Battlestar Galactica 01 - Battlestar Galactica

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FROM THE ADAMA JOURNALS:
More than a thousand years ago, the war with the Cylons began abruptly-without warning, without even
a formal declaration that war was to be. Like pirates, showing nothreats and cowering beneath false
colors, the Cylons opened -fire on our merchant ships without even an invocation to heave to, or a
cautionary blast from a laser cannon. They came to destroy, and they destroyed our ships by the
thousands. A fleet of their warships, base stars as they are sometimes called, headed for the twelve
worlds. Arrogantbeings that they were, the Cylons did not anticipate that wewould be ready for them.
Wewere ready for them and for thenext thousand years we continued in battle readiness.
But a thousand years is a long time, even when theduration of some years is compressed by the time
twistings of space travel. We forgot the extent of Cylon treachery.Instead, we became slaves to our own
myths. We could not besubjugated, we were resourceful people who loved freedom, we welcomed
adventure. When the Cylons offered peacejustas abruptly as they had initiated hostilities, we had
forgottenthat they were not to be trusted. We embarked on the peacemission with hope, with the
expectation that ten centuries ofunceasing warfare would finally be ended. Peaceably we hadexplored
myriad diverse worlds of the universe, peaceably wehad established the system of twelve worlds that
became ourmain colonies, peaceably we would live again. Joy grew inour hearts. Those of us whose lives
had been totallycommitted to the war should have known better, should have perceived that the joy in
our hearts had a strategicsignificance. The more we moved away from the facts thatformed the structure
of our design, the more we became likethe politicians who governed us, men and women who had so
clouded their minds with thewords of power that theymisunderstood the words of the powerful when
theysmilingly offered peace.
I keep saying thatwe should have known better. That is the fallacy of the democratic instinct. / should
have knownbetter. Coping with an alien mind that was not understand-able had always been my special
ability. For once it failed me.Afterwards, 1 vowed it should never fail me again.
CHAPTER ONE
The contact sensor implanted in Zac's jumpsuit at mid-back sent waves of tingling impulses up and down
his spine. Thesensor system detected an anomaly inthissector of space; itsmild, pulsing stings notified Zac
to check it out. Excitedanticipation joined the induced impulses as he keyed in theautomatic search and
watched data, both in numbered anddiagram form, accumulate on his scanner screen. When hehad first
returned to the battlestarGalactica as a green ensigngrown overconfident with the informational input of
space-academy training, Zac had been counseled by his father,Commander Adama, not to become too
excited about thewar or anything connected with it. The war had been goingon for a thousand years,
Adama had said, no need towelcome it as if it were your best friend. However, Zac hadnever been able
to lose the thrill of zooming through space inhis very own sleek-lined fighter plane and blasting Cyloncraft
into pieces of infinity. Now that he was a lieutenant, at23 years old way past his majority, he still felt the
sameeagerness for battle he had known on his first launch from theGalactica'sspacedeck.
His scanner now displayed the flaw that the warningsystem had located. Two unidentified aerial devices
hanging near an old moon, called Cimtar on the star map, that orbitedaround the decaying orbit of the
single planet ofthisout-of-the-way, never inhabited solar system. A perfect spot from which to ambush
the Colonial Fleet. As part of a vanguardpatrol for the Fleet, it was Zac's duty to investigate thisbizarre,
lurking threat.
"Something..." said the voice of Apollo. Apollo'swhisper was so sibilant, his words were so precisely
enunciated, that Zac could have sworn his brother was rightthere in the cockpit with him instead of
scouting in anotherfighter some distance away.
"Yeah," Zac said, "1 see them. What do you think?"
"We'll think about it after checking it out. Might be aCylon patrol."
"Maybe. Awful long way from home, though. Where'stheir base ship?"
"No base ship maybe. Long-range reconnaissance craft,refueling vessels carrying extra Tylium.
Strange...."
"What, Apollo?"
One thing Zac had learned as a cockpit jockey was tolisten to any of his brother's suspicions.
"I'm not picking up anything but static on the far side of those guys, Zac."
Apollo was right. Zac glanced at his scanner, saw only thetwo mysterious blips and an odd, steady field
of staticinterference beyond them. The static appeared to indicate astorm, but no storms had been
charted earlier for this sector.
"See what you mean," Zac said. "1 thought there wassomething off with my scanner."
"Could be a storm, though that doesn't make...."
Apollo's voice drifted off, leaving behind a note ofpuzzled concern in the staticky silence. After a
moment,Apollo said,"Ifitis a storm, the Fleet'11 be coming rightthrough it, and soon. We'd better go have
a look. Kick in theturbos."
"But Apollo, the standing orders on conserving fuelspecifically forbid use of turbos, except under battle
conditions or making the jump back to base."
Zac could have predicted his brother's irritated response.' "Kid, don't let that peace conference back of
us interferewith your judgment. Until we get official notice of a signing,anything goes. These are still the
front lines."
On his. ear-receptors, Zac could hear the thunderous acceleration of Apollo's ship as final punctuation to
hisrebuke. Okay, he thought, let's get to it. Pre-battle tension enveloped his whole body. It felt good. Zac
ferociouslypushed the trio of turbo engagement buttons and shoved hisfoot down on a pedal. The
resulting thrust drove him backagainst his seat.
As they hurtled toward the old moon, Apollo felt uneasythat there should be any kind of disturbance
within the unpopulated Lianus Sector. It just didn't check out. Theorders his father had sent out
specifically commanded that allships, whether war or merchant, should transmit their exact locations at all
times. There was no reason that any of them should have forgotten, no strategic or trade reason for them
to take the dangerous chance of hiding out. When youeliminated all the known twelve-colony ships,
includingoutlaw craft, there was only one solution. Cylons. It wasn't asolution Apollo particularly wanted
to come to.
Zac's voice came through the com.
"Hey, brother?"
"What is it, kid?"
"I know why I drew this duty. Tigh's shafting me-no,mark that out-Tigh's teaching me a lesson for that
little rest-and-recuperation escapade with Paye's chief nurse in sickbay. But how did you get stuck with
this patrol?"
Zac always had to know everything. Sometimes hisyouthful curiosity annoyed the hell out of Apollo.
"Oh," Apollo said, "I was figuring that, once the armisticeis signed, they'll be turning out all of us
warriors, sending usto one of those planets where they force you into so much organized leisure you go
out of your mind with boredom. So-I just wanted one last bite of a mission."
"Uh huh," Zac said. "Say, it wouldn't be because youwanted to ride herd on your overeager young
brother, wouldit? I mean, watchdogging me for the duration of this-"
"Stop that, Zac. I'm not watchdogging you. Not at all.Like I said, I-"
"You sure,big brother?"
Apollo hated the sarcastic emphasis on the word big.Sometimes his kid brother could be a royal pain in
the blast-oft tubes.
"Don't be silly, Zac. You've got a fine battle record-notto mention the tiresome old datum that you came
throughwith the highest marks in the history of the academy. 1 don'tneed to ride herd on-""Forget it,
Apollo."
The com crackled in silence for a moment, then Zac spokeagain:
"Say, what're you going to do when the armistice 15signed?Really go to one of those boring leisure
planets?"Apollo smiled. He was not sure that Zac, who alwaysneeded somebody around to talk to,
would understand whathe was about to say.
"When the war's officially over, 1 don't think 1 want tosettle down onany planet. Just long enough to
refuel andrelaunch."
More crackle from the com before Zac's voice camethrough again.
"Well, whatare you planning for the postwar time,Apollo?"
"Not sure. But there's a lot of space still to explore. That'sthe real challenge, Zac-deep star exploration.
Who knows what we'll find beyond the twelve colonies?"
"Long as it's not more Cylons. They give me the creeps.You looking forward to peace with them? 1
mean,reallyT"If you mean, do 1 believe in peace with the Cylons,especially one that'll last until the ink
dries on the treaty, myonly answer is, 1 don't know. But 1 don't think we'd better be discussing it over
the com. If we're being monitored, it mightbe a little embarrassing back aboard theGalactica."
"Yeah, how about that,Galactica! Your face red, ColonelTigh, sir?"
"Stop that, Zac. Keep your mind on the patrol. Cimtar'sjust ahead. Let's roll over and have a good look,
huh?""Roger dodger, old codger."
In an instant they were hovering over their objective, aspace vehicle that was large and ponderous,
wasted looking.It seemed to float aimlessly, bobbing like a baitless fishinglure In (is own portion uf die
sea of space. Above it was theold moon, below it a purplish layer of clouds that Apollo didnot recall as
being a normal feature of the barren,uninhabited planet.
"What is it?" Apollo whispered."Tell ya in a flash," Zac replied.
Zacpunched out the combination that would identify the,vehicle pictured on his scanner. The intensity of
the scanner picture changed as various profiles of existing airships werecompared with the antiquated
conveyance under study. Amatch was quickly made and the identification appeared inprinted form below
the picture.
"Warbook says a Cylon tanker," Zac reported. "Scannerreads it empty."
Apollo's voice became agitated.
"An empty tanker? What in the twelve worlds is an emptytanker doing out here?"
"And where's the other ship, the one that-"
"Screened off by this one apparently. I) nder cover, far as Ican make out. Funny-wonder what they're
hiding."
"I don't know, but it's awfully close to those clouds."
Zac felt impatient, not ready to wait for his brother'sorders. When he made captain like Apollo, he could
give thecommands. Of course, by then Apollo would be an admiralor something, and probably still be
telling Zac what to do. Even though he had looked up to his gallant brother since childhood, even though
his own prestige at the spaceacademy had been enhanced by the tales of Apollo's heroismthat he had
recounted to his classmates, Zac was eager to get. out more on his own, perform the kind of
seat-of-the-pantsflying exploits that had made Apollo so famous on all thebattlestars.
Why was he thinking like this now? Here his father andthe other great leaders of the twelve worlds were
on theAtlantiaworking out a peace agreement, and Zac was stillhoping to become a great war hero.
Something askew in histhinking there. He would have to talk it all out with Apollolater, when they got
back to the battlestar and had theirregular post-mission talk.
"Well, kid," Apollo's voice whispered softly in his ear. "We came to look. Let's get up closer."
"Be careful, Apollo," Zac said, and was immediatelyastonished by his own uncharacteristic caution. "I
have afunny feeling about this."
"Funny feeling, eh?" Apollo's voice was now warmer,touched by a note of brotherly affection. "1 always
told Dadyou behaved more like a native of Scorpia, that you didn'tseem to belong on Caprica."
"Still, I have this funny feeling...."
"You're not old enough to have funny feelings, pilot!" Zacnodded even though Apollo couldn't see him. It
wasn'tunusual for him to have such an immediate physical reactionto a rebuke from his brother.
"Anyway," Apollo continued,"while we're stuck out here on patrol, Starbuck's pulled acouple of those
Gemons into a card game, and I want to getback before he cleans out those suckers."
Looking out his sideview, Zac watched Apollo's viper peeloff in order to sweep around the ancient
freighter. Feelingvery much the younger brother, Zac set his flight pattern tofollow, hitting at the course
buttons angrily.
Commander Adama's angular cheekbones seemed thework of a skilled diamond cutter. But his cold,
penetratingeyes could not have been designed by even the finest ofartisans. The members of his crew
feared Adama as much asthey loved him. There was a popular superstition aboard theGalacticathat,
when the commander became angry, thosepowerful eyes retreated into his skull and gave off rays that
made him look so inhuman he might have just materializedas a god from some new alien mythology.
Although tall andstrong, he had none of the muscular man's typical clumsinessin normal movement. His
gestures were smoothly graceful,and there was an ease in his bearing that made even hisenemies
comfortable with him-at least when he wascomfortable with them.
He stood away from the others, his fellow leaders from theQuorum of the Twelve. Their toasts to their
new-found peacerang falsely in his ears. In front of him, as if arranged for hisown private viewing, the
millions of stars visible through theAtlantic'sstarfield reminded him, as it reminded allcontemplative men,
of his own insignificance in this universe.And, even more, of the smallness of the historic event being
enacted behind him. Men fought wars, cheered the coming ofpeace, then always seemed to locate
another war to keep thepeace from becoming too comforting.
This peace, especially, disturbed him. There was too muchstrain to the enthusiasm, too much simplicity in
thenegotiations. He didn't like the fact that the absent Cylonswere controlling the event like distant puppet
masters- sending a human go-between and arranging the ultimaterendezvous for treaty signing at their
own chosen coordi-nates in space.
President Adar, looking every inch the wise man oftradition with his long gray beard and flowing toga,
hadcalled the settlement the most significant event in human history. The array of candlelight on the
banquet table,catching the blood-red jewels on his silver chalice, had lent a religious aura to the official
toast. And the subsequentunctuousness of Baltar's response to the toast left a bad taste in Adama's
mouth. Why had the Cylons used Baltar as theirhuman messenger for this conference? Although a self-
proclaimed count, Baltar was little better than a trader, adealer in rare items. He was rich, yes,
overwhelmingly so, butnot a fit liaison between the humans and Cylons, not the proper carrier of sacred
trusts. Why send a corpulentmerchant whose unhealthy skin suggested the tarnishing of coin when
power-hungry diplomats were available?
Who could ever know what went on in the alien mind?There might have been some reasoning among
Cylons thatled to the choice of the overweight, soft-looking trader. And,besides, who was Adama to
judge the facets of the peace? Hehad never known peace; he had geared his entire life to thefighting of
the war. He knew nothing, factually orphilosophically, about peace.
Adama returned his attention to the celebration, whichwas in its final stage of formality. Adar embraced
Baltar. Thetrader's ornate, colorful garments, especially the long,flowing velvet cape, made the
president's simple robes appear rustic. The two men seemed alike only in the high boots eachwore-a
bizarre link, since Adar's boots clashed so stronglywith the austere lines of his white silken toga. Even in
thisrespect, Baltar's footwear, with its scroll-like decorations,appeared more sumptuous. It was
ridiculous, the Presidentof the Quorum of the Twelve having to warm up officially tothe
merchant-messenger. Adar's voice boomed across theAtlantia'sdining room:
"You've done well, Baltar. Your tireless work has madethis armistice conference possible. You have
secured yourselfa place in the history books."
A place in the history books, indeed!Adama thought. Theman didn't even deserve a decent burial within
a footnote.It always annoyed Adama to hear his old friend Adarspeak so officiously and with such an
overtly political manner. They had gone to the space academy together,Adama and Adar. The
alphabetical proximity of their nameshad continually thrown them together in classes, a solidexample-they
always claimed-of fate cementing a valu- able friendship. Their comradeship had been secured laterwhen
they had both been assigned to the same battlestar fleet as fighter pilots. After being elected President of
the Quorum of the Twelve, Adar had continued to rely strongly onAdama's advice. Until now.
The obsequious look of humility upon Baltar's face forcedAdama to concentrate again on the starfield.
His shoulder muscles tightened as he heard the trader's reply to Adar.
"The Cylon's choice of me as their liaison to the Quorumof the Twelve was an act of providence, not
skill."
Party noises intervened and Adama could not hear Adar'ssubsequent remarks to the trader. Good, he
did not want tohear any more politicking. He had had enough of thatalready today.
"You look troubled, old friend," Adar said. Adama hadsensed the president's approach, but he chose a
bit of pettyinsubordination by not taking note of it. Suspecting Adama's antagonism, Adar spoke with the
patronizing nasality thatwas his trademark when he was opposed. Fussily stroking his full gray beard as if
he were considering shaving itimmediately, he said, "Well, 1 see the party isn't a huge suc-cess withall my
children."
Although he rankled at Adar's patriarchal phrasing, Adama decided not to reply in kind.
"It's what awaits us out there that troubles me," Adama said, pointing toward the bright starfield. Adar
smiled hisbest condescending smile.
"Surely," he said, "you don't cling to your suspicionsabout the Cylons. They asked for this armistice.
They wantpeace. For myself 1 look forward to our coming rendezvouswith the Cylon representatives."
Adama studied the president's bland, confident face, andconsidered addressing him in the blunt
vocabulary of theirspace-pilot days. No, Adar had been too far removed fromthe field for too long to
understand plain language any more.Adama resorted to diplomatic phrasings.
"Forgive me, Mr. President, but-but the Cylons hatehumans deeply, with every fiber of their existence.
In our loveof freedom, of independence, our need to feel, to question, to affirm, to rebel against
oppression-in all these ways we are
different from them. To themwe are the aliens and they'llnever accept our ways, our ideas, our-"
"But they haveaccepted. Through Baltar, they have suedfor peace."
There was a finality in Adar's voice, a this-is-the-end-of-the-discussion command. Adama stared at the
bearded manwho, even though they were contemporaries, looked so mucholder. He knew there was no
point in opposing him at thissupposedly joyous moment. As in any battle, there was also alogical point of
retreat in political disputes. "Yes," Adama said, "of course you're right." And of course Adar had come to
him requiring thiscapitulation. Pleased, the president stopped stroking his long beard so nervously, and
grabbed his old comrade by theshoulders. The man radiated confidence. Adama wished he could be that
assured, but Baltar's vigilant stare only added to his present uneasiness.
Leaving Adama alone, Adar strutted back to a group ofthe more jubilant Quorum members. Adama,
sullen, walkedalong the rim of the giant starfield which composed nearlyone-half of the dining chamber.
He stopped at a position from which he could observe his own ship, the battlestarGalactica.
He took great pride in the unanimous acknowledgment oftheGalactica as the greatest fighting ship in the
Colonial Fleet, and the most efficiently run of the Fleet's fivebattlestars. Commissioned at least two
centuries before its present commander's birth, and commanded by Adama'sfather before him, the
Galactica had survived thousands of rough encounters with the enemy, no mean achievementwhen one
considered the notorious Cylon deviousness. With the destruction of theAtlantia's sister ship, the
Pacifica,Adama's craft had become the largest fighting battlestar inthe Fleet. And since he had taken
over command its record had become as impressive as its size. The most heroicexploits, the most suicidal
missions, the highest number of Cylon kills were all now part of theGalactica's gallant history. If this
peace lasted any time at all, the battlestar would surely be declared a monument to human achieve-ment.
While it appeared to drift placidly, theGalactica wasactually "idling" at near light-speed. Its slowness
was due tothe fact that it had, as guardian to theAtlantia during thepeace conference, to keep its pace
down to the CommandBattlestar's speed. No wonder. Where theAtlantia was a hiveof bulkily designed
sections, theGalactica was a slim-lined,multi-level vehicle whose functional components allowed for the
rarely achieved combination of size with speed. In regularspace it could traverse distances nearly as fast
as the fightingcraft launched from it. Its fuel system provided the mostpower possible from the mixture of
Tylium with lesser fuelsources. Its launching decks could be activated withinminutes, emerging as long
.extensions from the cylindricalcore of the vehicle, and its guidance systems had beenrefined-at Adama's
orders-so that his pilots could land onan InterFleet Memo without smudging a single letter.
Adama was equally proud of the efficient social systemwithin the ship. A commander could not wish for
a morecohesive crew-amazing when one considered the thousandsof people required to keep a battlestar
going. His daughterAthena was always saying the crew worked well because theyknew they had a fair
and understanding commander. Whilehe chided her for the sentimentality of the observation, hewas
pleased that the skillful performance of everyone on theGalactica testified to the abilities of Adama as
commander. (His father had predicted that Adama would surpass his ownachievements after he
regretfully retired from activecommand, and the prophecy had proven out-so far.) Yes, itwas a fine ship
and a fine crew. Even his impulsive children-Apollo, Zac, Athena-shaped up when it came to the needsof
theGalactica and its commander.
Now, though, more impressive than his battlestar'sefficiency within or without was the image of beauty it
created set against the background of flashing stars. Sodelicate were its lines, so multifaceted the jewel of
its blue-gray surface that a casual observer looking out from theviewing wall of theAtlanta's starfield
would not in the least suspect that its dimensions were so monumental, its overall size so huge. Adama
recalled his father saying that theGalacticawas the size of a small planet, that a traveler coulduse up most
of a lifetime walking its corridors without havingto retrace a single step. He had learned later that the old
man's description was somewhat exaggerated, one of theoutrageous tall tales he had so savored in the
telling. Still, the
Galacticawould be a mighty challenge for the dedicatedhiker. Viewing it now, he was struck for a brief
moment by the feeling of disbelief that it was his domain, his world. Hehad felt that way when command
had originally beentransferred to him two and a half decades ago, and he nowfelt it quite deeply again.
He grew impatient to return to theGalacticaas soon as possible, to escape from the emptiness inthe
joyous sounds of the Quorum's victory celebration.
Starbuck didn't have to look over his shoulder to knowthat a gallery of onlookers had formed behind
him. When hehad a pair of rubes like these two on the line, word alwaysspread through the ranks of the
Galactica, and people camerunning to the ready room. It was considered a privilege to bein on the kill.
Starbuck's gambling acumen had become sofamous that his name was now a part of fighter-pilot slang.
To be starbucked meant that you had allowed yourself to bemaneuvered into a situation in which your
defeat wasinevitable. It was in the vocabulary of battle as well as in thatof the gambling tables.
Like an actor, the handsome young lieutenant knew how to play to an audience. He let his face, so
clean-cut fora manso diabolically shrewd, assume a mask of naivete, as if he hadjust boarded the
battlestar fresh out of space academy. Awkwardness substituted for the normal grace of hismovements,
and he leaned into the table like a man whowondered how he had gotten himself into this mess in the first
place. All part of the setup. The gallery knew it, just as theyknew he was ready to sweep down on his
foolish opponentslike a Cylon patrol from behind a cloud cover.
This time his marks were a pair of Gemons from theplanet Gemini. Apparently Starbuck's notoriety had
eludedthem, for they held their round cards with a cavalier surenesscharacteristic of men positive their
hands are the winning ones. Like all Gemons they resembled each other, eventhough their features were
quite dissimilar, one thin-faced, the other with a hint of chubbiness. Something in theexpression of the
Gemons, a placidity bordering on inanity,seemed to make all of them look alike. Gemons were amongthe
most intelligent members of any battlestar crew, butwhen it came to gambling they were often the easiest
victimsof all.Starbuck was ready now. He could feel victory on thesmooth surfaces of his cards, as if it
had been encoded thereas a private communication for his hands only. Keeping hisvoice steady, he
announced:
"Just to keep the game instructive and because you're newto it, I'll only wager... oh, say, this much."
Coolly he pushed out half his stash, an evenly stackedhigh pile of square gold cubits. His dark blue eyes
hid themockery of his opponents which he felt inside. The two menlooked quite astonished.
Simultaneously, and with aduplicate raising of eyebrows. As they had done all game,they passed their
single hand of cards back and forth, whilewhispering together about their next move. Some smiles anda
pair of chuckles activated the previously stoical gallery.They all had a stake in each of Starbuck's
strategic moves. Aseach of them had arrived, Starbuck's buddy, Boomer, hadcollected cash from him to
add to Starbuck's cubit-pile. Nowthey were sensing their own profits.
"Despite the humbleness of this hand," said the Gemonwho now held the cards, "for thehonor of our
home colony, we must challenge you."
"Honor. Challenge. Gemini," .said the other Gemon.Whichever one spoke, the other usually echoed the
mainpoints of his statement.
The Gemon with the cards pushed forth a pile of cubits equal to Starbuck's wager. Starbuck could feel
the gallerytense. He was about to speak, say it was time to call, when theGemon quietly spoke again:
"And for theglory of Gemini, another equal measure."
"Glory. Equal. Measure," said his partner, who now tookthe hand back and himself pushed the pile of
cubits that would double the stakes. Feeling the nervousness of hisgallery, Starbuck knew it was
important to continue feigninghis relaxed manner.
"Well," he said, fingering some long strands of hiscornstalk-yellow hair, "in the name ofour planet
Capricaand forher everlasting glory, I'll measure your increase anddouble it."
If they hadn't been packed so closely together, somemembers of the gallery might have passed out and
fallen tothe floor. Starbuck shoved in all his remaining cubits and satback confidently. He felt a tap on his
shoulder, and he looked
up into the tense black face of his buddy, Lieutenant Boomer.Who else but supercautious, never gamble
unless it's surer than a sure thing, intellectual Boomer?
"Where is the remaining portion of your bet?" said thecardholding Gemon."Remaining. Bet."
"Just a moment," Starbuck said. "Come on, guys, up withthe rest of it."
The gallery seemed to take a collective step backward.Boomer acted as its spokesman:
"Could we speak to you for a moment? In private."Turning to the Gemini, he said: "Only be a flash,
fellas."
With an exaggerated courtesy, Boomer led Starbuckaway from the table. Out of sight of the Gemons
behind anervous wall formed by the onlookers' gallery, they werejoined by Lieutenant Jolly and Ensign
Greenbean, the Muttand Jeff of the fighter crew, whose physical appearancesmade it clear why the
Galactica's crew had awarded themsuch descriptive names. Jolly was hefty, a strong butoverweight
young man-while, of course, Greenbean was tall and thin. The conference among the four men was
conducted in heated whispers.
"Are you crazy?" Boomer said. Boomer, who rarelysweated, now wiped away lines of glistening
perspirationfrom his brow.
"Were you listening?" Starbuck said. "This is forthe gloryof Caprica."
"Glory, Caprica," Jolly said.
"Are you a Gemon, too?" Starbuck said, smiling. "Look,have I ever steered you guys wrong?"
The faces of the three men, especially Boomer's, displayedthe message that of course he had.
"All right," Starbuck said. "Once or twice. But this is thereal goods, 1 can take these guys. Look at it this
way, we'lldouble our money. They're trying to buy the pot."
"You told us they didn't understand the game," Jolly said."Evidently they caught on fast," Boomer
growled, but hesighed. He was always a pragmatist, whether in gambling orin a furious encounter with the
enemy. All that reading on hisbunk viewer had made him a thoughtful analyst of anysituation, and for this
one he could see that cutting losses wassimply just not practical-the investment was much too high.
"We've got to do what Starbuck says or we-lose everything we've already got in the game."
Boomer moved among the gallery, forced its members tocough up enough to cover Starbuck's impulsive
wager.Handing a neatly stacked pile of cubits to Starbuck, he toldhim to go to it. Starbuck nudged the
cubits to the center of the table and turned his cards over.
"Beat that," Starbuck snarled, his voice sending up anunsettling echo through the stillness of the room.
The Gemon smiled and revealed his cards. The gallerystared at the tragedy revealed by the pasteboard
circles, thencollectively they sagged as they had to watch the Gemon rakein the golden cubits.
For a brief moment Apollo got a good look at a secondtanker, the one that had been revealed as the
companion ofthe first on his and Zac's scanners, before it disappeared intothe cloud layer. He couldn't tell
whether the move was a strategic one, or whether the apparently empty ship hadsimply drifted into the
portentous clouds.
"There's the other ship tucked in nice and neat," he said toZac. "Now what is she and what's she doing?"
He restrained his urge to chase after it. He wasn't readyyet to follow a possible ghost-tanker into
possible jeopardy.Not until he had made every other kind of check first. However, as soon as he tried to
punch out a scannerprogram, the scanner's screen began presenting a meaning-less jumble of symbols. It
was as if something inside those clouds were trying to lure him inside, one of the spaceLoreleis so dear to
saloon storytellers. After trying everycheck he could think of, he told Zac of the failure of all his
sophisticated equipment to get a fix on the mysteriousclouds.
"I get the same mess from a scan of that tanker back of us," Zac said. "Whatever I try, just a jumble."
"Somebody's jamming us."
"1 don't know. Warbook says they're both freighters."
"My foot. If they're jamming us, they're hiding some-thing. There's no choice. I'm going in there."
"But the cloud-"
"I'll take the chance."
"All right, but I'm not sure I like the idea of us flying inblind."
"Notus, kid.You stay put."
"I can't-"
"If I need you, I'll call you to come in after me,Lieutenant."
Apollo headed his viper ship directly into the cloud mass.He heard Zac's agitated voice over his
communicator.
"This jamming's knocking out my scanner now."
Inside the clouds Apollo tried to work his own scanneragain, and received the same jumble.
"Nothing but a harmless cloud cover," he said. "Notheavy at all, not as dense as it looked. I don't see
摘要：

FROMTHEADAMAJOURNALS:Morethanathousandyearsago,thewarwiththeCylonsbeganabruptly-withoutwarning,withoutevenaformaldeclarationthatwarwastobe.Likepirates,showingnothreatsandcoweringbeneathfalsecolors,theCylonsopened-fireonourmerchantshipswithoutevenaninvocationtoheaveto,oracautionaryblastfromalasercann...

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