterprise crew, and Salik
considered Boyce’s offer. But, there was no professional
jealousy in the man’s response. In fact, he welcomed it. The
Galactica’s medical stores were badly depleted in several
areas. Critical drugs were entirely gone or in short supply,
two of the life pods were off-line thanks to a lack of
spares, and on any planet-bound hospital, many of the
surgical instruments would have been long since replaced.
Pike watched as the two physicians talked, instantly liking
Salik. A competent, compassionate man trying to patch
together torn and savaged bodies with dwindling resources.

Salik’s eyes lit up. Apparently, a deal of sorts had
been struck. Both Commanders gave the go ahead, and before
long they were ready.

“I'll prep the shuttle,” said Cassie.

“No need,” said Number One. “We can transport your people
aboard from here.”

“Excuse me?” asked Salik. Number One explained the
transporter, and Salik frowned. What effect would this have
on his patients, he wanted to know. As they conversed, and
Spock called Enterprise, Boyce looked over, to see Adama,
standing over a large cylinder, connected by tubes to the
ceiling, containing the body of a young, dark-haired man.
Adama was speaking softly, but too far away for the
translator to make anything of it. As he did so, a tall,
gorgeous brunette, dressed in blue as he was, joined him,
putting her arm around the Commander.

“Who is that?” Boyce asked Siress Tinia.

“That’s Lieutenant Athena, Doctor. Adama’s daughter.”

“And the young man?”

“His only remaining son. Captain Apollo.”

“I see. Thank you.”



An hour later, aboard Enterprise, Adama stood by as
Apollo was prepped for surgery. He felt helpless, like a
pilot with no Viper, as he watched Boyce and his people
begin work. This ship, he had to admit, was indeed
impressive. While much smaller than his own, the Enterprise
and her sisters packed power. Perhaps enough to help them,
one day, defeat the Cylons.

Or were the Cylons behind them, now, literally as well
as figuratively? Earth was, so Pike told him, only a few
days travel away at maximum warp. Perhaps…

“Bridge to Captain,” came a voice over a speaker.

“Pike here.”

“The Reliant has arrived, sir,” said Spock.

“Good news, Mr. Spock. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. Sensors have detected another Klingon ship.
ETA four hours, eleven minutes, sir.”

“I see,” sighed Pike, obviously displeased. “And?”

“And the Tholians will be here in less than an hour,
sir.”

“Joy all around. Very well, Mr. Spock. I’m on my way.” He clicked off,
and turned to Adama.

“You have to go,” said the old Warrior. “I understand. I'll just wait here.”

“Good luck,” said Pike, and turned and left.

Klingons, thought Adama. Tholians. What have we sailed
into?




Aboard the Tholian cruiser Kreeda, Commander
Gommeed watched the sensor displays at his station. As
expected, there were Federation ships in the Qgweth
system, directly ahead. Once more, the Humans were pushing
the Assembly, skirting at the edges of the Treaty. He
counted...four Federation vessels, one just dropping below
lightspeed. Once gain, Gommeed cursed his people’s lack of
hyperlight drive. It was what had given the Humans their
advantage in their war with the Tholian Assembly.

But now there seemed to be more than just Federation
ships in the system. If the scanner readings were to be
believed, there were scores of other vessels, most of which
matched nothing whatsoever in his ship s database. After a
few moments, his computer came back with an ID on two of
them.

Klingons. Gommeed would have frowned, or stroked his
chin, if his race could have done so, or had chins. As it
was, his crystalline body flickered through several colors,
indicating his state of mind. So, there were Klingons, here.
Had they attempted to conquer the system, and the Humans
fought them to stop it? If so, perhaps the Assembly should
be grateful. From the amount of debris he was beginning to
detect, it seemed a possibility, but what of the other
ships? There were no records of any inhabitants in this
system, ever. No ships, other than the Human and Klingon
vessels, had been detected approaching, so where had they
come from?

He transmitted all his sensor data back to base, to see
if perhaps higher ups had any information on the strange
vessels, or the mysterious energy pulses that had burst from
the system recently. Gommeed and his science officer both
agreed that a connection between the two was likely, but
then, one could never be certain, where the sly and cunning
Federation was concerned. And, though he had never
previously encountered any Klingons himself, Gommeed
understood them to be similarly lacking in proper behavior.

“The lead newcomer vessel is enormous, Commander,” said
the scan officer, putting a sensor graphic up on a screen.
Gommeed moved closer, studying it. It was indeed huge, far
more massive than any vessel his people had ever
constructed, or had the ability to. For a moment, the
Tholian felt a surge of pure envy. Over twenty krell long.
There were now over two hundred ships within the system.

“It would appear at first sight to be some kind of
warship,” said Gommeed. “Laser guns. Launch tubes.”

“It must be an invasion force, Commander,” said Gommeed’s
second, Loskeem. “So many vessels cannot be here just to
explore.” Loskeem said the word like it was ice in his
mouth.

“Perhaps,” said Gommeed, “but I will know the truth,
before I begin knitting my enemies, Sub-Commander.”

“Sir,” said Loskeem, conceding. “Do we hail them?”

“Not yet. We will follow standard procedure, Sub-
Commander, and I wish to gain as much information as
possible before we arrive. Time to interception, helm?”

“We will reach the position of the Federation vessels in
seventeen poold't, Commander,” came the reply.

“Excellent. Contact the Ultur. Prepare all defenses.”


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


Aboard the G’roth, Commander Korrd studied both the
messages from the High Command, and the local radio
intercepts. Imperial Intelligence had no data at all on any
of the ships in the recently arrived fleet. Most were
basically similar to the sorts of ships used in the early
days of space flight, before the perfection of anti-matter
containment, and the development of warp drive, but not a
single configuration was known. The same was true for the
attacker vessels.

The codes used by the newcomers had, so far, defied
decryption, but his people did report, fortunately for them,
success in decrypting at least one Federation message home.
The newcomers were, definitely, Humans, from some as yet
unknown part of the galaxy. They also were being pursued by
a relentless, indefatigable foe, called Cylon. Apparently,
wherever it was they hailed from, these Cylons were a power
to be reckoned with.

Wreckage from the Cylon fighter ships had been beamed
aboard, and was undergoing preliminary analysis. Like the
mysterious Human vessels, these craft too seemed rather
primitive, at least as far as their power systems went.
Their lasers, however, were quite respectable, as both he,
and the B’ath, had reason to know. The data from their
onboard computers had yet to be salvaged, but one thing
about the alien Cylons was now abundantly clear.

They were robots. Much to his astonishment, each of the
enemy fighters had been flown by a robotic crew. Three of
the mechanical men had manned each ship. Apparently, the
aliens needed to work in groups to operate their fighters.
Not surprising, since, at least in the Empire’s experience,
even the best artificial intelligence system lacked the
necessary initiative to operate fully independently. This
was a good thing, of course. After all, if you made the
computers too smart, they might end up taking over. Korrd
looked at Enterprise on his main screen, and wondered if the
Federation had ever toyed with independently intelligent
computers.

No, he told himself. They would never be that stupid.

He was roused from his contemplation by two messages.
Kruge would, it seemed, survive. Though he kept his face
stonily indifferent, Korrd was inwardly pleased. He had no
real wish to kill anyone, save of course for the enemies of
the Empire. Now, Kruge would not only have something to,
hopefully, augment his education, but a nice, livid scar,
worthy of a Warrior. It would make a better Klingon out of
the young officer.

It sure as Stovokor better!

The second message was less to his liking. The Chief
Security officer called up from the ship’s one and only
science lab, and reported a problem. Or, at least that’s
what it sounded like, Korrd thought. All he actually said
was: “Commander..uuhghhh...” Nothing more. Korrd at once rose,
called for more Security officers, and taking Kang with him,
headed aft. At the hatch to the laboratory, both men drew
weapons, and Kang, using the bulkhead as cover, slapped the
control pad with his foot. The hatch slid open, to reveal…

A Cylon Centurion, standing over the broken, twisted
corpses of three Klingon Warriors, it’s dented, scorched
armor bespattered with lavender blood, and holding a
disruptor pistol in one dripping hand. For a moment, the
three just stood there, staring, the Klingons unable at
first to actually believe what they were looking at. Three
trained, armed soldiers, slaughtered by a...machine? The Cylon
spoke first.

“Humans, surrender or be terminated.” It raised the
weapon with incredible speed, and pointed it at the
Klingons, just as the first of the Security men appeared.
The weapon fired, ripping one Klingon’s guts to shreds, and
blasting a hole in the opposite bulkhead. Everyone lurched
back for a moment, and the door to the lab closed. Korrd
checked on the fallen soldier, though he hardly needed to.
The man’s guts were flayed from his bones, his blood and
cauterized entrails spilling out onto the deck, his mouth
and eyes open in a silent scream. The bulkhead wasn't
looking much better.

“Sir,” asked one of the guards, “what was that? A
Federation spy?”

“No,” said Korrd, and explained as best he could. As he
spoke, from inside, he could hear the weapon fire once more.
He opened his mouth again, when the bridge called. The
Captain of the Enterprise was hailing them. He specifically
wished to speak with the G’roth's Commander.

“Well, my children,” he said, “it would seem we have a
problem.”

“Or two,” muttered Kang.

“Or two.”


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


“Farragut?” asked Starbuck, of the young Human officer who had
beamed he and his party aboard this vessel. They had been escorted
to the ship s Life Station, called Sickbay, and examined by the
Federation doctors. They had been rescued, with literally
picocentons to spare, from their dying ship, by what had been
described as a transporter . Starbuck hadn't a clue as to what it
was or how it worked, but it had, and that was good enough for
him.

When their ship’s engines had been destroyed, they’d all
gotten a serious dose of radiation. However, the Federation
doctors had administered drugs to take care of that, and Starbuck
had to admit, he felt pretty good right now. Giles had taken
flying debris from the decompression, and Sirrion as well.
Thompson however was just fine…

Which was more than they could say for O'Kala. Literally
centons from death, she’d been rushed here, and the ship’s CMO, a
Doctor with the improbable name of Ariana Livia Chegwidden-
Bonzetti, had at once set to. As he had when Cree had been
captured by the Cylons on Arcta, Starbuck felt personally
responsible for O'Kala's condition. After all, she was part of his
team, and it was part of his duty as the team CO to safeguard each
and every one of his team’s lives, even at the cost of his own. As
he often did on losing someone, Starbuck felt the guilt of
surviving, when others didn't, or might not. How many pilots had
he seen burn up under Cylon guns, while he kept returning to the
Galactica, time after time? Bunker? Taggs?

Zac.

No, stop it!!! Don t go there! He shook his head. I'll bet
Apollo never feels any…

“It never gets easy, does it?” asked a voice. Starbuck looked
up, to see the young officer who had rescued them. “Lieutenant
Kirk,” he said, extending his hand.

“Lieutenant Starbuck, Blue Squadron. What did you mean?”

“The look on your face, watching her.” Kirk indicated the
operating area, where O'Kala was being treated. “It’s never easy,
when you’re the one in charge, and one of your team gets hurt.”

“Well,” stammered Starbuck, a little uneasy at how easily
someone he’d only just met had been able to read him like the Book
of the Word under a scanner. “I...uh, you said this ship was called
what?”

Kirk smiled, understanding the pilot’s dodge perfectly, and
began to tell him about both the ship, and the 19th Century
Admiral she d been named after. He also explained the Federation,
Earth’s place in it, and listened intently to Starbuck’s
description of the Colonies, her military, and the relation of the
various powers in that far away sector. As they talked, Giles and
Sirrion rejoined them, then Thompson. Kirk suggested they retire
to the rec room down the corridor, but Starbuck didn't want to
leave O'Kala. Not while she was…

“Look, son,” said one of the junior physicians, his accent new
and odd to the Colonials, “your friend’s in excellent hands. You
won’t do her a damn bit of good hanging around here, worrying
yerself to death. Go with the Lieutenant, and relax.”

“But…” said Giles.

“No buts, son,” said the dark-haired doctor. “I hereby prescribe
that you go. Now, get ‘em outta here, Jim.”

“Yes, Doctor,” said Kirk, and led the group towards the door.
“Besides,” he added, “the Captain will want to talk to you all.” As
they filed out the door, Kirk looked back at the young doctor.
“Thanks, Bones.”

“No problem.”



Aboard Enterprise, Omega sat next to Rigel, recovering on a
biobed in Sickbay. While Adama had returned to the ship, he had
granted temporary leave to all who had injured loved ones here.
She had not regained consciousness since launching the missile
attack on the BaseShip, and had shown no signs that she ever
would. Her vital signs had slowly, if continuously slipped, till
she was almost on full support.

“We made it,” he said to her softly, speaking in the now-rare,
little-used Virgon dialect they shared from their common
homeworld. Without realizing it, he’d taken her hand in his own,
stroking it in unconscious time to the sound of her pulse on the
monitor. “We’re nearly there, Ri,” he said. “We’ve found Humans,
powerful enough to defeat the Cylons. And Earth, Ri. Earth is only
a few days away from here! We finally made it.”

He looked at her face, still partly covered by the bandages
that wound about her head. It had been a near thing, Dr Boyce told
him. A huge blood clot on her cortex, spreading deep into her
brain, had been literally hours from rupturing a major artery.
With all the shortages on the Galactica, Selik had been able to do
far less than he might have otherwise. Here, thankfully, the
medical staff had saved her life with centons to spare.

A home, Babe, Omega went on, still holding Rigel s hand.
Finally, a real place to live, not cubicle inside an oversized
metal box, always on the run. Sun. A sky. A place for our& He
choked, nearly breaking down. While the doctors had been able to
save her life, they had not been able to do the same for her
unborn baby. With all the shock, trauma, and cascade of
medications…Omega tried to get control over himself, but the tears
just refused to be put off. He sat, rocking like a child, and
weeping like one. He didn’t hear the footsteps of someone drawing
close, or their voice. It was only when they touched him that he
began to come back to reality.

I wish there was something I could say, said Sheba, taking a
seat next to his. But words seem so…empty at times like this,
Omega.

You re here, Lieutenant, he managed to get out, getting
control over himself. That means a lot. He took a deep breath, and
looked up at the biomonitors. How s Captain Apollo?

“He just came out of surgery. Their Doctor said it would be
awhile before he can give a definite prognosis.” She pulled up a
chair, and sat next to him. “His spinal cord wasn’t severed, but he
had a lot of internal injuries.” Like Omega, she felt terrified at
the possibility of losing the one she loved. But, unlike his
situation, the child she carried was in no danger. She couldn’t
bring herself to tell him…

“It’ll kill the Commander, if he loses Apollo, too,” said Omega
finally. “When Zac was lost, it was like a big part of him was cut
out. He’s never talked about it, but sometimes…sometimes you can
see it in his eyes. The pain, the emptiness, where his son was.”

“Well, Zac didn’t die in vain,” replied Sheba, slowly. “We’ve
made it to Earth space, Omega. We’ve done it. Soon, we’ll have a
home. A new, real home. We…” She stopped, and shook her head. Omega
had fallen asleep, his hand still holding Rigel’s. She smiled, and
stood, patting him on the head, and left him in peace. Lords, the
man hadn‘t slept in days. Returning to the other ward, she saw
Apollo, lying still, on another biobed. Like Omega, she began
talking to him, uncertain if he could even hear her. They said
unconscious people could hear what was said to them, by others.
She wasn’t sure she believed it, but then again, why not?

“You’re going to be okay,” she said, softly. “You’ll be out
there, flying that Viper again in no time, Apollo. And then, when
we get to Earth, we can have a home. A place to raise our son.” She
pressed her lips together, blinking back a tear. “Yes, it s a boy,
Apollo. Their Doctors gave me some sort of scan. I didn’t even
know, yet. Zac, Apollo. We’ll call him Zac, and…”

“How is he?” asked a voice. Sheba started, unaware she had
company, and turned to face Boomer.

“He’s…he s doing okay,” replied Sheba. “Their doctor seems to
think he’ll make it.” She wiped an eye, hoping Boomer hadn’t
noticed. “Uh, how’s…how s the Fleet?”

“Well, we’ve moved away from the wormhole site, and entered
orbit around one of this system’s planets. Two of the Federation
ships are with us, in case those Klingons attack again. The repair
crews are going full tilt, and we re getting a lot of help from
the Federation folks.”

“That’s good, she said, getting to her feet. She looked down
at Apollo.”

“Come on, Sheba. Let’s get something to eat.”

“Thanks, Boomer, but I…”

“Are not a doctor. Neither one of us can help Apollo by
sitting here. Their doctors can look after him now, and they’ll
keep us posted if anything happens. Now come on. One of their rec
rooms is right down the corridor. It may not be the Officer’s Club
on a Battlestar, but they do have a passable drink. Something
called, uh…beer.”

“Okay, Boomer,” she surrendered. “But I don’t feel much like
drinking.”

“Don’t worry. Their food synthesizer also makes something a
lot like klebreen, back home. My treat.”

“Klebreen?”

“Well, they call it lasagna here. Or something like it.”

“Boomer? You are beginning to remind me of Starbuck.”

“Ah! You wound me, Sheba. Ouch. Ouch.”


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


Aboard the Galactica, engineers and technicians were still
scurrying about like termites in an overturned mound. So many of
the Battlestar’s systems were in need of repairs, or even basic
maintenance, it was hard to know where to start. Fortunately, once
basic repairs to Enterprise were completed, Pike had agreed to
Adama’s request for assistance, and allowed an engineering party
to beam over to the Colonial carrier. Garrovik on Farragut, and
Stone on Constellation had permitted one as well.

“Lord above!” said Scotty, as he got his first look at the
Battlestar’s engine room. At first, it bore scant resemblance to
the Enterprise’s power plant, but soon his engineer’s eye was
beginning to make sense of it all. The huge reaction chambers,
eight for each side, were nearly as big as the Enterprise main
warp core. Here and there, amidst the conduits and tangles of
machinery, he could see signs of damage. Burned consoles, bypassed
busses, bulkheads scorched by one catastrophe after another. He
swore as he nearly tripped over cables bridging surviving systems.

Scott set his equipment bag down, and opened his tricorder,
scanning the entire assembly. Comparing it with the engineering
data given them earlier by Chief Engineer Shadrick, it was plain
just how much punishment the Battlestar’s engines and power
systems had taken during their flight from the Cylons. He shook
his head, over and over, as he read of dead circuits, overstressed
seals, and jury-rigged bypasses that made the L.A. Freeway system
look straightforward.

Shadrick found the Earthman to be perhaps the most attuned to
the feel of machinery of anyone he’d ever met. Within centons of
beginning his checks, Scott was already suggesting modifications
and repairs that left him feeling both impressed, and like the
cadet who’s dead last in his class.

“Tylium” said Shadrick, answering a question about their main
power source. He explained both the mineral, and how its refined
byproducts were used in the engines, as Scott began making
requisitions of the Enterprise’s stores. “When fully refined and
processed, it is both highly reactive, as well as emitting
considerable radion levels.”

“I see,” said Scotty. “She’s not unlike the basic propulsion
system used in the old DY-500 class ‘o ships, back before warp
drive, Mr. Shadrick. I’m surprised ye can actually make it inta
warp at all.” Scott waited till the translator had rendered warp
drive into the Colonial engineer’s language. Since their science
did not use the same method of achieving superluminal speeds,
there was no warp of the continuum involved. The Colonials, and he
presumed the Cylons as well, just used brute force to achieve FTL
velocities. A crude, if interesting approach, he decided.

“Like usin a fire hose ta fill a teacup,” he muttered to
himself.

It wasn't long before dead instruments began to flicker back
to life, newly fabricated circuits were slid into place, and old
seals and filters were being replaced. While engines of this vast
size and intricacy would usually require months in dock, Scott was
determined that his people would do the ship’s designers proud.
Besides, he just loved the challenge!



On the bridge, Tigh turned to Adama- “Engineering reports
repairs proceeding two centons ahead of schedule, Commander. Air
filtration plant four is now back on-line, sir.”

“Appreciated by all,” replied Adama, taking a tentative sniff.
Yes, the air was beginning to smell marginally bet